Going Home Part 9

"Why don't you wait till Sunday; the rates are lower and we can't start this calling every day routine." He was looking at something over my shoulder as he said it.

"Not every day. I just thought you'd want to know we got in okay." Tinges of irritation blazed in my voice.

"If the plane crashes, I'll hear about it. Get settled, then call in a couple of days." I nodded again. I was running out of things to say. "Want a piece of gum?" I shook my head, turning away again, crying toward the lady who stood behind me. She must have thought me very strange, but I couldn't face Chris anymore. I couldn't stand it.

"Will all pa.s.sengers holding green boarding pa.s.ses for American Airlines Fight 44 to New York please board the aircraft through Gateway D, at Gate 12. Will all pa.s.sengers . . ."

"That's you." I nodded, gulping, looking for Sam again.

"I know. We can wait. Too many people . . . no point . . ."

"No point waiting around, Gill. When it's time to go, it's time to go." Thank you, Mr. Matthews, you sonofab.i.t.c.h . . . but I kept nodding, trying not to cry.

"I . . . uh . . . oh G.o.d, Chris! . . ." I clung to his jacket and touched the side of his face with my hand, one last time, and turned away blinded by tears. I wanted to scream, and kneel down on the airport floor, to cling to one of the huge chrome airline desks, to stop all the things that were happening without my consent. I wanted to stay, oh G.o.d, how I wanted to stay. And I wanted Chris to put his arms around me, but he didn't. He knew I would fall apart if he did.

"Sam, you carry your teddy, and take your mother's hand." Our coats were being lumped into my arms, Sam's hand took mine, and the crowd moved us toward the plane. I could feel Chris angry beside me because I had made a spectacle of myself, but I didn't give a d.a.m.n. I had never felt so lonely or unhappy in my life. I thought I was losing what I loved and wanted most, I even doubted that I'd ever see him again. And I was positively keening for him, even before we left. Loving and hating him all at once.

"Chris. . . ."

"Good-bye, Gill, have a good flight. Talk to you Sunday." I turned away, squeezing Sam's hand, and started moving through the gate with the rest of the crowd. Half a dozen people already stood between us, and I was looking ahead, not wanting to look back again at what I wouldn't see.

"Gill! . . . Gill!" I stopped in the flow of people, and turned to see him, Sam and I being jostled by the people pushing past us, but I had to see. I just had to. "Gill! . . . I love you!" He said it! He said it! It was always that kind of thing that made me go on loving him, the last-minute contradictions that caught my heart just before it shattered on the bathroom floor.

"Gabye, Uncle Crits! . . . Gabye! . . . Mommy, can I watch the movie on the plane?"

"We'll see." I was looking back at Chris, our eyes saying to each other what we hadn't been able to say that morning. It was easier this way.

"Mommy . . ."

"Later, Sam. Please." Please, please, later, anything, but just later. We were herded into the plane, and then San Francisco was shrinking below us. And then gone. Like Chris.

12.

Samantha was angelic on the flight, the plane was full, the food was lousy, and I was numb. Sh.e.l.lshock. I sat back in my seat, nodded to the stewardess at the appropriate times, or shook my head, and did my best to smile at Sam to give her the illusion that I was sharing in her conversation. I wasn't. My brain had died in the San Francisco airport, and somewhere in my chest was something called a heart. But it felt more like a marble watermelon, and I wondered what would happen if I stood up. Maybe it would fall out?

We had spent almost eight months in San Francisco, and now we were going back to New York. Why? That was stupid. I knew why, except I didn't really. I was going back to New York because I was pregnant and Chris didn't want me around. But why didn't he? That's what I didn't want to think about. I just couldn't. It was too much to face. As was the thought of what he'd do now that I was gone. Meet someone else? Fall in love? Have another girl move in? . . . Screw his a.s.s off. . . .

He said he'd come to New York, but would he? I didn't believe he would. In fact, I knew he wouldn't. Which left me where? Nowhere. Alone. Pregnant. And back in New York.

I spent the first three hours of the five-hour flight back to New York pining within myself, the fourth hour asleep, and the fifth hour getting steamed up. To h.e.l.l with him. To h.e.l.l with it all.

I was going back to New York and I was going to make it. I would take that town and grab it by the neck until it gave me what I wanted. Chris Matthews wasn't everything, and then, as the plane circled low over the lights of Long Island, I knew I was excited to be back. San Francisco may have been beautiful and a place of peace and sunshine, but New York had something else to offer. Excitement. It was alive, it breathed and writhed and made you want to spring into action, it almost had a musical beat of its own, heavy, hypnotic, irresistible, and I could already feel its lure as the landing gear touched the runway.

"Mommy, are we here?" I smiled at the question, and nodded, taking Sam's small warm hand in mine and looking out the window, into nothingness, only the blue runway lights, but I knew what lay beyond, across the river. We were back in New York now and we were going to use it well. Hallelujah. Amen.

We got off the plane and headed toward the baggage claim area. And suddenly, all I wanted to do was to grab our stuff and see that skyline as we came over the bridge. I wanted to see it and hear it and smell it. I wanted to know that New York was standing there like a naked gypsy, waiting for me.

"Where are we going to sleep tonight, Mommy?" There was a faintly worried look in her eyes as she clutched her teddy bear, and I had a sudden idea.

"You'll see. We're going to stay someplace special." I stopped at a phone booth on the way to the bags, looked up a number in the directory, and dialed. Samantha and Gillian Forrester had just changed their plans.

The apartment we had lived in before had been sublet, furnished, and I had given my tenants a month's notice two weeks before. Which left us with two weeks of living in a hotel, and I had chosen a quiet, inexpensive residential hotel not far from where we'd lived before. But that was bulls.h.i.t. This was New York. To h.e.l.l with "quiet, residential." I had had an idea. And for two weeks, I could afford it.

"Who did you call, Mommy?"

"The place where we're going to stay. I think you'll like it. And in two weeks we'll be back in our own apartment." I realized that she needed to hear that. Maybe I needed something grandiose to drag me out of the dumps but she needed familiarity. It was all right. We were going to have both. First, two weeks for me. And then she'd be home, safe and sound.

Our bags were revolving aimlessly on the turntable when we got there, and I found a porter to carry them to a cab.

"Where to, lady?" The driver had the standard New York cabdriver look, a dead cigar stuck out of his face which was covered with a two-day beard stubble.

"The Hotel Regency, please. Sixty-first Street and Park Avenue." I settled back with a gleam in my eye, and Sam on my lap, and we drove into town. Our town, Sam's and mine. This one was ours. And it was going to be mine, all mine, in a way it never had before.

13.

In typical New York style, we sped toward the city, darting from one lane to another and threatening lives as we went. It didn't seem to impress Sam much but it gave me that heady, hysterical-giggle feeling you get on a roller coaster, everything moving too fast and the view beyond a blur of lights and indistinct forms. I was only aware of the motion and speed, not of the dangers. In New York, you don't learn to live with danger, you thrive on it, you expect it, you come to need it. It's built in.

We raced across the Queensborough Bridge, down 60th Street, and stopped for the light at 60th and Third. And there it was, it was just beginning. Hordes of s.h.a.ggy-haired young "groovies" sat at Yellowfingers restaurant, eyeing each other, and viewing pa.s.sersby with a critical air, the sweaters on the girls were tight and transparent, the pants on the men bordered on the obscene, and through it all a look of carefully calculated "laissez aller." In the quick glance I threw at them, I noticed the baubles, the Afro wigs, the painted faces, all the little details you never see in California because n.o.body dares, not like they do in New York. Across the street, Bloomingdale's Department Store, and in the canyon between the mammoth store and the restaurant, a flood of frantic traffic, horns bleating, fenders dented, Con Edison adding an obstacle course for the entertainment of drivers and pedestrians alike. The entire area seemed to be seething with lights from restaurants, shops, street corners, and movie house marquees, and there was a kind of aura that held me in its spell. We turned right on to Third Avenue, and made our way a few blocks uptown among the other cars, crowding us on either side, tailgating and racing to make the lights. Left toward Park Avenue then, where we circled the island of greenery in the center and came back down the avenue to a screeching halt in front of our hotel. And I was suddenly glad that I had made the call from the airport. That "quiet" hotel would have killed me. I needed this. The Regency.

A liveried doorman helped us out and smiled at Sam, and two bellboys rushed up to take the bags. I paid the cabdriver and doled out tips like Hershey bars on Halloween, but I didn't give a d.a.m.n. It was worth it.

We whirled through the revolving door, Sam's hand clutching mine, and then we swooped up to the reception desk. It was an immense baroque-looking marble and gilt affair, with a fleet of men standing at attention behind it.

"Good evening, Madame. May I help you?" He wore a dinner jacket and black tie, and the accent was French. Perfect.

"Good evening. I'm Mrs. Forrester. I called for a reservation an hour ago. A double room with twin beds." Sam's eyes peeked over the counter and he smiled at us.

"Yes. Indeed. But I regret, Madame. There has been a problem. A little misunderstanding." . . . Oh s.h.i.t. No rooms. And I suddenly felt like Cinderella, gone from satin frills to ashes in the flick of an eyelash.

"What sort of misunderstanding? Nothing was said on the phone." I tried to look commanding and not as disappointed as I was.

"Only that we have no more double rooms tonight, Madame. I was thinking that perhaps you would agree to two adjoining singles until the morning, but I see that that may not be suitable with Mademoiselle." His eyes pointed at Sam and he smiled. "You would surely prefer to sleep with your Mama." I was about to leap at the proffered singles, but he burst into speech again. "I have a much better idea though. We have one unoccupied suite. It will be a little larger than you wanted," and a lot more expensive. That much I could very definitely not afford to spoil myself. A suite? No way. "But I will make the appropriate adjustments on your bill, if you will allow. As you were promised a double on the phone, we will charge you that rate. I hope Madame will be pleased with the suite. It's one of our nicer ones."

"How very kind of you. Thank you." I smiled warmly at him and noticed with pleasure that he looked quite overwhelmed. At least I hadn't lost my touch completely. And I was briefly very glad I'd worn the good black dress I'd bought at Magnin's that summer. At least I looked the part. And I felt just right as the elevator rose sedately to the twenty-seventh floor.

"This way, please." We followed the bellboy and our bags, turned left twice, and I'm sure I felt quite as lost as Sam. We walked down what seemed like endless pale beige halls with rich red carpeting and small Louis XV marble-topped tables at appropriate distances from each other. The doors were quietly marked with small gold numerals and had big bra.s.s handles.

The boy unlocked a door at the end of the hall, and it swung open wide. 2709. That was us. Wow! It was a corner room, with a real New York view. Skysc.r.a.pers twinkled impressively at us, the Empire State stood far in the distance, and at closer range we had the Pan Am Building and General Motors. Far below us, we could see the elegance of Park Avenue stretched out like a long gray-green ribbon, dotted here and there with stoplights. And at right angles to the panoramic cityscape of skysc.r.a.pers was the East River, with all the lovely little town houses of the East Sixties between the water's edge and where we stood. I couldn't have asked for more.

The bellboy retired discreetly from the room after I thanked him and gave out yet another tip, and I looked around the room. It was decorated in yellow and off-white, in thick carpets and rich upholstery fabrics, there were heavy cream satin damask curtains, and an air of opulence throughout. Near the door where we had come in there was a bar and tiny kitchenette, a small dining alcove, and, across from it, a large marble-topped desk. I felt as though I were expected to do something impressive here, like write a $400,000 check.

The bedroom beyond was bright and cheerful; the furniture looked French provincial, the wallpaper and bedspreads were in a tiny floral print, and there was a vast bouquet of fresh flowers. What luxury! And the bathroom! . . . The bathroom! . . . It was a dream. All done in porcelaine de Paris, marble, and bronze. The towels looked seven inches thick, and the tub looked three feet deep. And there was a dressing room which looked like a boudoir in the French court.

"Sam, how do you like it?" I was grinning to myself in self-satisfied greedy glee.

"I don't. I wanna go back to San Francisco." Two huge tears slid down her face, and I felt time stop. Poor Sam.

"Oh, sweetheart . . . I know . . . so do I. But we're back here for a little while now. We'll go back sometime. And this will be nice. You can go to school here, and . . ." My arguments sounded lame and I felt suddenly guilty to be so pleased to be back, and Sam looked as though she felt betrayed.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Sure. Let's get you to bed. Are you hungry?" She shook her head and plopped herself down on the edge of the bed, still clutching her teddy bear. She was a portrait of despair. "How about some milk and cookies?" Maybe that would help.

I picked up the streamlined beige phone, consulted the little card beneath it, pushed the right b.u.t.tons for room service, and ordered milk and cookies for her and a split of champagne for me. I hadn't given up the satin frills yet. Cinderella was still at the ball.

Sam sat on my lap when the enormous pink linen-draped tray arrived from room service, and she sipped milk and munched cookies while I guzzled champagne. It was quite a scene.

"Time for bed, love." She nodded sleepily, let me take off her clothes, and climbed into bed.

"Will we go back soon?"

"We'll see, sweetheart . . . we'll see." Her eyelids already drooped heavily over her eyes and they flickered open only once more to cast a piercing look at me.

"I'm gonna write a letter to Uncle Crits tomorrow . . . first thing!"

"That's a nice idea, Sam. Now get some sleep. Sweet dreams." Her eyes closed for the last time, and I smiled at her as she lay in the bed which dwarfed her small frame. She would "write" to Chris tomorrow, which meant a great, loose, lovely scribble . . . just for him.

I turned off the lights in the bedroom and wandered back into the living room of our suite, the champagne gla.s.s still in my hand, the vision of Samantha asleep in the bed still in my head . . . and a vision of Chris too. . . .

The scene at the San Francisco airport seemed a thousand years behind us, and the days in California seemed like a distant dream. And as I looked at the dragon city which lay at my feet, I wondered if we'd ever go back. Or if I'd even want to. In one brief hour, New York had already bewitched me. I had conquered other worlds, but now I wanted to conquer my own. I wanted to enter the contest with New York, and emerge victorious, no matter what the price to pay.

14.

Good morning, Mademoiselle. How did you sleep?" For once I had woken up before Sam.

"Okay." Sam looked at me sleepily; she was a little confused.

"We're in a hotel. Remember?"

"I know. And I'm going to write a letter to Uncle Crits." She had remembered that too.

"Fine. But we have lots of things to do today. So, up you get. And we'll go out in a little while."

I had a few calls to make first. I checked with the tenants at my apartment to be sure they'd be out on time, and called schools for Sam. We were just in time for the beginning of the school year, but by New York standards we were a year late with our application. Too bad. I knew that if I called enough schools one of them would take her, and I was right. It was just down the street from the hotel, and I made an appointment to see it with Sam that afternoon.

I also got a babysitter to come and help with Sam. She was to live out for the two weeks we would be at the hotel and live in after that.

And there was something else to set up too. A job. And I wasn't at all sure it was going to be easy to find one. The economy had tightened up during the year I'd been gone and jobs were scarce. My experience was limited to advertising and magazine work, but according to reports I'd heard they were the two tightest fields to get into just then, and I'd been away for a while. My last job had been at a decorating magazine called Decor, but I had little hope of getting a spot there again. Free-lance styling as I had done in California was a possibility too, but I knew that in New York I could never survive on it. The cost of living was too high. So my only hope was Decor. At least it was a start, and maybe Angus Aldridge, the senior editor, would have an idea, or know of a job available on some other magazine. It couldn't hurt to try.

"Angus Aldridge, please. This is Mrs. Forrester. Gillian Forrester . . . No . . . F-O-R-R-E-S-T-E-R . . . that's right . . . No. I'll hold."

He was charming, elegant, and a d.a.m.ned good editor. All Bill Bla.s.s suits, and warm smile, and omniscient eyes, showing all those ladies in Wichita "how to." He was thirty-nine years old, his vacations were spent skiing, preferably in Europe, he had been born in Philadelphia, spent his summers in Maine with his family, or in the Greek Islands on his own, and had gone to the school of journalism at Yale. Our Editor. Our G.o.d. Our Mr. Aldridge.

Underneath the warm smile, he could be as cold and heartless as an editor should be, yet I liked him; there was very little pretense about him, he was Philadelphia and Yale, and East 64th Street, and he liked being those things. He believed in them. He didn't give a holy d.a.m.n about Wichita or Bertrand, or the other places like it that he was sending a magazine to once a month. But he put on a good show, and if you played by the rules he was good to work with.

"Yes. I'm still holding."

"Gillian? What a surprise. How are you, dear?"

"Fine, Angus. Great. It's super to talk to you, it feels like years. How's life? And the magazine, of course?"

"Marvelous, dear. Are you back in the city for good? Or just coming back to the watering hole again to revive after San Francisco?"

"I think I might be back for good. We'll see." But I had a sudden twinge for San Francisco again as I said the words.

"Gillian, dear, I'm late for a meeting. Why don't you stop by sometime. No. How about lunch tod . . . no, tom . . . Thursday? Lunch Thursday. We'll talk then."

"Thursday's fine. That would be wonderful. Nice to talk to you, Angus, see you then. And don't work yourself into the ground before Thursday. I'm dying to hear all the news." Which was a lie, but that's the local dialect.

"Fine, dear. Thursday. At one. Chez Henri? . . . Fine, see you then. Good to have you back." Bulls.h.i.t, but more of the same dialect.

Chez Henri. Just like old times, when there was something to "discuss" . . . good afternoon, Mr. Aldridge . . . over here, Mr. Aldridge . . . a dry martini, Mr. Aldridge? . . . the expense account, Mr. Aldridge! . . . b.a.l.l.s, Mr. Aldridge.

But I wanted a job, and I had always liked Angus for what he was. But why was I sounding so New York all of a sudden? Where was Chris? San Francisco? The new me? Or even the old me . . . where in h.e.l.l was I? I had become so engrossed in just being back in New York that I felt almost schizophrenic, as though I'd become another person when I stepped off the plane.

I had made up my mind to ask Angus for a job on Thursday, and it was perhaps more easily done over lunch after all. Or maybe harder. We'd see. In any case, it couldn't hurt to ask. All he could do was say no. And it would be a start.

What next? Whom to call? Should I wait till I saw Angus, or call a bunch of people all at once? Well, maybe just one more. John Templeton. Editor of the less elegant, less witty, more earthy Woman's Life. The magazine was tougher, straighter, and more diversified. It told you what to feed your child after he had his tonsils out, how to apply Contac paper to bathroom walls, what diet to go on when you were losing your man, and how to sew "at-home" skirts out of remnants of curtain fabric. John Templeton, like his magazine, was a no-fooling-around species, fish or cut bait, produce or you're out, slightly scary individual. But he and I had liked each other, the few times we'd met, and he might remember me. I had done free-lance work for him a few times before I'd gone to Decor. So I called.

Once again, the whir of a switchboard, the clicks, staccato, and almost swallowed "Wmm's . . . Lfff."

`"Mr. Templeton, please."

And then, "Mr. Templeton's office" cooed by a mildly intimidating, highly poised youngish voice. The executive secretary. Who believed, knew in fact, that she was perhaps not better or smarter than Mr. Templeton, but surely almost as powerful, in her own way. Secretaries invariably intimidate me; they want you to "tell it to them," because of course they too can handle your problem just as capably-except if you had wanted to talk to them, and not the boss, you'd have asked for them in the first place.