Sample Chapters

From: A Vanishing in Greenwich Village

CHAPTER ONE

Summer 2015  

My marriage ended during my husband Patrick’s fiftieth birthday party. Our home was filled with friends. When Patrick finally appeared, dinner had been eaten and cake served. His lateness was awkward, made more so when he approached me reeking of Chanel No. 5, which is not my scent. I turned my head as he tried to kiss me, not caring how the gesture might seem. I’d used up my embarrassment a long time ago. What I felt on that warm summer evening was relief. No more pretense or false hope. No more marriage. 

            I’d spent the day with Betsy and Louisa preparing the house and the food. Salad, sirloin, salmon. Beautifully ripe melon. Music. Flowers. I shouldn’t have bothered. I should have gone for a walk, or to a movie, or taken one of my cast iron pans and smashed it into Patrick’s handsome, duplicitous face. 

            Our son Jonathan had been standing by my side. Eighteen years old, tall and thin with a mop of dark, wavy hair. A younger, more intellectual-looking version of Patrick, but kinder. More thoughtful. In touch with his feminine side, thanks to me. He was on his way to England, then college, then the rest of his life. But first, this night. The sight of his father’s embarrassed grin and the stink of one of his sluts. I murmured that I was fine. That we’d be fine. I believed it to be true. 

            My beautiful brownstone was filled with guests sophisticated enough to act nonchalant as they stood, wine glasses or cake plates in well-manicured hands. They handled themselves well. So did I. Louisa and Betsy, our tenants for so many years they felt like family, looked at me with concern. They needn’t have. Patrick’s late, aromatic arrival had given me a comforting determination I hadn’t felt in years. I stood straight and proud in my slim summer dress and bid the guests goodnight. I walked up the dining room stairs that led to our living quarters and changed into my kimono, then left the master bedroom, passed the hall bathroom, Jonathan’s room and entered the miniscule guest room at the end of the hall. The twin bed with its rose-colored chenille bedspread beckoned. The moon shed minimal illumination through the single window into the cramped quarters. A small fan sat atop a low bookcase filled with old New Yorkers, but summer heat soothed. I closed my eyes, took deep breaths. Om, rippling pond, weeping willows dancing in the wind, idiot leaning on a car horn, Om. 

            For so long I’d pretended that long, lonely nights over long, loveless years didn’t bother me. Nights in which Patrick came home, undressed, climbed into bed and fell into deep, immediate slumber. Sometimes I wasn’t bothered because I was so busy selling real estate, so tired, that I welcomed his absences and our lack of intimacy. Other times, I despised him. This party was such a time and it carried with it the added insult of having the state of my marriage so visible. So naked. 

            So what.

            Jonathan entered the room.

            “Mom, are you okay?”

            “I will be, honey.” I looked at my son and a flood of love washed over me. “I just want to sleep this day off.”

            He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, then left the door slightly ajar as he left me alone. 

            Faint sounds from downstairs. Guests saying their goodbyes. Then Patrick, knocking on the door. I ignored him. He walked in, admitting sufficient light from the hallway that the continents on the globe near the window were clear enough for me to find a focus. I settled on Greenland. 

            “It’s not what you think, sweetheart,” he said, taking a few steps toward me. “Come back to our room.” 

            “I’m comfortable here,” I said. He knelt and took my hands in his. He leaned over to kiss me. I turned my face away. Away from him and away from Greenland, the latter of which had attained some importance to my sense of control. He sat, struggled to find purchase for his broad frame on the narrow bed. 

            “Can you move over?” I moved closer to the edge, forcing him off. I could barely look at him as words spewed out. 

            “Don’t even try to explain,” I said. “I’ve put up with your crap for years. Tonight was it. To come home stinking of another woman, in front of our son. Our guests.” I was beyond rage, yet when I saw the raw pain on his face, the tears that threatened to spill, it was so unexpected that my breath caught. 

            Don’t you dare, you bastard. 

            “No matter how badly I’ve acted, El, I love only you.” 

            Words, from a mouth that’s been who knows where.

            “You’ll pay for this, Patrick. If you don’t, I will hurt you. Now leave me alone. I’m tired.”

            That was the night I removed my wedding ring. I don’t even remember where I put it. Threw it. I slept better than I had in a long while. When I awoke to a dazzling sunny morning I felt an unexpected fondness for the narrow bed, the cozy room. When I peered past the open door of the master bedroom on my way downstairs I saw that the room was neat, the bed made, none of Patrick’s clothes strewn about. Downstairs, all signs of the party were cleared away in the living and dining rooms. Jonathan, Betsy and Louisa were having breakfast at the kitchen table. They’d been talking, but an awkward silence fell when they saw me. 

            “Oh, please,” I said. “I’m fine. Hungry. I hardly had a thing to eat last night.” I sat down and helped myself to coffee, a slice of French toast, syrup, fresh fruit. “Thanks for the breakfast.” 

            “Betsy made it,” Jonathan said. I smiled at Betsy, my mouth full. I nodded my thanks. 

            “De nada,” she said. 

            “Dad cleaned up from the party before he left to work. You look rested.” 

            “I slept well,” I said. My eye lit on the dome-covered cake plate that held the remains of the birthday cake. Devil’s food with white frosting from Amy’s Bread in Chelsea Market. I cut myself a thick slice, placed it on my plate. One hundred percent maple syrup lapped at the icing. 

            “It’s eight-thirty in the morning, Mom.”

            Betsy handed me a clean fork.

            “I don’t know how you stay so thin, the crap you’ve been eating,” Louisa said. “It’ll catch up to you, one of these days.” I thrust a fork into the cake and eyed it, swallowed it, pushed the plate away. I was stronger than sugar cravings. 

            No I wasn’t. I picked up the piece of cake and stuffed it in my mouth. Crumbs and a glob of seven-minute icing found their way onto the kimono. I wondered what to do with the rest of the day. With the rest of my life. There was no reason to go to the office. Business was slow. Real estate was usually slow in the summer, at least with higher-end clients. Most either traveled or were at their weekend homes. Whatever I had to do I could do from home, including a search for a divorce attorney. I’d make a list of all the ones I knew through deals I’d done. I would choose one when I felt like it. But first, a movie on TV. A French one. Papillion. Butterflies. Prison. Escape. This was great. I had a plan. I stood, tightened the obi on the pale yellow and lime green silk kimono I’d slept in. 

            “Patrick bought this for me when he was at a convention,” I said. “In Japan.” 

            “We know that kimono. You’ve worn it for years,” Louisa said. Jonathan fidgeted in his chair. 

            “What,” I said. 

            “Nothing.” He looked miserable.

            “Oh please.”

            “It wasn’t a convention,” he blurted.

            “Of course it was. A dental convention in Tokyo. Dad’s a dentist and everyone has teeth, all over the world.”

            “No es verdad,” said Betsy, shaking her head. Her dark braid danced across her back. “I have an auntie who has no teeth.” She paused for a minute. “Dos. I think she has dos.”

            “Well, I’m sorry for her but she shouldn’t have neglected them,” I said.

            “It’s not easy when you don’t have money,” Jonathan said. “Or access to a dentist.”

            “She has money,” Betsy said. “She doesn’t have teeth.” I found that difficult to understand. I turned to Jonathan.

            “What were you saying, honey? Before the teeth.” 

            “Remember Dad’s new bowling ball when he was on that Port Authority team? Years ago. I was only about ten. He kept it in a plaid bag and I checked it out. There were plane tickets for Tokyo inside, for him and someone named Cindy.” 

            I nodded, a wise maternal nod, even as I fought a rising fury. Patrick had been cheating on me for eight years. At least eight years. 

            “Oh, Cindy,” I said nonchalantly. “I remember her. She was his bookkeeper. She had implants.” 

            “Did Dad do them?” 

            “Not that kind, honey,” I said. “Think Dolly Parton.” I fought to keep my voice calm but couldn’t stop clenching and unclenching my fists. I wanted to punch something. 

            Jonathan’s face turned red. “Her breasts? She had fake breasts?” 

            “She had bowling balls!” I let out a sound that resembled the cry of a moderately-sized safari animal in distress. I left the kitchen and entered the powder room. Faced the copper framed mirror above the sink, untied the kimono. My breasts were still firm and they were mine. I returned to the kitchen. “My breasts are better than Cindy’s,” I announced proudly. Louisa and Betsy said nothing but it seemed to me that Louisa was trying hard not to laugh. Jonathan looked uncomfortable but he’d get over it. He’d have to. Besides, city kids are tough. 

            So are their mothers, I assured myself, even as sudden pathetic sobs escaped my mouth like hiccups. 

            “Patrick slept with Cindy because of silicone,” I cried. “That’s just wrong!” My nose began to run. “Oh, shit!” Louisa handed me a napkin. As I reached for it my arm flailed about in the wide sleeve of the kimono. It was an unintentionally dramatic gesture, something Maria Callas might have done in Madame Butterfly. I blew my nose. “This kimono is hideous, isn’t it? And it clashes with my skin tones. I hate that!” I ran upstairs to the master bedroom, tore it off and threw it in the decoupage waste basket. I walked to the window and looked down at the garden. The riotous colors of the blooms below gave me hope. I cupped my bare breasts. “We’ll be fine,” I promised. 

CHAPTER TWO 

No one was downstairs when I returned to the kitchen. There was a note, to call if I needed something, they were all there for me. Except that they weren’t. I reached into a cupboard and took out an unopened box of Mallomars, carried it into the living room. I searched for the Papillon DVD I’d bought from a man on Astor Place years ago for two dollars, but couldn’t find it. No worries. There was The Lower Depths. Even better. I sat back and watched misery unfold, calm me. I was well into it when I heard the clop of Louisa’s clogs on the hallway stairs. 

            “I’m coming in,” she called, walking through the open floor-to-ceiling double doors. Her platinum hair was streaked with pink this morning. It had been blue for the party. Her clogs were yellow. She glanced at the screen. “What’s the movie?” 

            “Shh,” I said, thoroughly engrossed. Louisa picked up the cover and stared at me. 

            “You’re kidding. You have nothing better to do than watch this shit at ten a.m.?” 

            “It puts life in perspective.”

            Louisa grabbed the remote and paused the film.

            “Jonathan went to meet his girlfriend. He said to tell you they’re going to Coney Island. Betsy is visiting friends, somewhere in Queens. We’re going for a walk. You have nothing to say about it, so get up.” I understood. She’d been chosen to babysit me and from her I’m not kidding voice I knew she intended to honor her commitment. I found my sandals, slipped into them, checked my bag for wallet, keys and phone. All that took energy, so I sat back down on the sofa and hugged my bag to my chest. “Get up,” she said. “Again.” 

            “I don’t want to.” 

            “I don’t care.” She pulled me up, her thin arms surprisingly powerful. 

            It’s not that easy just walking out of a brownstone. I had to open the door, lock it behind us as we stood in the tiny vestibule, unlock the heavy front door, lock it behind us. In my state of mind it was exhausting. I stood on the top stoop and wondered why I’d agreed to leave my house. Besides, it was hot outside. Muggy. But I walked with Louisa as she led the way to Ninth Avenue. We walked north, against sparse summer traffic. 

            “If you feel like talking...” Louisa said. “I’m here.” I took her hand briefly to acknowledge her sensitivity - her quiet, solid friendship. We walked, past Chelsea Market, past the projects. No kids in the playground, only two adults asleep on benches, brown paper bags clutched in their hands. Rotgut for breakfast. Small storefronts, buildings as familiar as the mood that at unexpected moments draped me like a shroud. 

            A siren wailed as a fire truck sped down Ninth Avenue. Louisa covered her ears. We turned on West 22nd Street. Block Beautiful. On Tenth Avenue we entered Clement Clarke Moore Park. “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” Clement Clarke Moore. He and James N. Wells developed Chelsea in the 1830s, something I learned my first week in real estate. I bent down to smell the roses in the park named after him. I’d planted flowers there years ago, along with other brokers from my firm. These were different flowers, different colors. Ours had been prettier. These seemed sturdier. Expensively dressed kids played while chic parents and casually clothed nannies watched over them. Images of Jonathan as a toddler. Memories of a young, virile Patrick pushing him in a swing, arms strong and tan. Images of Patrick pushing himself inside a woman, any woman, her legs spread wide on the padded arms of his black leather dental chair. Maybe that mother in black capris and halter top standing by the jungle gym. Or the bleached blonde au pair by the sandbox. I fought nausea, along with a rising dislike for anyone who appeared to be the least bit happy. 

            “Let’s go,” I said, feeling a sudden, powerful urge to leave. 

            We walked down Tenth Avenue and I wondered what percentage of drivers were headed uptown to the nearby Lincoln Tunnel entrance. Not that I cared, I was just mildly curious. We passed the back of the magnificent General Theological Seminary, which was now a hotel. Before that it was the Desmond Tutu Center. Before that it was all just seminary, except for the condos built on the Ninth Avenue part. We turned onto West 20th, the Seminary building and its gardens to our left, townhouses across the street. I’d sold several of them over the years, both one-family and those divided into co-ops - some big and beautiful and others small and sweet. I once showed a famous Irish model the top floor of a Federal-style home turned into a four-unit co-op. When I opened the door to the luxurious bathroom a fat, wet rat stared at us from inside the toilet bowl. The model and I stared at each other in horror, then ran around the apartment screaming like crazy people, until we realized we could simply leave. 

            Mid-block, Louisa and I watched a man back out of a parking space large enough that a waiting car was able to pull right into it. The lucky driver shot us a triumphant grin and why not? It was a big deal. 

            Back on Ninth Avenue we entered La Bergamote, or rather I entered and Louisa followed. She sat at a table while I studied miniature fruit tarts behind a glass case in the patisserie. They sparkled like jewels. I ordered a multi-berry tart, an almond croissant and two iced coffees and brought them in two trips over to the table where Louisa sat. I recognized the only other customer as a tough-guy actor from Law and Order. He was reading the New York Times folded neatly into long halves. A chocolate mouse sat on a small plate in front of him, partially dismembered. When he saw me looking at him he winked. It was so unexpected that I not only smiled at him, I felt a surprise tingle between my thighs. A momentary reminder of pleasures long forgotten, of how my body used to feel before numbness settled in with more ease than was fair. He folded the paper again and took out a pen. He started the crossword puzzle. 

            I do the puzzle. He used a pen. I use a pen. There is, I believe, an unspoken bond between crossword puzzle people. I wondered what would happen if I asked him if he wanted to fool around. There was no way I could lose. If he said yes, it might be good or it might be lousy. I was used to lousy and I was used to nothing so it was a win-win scenario for me. If he said lady are you out of your mind, so what? I’d be back where I started but really one step ahead because doing something is better than doing nothing. 

            What happened was that after a while he looked at his watch, refolded the paper, stood up and was about to pass our table when I reached out and touched his arm. 

            “Thank you for reading the Times so neatly,” I said. I meant it. Things like that matter. He grinned, took my hand and kissed it. I smiled back, reminded once again of why I love this city so very much. Depending on how one chooses to view life, a kiss on the hand from a Law and Order actor can be just another day in the city or it can be a promise of good things to come. That’s what it was to me. A promise of more. 

            “Thank you for reading the Times so neatly?” Louisa said, after the actor left.

            “It says something about a person. He’s even better looking in real life.” 

            “Who is he, anyway? Should I know him?” 

            “Maybe it was my fault with Patrick,” I said. “Working so hard, for so many years.” 

            “You were doing your job. What should you have done, ignore your clients?” 

            “Now and then, for the sake of the marriage.” 

            “Screw that,” Louisa said. “You had a living to make, especially after the lean years following the recession. You did what you had to do.” 

            “All that work for his party. What a waste of our time.”

            “No it wasn’t. It was fun. You, me and Betsy in the kitchen. And that woman we met while we were shopping. How pathetic was that.”

            I smiled at the reminder, then wondered why, because there was nothing funny about our encounter with Janet. She was a former client of mine who Louisa and I bumped into while shopping for Patrick’s party. I hadn’t seen her since I’d sold her Bank Street townhouse five years ago. She never would have left that house, or Manhattan for that matter, until her husband Pete fell in love with his dream house in South Orange, New Jersey. She loved Pete so she reluctantly agreed to the move. Two years later, she returned to their six bedroom, five bathroom Tudor home after driving her kids to school and found a note propped against the espresso machine: Darlings, I’ve found my true calling and am going to spend the rest of my life in a monastery in Galicia. Everything I own is yours. 

            Everything included an enormous mortgage, Mercedes and Volvo loan payments, taxes on the property and to the IRS, maxed out credit cards and an upcoming and obscenely expensive Bat Mitzvah. Janet had given up her lucrative Manhattan career to be a suburban mom. Learned to drive so she could carpool. Learned bridge and canasta to have something to do. I’ll never forget the bitterness in her voice as she reminded me how she’d had to sell the Bank Street house at a loss while overpaying for the suburban Tudor due to a five-way bidding war. 

            “What her husband did to her is worse than Patrick cheating on me, isn’t it,” I said.

            “Way worse,” Louisa said. “You can always cheat on Patrick and be even. She’d have to become a nun.” She looked at me with curiosity. “Did you ever?” 

            “Did I ever what?”

            “Cheat on Patrick.”

            “I never even thought of it.”

            Even as I said the words I wondered what was wrong with me, that I hadn’t ever thought about being unfaithful. What had happened to my sexuality? I thought about the actor who had just left and realized I wanted it back. The feeling of a body on top of me. Under me. In me. 

            Louisa was looking at me, a bit strangely.

            “Where are you? she asked. I smiled.

            “A nice place,” I said.

            “I’m glad for you. Hey, how about that scene at the Short Hills Mall.”

            What was she talking about? Oh, yes. Janet. We had been talking about Janet. How after she had read the note from her husband about joining the monastery, she walked out of the house and drove to the mall. She walked aimlessly about until she found Hanro panties on sale, three for the price of two. It gave her a sense of victory which vanished as she stood in line to pay. Her small sense of victory turned into a meltdown as she began screaming ‘fucking asshole, fucking asshole.’ 

            “At least it happened in Nordstrom,” I said. “In Lingerie. People understood.” I paused, looked at Louisa. “You realize, don’t you, that what happened to her could just as easily happen to me.” 

            “You wear Hanro?” 

            “That’s not the point,” I said. “But yes, I do, sometimes. They’re great.” 

            “I didn’t know that. You want another croissant?” I shook my head. We paid, then walked toward home. “Don’t worry,” Louisa said, a few blocks later. “We’ll get through this.” 

            “How?”