9

IN WHICH AMANDA AND
HOWARD BECOME ACQUAINTED
AND MELISSA HAS HER WAY

Amanda looked at the boxes of Catherine like a mother who wished her child would behave better.

She spent the entire afternoon trying to pull together the first three chapters for Howard Stewart to read. The operative word in the latter was “trying”; once Amanda had Chapter 1 safely in the folder, she discovered Chapter 1 from 1981 and liked it better. And then she came across the 1983 version, which was radically different from the other two, prompting her to read succeeding chapters to see what it was she had been trying to do in 1983. The result was that Catherine was soon spread out all over the floor in the writing room, Amanda was near apoplexy with time running out, poor Mrs. Goldblum was informed that tea was canceled, and Rosanne was given the opportunity to lecture Amanda on the virtues of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.

By the time Amanda threw herself in the shower at five o’clock, the “pages” for Howard Stewart numbered something over four hundred. (Chapters 1, 2, 3, ala 1981, 1983 and 1986; outlines of intent from 1978, ‘80 and ‘85.) Amanda Exposed, she thought she should write on the folder. By the time she was dressed, Amanda decided to hide the “pages” in the kitchen and if—only if—Howard Stewart expressed a desire to read part of Catherine would she bring them out. (Amanda had a vision of opening the door, pages in hand, and Howard Stewart fainting.) Amanda also filed his letter away—the one that had GARDINER & GRAYSON, PUBLISHERS emblazoned across the top—which had been hanging over her desk.

Howard Stewart arrived promptly at six and Amanda found him charming. Warm, clever, earnest—what was there not to like? He was her age, she thought, perhaps a year or two younger—perhaps a year or two older. And she liked his looks. The way he was dressed—tweed jacket, loose-fitting pants—was enticing, but a large part of his appeal to Amanda had to do with the possibility of a change in costume. Take off his glasses (marvelous eyes) and put him jeans, boots and a hat and he’d make a fine cowboy. Let the five o’clock shadow grow into a beard, stick an ax in his hand, and he could be Pa in Little House in the Big Woods. Slick his hair back, dress him in a tuxedo, hand him an elegant walking stick, and plop him down in a speakeasy in the 1920S. Cloak him in furs against the cold winters of imperial Russia and...

Amanda noted how well he handled her, kept her on track. He was very direct about Catherine, about Amanda’s relationship with her, about Amanda’s relationship with the work. Every time Amanda lapsed into excuses about why the book was taking so long, Howard Stewart gently forced her into the present, about today, about her work habits and how (and if) they were changing, could be changed. At one point, while pacing in front of the fireplace, Amanda got so flustered she knocked over the fire irons. Howard jumped up, steered Amanda down into a chair, and said, very gently, “I apologize. I’m firing too many questions at you. This book is your life and doesn’t deserve to be rushed, not even when talked about.”

He held her shoulders while he said this.

If Roger had done the same thing, Amanda would have been waiting for him to kiss her. But the thought did not cross her mind with Howard Stewart. In fact, what she was thinking about was how much she yearned to curl up in his arms and cry. She wanted to tell him that Catherine would never be written, never be finished. That there was no point to this discussion, because if Catherine were to be finished, then Amanda would be left alone, and she would be finished too.

She did not curl up in his arms. She did not tell him this. She got him another glass of white wine and gave him a tour of the apartment. He seemed to know a good deal about antiques (in each room he headed straight for the best pieces) and made comments that let Amanda know that his appreciation was sincere.

He adored the writing room. Poking about, noticing all the boxes and files and shelves of papers, he asked her what else she was working on. When Amanda admitted that it was all Catherine, Howard merely smiled and nodded, saying, “I think you’ve been living alone with her for too long. And I think it’s wonderful you’ve decided to let someone meet her.”

Couldn’t this man just stay here forever? Read in the corner?

She brought out the “pages” from the kitchen and handed them to him without a word. “Good,” was all he said, tucking the manuscript under his arm. “And now, fair is fair. Where is the altar?”

For a minute Amanda didn’t know what he was talking about. She was too caught up visualizing Howard sharpening pencils at her desk. Amanda understood, finally, and led him to her bedroom. When she turned on the lights, Howard covered his face and groaned.

Amanda didn’t know what to do.

Picking up on her confusion, Howard quickly said, “It’s the most remarkable room I’ve ever seen. I could move in here, lock the door, and be perfectly happy for twenty years.”

Amanda smiled.

When Amanda had the contractors erect the walls, and hence create the rooms of her apartment, she had driven them to distraction over this room. The walls had to be torn down twice before she was happy with them. Rather, with it. Extending out from the front arc that made up the facade of the tower, the room had one continuous curving wall. In essence, the room was one sixty-five-foot circle, a third of which was the ironwork and glass of the tower windows; a third of which was built-in bookshelves of various sizes and shapes; and the last third of which was taken up by a stone fireplace and a four-poster bed. Ivy hung everywhere; Victorian paintings hung at odd junctures over and through the bookcases; there were candles everywhere, too.

Howard scanned some of the books and noted aloud that they were in alphabetical order by author. “The only way I can find anyone,” Amanda said.

He looked at her then for a moment, his face unreadable. “Anyone,” he murmured. “You speak of them as people too.”

Amanda nodded.

His expression changed then and the corners of his mouth turned down.

He seemed to be trying to shake whatever the thought was that he was holding.

They went back to the kitchen, where Amanda refilled their wineglasses. Howard’s eyes rested on a note that Rosanne had written. He looked at his watch.

Amanda handed him his glass. “I don’t mean to keep you,” she said.

“Are you kidding?” Howard said. “I told you—I could stay here for twenty years.” He looked around suddenly, seemingly nervous. He put the manuscript down on the table and sat down in one of the chairs.

Amanda lifted herself up to sit on the counter above him.

“Maybe I should talk to you,” Howard said.

Amanda blinked several times. “What, pray tell, have you been doing for the last few hours?” He looked down to his feet. “I’ve got a problem.” Amanda waited, curious. “My wife’s got it in her head Rosanne’s husband robbed us and I’m not sure what I should do about it.”

Amanda sipped her wine. Quietly, “Do you think he did?”

Howard looked up at her. “No.”

“Then what is the problem?”

He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Shaking his head, “You don’t know my wife.”

“From the sound of it, perhaps it’s fortunate I don’t.” His head kicked back with a laugh. Amanda jumped down from the counter, picked the phone up off the counter and placed it on the table next to him. “222-5673, Room 709.”

Howard picked up the receiver and punched in the number. The operator buzzed the DiSantos room but there was no answer. Howard had to call back a second time to leave a message. He hung up the phone and both he and Amanda, now leaning against the counter, looked at it.

Howard finally spoke. “Ever wish you could just—disappear? Vanish?”

Amanda merely smiled.

They talked for another twenty minutes about the Stewarts’ robbery, about how much they both loved Rosanne (a great deal of laughter in sharing their views of her), and about the dubious circumstances of the DiSantos home life. They agreed that Howard should stand up to his wife on this; they agreed that Rosanne deserved every possible break in life; and somehow the subject veered and Amanda was promising to help Howard at the bookstall on Saturday at the block party. By this point the two were

sitting almost knee to knee in chairs. Another glass of wine had been consumed; their faces were slightly flushed. It was approaching nine-thirty.

“Will I be working side by side with your wife?” Amanda asked.

“No, thank God. Melissa’s got some grand scheme going with the Junior League. Cookbooks and food and dressing up like recipes or something.” Pause. Smiles. Amanda fingered the stem of her glass. “May I ask you something?” “Sure.” “Do you consider yourself... happy?” He made a sound deep in his throat. “You mean am I happily married?” Amanda didn’t say anything. “I don’t think so.” Amanda nodded, sipping from her glass. “I wasn’t either,” she said. Howard’s eyes darted around as if he expected a husband to walk in. “I’m divorced,” Amanda said. “I’ve been divorced so long, I think I’ve always been divorced.”

“Really?”

“Well, six years is a long time.”

Howard murmured his agreement. After a moment he met her eyes. “I’ve thought about getting divorced.” Amanda’s heart started to pound. And that wasn’t all. Voice strained, trying to pull it off as a joke, “Your wife plays around, perhaps?”

Howard roared. “Melissa wouldn’t play a piano,” he said, slapping his knee. He continued to chuckle to himself and then, a moment later, his smile abruptly died. “We don’t do anything, either one of us,” he said.

Silence.

“Do you have children?” Amanda said.

“No. You?”

Amanda shook her head.

Silence.

Howard sighed. “I think I keep thinking it’ll get better.”

Softly, “Was it ever—better?”

“No,” Howard said.

Silence.

“We were very fortunate, Christopher and I—that’s my husband, Christopher. Was my husband. If we had had children...” She let her voice trail, shaking her head. She looked back at him. “Why haven’t you had children? You seem like the kind of man who would want to be a father.”

He thought a minute and then shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve never really even talked about it. I guess with Melissa’s career—”

“She works?”

“Oh, does Melissa work. She’s very successful.”

“In publishing?”

“No, banking. She’s with First Steel Citizen.”

Amanda’s surprise was evident. “I wouldn’t have envisioned you with someone in banking.”

He tossed back the rest of his wine and put the glass down heavily. “Me neither.” He gave Amanda’s foot a slight nudge. “What about Christopher, what did he do?”

“Christopher?” Amanda threw her head back to laugh. “Christopher didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t believe that. He must have—”

She leaned forward. “It’s true. Christopher did absolutely nothing while married to me, except—” She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Oh, let us tread gently past the subject of what Christopher did.”

“How did you live then?”

Amanda tossed her hands up. “I’m wealthy. I admit it. My grandmother died and left me all this money and Christopher married me and spent a lot of it. Not all of it, though.” She gestured to the room. “I have this. I have more, too.” She hastily covered her mouth. “Pardon me. I’m not a particularly good drinker.”

“Nor am I.”

Amanda pursed her lips for a moment. “It’s a pretty terrible thing to know that someone married you because your grandmother died.” She frowned. “It’s really rather distressing.”

“My wife’s got money,” Howard said, rocking back on the chair legs.

The cheery warm feeling (and feeling of other kinds) that Amanda was experiencing dissipated with this announcement. She was very polite, friendly still, but brought the evening to an end.

At the door, with the pages of Catherine tucked under his arm, Howard promised to read them before the block party on Saturday. Amanda would really come, wouldn’t she? Standing there, listening to the tone of his voice, some of Amanda’s good feeling returned. This was indeed a very nice man. A very nice man who genuinely seemed to want to help her with Catherine. “You must not feel as though you have any obligation to me,” she said. “I don’t,” he said. “But, in any event, I’ve met one of my more wonderful neighbors, haven’t I?” He held out his hand and Amanda shook it. “You don’t know how much fun this has been for me tonight. I really needed to be cheered up—and I was.” He grinned. Then he saluted. “Until Saturday.”

Without thinking, Amanda curtsied.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” Amanda said, closing the door.

He is attractive, she thought.

But then, so had been Christopher.

It was the apartment, it was her breasts, and it was the wine, Howard told himself all the way home. What was the matter with him? His heart was racing, his stomach felt achy. Howard felt nuts. She was bright—obviously, granted. Eccentric. A recluse. Hardly the stuff women of dreams are made of.

But she was very, very, very pretty. Not beautiful. Though she had verged on it, the way she had been standing by her desk, against the light. In the kitchen, too, when she was sitting on the counter. Looking down. Such strange eyes. That mouth.

The rest of her body certainly wasn’t hard to take either. “Rosanne’s here,” Melissa announced at the door, arms folded. “I think we should stand together on this.”

Howard dropped his briefcase, laid Amanda’s manuscript on the table, and brushed past Melissa without comment. Rosanne was standing in the middle of the living room, looking small, spent. She made no effort to greet him: she simply set her tired eyes upon him. Howard went to her and touched her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Melissa marched in, plunked herself down on the couch, crossed her legs and then her arms too for good measure. “Well,” she said. Rosanne continued to look at Howard. “You could have called me before sendin’ the cops over.”

“We didn’t send the police,” Melissa said. “The police asked us if there were any unusual visitors recently and we simply told them that your husband was one of them.”

“I did call you,” Howard said. “No one answered and I left a message.”

“You called her, Howard?”

Howard looked at Melissa. “Yes, I did.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.” “Thanks,” Rosanne murmured. Then she addressed herself to Melissa. “I don’t think my husband had anything to do with this.”

Melissa tossed her head. “That’s for the police to decide. We have nothing to do with it.” “I don’t think your husband had anything to do with it either,” Howard said.

“Well,” Melissa said, rising from the couch, arms still folded, “regardless of what anyone thinks, I know, Rosanne, that you’ll agree with me that it would better that you not work here until this matter is cleared up.”

“Melissa—”

‘’No, Howard.”

Howard touched Rosanne’s arm again. “She doesn’t mean it. Of course you’ll stay on.”

Melissa’s eyes narrowed at the opposition. She circled the couch and stopped behind it. “Rosanne is not to return until this matter is settled. Do I make myself clear?”

Howard looked to the ceiling. “Melissa—”

“Let’s just get real, Howard, shall we?” The tone of Melissa’s voice could cut steel. “You couldn’t pay for the electricity around here.” To Rosanne. “I’ll send you a check for one week. I think that’s more than fair.” She walked out of the room; a few seconds later they heard the bedroom door slam.

Without a word, Rosanne turned to go.

“Rosanne,” Howard said, following her, “don’t worry. We’ll straighten this all out. Just come back on Monday. Everything’ll be all straightened out by then.”

Rosanne continued down the hall.

“Rosanne—”

“Don’t you get it, Howie?” Rosanne said, wheeling around. She backed up a step and fumbled for the doorknob. “There’s nothing to straighten out. Your wife hates me, and I hate her. She wants me out of here and you can’t stop her.”

Howard sighed. “Rosanne, look—”

“And I don’t care how smart she thinks she is,” Rosanne sputtered. “There’s something all twisted up inside of that woman.” She yanked the door open. She looked back at him, softening slightly.

“I’m sorry, Howie, but that’s the way I see it.” She was breathing heavily. “I like you, Howie—always did. But if you don’t do somethin’ about that bitch, you’re gonna get all twisted up inside too.”

She waited a moment, but Howard couldn’t say anything.

“Bye,” she said, closing the door.

A moment later she knocked. Howard opened the door and Rosanne handed him her keys to the apartment.

Amanda settled down into the six pillows on her bed to read Charlotte Bronte’s Villette. In the course of wading through Catherine this afternoon she had come across a reading a list from one of her graduate courses at Columbia. Seven years late, but better late—

The buzzer went off on her phone, prompting—as it always did—an image of Carl to flash through her mind. Amanda’s phone system had been her first concession to twentieth-century high technology. The man who had come to install it, two years ago, had been named Carl; Carl had to give Amanda six “phone lessons” to understand how to operate it without zapping people off left and right; and then Carl had come back every other Monday until Amanda bought her word processor from Roger.

There were three different lines on the phone—one for the world, one for her parents and one for special friends (Mrs. Goldblum, Rosanne and Claremont Riding Academy)—so that when the phone rang Amanda had a very good idea as to whether she wished to pick up or not. (She rarely picked up on “the world” line. The engineer she had hired to assess the north tower, Mark [predecessor to Carl], was still calling—after three years!) The phone also had a tie line to the house phone in the lobby, and it was this line that was buzzing.

She almost didn’t answer it. It was near midnight and she couldn’t imagine it being good news. More likely it was notification that Roger had been hauled out of the lobby by the police. She took a breath and picked up.

“A Mr. Stewart is here to see you. He says if it is too late he will come back another time.”

Stewart—Howard? He must love the pages, she thought. “No, it’s fine, send him right up.”

“Yes, miss.”

Amanda scrambled out of bed and grabbed the robe at the foot of it. She brushed her hair fast and furiously, ran a quick check in the mirror and sailed off for the front door. When she heard the elevator, she counted twice and then swept open the door with a big “Hello!”

Howard was holding some pages of her manuscript in his hand. His tie was gone, his shirt was open at the top and he was drunk.

“Found it that bad, did you?” Amanda said.

“Don’t let me do anything stupid.”

Amanda rubbed her eye, smiling.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Amanda, still smiling, stepped back from the door. “Surely.” She watched Howard drift down the hall. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen? Do you remember where it is? Turn left.” He did not remember and apparently did not know left and so Amanda had to steer him there.

“I’m afraid I’m a little drunk,” he said. “But I still know wonderful writing when I see it.” “Good,” Amanda murmured, pushing him into his old chair in the kitchen. “May I offer you some coffee?”

Howard smiled like an idiot.

“Or perhaps some tea, with honey and milk?”

“Mmm,” Howard said, taking off his glasses and dropping them on the floor. It took a bit of time and effort, but he managed to pick them up. “I’ve never done this,” he announced.

Amanda went about making tea. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. My wife sent the cops to Rosanne’s, Rosanne came over, Melissa fired her, Rosanne called me a wimp—other than that, nothing’s happened.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Amanda said.

Howard rambled on for a while, the bits and pieces that he shared adding up to something quite ugly in Amanda’s mind. By the time he was finished, Amanda had decided she must see Rosanne the following day. At Mrs. Goldblum’s if need be.

Amanda shared the pot of tea with Howard. As upset as she was about Rosanne, she nevertheless found herself hinting about the pages of Catherine she had given Howard.

“It’s the only good thing that happened today,” he said. “I sat down in the study with her—”

Her, Amanda’s mind registered.

“—and if I hadn’t brought a bottle of wine with me... But I liked what I read. I mean, Amanda, I’m loaded and all, but I’m not that loaded. And then,” he sighed, “it just seemed like a good idea to come over. At the time.” He frowned. Then he looked at Amanda across the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never done anything like this—”

“You’ve apologized at least forty times,” Amanda said. “That’s more than sufficient. Besides, if I were upset, I would simply have you thrown out.”

Howard seemed surprised by this. “Really?”

“Really,” Amanda said.

He smiled.

She smiled.

His eyes dropped down to her robe and then came back up.

Amanda swallowed.

Silence.

“I should go now,” he finally said.

She closed her eyes and nodded. And then, opening them, she stood up. He just sat there, staring up at her. Amanda held out her hand and smiled. “No,” he said, suddenly shaking his head, “it’s all right. I mean—I’m all right.” And he got himself on his feet and followed her to the front door. “You will come Saturday, won’t you?” he asked her, pushing the button

for the elevator.

“I’ll be there,” she promised, leaning against the door.

“I, uh—” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

He looked at her nervously, smiled and touched at his glasses. “Thank you for being so understanding about—uh, this.” “It’s quite all right.” “I—shoot—” He dropped the pages. Amanda just stood there, watching him gather the papers together. When he stood up, his attention focused on the jumble in his hands, Amanda let her eyes drop—

No.

She raised her eyes immediately. The elevator arrived. “Good night,” he said, stepping in. He turned around, ran a hand through his hair, and waved. “Good night!” “Until Saturday,” Amanda said, waving back.

Howard undressed in the bathroom. Flicking off the light, he stood in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Then he opened the door, crossed the bedroom and slipped into bed. He put his glasses on the night table, settled in on his left side, facing away from Melissa, and pulled the covers up over his shoulder.

“Howard,” Melissa said.

Pause. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said.

“I don’t want to fight with you either,” he said.

Silence.

The rustle of sheets; Melissa’s hand on his shoulder. “We need to talk,” she whispered. Howard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Finally, “I’m tired, Melissa. Let’s talk in the morning.”

Melissa snuggled up behind him, slid her hand up his chest and let it rest there. Howard felt the side of her face press against his back. In a moment he felt her hand inching its way down, unsure. He waited.

Her hand reached him, there. Her fingers touched him lightly. The response was immediate and growing. When Howard started to turn over, Melissa’s hand slipped away. “I’m tired too,” she said, rolling over to the other side of the bed.