Summer and the City (10 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Given Maggie’s attitude, I decide not to introduce her to Miranda after all. They’d probably get into a big fight about sex and I’d be stuck in the middle. Instead, we walk around the Village, where Maggie has her tarot cards read by a psychic—“I see a man with dark hair and blue eyes.” “Ryan!” Maggie exclaims—and then I take her to Washington Square Park. There’s the usual assortment of freaks, musicians, drug dealers, Hare Krishnas, and even two men walking on stilts, but all she can talk about is how there isn’t any grass. “How can they call it a park if it’s all dirt?”

“There probably was grass, once. And there
are
trees,” I point out.

“But look at the leaves. They’re black. Even the squirrels are dirty.”

“Nobody notices the squirrels.”

“They should,” she says. “Did I tell you I’m going to become a marine biologist?”

“No—”

“Hank’s a biology major. He says if you’re a marine biologist, you can live in California or Florida.”

“But you don’t like science.”

“What are you talking about?” Maggie asks. “I didn’t like chemistry, but I loved biology.”

This is news to me. When we had to take biology in junior year, Maggie refused to memorize the names of the species and phyla, saying it was the kind of stupid thing that no one would ever use in their real life, so why bother?

We walk around a bit more, with Maggie becoming increasingly distressed about the heat and the odd people and how she thinks she’s getting another blister. When I take her back to the apartment, she complains about the lack of effective air-conditioning. By the time we’re supposed to leave to meet Bernard, I’m nearly at the end of my rope. Once more, Maggie balks at taking the subway. “I’m not going down there again,” she declares. “It stinks. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s the best way to get around,” I say, trying to urge her down the stairs.

“Why can’t we take a taxi? My sister and brother-in-law told me to take taxis because they’re safe.”

“They’re also expensive. And I don’t have the money.”

“I have fifty dollars.”

What? I wish she’d told me she had money earlier. She could have paid for our hamburgers.

When we’re safely in a cab, Maggie reveals her conclusion about why New Yorkers wear black. “It’s because it’s so dirty here. And black doesn’t show dirt. Could you imagine what their clothes would look like if they wore white? I mean, who wears black in the summer?”

“I do,” I say, nonplussed, especially as I’m in black. I’m wearing a black T-shirt, black leather pants that are two sizes too big—which I bought for 90 percent off at one of those cheap stores on Eighth Street—and pointy-toed black high heels from the 1950s that I found at the vintage shop.

“Black is for funerals,” Maggie says. “But maybe New Yorkers like black because they feel like they’ve died.”

“Or maybe for the first time in their lives they feel like they’re
living.
”

We get stuck in traffic by Macy’s, and Maggie rolls down her window, fanning herself with her hand. “Look at all those people. This isn’t living. It’s surviving.”

I have to admit, she’s right about that. New York is about survival.

“Who are we meeting again?” she asks.

I sigh. “Bernard. The guy I’m seeing. The playwright.”

“Plays are boring.”

“Bernard doesn’t agree. So please don’t say ‘plays are boring’ when you meet him.”

“Does he smoke a pipe?”

I glare at her.

“You said he was over thirty. I picture him smoking a pipe and wearing slippers.”

“Thirty is not
old
. And don’t tell him my age, either. He thinks I’m nineteen or twenty. So you have to be nineteen or twenty too. We’re sophomores in college. Okay?”

“It’s not good when you have to lie to a guy,” Maggie says.

I take a deep breath. I want to ask her if Hank knows about Tom, but I don’t.

When we finally push through the revolving door at Peartree’s, I’m relieved to see Bernard’s dark head bent over a newspaper, a glass of scotch in front of him. I still get the jitters when I know I’m going to see him. I count down the hours, reliving the sensation of his soft mouth on mine. As our rendezvous approaches, I get nervous, worried he’s going to call and cancel, or not show up at all. I wish I didn’t care so much, but I’m glad to have a guy who makes me feel this way.

I’m not sure Bernard feels the same, though. This morning, when I told him I had a friend coming to town unexpectedly, he said, “See your friend, then. We’ll get together another time.”

I emitted a gasp of disappointment. “But I thought we were going to see each other.
Tonight
.”

“I’m not going anywhere. We can see each other when she leaves.”

“I told her all about you. I want her to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my best friend. And—” I broke off. I didn’t know how to tell him that I wanted to show him off, wanted Maggie to be impressed by him and my astonishing new life. Wanted her to see how far I’d come in such a short time.

I thought he should be able to tell from my voice.

“I don’t want to babysit, Carrie,” he said.

“You’re not! Maggie’s nineteen, maybe twenty—” I must have sounded very insistent, because he relented and agreed to meet for a drink.

“But only one drink,” he cautioned. “You should spend time with your friend. She came to see you, not me.”

I hate it when Bernard acts all serious.

Then I decided his comment was vaguely insulting. Of course I wanted to spend time with Maggie. But I wanted to see him, too. I thought about calling him back and canceling, just to show him I didn’t care, but the reality of not seeing him was too depressing. And I suspected I’d secretly resent Maggie if I couldn’t see Bernard because of her.

Things are tense enough with Maggie as it is. Getting ready to go out tonight, she kept saying she couldn’t understand why I was “dressing up” to go to a bar. I tried to explain it wasn’t that kind of bar, but she only stared at me in incomprehension and said, “Sometimes I really do not get you.”

That’s when I had a moment of clarity: Maggie is never going to like New York. She’s constitutionally unsuited for the city. And when I realized this, my simmering animosity disappeared.

It’s okay. It’s not Maggie’s fault, or mine. It’s simply the way we are.

“There’s Bernard,” I say now, nudging Maggie past the maître d’ to the bar. The interior of Peartree’s is slick—black walls with chrome sconces, black marble tables, and a mirror along the back wall. Samantha says it’s the best pickup place in town: She met Charlie here, and she gets irritated when he comes here without her, thinking he might meet another girl.

“Why is it so dark in here?” Maggie asks.

“It’s supposed to be mysterious.”

“What’s mysterious about not being able to see who you’re talking to?”

“Oh, Mags,” I say, and laugh.

I creep up behind Bernard and tap him on the shoulder. He starts, grins, and picks up his drink. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. Thought maybe you’d had a better offer.”

“We did, but Maggie insisted we had to meet you first.” I briefly touch the back of his hair. It’s like a talisman for me. The first time I touched it I was shocked by its delicate softness, so much like a girl’s, and I was surprised by how tender it made me feel toward him, as if his hair was a harbinger of his soft, kind heart.

“You must be the friend,” he says, crinkling his eyes at Maggie. “Hello, friend.”

“Hello,” Maggie says cautiously. With her sun-bleached hair and pink cheeks, she’s as creamy as a wedding cake, in sharp contrast to Bernard’s angles and crooked nose, and the bags under his eyes that make him appear to be a person who spends all of his time inside—in dark caves like Peartree’s. I’m hoping Maggie will see the romance of him, but at the moment her expression is one of pure wariness.

“Drink?” Bernard asks, seemingly unaware of the culture clash.

“Vodka tonic,” I say.

“I’ll have a beer.”

“Have a cocktail,” I urge.

“I don’t want a cocktail. I want a beer,” Maggie insists.

“Let her have a beer if she wants one,” Bernard says jocularly, the implication being that I’m needlessly giving Maggie a hard time.

“Sorry.” My voice sounds hollow. I can already tell this is a mistake. I don’t have a clue how to reconcile my past—Maggie—with my present—Bernard.

Two men squeeze in next to Maggie, intent on establishing a place at the bar. “Should we get a table?” Bernard asks. “We could eat. I’d be happy to feed you girls dinner.”

Maggie gives me a questioning look. “I thought we were going to meet Ryan.”

“We could have dinner. The food’s good here.”

“It’s lousy. But the atmosphere is entertaining.” Bernard waves to the maître d’ and motions to an empty table near the window.

“Come on.” I nudge Maggie and give her a meaningful look. Her stare is slightly hostile, as if she still doesn’t understand why we’re here.

Nevertheless, she follows Bernard to the table. He even pulls out her chair for her.

I sit next to him, determined to make this work. “How was the rehearsal?” I ask brightly.

“Lousy,” Bernard says. He smiles at Maggie to include her in the conversation. “There’s always a point in the middle of rehearsals when all the actors seem to forget their lines.”

Which is exactly how I feel right now.

“Why is that?” Maggie asks, playing with her water glass.

“I have no idea.”

“But they’ve been saying their lines for at least two weeks, right?” I frown, as if knowing Bernard has given me an inside track on the theater.

“Actors are like children,” Bernard says. “They sulk and get their feelings hurt.”

Maggie gives him a vacant look.

Bernard smiles tolerantly and opens his menu. “What would you like, Maggie?”

“I don’t know. Duck breast?”

“Good choice.” Bernard nods. “I’m going to have the usual. Skirt steak.”

Why does he sound so formal? Was Bernard always like this and I never noticed before? “Bernard is a creature of habit,” I explain to Maggie.

“That’s nice,” Maggie says.

“What do you always say about being a writer?” I ask him. “You know—about how you have to live a life of habit.”

Bernard nods indulgently. “Others have said it better than I can. But the basic idea is that if you’re a writer, you need to live your life on the page.”

“In other words, your real life should be as uncomplicated as possible,” I clarify to Maggie. “When Bernard is working he eats practically the same thing every day for lunch. A pastrami sandwich.”

Maggie attempts to look interested. “It sounds kind of boring. But I’m not a writer. I don’t even like writing a letter.”

Bernard laughs, playfully pointing a finger at me. “I think you need to take more of your own advice, young lady.” He shakes his head at Maggie, as if the two of them are in cahoots. “Carrie’s an expert at living large. I keep telling her to focus more on the page.”

“You’ve never said that,” I reply, indignant. I look down, as if I simply have to readjust my napkin. Bernard’s comment brings all of my insecurities about being a writer to the surface.

“I’ve been meaning to say it.” He squeezes my hand. “So there you go. I’ve said it. Do we want wine?”

“Sure,” I say, stung.

“Beaujolais okay for you, Maggie?” he asks politely.

“I like red,” Maggie says.

“Beaujolais is red,” I comment, and immediately feel like a heel.

“Maggie knew that,” Bernard says kindly. I look from one to the other. How did this happen? Why am I the bad guy? It’s like Bernard and Maggie are ganging up on me.

I get up to go to the bathroom. “I’ll come with you,” Maggie says. She follows me down the stairs as I try to compose myself.

“I really want you to like him,” I say, parking myself in front of the mirror while Maggie goes into the stall.

“I just met him. How can I know if I like him or not?”

“Don’t you think he’s sexy?” I ask.

“Sexy?” Maggie says. “I wouldn’t call him that.”

“But he is. Sexy,” I insist.

“If you think he’s sexy, that’s all that counts.”

“Well, I do. And I really, really like him.”

The toilet flushes and Maggie comes out. “He doesn’t seem very much like a boyfriend,” she ventures.

“What do you mean?” I take a lipstick out of my bag, trying not to panic.

“He doesn’t act like he’s your boyfriend. He seems like he’s more of an uncle or something.”

I freeze. “He certainly isn’t.”

“It just seems like he’s trying to help you. Like he likes you and, I don’t know—” She shrugs.

“It’s only because he’s going through a divorce,” I say.

“That’s too bad,” she remarks, washing her hands.

I apply the lipstick. “Why?”

“I wouldn’t want to marry a divorced man. It kind of ruins it, doesn’t it? The idea that a man has been married to someone else? I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d be jealous. I want a guy who’s only ever been in love with me.”

“But what if—” I pause, remembering that’s what I’ve always thought I wanted as well. Until now. I narrow my eyes. Maybe it’s simply a leftover sentiment from Castlebury.

We get through the rest of dinner, but it’s awkward, with me saying things I know make me sound like a jerk, and Maggie being mostly silent, and Bernard pretending to enjoy the food and wine. When our plates are cleared, Maggie runs to the bathroom again, while I scoot my chair closer to Bernard’s and apologize for the lousy evening.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s what I expected.” He pats my hand. “Come on, Carrie. You and Maggie are in college. We’re from different generations. You can’t expect Maggie to understand.”

“I do, though.”

“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”

Maggie comes back to the table beaming, her demeanor suddenly light and fizzy. “I called Ryan,” she announces. “He said he’s going over to Capote’s and we should meet them there and then maybe we can go out.”

I look at Bernard, pleadingly. “But we’re already out.”

“Go,” he says, pushing back his chair. “Have fun with Maggie. Show her the town.”