Woman in the Window (9 page)

“Oh, shut up, Tony,” she said, hugged him, felt his mouth against her ear.
This is ridiculous, she thought. We’re divorced. We know it’s better this way. We can never go back and I wouldn’t go back for all the diamonds in South Africa! But it’s so sweet.
… She blinked and wiped her eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

She needn’t have worried. He worked the conversation back to the flowers, who might have sent them, dancing around the edges of whom she might be going out with, sleeping with. If he’d have believed her, she’d have told him how long it had been since she’d slept with anyone. But that would have been wasted breath. They drank their way through the champagne, glancing off several of the old arguments, the little blades of frustration that whittled at them until they weren’t a couple anymore, just two different people.

Natalie made a last-ditch effort to point the conversation in a happier direction. “So, the work is going pretty well.” She had hung the silver pendant around her neck, and now hefted it in her small hand. “Must be,” she said, winked.

“I don’t know. I hate writing that porno crap—how many ways can you say ‘cock’? How many ways are there to describe doing it? It’s like making your living sweeping out a whorehouse—”

“But your other stuff? The novel?”

“Christ, you really think anything’s ever gonna come of that?”

“Yes, I do. You’re a good writer—”

“Well, there are those who think I’m a hack, and they, sweetheart, big-time agent, are right. I had a little problem today, Nat. …” He lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking: she hated herself for not wanting to watch, for not caring about his problems anymore, for being there to accept gifts but not being there to care. She felt like shit and she hated him for making her feel that way about herself. It was all so mixed up in her mind: the more she thought about it, the more confused she became.

“I was at Prime Books; you know the crap they do. The crap I write. Well, I went to see Engebretson, this hairball editor—I mean not your A in citizenship, this guy—and he rejects this load I sent him a couple weeks ago. Too much characterization, too much plot; he says, ‘What we need, Rader, is more of the old in and out,’ … and he sticks his forefinger through a circle he makes with his other hand. Christ, what a crud this guy is. So I flipped out—” He watched his ash fell into his champagne. He rolled his eyes. “I grabbed this prick by his spotty little tie and yanked him up out of his chair. I pointed out that I thought I was going to have to kill him right then and there! Hyperbole, for Christ’s sake—but he was buzzing building security, and these guys showed up, looked like cop rejects, linebackers, and we had a chat and they escorted me out to the street. … Fine. But this goddamn Engebretson rejected the manuscript! I mean, what the hell’s going on, Nat?” He fished the ash out of his glass but it came apart and he reached over and sipped from hers.

“You’re just too fine a writer for that kind of work—”

“So what good is it doing me?” He laughed, shook his head, ground out the cigarette. “Ah, fuck it, Nat. You couldn’t sell that book—the old book. Maybe that was an accurate assessment of old Tony’s work. Maybe I should just face up to it.” He looked off across the room, which was filling up. The smoke hung in a thick cloud.

“What do you want me to say? You’ve got to take the time off from writing the stuff you hate and pay attention to the work that’s important to you. You’ve got some money. And if you don’t, you’re a fool if you don’t borrow some from me—I can certainly afford it and I’ve told you a thousand times—”

“I don’t give a shit what you’ve told me, Nat.”

“Well, if you don’t want my help, I wish to God you’d stop bringing your little dead birds and putting them at my feet. What can I do? What change can I effect? What’s the point?”

“Maybe I just wanted you to commiserate with me over a glass of champagne on your birthday—”

“You’re such a liar, Tony. You really are. Once you heard someone sent me flowers, you lost it, you just lost it—your concentration, your generosity, your ability to behave, your … sanity!”

“Nat,” he said, standing up quietly, “the last thing I need from you is a lecture on my lack of sanity. The check’s taken care of. You might as well drink the last glass.” He turned back once he was a few feet away. “Happy birthday, Tiger.” Then he just faded away in the crowd.

She sat quite still, her hand between her breasts, holding the silver diamond. He was right, she was an unholy bitch. Sure, he was right.

Wasn’t he?

She wasn’t quite sure how long she sat there. She sat quite still, thinking about Tony, replaying their conversation, wishing he hadn’t attacked the editor. … She wasn’t particularly upset. Just a little numb.

She thought the waiter had come over to her table.

But when she looked up she saw Jay Danmeier looking down at her.

“I
’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU.”

“Jay, I can’t believe you don’t have something better to do—”

“A debatable point. But, nevertheless, I have been watching you.” He sat down where Tony had sat, shot his cuffs, crossed his legs, and straightened the crease. “You look more or less like I feel, a bit of a lost soul. Am I close?”

“I don’t know.” Natalie shrugged. “My circuits are somewhat overloaded at the moment.” She smiled wearily. “You are not the lost-soul type, however.”

“I skipped ‘21’ tonight. I must be off my feed. Just walked on home, not feeling up to par. Maybe I’m getting old, who knows? Full of memories I’d just as soon forget. There was nothing in the fridge, it’s my housekeeper’s night off … so I took to the streets, wandering, bereft.” His crocodile smile had lost its usual gloating aspect. He took a black pigskin case from inside his jacket and slipped out one of his cigars, clipped the end, smelled it. “I hadn’t been in here for years, since the old days. Thought I’d drop by, look at the drawings on the walls. Then I saw you and Tony and, well, things didn’t seem to be going awfully well and I figured I’d just watch. Like the little boy with a view of the girls’ locker room. Dreadful fellow that I am.” He lit his cigar and she smelled the smooth, pungent aroma, liked it. “What was the present for? It’s very pretty.”

“Just celebrating memories.” Her hand went to it again. “I guess it’s a night for memories.” Jay ordered a split of champagne and she took a swallow, wondering if it was a good idea. .”You didn’t by any chance send me flowers today, did you? To my home?” She watched him shake his head.

“Should I have?”

“Somebody did. But didn’t sign the card.”

Jay smoked, scowling. “I don’t like these little oddball things happening to you, Nat. Not since the man with the gun—”

“You’re too jumpy, Jay. Forget it.”

“I’ve got a couple of reasons for not forgetting it.” He wasn’t kidding: it was interesting how much more appealing he was when he wasn’t being
the
Jay Danmeier. She liked him in his serious, quiet mode.

“What kind of reasons?”

“Well, for one thing, that cop, MacPherson, stopped by the office just after you left. He wanted to see you but said it could wait. He spent some time in the hallways looking at the framed dust jackets. Got me to talking about birds. Looked through my binoculars—there was something going on in his mind that made me uneasy. I did a little checking on him once he left.”

“You checked on a cop? What’s gotten into you?”

“I thought I remembered something about him, that’s all. My memory’s pretty damned good. So I called a mystery writer I know—Victor Stallybrass, you’ve met him in the office—and asked him. Well, I had remembered something about him all right. You told me he didn’t seem very coplike?”

“Yes, something like that.” She bit her thumbnail, an instantaneous gesture, concluded almost before it began. What was Jay getting at?

“Turns out he’s got good bloodlines. His father was a cop, too. Mark MacPherson. Almost forty years ago he cracked a case here in Manhattan that set people talking for years—you don’t recall that Franklin P. Adams—Dorothy Parker—Bob Benchley—Alec Woollcot bunch, of course, but there was another columnist, very big in his day. Guy named Lydecker, Waldo Lydecker. He tried to kill a girl who jilted him, but shot the wrong girl. Mark MacPherson pinned it on him and married the girl who had jilted him. Beautiful girl, Laura Hunt, wound up owning a big ad agency. Our MacPherson is their son.” He leaned back, puffing, surrounded by smoke. “I hope he’s as smart as his daddy. It’s his mother’s genes that keep him from being the prototype cop. Anyway, he made me nervous, looks like an English professor. … Look, let’s get out of here. Get something to eat.”

It was beginning to sleet and they found a quiet little Szechuan restaurant nearby. Natalie felt as if she was just being swept along, low on emotion, almost out of gas. She couldn’t have argued with Jay if he’d decided to sell her into white slavery. The fight with Tony—the sorrow and ugliness in the memories and in her reaction to him—had taken everything out of her. She wasn’t really even Natalie anymore. What, she wondered, had MacPherson wanted to see her about? And who was sending her yellow roses?

Jay ordered fried dumplings and a large bowl of cold sesame noodles. Natalie insisted on drinking tea and picked at the edges of the food. Then there was moo shu pork and garlic shrimp. She couldn’t resist. The food was too good, and using chopsticks was like a course in basket weaving to calm the criminally insane. Short of a lobotomy, Szechuan food would get the job done.

She found herself telling him about the unpleasantness with Tony and the burglary of her apartment the night before. She almost told him about the man at Scandals who had approached Julie about her roommate, then thought better of it. Jay was nervous, something eating at him. It would have been a bad idea to aggravate his state of mind.

“You said you had two reasons for not forgetting my mystery gunman,” she said instead.

“That’s right. People with guns scare the hell out of me. I never told you about my wife, did I? My first wife?”

“No. I didn’t know your present wife wasn’t your first wife.”

“Christ, my present wife!” He shook his large, craggy head. “I hardly ever think of her as my wife anymore. … Anyway, Diana was my first wife. Long time ago. I was working in the story department at MGM, thinking I wanted to be a movie producer, and I met the daughter of a really big producer. Diana. I fell madly in love, we got married, and her dad put up the money for a house in Brentwood. Hell of a house, huge lawn, pool, tennis courts, a greenhouse. We had a son, Paulie.” He stopped eating, laid down his chopsticks, sipped hot tea. “By then I had decided I wanted to be an agent. I was working for one of the top shops out there, mainly with literary properties. It began to look like I had found my niche, as Wodehouse would say. Then, one night I had a meeting about a new property—Christ, it was Vic Stallybrass, come to think of it—I’ll never forget that night.” He sighed pensively, his eyes faraway. “I got home and my wife, Diana—y’know, it’s funny, like I’m telling a story about somebody else—she was dead on the stairs coming down from our bedroom. Paulie was dead, too, both of them shot. Burglars. Guns. They had panicked and killed two people they didn’t have to kill. … I don’t even remember the next few days, then the weeks are sort of blurry, and finally I was here in New York becoming the man you see before you covered with garlic shrimp.” He smiled self-consciously. “You can understand why I don’t talk about it much. And you can understand why people with guns spook me. I’m worried about you until this thing gets settled …whatever the hell that means, Nat.”

“I don’t know what to say, Jay. It’s so utterly awful.”

“Yes, it is. Life sort of gets that way. But it was a long time ago, thirty years. … Funny, I started this agency with the insurance money. So, Diana got me started here in New York. She’d have enjoyed this life—at least, if I remember her correctly.” He caught her eye and nodded. “Yeah, you do forget. That turns out to be the saddest part of all, the forgetting. You think she’ll live in your mind forever, she’ll be with you until you die, and little Paulie, too. Well, surprise, Natalie—it’s not true.”

Ten years later he had married Helena, an English heiress, and she now ran the London office of the Danmeier Agency. The marriage had become a business relationship, which was fine with both of them. They loved each other but not as man and wife, not anymore.

“So, now that I’m baring all my secrets,” he said, “I might as well make myself clear on something else. You know how I feel about you. I want you. I’m curious about you, I know what you’re like in the office, I’ve kissed you, and you’ve kissed me back, Natalie, and now I want to know what you’re like in bed, all that sophomoric stuff that makes so much sense however old you are. Any of this surprise you?”

“No.” She touched the back of his hand. “You haven’t exactly been a shrinking violet. I’ve thought about the same things you have, I’ve wondered, but I’m frightened, okay, frightened of being alone for the rest of my life and frightened of making the wrong kind of commitment. I’ve got one huge mistake behind me and sometimes I think I’ll never find the guts to choose again. But what I can do is like you, and hope you can be tolerant of me. We know each other differently now than we did at lunch today. That’s exciting to me, whatever else may happen between us later.”

“Well, let me tell you, I’m not going to keep pestering you, Nat. I can live without you and be happy. Maybe I’d rather live with you in my life. Maybe I’d be happier—”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said softly, smiling, tapping fingernails on his hand.

He nodded and grinned, accepting the uncertainty.

He hailed a cab on the corner and as she leaned up to peck him good night, he held her tight and kissed her. A real kiss. If the cab hadn’t already been standing there, she wasn’t altogether sure what might have happened.

Natalie sat before a single leftover log she’d managed to get burning and tried to pay attention to an unpromising manuscript. The Saint-Saens Organ Symphony was playing on the tape deck the burglars had left behind. She had read for about an hour when her brain gave a last surge of rebellion, fuzzed the lines of type. She couldn’t shake free of the tragic story of Jay’s wife and son … the sudden nastiness of the quarrel with Tony … the realization that this was how, at thirty-seven, she had celebrated her birthday—with discord, tragedy, the attentions of a man about whom her feelings were too ambivalent to define, a cop with a weird background and the bearing of an Ivy League professor, the shadow of a gunman across her life, and those damned, ominous, sinister, anonymous yellow roses in the vase before her. …