Still Me
Page 85
Frank Junior was calling from the car, stooping so that he could see us more clearly. His wife stood beside the passenger door in her pale blue windbreaker, her hands pressed together with anxiety. She was apparently not a woman who liked the big city.
‘Mom?’
‘One moment, thank you, dear.’
Margot moved so that she stood directly in front of me. She reached out a hand, and as I held him, she stroked his head, three, four times with her thin, marbled fingers. ‘You’re a good fellow, aren’t you, Dean Martin?’ she said softly. ‘A very good fellow.’
The dog gazed back at her, rapt.
‘You really are the most handsome boy.’ Her voice cracked on the last word.
The dog licked her palm and she stepped forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead, her eyes closing and her lips pressed to him just a moment too long so that his wonky eyes bulged and his paws paddled against her. Her face sagged momentarily.
‘I – I could bring him to see you.’
She kept her face to his, her eyes shut, oblivious to the noise and the traffic and the people around her.
‘Did you hear what I said, Margot? I mean once you’re settled we could get the train out and –’
She straightened up and opened her eyes, glancing down for a moment.
‘No. Thank you.’
Before I could say anything else, she turned away. ‘Now, take him for a walk, please, dear. I don’t want him to see me go.’
Her son had climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. He offered her a hand but she waved him away. I thought I saw her blink back tears, but it was hard to tell as my own eyes seemed to be streaming.
‘Thank you, Margot,’ I called. ‘For everything.’
She shook her head, her lips set. ‘Now go. Please, dear.’ She turned towards the car just as her son approached, his hand outstretched towards her, and I don’t know what she did next because I put Dean Martin on the sidewalk as she had told me and walked briskly towards Central Park, my head down, ignoring the stares of the curious people wondering why a girl in glittery hot-pants and a purple silk bomber jacket was crying openly at eleven o’clock in the morning.
I walked for as long as Dean Martin’s little legs could stand. And then when he stopped, mutinously, near the Azalea Pond, his tiny pink tongue hanging out and one eye drooping slightly, I picked him up and carried him, my eyes swollen with tears, my chest one breath away from another racking sob.
I have never really been an animal person. But I suddenly understood what comfort could be gained from burying your face in the soft pelt of another creature, the consolation of the many small tasks that you’re obliged to perform for its welfare.
‘Mrs De Witt off on vacation?’ Ashok was behind his desk as I entered, my head down and my blue plastic sunglasses on.
I didn’t have the energy to tell him just yet. ‘Yup.’
‘She never told me to cancel her papers. I’d better get on to it.’ He shook his head, reaching for a ledger. ‘Know when she’s coming home?’
‘Let me get back to you.’
I walked upstairs slowly, the little dog not moving in my arms, as if he were afraid that if he did he might be asked to use his legs again. And then I let myself into the apartment.
It was dead silent, already shot through with her absence in a way it had never been when she was in the hospital, dust motes settling in the still, warm air. In a matter of months, I thought, somebody else would live here, tearing off the 1960s wallpaper, scrapping the smoked-glass furniture. It would be transformed, redesigned, a bolthole for busy executives or a terrifyingly wealthy family with small children. The thought of it made me feel hollow inside.
I gave Dean Martin some water and a handful of kibble as a treat, then made my way slowly through the apartment, with its clothes and its hats and its walls of memories, and told myself not to think about the sad things but about the delight on the old woman’s face at the prospect of living out her days with her only child. It was a joy that had been transformative, lifting her tired features and making her eyes shine. It made me wonder how much all this stuff, all this memorabilia, had been her way of insulating herself from the lengthy pain of his absence.
Margot De Witt, style queen, fashion editor extraordinaire, woman ahead of her time, had built a wall, a lovely, gaudy, multi-coloured wall, to tell herself it had all been for something. And the moment he had returned to her she had demolished it without a backward glance.
Some time later, when my tears had slowed to intermittent hiccups, I picked the first envelope off the table and opened it. It was written in Margot’s beautiful, looping script, a remnant of an age when children were judged by their penmanship. As promised, it contained details of the little dog’s preferred diet, times of eating, veterinary needs, vaccinations, flea-prevention and worming schedules. It told me where to find his various winter coats – there were different ones for rain, wind and snow – and his favourite brand of shampoo. He would also require his teeth descaling, his ears cleaning and – I winced – his anal glands emptying.
‘She didn’t tell me that when she asked me to take you on,’ I said to him, and he lifted his head, groaned and lowered it again.
Further on, she gave details of where any post should be forwarded, the contact details for the packing company – the items they were not to take were to remain in her bedroom and I should write a note and pin it to the door to tell them not to enter. All the furniture, the lamps, the curtains could go. Her son’s and daughter-in-law’s cards were in the envelope, should I wish to reach them for further clarification.
And now to the important things. Louisa, I didn’t thank you in person for finding Vincent – the act of civil disobedience that has brought me so much unexpected happiness – but I’d like to thank you now. And for looking after Dean Martin. There are few people I would trust to do as I ask, and love him as I do, but you are one of them.
Louisa, you are a treasure. You were always too discreet to tell me the details but do not let whatever happened with that foolish family next door dim your light. You are a courageous, gorgeous, tremendously kind little creature and I shall be for ever grateful that their loss has been my gain. Thank you.
It is in the spirit of thanks that I’d like to offer you my wardrobe. To anyone else – except perhaps your rather mercenary friends at that disgusting clothes store – this would be junk. I am well aware of that. But you see my clothes for what they are. Do with them what you want – keep some, sell some, whatever. But I know you will take pleasure in them.
Here are my thoughts – though I’m well aware nobody really wants the thoughts of an old woman. Set up your own agency. Hire them out, or sell them. Those girls seemed to think there was money in it – well, it strikes me that this would be the perfect career for you. There should be enough there for you to start some sort of enterprise. Though, of course, you may have other ideas for your future, far better ones. Will you let me know what you decide?
Anyway, dear roommate, I will look forward to receiving news. Please kiss that little dog for me. I miss him so terribly already.
With fondest regards,
Margot
I put down the letter and sat motionless in the kitchen for a while, then walked through to Margot’s bedroom and the dressing room beyond it, surveying the bulging racks, outfit after outfit.
A clothes agency? I knew nothing about business, nothing about premises or accounts or dealing with the public. I was living in a city whose rules I didn’t entirely understand, with no permanent address, and I had failed in pretty much every job I had ever held. Why on earth would Margot believe that I could set up a whole new enterprise?
I ran my fingers down a midnight blue velvet sleeve, then pulled out the garment: Halston, a jumpsuit, slashed almost to the waist, with a mesh insert. I put it back carefully and took out a dress – white broderie anglaise, its skirts a mass of ruffles. I walked along that first rail, stunned, daunted. I had only just begun to absorb the responsibility of owning a dog. What was I supposed to do with three rooms full of clothes?
That night I sat in Margot’s apartment and turned on Wheel of Fortune. I ate the remains of a chicken I had roasted for her last dinner (I suspect she had sneaked most of hers under the table to the dog). I didn’t hear what Vanna White said, or shout out letters at the Mystery Wedges. I thought about what Margot had said to me, and wondered about the person she had seen.
‘Mom?’
‘One moment, thank you, dear.’
Margot moved so that she stood directly in front of me. She reached out a hand, and as I held him, she stroked his head, three, four times with her thin, marbled fingers. ‘You’re a good fellow, aren’t you, Dean Martin?’ she said softly. ‘A very good fellow.’
The dog gazed back at her, rapt.
‘You really are the most handsome boy.’ Her voice cracked on the last word.
The dog licked her palm and she stepped forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead, her eyes closing and her lips pressed to him just a moment too long so that his wonky eyes bulged and his paws paddled against her. Her face sagged momentarily.
‘I – I could bring him to see you.’
She kept her face to his, her eyes shut, oblivious to the noise and the traffic and the people around her.
‘Did you hear what I said, Margot? I mean once you’re settled we could get the train out and –’
She straightened up and opened her eyes, glancing down for a moment.
‘No. Thank you.’
Before I could say anything else, she turned away. ‘Now, take him for a walk, please, dear. I don’t want him to see me go.’
Her son had climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. He offered her a hand but she waved him away. I thought I saw her blink back tears, but it was hard to tell as my own eyes seemed to be streaming.
‘Thank you, Margot,’ I called. ‘For everything.’
She shook her head, her lips set. ‘Now go. Please, dear.’ She turned towards the car just as her son approached, his hand outstretched towards her, and I don’t know what she did next because I put Dean Martin on the sidewalk as she had told me and walked briskly towards Central Park, my head down, ignoring the stares of the curious people wondering why a girl in glittery hot-pants and a purple silk bomber jacket was crying openly at eleven o’clock in the morning.
I walked for as long as Dean Martin’s little legs could stand. And then when he stopped, mutinously, near the Azalea Pond, his tiny pink tongue hanging out and one eye drooping slightly, I picked him up and carried him, my eyes swollen with tears, my chest one breath away from another racking sob.
I have never really been an animal person. But I suddenly understood what comfort could be gained from burying your face in the soft pelt of another creature, the consolation of the many small tasks that you’re obliged to perform for its welfare.
‘Mrs De Witt off on vacation?’ Ashok was behind his desk as I entered, my head down and my blue plastic sunglasses on.
I didn’t have the energy to tell him just yet. ‘Yup.’
‘She never told me to cancel her papers. I’d better get on to it.’ He shook his head, reaching for a ledger. ‘Know when she’s coming home?’
‘Let me get back to you.’
I walked upstairs slowly, the little dog not moving in my arms, as if he were afraid that if he did he might be asked to use his legs again. And then I let myself into the apartment.
It was dead silent, already shot through with her absence in a way it had never been when she was in the hospital, dust motes settling in the still, warm air. In a matter of months, I thought, somebody else would live here, tearing off the 1960s wallpaper, scrapping the smoked-glass furniture. It would be transformed, redesigned, a bolthole for busy executives or a terrifyingly wealthy family with small children. The thought of it made me feel hollow inside.
I gave Dean Martin some water and a handful of kibble as a treat, then made my way slowly through the apartment, with its clothes and its hats and its walls of memories, and told myself not to think about the sad things but about the delight on the old woman’s face at the prospect of living out her days with her only child. It was a joy that had been transformative, lifting her tired features and making her eyes shine. It made me wonder how much all this stuff, all this memorabilia, had been her way of insulating herself from the lengthy pain of his absence.
Margot De Witt, style queen, fashion editor extraordinaire, woman ahead of her time, had built a wall, a lovely, gaudy, multi-coloured wall, to tell herself it had all been for something. And the moment he had returned to her she had demolished it without a backward glance.
Some time later, when my tears had slowed to intermittent hiccups, I picked the first envelope off the table and opened it. It was written in Margot’s beautiful, looping script, a remnant of an age when children were judged by their penmanship. As promised, it contained details of the little dog’s preferred diet, times of eating, veterinary needs, vaccinations, flea-prevention and worming schedules. It told me where to find his various winter coats – there were different ones for rain, wind and snow – and his favourite brand of shampoo. He would also require his teeth descaling, his ears cleaning and – I winced – his anal glands emptying.
‘She didn’t tell me that when she asked me to take you on,’ I said to him, and he lifted his head, groaned and lowered it again.
Further on, she gave details of where any post should be forwarded, the contact details for the packing company – the items they were not to take were to remain in her bedroom and I should write a note and pin it to the door to tell them not to enter. All the furniture, the lamps, the curtains could go. Her son’s and daughter-in-law’s cards were in the envelope, should I wish to reach them for further clarification.
And now to the important things. Louisa, I didn’t thank you in person for finding Vincent – the act of civil disobedience that has brought me so much unexpected happiness – but I’d like to thank you now. And for looking after Dean Martin. There are few people I would trust to do as I ask, and love him as I do, but you are one of them.
Louisa, you are a treasure. You were always too discreet to tell me the details but do not let whatever happened with that foolish family next door dim your light. You are a courageous, gorgeous, tremendously kind little creature and I shall be for ever grateful that their loss has been my gain. Thank you.
It is in the spirit of thanks that I’d like to offer you my wardrobe. To anyone else – except perhaps your rather mercenary friends at that disgusting clothes store – this would be junk. I am well aware of that. But you see my clothes for what they are. Do with them what you want – keep some, sell some, whatever. But I know you will take pleasure in them.
Here are my thoughts – though I’m well aware nobody really wants the thoughts of an old woman. Set up your own agency. Hire them out, or sell them. Those girls seemed to think there was money in it – well, it strikes me that this would be the perfect career for you. There should be enough there for you to start some sort of enterprise. Though, of course, you may have other ideas for your future, far better ones. Will you let me know what you decide?
Anyway, dear roommate, I will look forward to receiving news. Please kiss that little dog for me. I miss him so terribly already.
With fondest regards,
Margot
I put down the letter and sat motionless in the kitchen for a while, then walked through to Margot’s bedroom and the dressing room beyond it, surveying the bulging racks, outfit after outfit.
A clothes agency? I knew nothing about business, nothing about premises or accounts or dealing with the public. I was living in a city whose rules I didn’t entirely understand, with no permanent address, and I had failed in pretty much every job I had ever held. Why on earth would Margot believe that I could set up a whole new enterprise?
I ran my fingers down a midnight blue velvet sleeve, then pulled out the garment: Halston, a jumpsuit, slashed almost to the waist, with a mesh insert. I put it back carefully and took out a dress – white broderie anglaise, its skirts a mass of ruffles. I walked along that first rail, stunned, daunted. I had only just begun to absorb the responsibility of owning a dog. What was I supposed to do with three rooms full of clothes?
That night I sat in Margot’s apartment and turned on Wheel of Fortune. I ate the remains of a chicken I had roasted for her last dinner (I suspect she had sneaked most of hers under the table to the dog). I didn’t hear what Vanna White said, or shout out letters at the Mystery Wedges. I thought about what Margot had said to me, and wondered about the person she had seen.
