Momma's Famous Somewhere
by Stuart Freyer
The agent with the Saint Bernard face probably had three identical Lord and Taylor suits with faux foulards in her Riverdale wardrobe.
“People are selling their bodies to get a studio like this. Look at the size of this room. The Hudson only right around the corner. It’s fantastic. And I don’t have to tell you about the proximation of the buses and the subway.”
Rory had, at least, to look at the apartment during lunch break. But the process was sickening.
“You’re moving from East 72nd because of a job change maybe?
“I don’t have to move but I’ve always liked this neighborhood,” Rory said.
The agent returned a dubious smile.
Rory ran a finger along the dingy wall. She walked to the windows one of which had a half view of Columbus Avenue below. The sill bubbled with eons of repainting. Outside the buildings dark green halls and spartan entrance cubicle waited to repel her further.
“It won’t be empty long,” the woman bellowed after her. “Call me.”
“I can’t do this,” she thought as she slipped onto the street.
She phoned Bertrand from the glove show at the Javits Center. This afternoon only a few stopped at her HANDESIGN booth. Fewer still found their way to the room where she orchestrated her little glove productions and spiel about designers and production dates, where a table with Pinot in stem glasses displayed catalogues of the five (previously ten) companies of the LAFGM (Ladies American Fashion Glove Manufacturers). She was becoming, as they said in the business, the only one in town with good taste.
Bertrand couldn’t meet her, again. Busy with some new love? He hadn’t confided. Well, fuck him. She would taxi home, eat at the apartment, go to the film by herself. Her purse was prepared for the routine with the cabby. Ask for change of a hundred. If he had none, become irate and try to get out fuming. If she had some money act flustered, fumble unsuccessfully for singles, find only a quarter tip. Or pay the fare and get out quickly as if you forgot the tip.
Tonight, the gambit worked on a kepi topped, big nosed Turk or Pakistani more interested in his cell phone. He left her on the curb of the yellow brick high rise with awning where two black women in cloth jackets over white uniforms were exiting.
She smiled at the doorman. “Hi Albert.”
He’d started a week ago, his gloves the wrong color, his coat four inches too long for a short man. It amused her. Probably the coat was passed down from his predecessor. Albert was bantam. Still, this little rooster must feel tall looking down at her. She waved a braceleted skeletal arm, the beaver coat opening to reveal a purple top and a pink crepe scarf. Did it suggest a curved back? Soft red leather sabots peeked out under a long black wool skirt. The effect was a female hobbit in high fashion, but it could not be helped; it was the best she could do considering her torso.
“Madonna called today about an order.”
“Wow, Miss S!” Albert’s eyebrows shot up as he opened the door for her. “What’s she like?”
“Marvelous.” She calls in from the coast all the time. Well I’ll be hurrying. Got a film festival. Let the boy from Ghosh’s Kitchen come up, Albert, please.”
In the elevator, she banged her head softly against the polished aluminum wall. Madonna wasn’t necessary. The name was a hoot at work. But even though the woman was handsome and lived on a coast, it was a bit much to let the doorman assume the glove buyer from Charleston was the Madonna. As if that didn’t impress Albert enough she had to add the Indian take-out which she herself could have picked up, avoiding the tip. Maybe she should do that now. No. Wouldn’t look right.
She headed down the hall cursing Bertrand silently for not meeting her for dinner, his treat. Two hundred thou a year at DeLoitte and Touche. It killed her to think of it. How silly a person he was in spite of that enchanting cane, the polkadot bow ties. But he was a good ally. No, it wasn’t money. It had to be a romance or—or what? Was he tired of her company? Should she invite him over with some other friends, for a Nouveau Beaujolais and Stilton?
Sitting on a chrome chair at the orange fifties Formica table, she pushed aside three New York Times Book Reviews to make room for dinner. A plastic mannequin hand lay on the parquet floor of the dining area, fingers bent, palm up like a supplicant. She took out a black caftan, kept the same jewelry on, switched the sabots for street slippers. She would not place the delivery order. Too late, she’d tell the doorman.
“Momma?”
“See you later honey,” Rory yelled to the bedroom.
She had left Emma on the comforter that morning. There was no time for her now.
“People are selling their bodies to get a studio like this. Look at the size of this room. The Hudson only right around the corner. It’s fantastic. And I don’t have to tell you about the proximation of the buses and the subway.”
Rory had, at least, to look at the apartment during lunch break. But the process was sickening.
“You’re moving from East 72nd because of a job change maybe?
“I don’t have to move but I’ve always liked this neighborhood,” Rory said.
The agent returned a dubious smile.
Rory ran a finger along the dingy wall. She walked to the windows one of which had a half view of Columbus Avenue below. The sill bubbled with eons of repainting. Outside the buildings dark green halls and spartan entrance cubicle waited to repel her further.
“It won’t be empty long,” the woman bellowed after her. “Call me.”
“I can’t do this,” she thought as she slipped onto the street.
She phoned Bertrand from the glove show at the Javits Center. This afternoon only a few stopped at her HANDESIGN booth. Fewer still found their way to the room where she orchestrated her little glove productions and spiel about designers and production dates, where a table with Pinot in stem glasses displayed catalogues of the five (previously ten) companies of the LAFGM (Ladies American Fashion Glove Manufacturers). She was becoming, as they said in the business, the only one in town with good taste.
Bertrand couldn’t meet her, again. Busy with some new love? He hadn’t confided. Well, fuck him. She would taxi home, eat at the apartment, go to the film by herself. Her purse was prepared for the routine with the cabby. Ask for change of a hundred. If he had none, become irate and try to get out fuming. If she had some money act flustered, fumble unsuccessfully for singles, find only a quarter tip. Or pay the fare and get out quickly as if you forgot the tip.
Tonight, the gambit worked on a kepi topped, big nosed Turk or Pakistani more interested in his cell phone. He left her on the curb of the yellow brick high rise with awning where two black women in cloth jackets over white uniforms were exiting.
She smiled at the doorman. “Hi Albert.”
He’d started a week ago, his gloves the wrong color, his coat four inches too long for a short man. It amused her. Probably the coat was passed down from his predecessor. Albert was bantam. Still, this little rooster must feel tall looking down at her. She waved a braceleted skeletal arm, the beaver coat opening to reveal a purple top and a pink crepe scarf. Did it suggest a curved back? Soft red leather sabots peeked out under a long black wool skirt. The effect was a female hobbit in high fashion, but it could not be helped; it was the best she could do considering her torso.
“Madonna called today about an order.”
“Wow, Miss S!” Albert’s eyebrows shot up as he opened the door for her. “What’s she like?”
“Marvelous.” She calls in from the coast all the time. Well I’ll be hurrying. Got a film festival. Let the boy from Ghosh’s Kitchen come up, Albert, please.”
In the elevator, she banged her head softly against the polished aluminum wall. Madonna wasn’t necessary. The name was a hoot at work. But even though the woman was handsome and lived on a coast, it was a bit much to let the doorman assume the glove buyer from Charleston was the Madonna. As if that didn’t impress Albert enough she had to add the Indian take-out which she herself could have picked up, avoiding the tip. Maybe she should do that now. No. Wouldn’t look right.
She headed down the hall cursing Bertrand silently for not meeting her for dinner, his treat. Two hundred thou a year at DeLoitte and Touche. It killed her to think of it. How silly a person he was in spite of that enchanting cane, the polkadot bow ties. But he was a good ally. No, it wasn’t money. It had to be a romance or—or what? Was he tired of her company? Should she invite him over with some other friends, for a Nouveau Beaujolais and Stilton?
Sitting on a chrome chair at the orange fifties Formica table, she pushed aside three New York Times Book Reviews to make room for dinner. A plastic mannequin hand lay on the parquet floor of the dining area, fingers bent, palm up like a supplicant. She took out a black caftan, kept the same jewelry on, switched the sabots for street slippers. She would not place the delivery order. Too late, she’d tell the doorman.
“Momma?”
“See you later honey,” Rory yelled to the bedroom.
She had left Emma on the comforter that morning. There was no time for her now.
~
At the festival (thank God for the prepaid series membership) Rory passed the cramped last minute ticket queue. No one she knew or would like to know. Leather skirt with skin-tight, ankle-high, hooker-style, stiletto-heel pumps, law firm pin stripes, cuffless, pleatless trousers of a cheap fabric that made her wince. She brightened at the ticket-holders’ area. Here was expectation, movement, laughter; perhaps someone in the magnifying glass of interest.
And wonderful, of course, to see the animals. Just now, adjusting his rep tie, a long-toothed square-faced man under spiky gray hair like a wolf with horns, stood silently deep eyes toward with his wife, long neck, jittery head, small beaked nose, pursed lips and what looked like whiskers—a cat-chicken. There was a bulldog-fish: a small matron with cakey-flaky makeup on a pushed-in face. Emma would love this. A spot in the crowd morphed into the assistant music director of the city opera, Adrian, a needle-man with a tangle of hair in which every misplaced strand appeared chosen to look that way. He walked slowly and purposefully to the entrance. Weaving through a crunch of
people, she sidled up to him.
“This will be a terrific movie. Herzog loves him.”
“Yes,” he said. Soft eyes appraised her then looked away.
“We met at the Ashberry party. I loved your comment about music and beef.” (She had seen him, joined a group around a sofa, laughed at his jokes, had not spoken and had not been introduced.)
“Mmm,” he said, turning, “How are you?” then immediately back to a tall blonde woman in dreadlocks, a lion in need of a perm.
Oh, to be dishing right now with Bertrand.
Bastard!
Inside, Rory shuffled down the aisle, smiling at familiar faces from other film events. Before the lights dimmed, she peered around from her seat to see if she knew anyone. Bobby once recognized her in a throng of 200 by the back of her head. Said she was the only woman in New York who had that honey Dutch Boy cut. She was due for an appointment. There was no better colorist. Or more expensive. The movie was dark, set in a small village, the characters, two teenagers, hiding, with a dog and a pig, from Nazi-like police in hay lofts and attics. It ended with a Deus Ex Machina, quite silly really. During the final credits, she sat listening to the chic people beside her, smiling at their jokes and once added a non sequitur as if she were with them. Anyone several rows away might think she was.
And wonderful, of course, to see the animals. Just now, adjusting his rep tie, a long-toothed square-faced man under spiky gray hair like a wolf with horns, stood silently deep eyes toward with his wife, long neck, jittery head, small beaked nose, pursed lips and what looked like whiskers—a cat-chicken. There was a bulldog-fish: a small matron with cakey-flaky makeup on a pushed-in face. Emma would love this. A spot in the crowd morphed into the assistant music director of the city opera, Adrian, a needle-man with a tangle of hair in which every misplaced strand appeared chosen to look that way. He walked slowly and purposefully to the entrance. Weaving through a crunch of
people, she sidled up to him.
“This will be a terrific movie. Herzog loves him.”
“Yes,” he said. Soft eyes appraised her then looked away.
“We met at the Ashberry party. I loved your comment about music and beef.” (She had seen him, joined a group around a sofa, laughed at his jokes, had not spoken and had not been introduced.)
“Mmm,” he said, turning, “How are you?” then immediately back to a tall blonde woman in dreadlocks, a lion in need of a perm.
Oh, to be dishing right now with Bertrand.
Bastard!
Inside, Rory shuffled down the aisle, smiling at familiar faces from other film events. Before the lights dimmed, she peered around from her seat to see if she knew anyone. Bobby once recognized her in a throng of 200 by the back of her head. Said she was the only woman in New York who had that honey Dutch Boy cut. She was due for an appointment. There was no better colorist. Or more expensive. The movie was dark, set in a small village, the characters, two teenagers, hiding, with a dog and a pig, from Nazi-like police in hay lofts and attics. It ended with a Deus Ex Machina, quite silly really. During the final credits, she sat listening to the chic people beside her, smiling at their jokes and once added a non sequitur as if she were with them. Anyone several rows away might think she was.
~
Home, one taxi later, she moved several swatches of chino and fell on the couch, a cushiony affair in striking red with white piping. Twenty dollars for cabs in one day. Should she take one tomorrow then change to the subway after a few blocks? What else could be done to avoid that tenement on Columbus? Bag lunches? Starvation?
“How was it Momma?” Emma called.
“Fine,” she said.
“Any kids there?”
“No, but lots of animals.” Rory spoke breezily as she came into the bedroom dropping bracelets.
Emma was on the Amish quilt, stub paws sticking out of a consignment shop doll’s pinafore. Her furry hind legs, slightly spread, shot the red plastic boots out at an angle. At her side, dry orange peels scattered on a small plate, yesterday’s mail crowned by an American Express statement with an outrageous balance, mostly interest. The nerve they had.
“I had to skip dinner. But I got home for you. What did you do today?”
“I flew to Paris.” She heard herself in Emma’s high raspy voice pronounce it Pawis.
“Where is that?”
“New Jersey.”
Rory laughed. By now it was like talking to someone else, someone naive who spoke from the heart. Her own spontaneous answers for Emma always surprised her—like free association filtered through fabric.
Funny.
“How was it Momma?” Emma called.
“Fine,” she said.
“Any kids there?”
“No, but lots of animals.” Rory spoke breezily as she came into the bedroom dropping bracelets.
Emma was on the Amish quilt, stub paws sticking out of a consignment shop doll’s pinafore. Her furry hind legs, slightly spread, shot the red plastic boots out at an angle. At her side, dry orange peels scattered on a small plate, yesterday’s mail crowned by an American Express statement with an outrageous balance, mostly interest. The nerve they had.
“I had to skip dinner. But I got home for you. What did you do today?”
“I flew to Paris.” She heard herself in Emma’s high raspy voice pronounce it Pawis.
“Where is that?”
“New Jersey.”
Rory laughed. By now it was like talking to someone else, someone naive who spoke from the heart. Her own spontaneous answers for Emma always surprised her—like free association filtered through fabric.
Funny.
~
Emma had been with her several years. On the Spring day Rory first saw her the Dacron animal, a gift from a Minneapolis manufacturer’s rep, wore tiny felt mittens to promote a hoped-for fad. A ten-inch tan-colored creature sitting limbs akimbo, it had a face with a rounded prominence above two large rabbit or gopher teeth and looked to be smiling. The buried fake opal eyes were lower than the level of the fur. Seen from certain angles they seemed to close and have a blissful look. Small ears, stub tail, what was she? A hedgehog? A woodchuck? Maybe. Surely not a beaver. They have long tails don’t they?
She took the creature home. Early on she had left the thing—her—on the bed, and one night hugged it before falling off to sleep. The next day she pondered why. Later, a booth at the Coliseum Fabric Show with a mock of an Indian design jacket in miniature size stopped her short. She begged the agent, a friend from Parson’s, to save it for her. Emma’s first voice, that of a toddler, was full of excitement and thanks. “I wuv it Momma!”
She took the creature home. Early on she had left the thing—her—on the bed, and one night hugged it before falling off to sleep. The next day she pondered why. Later, a booth at the Coliseum Fabric Show with a mock of an Indian design jacket in miniature size stopped her short. She begged the agent, a friend from Parson’s, to save it for her. Emma’s first voice, that of a toddler, was full of excitement and thanks. “I wuv it Momma!”
~
There were things she didn’t share with Emma: this grinding lack of funds, or thinking about men like some of the lovely stags she saw at the movie. If only—but, no. Men who liked her tended to be Daddy Bears or walruses: married, dumpy, or both. If they took you out, married or not, they wanted grabs right away. Too much history of one night bumps with bar animals, accountants, or chiropractors in town for a course on lumbar adjustment or cash flow management who, after three or four scotches, didn’t mind doing a pretty faced woman with a mild limp and a bowed back. An occasional artist or poet, but not many. Seldom had she had a tender experience.
Sometimes she imagined a friend—Henry or Roy—falling for her, proposing living arrangements where they could not only party as a couple, but share a cleaning woman, vacation together, be devoted. No sex of course. Given life’s choices, would that be so bad? Richard Chamberlain to dote on her? A curator of a chic gallery? And being childless was an old story; she was forty, like the woman in the—was it Lichtenstein?—Oh my God I Forgot to Have Children!
Not that she didn’t approve of children. Her nieces adored her. She could have been a good mother, better than her sister who sent them to sport camps, tennis lessons, and then sweated herself through endless Pilates classes. Sometimes Rory could see her own wonderful household upstate near Hudson or Chatham, she an active board member of the drama society. He would be a pediatrician, like that weedy pebble-face in her Renaissance art class so many years ago, the one she went to museums with who never got up the courage to kiss her. How strange had that been for him as well? Parading in beautiful great rooms with a gnome like herself looking up at those handsomely dressed twelve-foot Titian courtiers and Velasquez princesses. Here was an intelligent admirer, if a bit slack in his taste in suits, who obviously cared for her. Her feelings had been so mixed. Being seen with someone she didn’t want to be seen with. It was like wearing a superbly comfortable jacket that looked cheap.
So he would have a position in the city, this husband, perhaps owning one of the rag companies she had to grovel to. And there would be none of this ridiculous worry about money, this feeling of being on the edge of a cliff. She’d make sure the Salvadoran maid was a good cook. What would he look like? Not tall and graceful, of course. More likely short, a paunch, and a comb-over. But she would supervise the house, talk to the roof gardener, go to openings at will. A wood paneled apartment on Central Park West peppered with small paintings by Rivers and Katz, new works from sweet galleries in TriBeca. And the children. Girls. Their closets filled with Karan dresses.
Sometimes she pictured Emma with those other children, the two girls. Emma in school, Emma in a play. Emma at the museum. They were all of them in an immense ballroom with French windows, the girls, Emma, the husband, wearing delicate pastel pajamas, salmon silk strings tied softly, loosely to their necks, parading round her like spokes of a giant floating wheel.
Sometimes she imagined a friend—Henry or Roy—falling for her, proposing living arrangements where they could not only party as a couple, but share a cleaning woman, vacation together, be devoted. No sex of course. Given life’s choices, would that be so bad? Richard Chamberlain to dote on her? A curator of a chic gallery? And being childless was an old story; she was forty, like the woman in the—was it Lichtenstein?—Oh my God I Forgot to Have Children!
Not that she didn’t approve of children. Her nieces adored her. She could have been a good mother, better than her sister who sent them to sport camps, tennis lessons, and then sweated herself through endless Pilates classes. Sometimes Rory could see her own wonderful household upstate near Hudson or Chatham, she an active board member of the drama society. He would be a pediatrician, like that weedy pebble-face in her Renaissance art class so many years ago, the one she went to museums with who never got up the courage to kiss her. How strange had that been for him as well? Parading in beautiful great rooms with a gnome like herself looking up at those handsomely dressed twelve-foot Titian courtiers and Velasquez princesses. Here was an intelligent admirer, if a bit slack in his taste in suits, who obviously cared for her. Her feelings had been so mixed. Being seen with someone she didn’t want to be seen with. It was like wearing a superbly comfortable jacket that looked cheap.
So he would have a position in the city, this husband, perhaps owning one of the rag companies she had to grovel to. And there would be none of this ridiculous worry about money, this feeling of being on the edge of a cliff. She’d make sure the Salvadoran maid was a good cook. What would he look like? Not tall and graceful, of course. More likely short, a paunch, and a comb-over. But she would supervise the house, talk to the roof gardener, go to openings at will. A wood paneled apartment on Central Park West peppered with small paintings by Rivers and Katz, new works from sweet galleries in TriBeca. And the children. Girls. Their closets filled with Karan dresses.
Sometimes she pictured Emma with those other children, the two girls. Emma in school, Emma in a play. Emma at the museum. They were all of them in an immense ballroom with French windows, the girls, Emma, the husband, wearing delicate pastel pajamas, salmon silk strings tied softly, loosely to their necks, parading round her like spokes of a giant floating wheel.
~
Today I saw Al Pacino in the street. He’s almost as small as we are. Looked like a horse rat.
Who is he Momma?
He’s a famous actor.
Are you famous Momma?
Not too famous, no.
Are you famous somewhere?
Maybe somewhere.
Yeah, Momma, maybe in the sky.
Momma how pretty am I?
You’re gorgeous!
When I’m big, will I be sad like you are sometimes? Will you buy me bracelets to make me happy?
Who is he Momma?
He’s a famous actor.
Are you famous Momma?
Not too famous, no.
Are you famous somewhere?
Maybe somewhere.
Yeah, Momma, maybe in the sky.
Momma how pretty am I?
You’re gorgeous!
When I’m big, will I be sad like you are sometimes? Will you buy me bracelets to make me happy?
~
Where did it go wrong? She felt like a ball thrown high in the sky, an eccentric ball to be sure, realizing it was headed back to earth. It was her fate to make the descent seem slow or as much as possible like a traverse: she learned to play a part, to calculate, to use others, her strong suits being intellect, flair, acting as mother confessor. More and more she was defined by her bustling activity. The physique then could be dropped back as if held behind, showing only the demo, the touched-up copy of the real.
~
What was your Momma like?
She was—lovely.
She was—lovely.
~
Was it her parents’ fault? The swarming energy that was her sweet Daddy and that harbored her mother, a shadow figure, remembered only cooking alongside the maid, on the way to shopping or visiting a sick friend. Mother had never been mentally present, hiding behind her daily tasks. After Daddy was gone, she was unable to continue upright. It became apparent he had, in efect, been her mother’s brain. As for Rory, the trust money dried up, and she realized how much she had depended on him, how he had subsidized her world of parties, plays, design and fluff.
~
I need a boyfriend.
Where did you hear that?
TV.
Someday you might have one.
Will my boyfriend come to the apartment?
Maybe or somewhere. But men--boys-- are not always so great you know.
What’s great? Oh, I know—ART!
Where did you hear that?
TV.
Someday you might have one.
Will my boyfriend come to the apartment?
Maybe or somewhere. But men--boys-- are not always so great you know.
What’s great? Oh, I know—ART!
~
Her face belied the rest of her. It was still elegant. The nose job done at fifteen had turned out perfectly, a chiseled almost Grecian look at the ever-so-slightly-turned-up tip, was seen on models again and again with satisfaction. She had dark eyes, arched brows, strong cheekbones, a delicate chin, and good teeth. Only below the neck did things degenerate. She felt more comfortable sitting at dinner, at plays hidden by a coat than she did standing at parties, her bent back exposed. Otherwise, she was a match for anyone. A blade-smart gargoyle who could discuss fashion, Barnet Newman, Scorsese, or Schoenberg with anybody any time. But, in a Chicago hotel room, a lover revealed he had slept with an amputee. She so sympathized with the image of appearing normal on top and damaged below that, for one of the few times in her life, she felt strangely whole and completely beautiful.
After years of running expectantly to meetings with new men and being disappointed by their insensitivity, their inability to see the gem inside the geode, her defenses had grown to this: a woman on display, splendid in her dress and conversation looking out from a Maginot line of ornaments, pendants, mufflers, waving flags of passionate scarlet and defiant green.
After years of running expectantly to meetings with new men and being disappointed by their insensitivity, their inability to see the gem inside the geode, her defenses had grown to this: a woman on display, splendid in her dress and conversation looking out from a Maginot line of ornaments, pendants, mufflers, waving flags of passionate scarlet and defiant green.
~
Momma, how did I get here?
You came from a family of short-tailed beavers deep in the woods far-far-away who wanted their baby to live in the city. You were so beautiful and I loved you so much I became your mother.
You came from a family of short-tailed beavers deep in the woods far-far-away who wanted their baby to live in the city. You were so beautiful and I loved you so much I became your mother.
~
As a girl she’d had dolls, of course, but this was different. With Rory at work or at parties, Emma lived in the back of her mind, like a child or a lover. And who knew about her? Emma was silent when company came by, and almost no one ventured into the bedroom these past few years. Rory had to admit to herself she was embarrassed to have Emma in the living room as she had been when Bertrand came over.
“What is this little beastie?” he had asked, jumping back in pretend horror. “Your sweetheart?”
“No. A gift from a sales rep. Cute isn’t it?”
He drank his sherry and prattled on about the new bow ties at Zegna.
“I think I’ll do Prague this spring,” he said.
“I’d hide in your baggage if I weren’t so busy.”
Or so poor.
When the door had closed behind him she heard Emma.
“Why didn’t you tell your friend the true story about the woods far-far-away?”
Her face was hot.
“He doesn’t understand—magical things.”
After that Emma stayed “asleep” in the bedroom when people visited.
“What is this little beastie?” he had asked, jumping back in pretend horror. “Your sweetheart?”
“No. A gift from a sales rep. Cute isn’t it?”
He drank his sherry and prattled on about the new bow ties at Zegna.
“I think I’ll do Prague this spring,” he said.
“I’d hide in your baggage if I weren’t so busy.”
Or so poor.
When the door had closed behind him she heard Emma.
“Why didn’t you tell your friend the true story about the woods far-far-away?”
Her face was hot.
“He doesn’t understand—magical things.”
After that Emma stayed “asleep” in the bedroom when people visited.
~
Why am I not like other kids?
You’re special.
When will I go to school?
You are very smart already.
What will I do when I grow up? Can I be a teacher? When will I get big?
It’s not important to get big.
Can I go out again?
You’re special.
When will I go to school?
You are very smart already.
What will I do when I grow up? Can I be a teacher? When will I get big?
It’s not important to get big.
Can I go out again?
~
Philadelphia called. This was too much. The price of booths at the upcoming show had trebled, she would have to inform her brokers and manufacturers, they would piss and fume, maybe balk, cancel, make it even harder for her to stay in the stream. How would it all end? If something doesn’t break she’d definitely have to relocate to that West End slum.
There was nothing to do about it. Go to a gallery. That would give her a lift.
There was nothing to do about it. Go to a gallery. That would give her a lift.
~
“We’re going on a trip today.”
At the Daniel Chester French show this morning, in the empty marble quiet room, Rory peeked Emma’s head out of her bag, gently shushing her queries. Her back screened Emma from the side door where a guard might peer around at any moment.
“What a cute rabbit!” The guard was at her side.
“She’s not a rabbit,” Rory snapped at him, shocking herself, and swept out of the room, red-faced, her mind a storm.
At the Daniel Chester French show this morning, in the empty marble quiet room, Rory peeked Emma’s head out of her bag, gently shushing her queries. Her back screened Emma from the side door where a guard might peer around at any moment.
“What a cute rabbit!” The guard was at her side.
“She’s not a rabbit,” Rory snapped at him, shocking herself, and swept out of the room, red-faced, her mind a storm.
~
“I’m going out with friends honey,” she cooed as she dressed.
“What are friends Momma?”
“They are people you do things with.”
“Do friends like you Momma?”
She hesitated a moment, looking at the floor.
“Sometime they do, sometimes they just like to do things with you.”
“I like you Momma and I like to be with you.”
“Yes, you’re my best….” The word grew spines in her neck as she waved goodbye.
“What are friends Momma?”
“They are people you do things with.”
“Do friends like you Momma?”
She hesitated a moment, looking at the floor.
“Sometime they do, sometimes they just like to do things with you.”
“I like you Momma and I like to be with you.”
“Yes, you’re my best….” The word grew spines in her neck as she waved goodbye.
~
“Oh Rory, you can’t go home alone. We’ll take you,” Joseph said, as they finished the last of the Muscadet. Joseph was ebony Jamaican, small, thin legged, all tight energy. Everything was ironed and creased so sharply that he had very clear edges. Rich, a psychologist, was a soft rumpled big bird with accepting eyes. “Yes, we have to celebrate a little more. This will be my millionth New York taxi tonight I’m almost sure,” Joseph said.
“Last week a cabby told me I was his ten thousandth ride. Wouldn’t charge,’’ Rich said.
“How sweet,” Rory said. If only that would happen to her.
“Wait, that’s not the end of the saga. I put my hand around to my pocket to fetch a large tip and came on something soft and silky. You know how you leave things in cabs? I thought it was one of the numberless lost. Instead I found a fifty-dollar bill wrapped in a black bustier. Of course, I gave him the money.”
“Of course, you sensitive thing—and kept the bustier,” Rory said.
Joseph rocked back, hands together to his chin.
“Cab stories, cab stories, everyone must have one.”
Everyone did and the line came closer to her. Cabs, of all things. Were they bringing it up on purpose? Was there something they knew?
Joseph pumped on about boarding a taxi while avidly reading a Harper’s, and, finding himself alone, having left Rich at the hack stand. Rory had heard it before. She barely listened, feeling her chest heave, her hair harden. She had too many taxi stories. She had almost left a second bag behind once—a bag that Emma was in—coming home from a walk in Central Park. Emma liked to look at the squirrels and ask if they were her brothers. She remembered the bag after she was outside of the car, but before she had closed the door. Momma you almost left me. She felt sick inside all that day. She couldn’t tell the boys.
She touched the worn fabric at the edge of the barrier in front of her, the ancient unused ashtray to her side that wouldn’t close. A bus stood between the cab and the curb barring her view of the shops. An ad on its side showed a sunset like a monstrous eye peering in the half-opened window. The cabby turned to recheck on her address.
A red felt kepi decorated with tiny imitation pearls and gold rope swirling around little mirrors, rode on his shaven head. She had seen them in Cappadocia that last vacation with Daddy, had wondered about bringing back a few thousand to try to flip them to Bloomingdales. Something familiar about him. She had seen that head before, that bulbous tip of a nose.
She had stiffed him for a tip a month ago on the way to the MOMA exhibit. She let Joseph give the directions and shifted her head out of the Pakistani’s line of sight through the rearview mirror. Was he listening to the stories or his earphones? Now he was taking them off.
“What type was the bustier? Parisian?”
Three blocks to her house.
“Yes I think. A real push-up.”
Did it fit? What size was it? She spewed questions. Joseph laughed. But there was a hint of the quizzical in his look.
“Why are you so interested dear?”
“I want to carry the picture of you in a black bustier to the grave,” she grinned and winked.
Two more blocks. The traffic looked decent. If she could only pull her head within her turtleneck shirt. One block.
“Ciao boys. My story next time.” She escaped into the night.
“Last week a cabby told me I was his ten thousandth ride. Wouldn’t charge,’’ Rich said.
“How sweet,” Rory said. If only that would happen to her.
“Wait, that’s not the end of the saga. I put my hand around to my pocket to fetch a large tip and came on something soft and silky. You know how you leave things in cabs? I thought it was one of the numberless lost. Instead I found a fifty-dollar bill wrapped in a black bustier. Of course, I gave him the money.”
“Of course, you sensitive thing—and kept the bustier,” Rory said.
Joseph rocked back, hands together to his chin.
“Cab stories, cab stories, everyone must have one.”
Everyone did and the line came closer to her. Cabs, of all things. Were they bringing it up on purpose? Was there something they knew?
Joseph pumped on about boarding a taxi while avidly reading a Harper’s, and, finding himself alone, having left Rich at the hack stand. Rory had heard it before. She barely listened, feeling her chest heave, her hair harden. She had too many taxi stories. She had almost left a second bag behind once—a bag that Emma was in—coming home from a walk in Central Park. Emma liked to look at the squirrels and ask if they were her brothers. She remembered the bag after she was outside of the car, but before she had closed the door. Momma you almost left me. She felt sick inside all that day. She couldn’t tell the boys.
She touched the worn fabric at the edge of the barrier in front of her, the ancient unused ashtray to her side that wouldn’t close. A bus stood between the cab and the curb barring her view of the shops. An ad on its side showed a sunset like a monstrous eye peering in the half-opened window. The cabby turned to recheck on her address.
A red felt kepi decorated with tiny imitation pearls and gold rope swirling around little mirrors, rode on his shaven head. She had seen them in Cappadocia that last vacation with Daddy, had wondered about bringing back a few thousand to try to flip them to Bloomingdales. Something familiar about him. She had seen that head before, that bulbous tip of a nose.
She had stiffed him for a tip a month ago on the way to the MOMA exhibit. She let Joseph give the directions and shifted her head out of the Pakistani’s line of sight through the rearview mirror. Was he listening to the stories or his earphones? Now he was taking them off.
“What type was the bustier? Parisian?”
Three blocks to her house.
“Yes I think. A real push-up.”
Did it fit? What size was it? She spewed questions. Joseph laughed. But there was a hint of the quizzical in his look.
“Why are you so interested dear?”
“I want to carry the picture of you in a black bustier to the grave,” she grinned and winked.
Two more blocks. The traffic looked decent. If she could only pull her head within her turtleneck shirt. One block.
“Ciao boys. My story next time.” She escaped into the night.
~
An E-mail from Rome. Cortone liked her idea of exploiting the glut in mad cow leather and the rough outside design with denim cuffs and could she line up American manufacturers? When could she come? They would call later.
Rory twirled and danced, blowing kisses to the bedroom.
“Emma, your mom is great,” she yelled, settling on a stool in the kitchenette.
“I know.”
Rory twirled and danced, blowing kisses to the bedroom.
“Emma, your mom is great,” she yelled, settling on a stool in the kitchenette.
“I know.”
~
On the roof of her building, there were three or four well-oiled women on flat mats and beach chairs. The one wearing a silverized chin reflector was a large hairless dog—a Chihuahua triceratops. One was in her twenties, the others older, all of them in bikinis. The closest looked obscene. Her wrinkled upper arms and thighs lay alongside the mat: a Macys’ Barbie balloon torso decompressing after the Thanksgiving parade. The women did not look up as Rory, in a white collared summer dress, orange plastic sandals, and carved wooden wristlets that clacked, walked across the roof, a large black Coach purse swinging under her shoulder. The sun was at its apex, any shadows small and proximal.
She had come up for air; She had come up to give Emma an adventure. Emma peeked out of the bag. Facing outward now toward Madison Avenue, Rory held her, arm and wrist on the furry back swaying her gently.
Emma was quiet. “Say hello,” she said to Emma, smiling. Emma said hello to the women, who looked up in surprise. She continued toward the wall overlooking the East. Her nose even with the barrier, Rory could see only skyscrapers and blue. There would be Roosevelt Island vague in the distance, Madison Avenue below. A steel blue haze hung over the mid-town area. But above it the azure was pushing down. She helped Emma out and placed her on the ledge so that she could see the sky, her gray body only subtle shades darker than the cement under her bottom. She stood behind Emma, her hand on the closely clipped shoulder and pointed out the sights. There was a sound behind her.
“Is that a squirrel?”
Rory whirled around to see the interruption as the wind lifted and sang on the roof. It was one of the young women, probably seventeen, a gold nose-ring and a small tattoo of a beetle on her left cheek.
Rory’s face was burning, her neck tight.
“No, she’s my daughter Emma. Emma say hello.”
“I don’t like her, she’s weird,” Emma’s voice said, her back to them, legs tilting her slightly.
The woman looked at her and at Emma again. Her face took on a lopsided smile, her eyes blank. “OK, whatever.”
Rory watched the girl retreat to her clique, hunch her shoulders and hold her arms out, palms up.
The sky above Rory was occupied now only by the sun and a cloud puff that was moving and changing shape from ball-like to egg-like with white laces at the top, a rabbit with its small ears drawn in, then a sitting rabbit. The breeze blew her collar against her chin. She turned to Emma.
She was off, Emma was off, down on the flat parapet under the gust, then rolling just ahead of Rory’s hands too fast for them to stop her. And she was over the concrete lip.
The women must have seen her go over the top, must have seen her scramble, stick legs spreading and pushing the little body up. They must have seen the white dress billow in the sudden current or heard the jangle of the bracelets on stone and known when she was there and when she was gone.
Rory into the air, into the whistling sound of flutes the rapid changes of squares and rectangles falling blue tumbling with steely lead. Maybe she heard one of the women scream “No lady, No.” The movement freshened her face and the fall seemed to caress her. She watched the upward flow of colors and blurred shapes in a kind of awe. Emma was ahead of her: she could see her tumbling in the wind her little eyes shining.
“Momma’s coming,” Rory cried into the pressing air.
She had come up for air; She had come up to give Emma an adventure. Emma peeked out of the bag. Facing outward now toward Madison Avenue, Rory held her, arm and wrist on the furry back swaying her gently.
Emma was quiet. “Say hello,” she said to Emma, smiling. Emma said hello to the women, who looked up in surprise. She continued toward the wall overlooking the East. Her nose even with the barrier, Rory could see only skyscrapers and blue. There would be Roosevelt Island vague in the distance, Madison Avenue below. A steel blue haze hung over the mid-town area. But above it the azure was pushing down. She helped Emma out and placed her on the ledge so that she could see the sky, her gray body only subtle shades darker than the cement under her bottom. She stood behind Emma, her hand on the closely clipped shoulder and pointed out the sights. There was a sound behind her.
“Is that a squirrel?”
Rory whirled around to see the interruption as the wind lifted and sang on the roof. It was one of the young women, probably seventeen, a gold nose-ring and a small tattoo of a beetle on her left cheek.
Rory’s face was burning, her neck tight.
“No, she’s my daughter Emma. Emma say hello.”
“I don’t like her, she’s weird,” Emma’s voice said, her back to them, legs tilting her slightly.
The woman looked at her and at Emma again. Her face took on a lopsided smile, her eyes blank. “OK, whatever.”
Rory watched the girl retreat to her clique, hunch her shoulders and hold her arms out, palms up.
The sky above Rory was occupied now only by the sun and a cloud puff that was moving and changing shape from ball-like to egg-like with white laces at the top, a rabbit with its small ears drawn in, then a sitting rabbit. The breeze blew her collar against her chin. She turned to Emma.
She was off, Emma was off, down on the flat parapet under the gust, then rolling just ahead of Rory’s hands too fast for them to stop her. And she was over the concrete lip.
The women must have seen her go over the top, must have seen her scramble, stick legs spreading and pushing the little body up. They must have seen the white dress billow in the sudden current or heard the jangle of the bracelets on stone and known when she was there and when she was gone.
Rory into the air, into the whistling sound of flutes the rapid changes of squares and rectangles falling blue tumbling with steely lead. Maybe she heard one of the women scream “No lady, No.” The movement freshened her face and the fall seemed to caress her. She watched the upward flow of colors and blurred shapes in a kind of awe. Emma was ahead of her: she could see her tumbling in the wind her little eyes shining.
“Momma’s coming,” Rory cried into the pressing air.
Stuart Freyer’s stories have appeared in American Fiction Volume 14: The Best Unpublished Stories by New and Emerging Writers, Timber Creek Review, Zahir: A Journal of Speculative Fiction, and Colere, among others, and will be seen in december. He lives in Williamstown, Massachusettes.
A 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee, Stuart's essay can be found in Issue 12 of Glassworks.