The Book of other People Part 12

'No.'

A pretty young airport attendant appeared beside me.

'I work here. work here. I I can help you,' she said enthusiastically. can help you,' she said enthusiastically.

He paused for a fraction of a second and then said, 'Great.' I waited to see what he would come up with, but the attendant glared at me, as if I were rubbernecking, and then rolled her eyes at him, as if she were protecting him from people like me. I wanted to yell, 'It was a code! It had a secret meaning!' But I knew how this would look, so I moved along.

That evening I found myself standing in the middle of my living-room floor. I had made dinner and eaten it, and then I had an idea that I might clean the house. But halfway to the broom I stopped on a whim, flirting with the emptiness in the center of the room. I wanted to see if I could start again. But, of course, I knew what the answer would be. The longer I stood there, the longer I had to stand there. It was intricate and exponential. I looked like I was doing nothing, but really I was as busy as a physicist or a politician. I was strategizing my next move. That my next move was always not to move didn't make it any easier.

I let go of the idea of cleaning and just hoped that I would get to bed at a reasonable hour. I thought of Roy Spivey in bed with Ms M. And then I remembered the number. I took it out of my pocket. He had written it across a picture of pink curtains. They were made out of a fabric that was originally designed for the s.p.a.ce shuttle; they changed density in reaction to fluctuations of light and heat. I mouthed all the numbers and then said the missing one out loud. 'Four.' It felt risky and illicit. I yelled, 'FOUR!' And moved easily into the bedroom. I put on my nightgown, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.

Over the course of my life I've used the number many times. Not the telephone number, just the four. When I first met my husband, I used to whisper 'four' while we had intercourse, because it was so painful. Then I learned about a tiny operation that I could have to enlarge myself. I whispered 'four' when my dad died of lung cancer. When my daughter got into trouble doing G.o.d knows what in Mexico City, I said 'four' to myself as I gave her my credit-card number over the phone. Which was confusing - thinking one number and saying another. My husband jokes about my lucky number, but I've never told him about Roy. You shouldn't underestimate a man's capacity for feeling threatened. You don't have to be a great beauty for men to come to blows over you. At my high-school reunion I pointed out a teacher I'd once had a crush on, and by the end of the night this teacher and my husband were wrestling in a hotel parking garage. My husband said that it was about issues of race, but I knew. Some things are best left unsaid.

This morning, I was cleaning out my jewelry box when I came upon a little slip of paper with pink curtains on it. I thought I had lost it long ago, but, no, there it was, folded underneath a dried-up carnation and some impractically heavy bracelets. I hadn't whispered 'four' in years. The idea of luck made me feel a little weary now, like Christmas when you're not in the mood.

I stood by the window and studied Roy Spivey's handwriting in the light. He was older now - we all were - but he was still working. He had his own TV show. He wasn't a spy anymore; he played the father of twelve rascally kids. It occurred to me now that I had missed the point entirely. He had wanted me to call him. I looked out the window; my husband was in the driveway, vacuuming out the car. I sat on the bed with the number in my lap and the phone in my hands. I dialed all the digits, including the invisible one that had shepherded me through my adult life. It was no longer in service. Of course it wasn't. It was actually preposterous for me to have thought that it would still be his nanny's private line. Roy Spivey's children had long since grown. The nanny was probably working for someone else, or maybe she had done well for herself - put herself through nursing school or business school. Good for her. I looked down at the number and felt a tidal swell of loss. It was too late. I had waited too long.

I listened to the sound of my husband beating the car mats on the sidewalk. Our ancient cat pressed itself against my legs, wanting food. But I couldn't seem to stand up. Minutes pa.s.sed, almost an hour. Now it was starting to get dark. My husband was downstairs making a drink and I was about to stand up. Crickets were chirping in the yard and I was about to stand up.

Cindy Stubenstock

A. M. Homes

Cindy Stubenstock is trading up - at a recent auction, she flipped two Gurskys, an early Yuskavage and her husband's bonus, and was on the phone later live from London topping the bidding on a rare Pica.s.so etching that looked 'beautiful over the fireplace'.

'Gives whole new meaning to up in smoke,' the cryptic British auctioneer mumbled under his breath.

Now Cindy and her Scarsdale sisterhood - aka the ladies who linger at lunch - are on the tarmac at Teterboro, wandering from plane to plane.

'There never used to be so many,' one says.

'Do we really need to take two planes?'

'Well, there are six of us and I just hate being crowded, and besides, what if I want to leave early?' They all nod, knowing the feeling.

'Just the thought of being trapped somewhere makes me nervous - does anyone have anything - a little blue, a little yellow?'

'I've got Ativan.'

'I'll take it.'

'We're going to Miami, it's not the rain forest, not the darkest Peru, you can get a commercial flight out any time you want - just call JetBlue,' one of the women says.

And the others look at her horrified, aghast, shocked that she can even say the words 'commerical flight' so easily, without pause. Flying private is one of the perks of being who they are; it's why they put up with so much. NO airport security.

'Soon that will change, they're going to have scented dogs everywhere.'

'It's not scented dogs, it's sniffing dogs. Scented dogs would be like soaps, verbena, vanilla, Macchu Picchu.'

'Why do you always correct me? I'm an old woman - leave me alone.'

'You're forty-eight, you're not old.'

And then there is silence.

'Which plane is it? He keeps trading them in. I never know which one is ours.'

'She calls it trading them in - he calls it fractional ownership,' one of the women whispers.

'G4, Falcon, Citation, Hawker, Learjet - remember when they were all "Learjets"? Remember when the word "Learjet" used to mean something?'

'Who is that bald man in the wheelchair? He looks familiar - do I know him from somewhere?'

'Is it Philip Johnson?'

'Philip Johnson died two years ago.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'That's so sad.'

'Is that Yul Brynner?'

'It's someone with cancer.'

'What's he doing here?'

'He's getting an Angel Flight back to where he lives,' one of the ground crew says. 'People donate flights - for those who are basically too sick to travel.'

'Oh, I don't think I could ever do that - I couldn't have a sick person on the plane - I mean, what about the germs?'

'I don't normally think of cancer as contagious.'

'You never know.' She runs her hand through her hair - which she gels in the morning with Purell - prophylactically.

The group divides; Sally Stubenstock, the society sister of Cindy, and her 'friend' Tasha, the yoga instructor, go on their own plane. 'We want alone time,' Tasha says.

'She wants to downward dog me at 10,000 feet,' Sally says.

'It's gross,' someone whispers.

'What do you care - they're not asking you to do it.'

'Women kiss better than men - it's a fact.'

'How would you know?'

'Because one night Wallis (the weird woman who has a man's last name for her first name) Wallingford planted one right on me.'

'Was she drunk?'

'I don't think so. It felt very good.'

'Better than a man?'

She nods. 'Softer, more thoughtful.'

Cindy Stubenstock puts her fingers in her ears and hums loudly and sings, 'This is something I don't want to know. I don't want to know-oh-o.'

The conversation stops. They climb aboard. The pilot pulls the door closed and locks it. The women take their seats and then take other seats. They move around the cabin until they are comfortable. They put all their fur coats together on one seat.

'Where are you staying? The Raleigh, the Delano, the Biltmore?'

'I'm staying at Pinkie and Paulie's.'

'Really?' Cindy asks.

Her friend nods.

'I've never stayed at someone's house,' Cindy Stubenstock confesses. 'How do you do it? When you get there - what do you do - how do you check in?'

'It's like going for dinner or c.o.c.ktails - you knock on the door and hopefully someone answers.'

'Does someone take your bag? Do you tip them? And what if you can't sleep - what if you need to get up and walk around? Do you have your own bathroom - I can't stay anywhere without my own bathroom even with my husband. If you pee, do you flush? What if someone hears you? It just seems so stressful.'

'When you were growing up, did you ever go on a sleepover?'

'Just once - I got homesick and my father came and got me - it seemed like the middle of the night but my parents always used to tease me - it was really only about 11 pm.'

'When I go to someone's house - I bring a clean sheet,' another woman chimes in.

'And remake the bed?'

'No, I wrap myself in it - do you know how infrequently most blankets are laundered - including hotel blankets - think of the hundreds of people who have used the same blanket.'

'What's for dinner tonight?' someone asks.

'A big corned-beef sandwich. That's what I go to Miami for - Wolfie's. I get sick every time - but I can't resist. It reminds me of my grandparents - and of my childhood.'

'I thought you were a vegetarian?'

'I am.'

'By the way, whatever happened with that Brice Marden painting you were trying to buy?'

'It's still pending - we haven't completed our interview.'

'Some of the galleries now have a vetting process - there is a company that will interview potential buyers, about everything from their a.s.sets, hobbies and intentions for their collections - and once that's done - they schedule a home visit.'

'Exactly, we still need the home visit, but CeeCee has been so busy with the re-do that she won't let anyone from the gallery into the house.'

'What are you doing?'

'We're going from day to night - swapping all the black paintings for white, we sold the Motherwells and the Stills and now she's bringing in Ryman, Richter and a Whiteread bookcase.'

'Sounds great - very relaxing - no color at all.'

'I heard you bought a Renoir in London.'

'We had a good year. I like it so much I want to f.u.c.k it.'

'When we got our Rothko - we had s.e.x on the floor in front of it.'

'Those were the days . . .'

'And when we got the Pollock.'

'Well, you got that really big one.'

'Fairly big.'

'The room is so large that it's all relative.'

'Do you remember that time we were all on that art tour and they let us touch a few things - Stanley stroked the Birth of Venus Birth of Venus and got excited?' and got excited?'

'Stanley, the seeing-eye horse - or Stanley your husband?'

'Stanley, the human. He was mortified.'

'I thought it was cute.'

'Where is Stanley this weekend?'

'Stan, the man, is playing golf and Stanley the seeing-eye horse is having his teeth cleaned this weekend and so the society gave me a stick.' She holds up a white cane. 'Like this is going to do me any good. I've got a docent meeting me for the fair - a young curator.'