The morning of the event Ann had me dusting the tops of picture frames. She wasn’t really doing anything but standing around with that realtor’s pose—weight heavily over one foot, the other pointed outward, hand curled with the wrist resting on her hip—watching me and the caterer, who was in the midst of the longest anxiety attack I’d ever witnessed.
“Let the man do his job,” I said. I was on a dining room chair armed with a can of Pledge and a chamois.
Ann looked at me in disbelief. “I’m helping him.”
“Helping him on his way to an early grave.”
The caterer smiled nervously.
“You can’t set up the bar there,” she said, ignoring me. “People will want to look out the window.”
“No, they won’t,” I said.
“This,” she said, indicating the window, “is the highlight of the apartment.”
“It looks onto a building exactly like this one. It’s like a mirror. And down on the street there’s nothing, not even a good restaurant.”
“Set the bar up against the shelves.”
“You can’t do that, Ann,” I said. “There’s no plug there, and if the caterers have to get anything from the kitchen, they’ll have to walk through all the guests.”
I didn’t really care where the bar was, but the morning had been tedious with nothing to do except Pledge my dust and bother Ann.
Ann looked at me with exasperating patience. “I hope you’re not wearing that to the party,” she said.
I had on my leather pants, which I thought were perfect, and a white men’s shirt, which was a bit worn here and there, and had a faded and not really noticeable coffee stain near the hem. It was the most appropriate outfit I had with me.
“Oh, grow up, Ann.” I got off the dining room chair and began casting my eyes around the room in search of cigarettes. Ann had put them on the bookshelf. I took one and stuck another in the caterer’s mouth. I wasn’t supposed to smoke in the apartment but I didn’t care. I lit a match. “It’s the dressiest thing I have.”
Ann looked me up and down. “You look like a junkie,” she said.
I took the train downtown. I had all afternoon to find an outfit. I think Boris gave me the green light to go shopping to get me and Ann apart. It was cold and sunny, somehow shiny and clean on the street. I was happy to be in New York, happy to see the dog walkers with their canine bouquets, happy to be ignored by everyone. I didn’t really want to go into a store. Downtown stores always made me nervous. The clothes were invariably hung on neat wooden hangers, set against walls in rows, as if you had walked into someone’s closet. I would not be able to browse without assistance and this bothered me. I lit a cigarette in front of a store front that had what looked like a calfskin kilt hanging in the window. The leather was a rich butter-scotch. I guessed it would be about seven hundred dollars, about the same as my Mexico venture. I’d top it off with a sleeveless, cowl-neck cashmere thing in off-white—I had no idea how much that would cost—and then the shoes. Boots? Could you mix and match leather? Maybe I could pull off suede, black suede, calf-height boots with laces running up the middle, the kind of boots that took you twenty minutes to get on.
I was beginning to need the leather kilt. I looked inside. A bored salesgirl, with her hair pulled back so tightly that it looked like her head was painted black, was steaming a shirt. A young man with floppy bangs and large cuffs was talking on the phone. I could probably sneak in, see how much the skirt cost, and get away without being assisted. I walked in as quickly as I could and made straight for the skirt. But the price was not visible. I stopped before touching the thing and looked over at the sales people. They were both watching. Neither of them was smiling.
I rolled my eyes. “So how much is it?”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars,” they said, in unison.
I nodded.
“Try it on,” said the girl.
I smiled.
“No, really. I tried it on, but I’m not as tall as you are. It hit me two inches below the knee.” She shuddered recalling this. “Not a good length for pleats.”
“Is there a special occasion?” asked the young man.
“Literary party.”
“Writers are all slobs,” he said. “Don’t bother.” He studied my face. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes I do,” he said. “Chocolate croissant, latte, no sugar.”
“Dean and Deluca?”
“Mornings on the weekends.” He smiled. “I remember the pants. You always wear the same pants. It’s so, I don’t know, Angelina Jolie.”
“They’re good pants,” I said. “I got them in Italy.”
“Try on the skirt,” he said. “Go on. You know you want to.”
At that point, I wanted nothing less than to try on the skirt, but it would have seemed unfriendly.
I went into the dressing room and put the skirt on. It did look good, but it wasn’t going to break my heart to leave it.
“Come out and show us,” said the girl.
I pulled the curtains and walked out and padded out in my socks. I lifted up my sweater so they could see how the waist fit and turned around a couple of times.
“See,” she said, “On the knee just barely. Perfect.” The other sales clerk nodded in agreement.
“And if I had seven hundred and fifty dollars, you’d have made a sale,” I said. I returned to the dressing room. The skirt took me a couple of minutes to get off. It was the buckles, the kilt-type things, that went around the sides. The leather didn’t slide easily and I was scared I’d scratch it. While I was fumbling with the buckles, I heard the door to the store swing open and someone’s whisper matched with the salesgirl’s incredulous, “Really?” and then the guy’s enthusiastic, “oh my God.” When I came back out, they were both smiling at me.
“What?” I said. I handed the skirt to the girl, which I had considerately put back on the hanger.
“Let me wrap that for you,” she said.
“I’m not sure I want it.”
“The skirt’s yours. I’ve already rung it up.” She closed the drawer of the cash register. “While you were in the dressing room this old man walks in. I think he was Spanish. Nice shoes. Anyway, he says he wants to buy you the skirt.”
“That’s a little strange, don’t you think?”
“Don’t argue,” said the guy. “I wouldn’t.”
“So what’s his name?”
“He wouldn’t say,” said the girl. “He paid in cash.” She handed me the bag.
I shrugged and took the bag. “Did he want anything?” I asked.
The sales clerks looked at each other and shook their heads. “I think he knew you,” said the guy.
“Why?”
“The way he bought it for you. He seemed to know what he was doing.”
“Spanish?”
“I don’t know if he was Spanish,” he said, “but he was definitely Euro.”
I picked up the bag and wandered out of the store. I looked up the street and down the street. There were people everywhere and somehow, every one of them looked familiar.
I called Arthur from a pay phone. I couldn’t remember if I’d told him I was heading to New York or that Johnny was on his way to Maine. The last time we’d talked, I’d been in Mexico City, keeping company with a bottle of tequila in my hotel room.
“What’s up?” said Arthur. He sounded cheerful.
“I’m in New York.”
“Your friend Johnny’s here. He got here at five this morning.”
“How are you two getting along?”
“Fine.” Arthur sounded relaxed. “He seems like a nice guy. He’s asleep on the couch.”
“How’s the car?”