A Certain Age (38 page)

"How will I know when to stop raising the bids?" "Sit in the front so they can see you bidding. You'll have to use your judgment, and I'll try to look at you to stop. You'll get the hang of it."

Around five minutes to three the Asian men set up twenty or thirty folding metal chairs in the center of the room. It was the strangest group she had ever seen attending an auction. There was a Tibetan monk; three very large argumentative Russians, who she assumed were mother, father and grown daughter; seven black women looking as though they were attending church; four rather surly Long Island— or Brooklyn—type boys; several Soho/art world types; a couple from Belgium or the Netherlands; a man with a long ponytail and greasy appearance who might have been a dealer, and so forth. In all, there couldn't have been more than twenty-five people.

For two hours she concentrated on trying to inch the bids up to the price Quince seemed to want. The black church ladies bought quantities of embroidered Chinese pillowcases for eight dollars each, exactly the same price they sold for in shops in Chinatown. The Russians got into a fight when the daughter bid on a hideous carved Indian trinket box—the girl had offered forty dollars, competing with Florence, and Quince was about to say "Sold" when the father shouted he would pay fifty. Though the daughter began to scream at the father in Russian, it was obvious she was calling him a stupid idiot for not realizing she was the one who had made the previous bid of forty.

The Belgian couple began a three-way battle with the ponytailed man and herself over a large rug hanging on the wall. "Hand-knotted silk, more than a thousand knots per inch,"

Quince said. "This rug would sell for twenty thousand at AKZ Carpets. Can I get a starting bid of ten thousand?" Finally he had to begin the bid at a thousand dollars. In the end the Belgian couple, looking worried, got it for almost five grand. Florence was puzzled. Maybe it was really worth something; she didn't know about rugs. The things that earlier in the afternoon had looked junky were beginning to seem like possible finds.

She had tried to pretend to take notes on the items she had bid for and won. At the end of the afternoon, had she really been bidding, she would have come away with a three-foot-high carved-wood water buffalo; a pair of gold Satsuma vases turned into lamps; an ivory alligator; and a rosewood armoire. It simply made no sense.

He gave her fifty dollars after everyone had left. The other girl was coming back, he said, but if she gave him her number, he would certainly keep her in mind as a backup. "Thanks," she said. "But I think I really need to find something full-time."

Fifty dollars! She bought some subway tokens and headed uptown. Fifty dollars, what good would that do her? She had had to hang around for hours, and the work was exhausting, though not mentally stimulating or challenging. Fifty dollars wouldn't even buy her a decent dinner; it would scarcely cover the cost of a manicure and pedicure, not including tip. Normally she would have taken a cab home, but having taken so long to earn fifty, she didn't want to blow ten or twelve of it just on getting home.

It was rush hour. The subway car was so packed that there were no seats and she was squeezed on all sides by the other standees. The train rattled on uneven tracks, everyone was tossed from side to side, someone wearing one of those hateful backpacks knocked her in the side with it. Someone stank of McDonald's French fries, an immediately identifiable odor of tallow and grease. Someone was slurping on a drink. Another was clipping his fingernails; yet another was combing her hair.

A whole earful of a species scarcely less evolved, just as ill-

mannered, as chimpanzees. The eyes of the commuters were glazed, faces sullen. Her eyes shut in disgust. She couldn't imagine having to do this every day, or twice a day: animals shipped to slaughter. The place was airless, and roasting hot, and abruptly the train—midway between stations—came to a grinding halt.

No one moved or spoke. It was as if they were organisms the opposite of amoebae; instead of being designed to replicate by self-dividing, the passengers were being forced to meld, to merge with one another against their will or die.

Ages seemed to pass. The subway motor, or whatever it was that made the loud noise, was shut off, then the lights in the car flickered off and everything was dark and quiet. "Ladies and gentlemen"—the announcement came over loudspeakers that were so inferior it was difficult to make out the words beneath the shrill crackle and hiss—"due to a fire at the Fifty-ninth Street station, we are experiencing delays. We will be moving as soon as possible."

The announcement was repeated four or five times before, almost half an hour later, the motor came back on and the train began moving again.

The doorman—Mario was on duty now—said nothing to her as she came in the lobby and collected her mail from her box in the alcove beside the elevators. It was just as well; she was too tired to chat, though she always tried to be friendly. She was rummaging through the stack—her box had been overflowing—when she arrived at her front door.

Her key did not fit in the lock. She tried to force it a few times before it dawned on her that something was different: a sign plastered like a billboard stated EVICTION NOTICE/APARTMENT SEALED BY ORDER OF CITY MARSHAL/ON BEHALF OF LIBERTY POINT BANK AND CO-OP BOARD.

12

He was looking toward
the elevator but averted his eyes when he saw it was she getting out. "You might have at least said something, Mario, instead of letting me get all the way upstairs before finding out!"

"I'm sorry." He shrugged. "I didn't know what to say."

"Well, could you at least let me back into my apartment for the night? Where am I supposed to go?"

"I can't let you in. I don't have the key."

"They changed the locks?"

"I'm sorry."

"But you must have a copy of the key?"

He shook his head.

"But what about my credit card? My clothes? Those are my things in there. I have to be able to get them."

"You got to go to court."

"Who's responsible for this? June?" June was the head of the co-op board, well known for her delight in making trouble.

"You got the bank here, too, that said you didn't pay."

"But surely I should have been given some notice! Some warning! This is the first I'm hearing about it." She looked down at the marble-tiled floor, the worn black-and-white check. Maybe she had heard something about it before. There were heaps of bills stamped externally with ominous things in red she hadn't even bothered to open. "Well, what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?"

"You got a friend you can stay with? I'm sure you'll get this straightened out, in a day or so."

"No, I don't have a friend! I want to go to my own house!" In her panic she lashed out; she could have killed him. Easy for the doorman to say she should stay with a friend.

"You got a lawyer?" He was trying to be helpful, she saw that.

"A lawyer. I don't have a lawyer. I never needed a lawyer. My mother had lawyers, but that was back in California. Okay, maybe I can just call a lawyer."

Mario handed her the front desk phone. "But if Mrs. Koblenz comes in, you gotta hang up fast."

"Why? What's that lousy June Koblenz going to do, kick me out?"

"I don't want to get in trouble." He muttered this quietly, ashamed to think of himself in such circumstances.

"A lawyer, a lawyer. Who do I know who's a lawyer?" Suddenly she remembered Neil Pirsig. She knew he was sleazy, but he had always had a crush on her and would probably be glad to help, even if she had just snubbed him.

His office had closed for the day, but fortunately his home number was listed in directory assistance. "I just can't believe I'm having to go through this!" she complained to Mario while the phone rang at Neil's. "Not even to let me go in to get my credit cards and address book. A change of underwear! I'm sure this can't be legal . . . Neil? Hi, how are you? It's Florence Collins."

"Who?"

"Florence?" She hated the way her voice automatically turned it into a question. I don t . . .

"You know me! I have long blond hair. We just saw each other at—"

"Oh, yes, yes, Florence. How are you?"

She didn't know if he really hadn't known who she was. Probably—he sounded embarrassed. "Actually, Neil, I'm in sort of a predicament. I've been evicted from—"

"This is about a case? Do you think I could call you from the office tomorrow, Florence? Because I just walked in the door and—"

"The thing is, I'm standing in the lobby of my building because they changed the lock on my door and I—"

"There's really not going to be anything much we can get done tonight. Also, it doesn't sound like the sort of case I'd take on— it's not my specialty. I'm not even taking on new cases at the moment, and I don't know if you're aware of this, but I charge five hundred dollars an hour. I tell you what: maybe I can come up with a few names for you. I'll give you a call."

"You don't understand, Neil! I don't have a phone—I can't get in!"

"So listen, check into a hotel and leave a message on my machine where you're at."

"I don't even have a credit—"

It was too late. He had already hung up. Mario was pacing

back and forth toward the front door, probably hoping no one came in and saw him letting her use the phone for personal purposes. What was he so worried about? There were plenty of Jobs as doormen. There had to be someone to get her out of this mess.

Darryl. She should have called him ages ago, to find out how he was doing with . . . whatever disease it was he said he had. He loved her. She could make up with him, accept his marriage proposal. At least he had an apartment, a place for her to stay. Thank God his number came back to her almost at once. It must have been permanently branded somewhere in her head. She dialed. A harsh tone, almost a scream, came through the receiver so loudly she recoiled: "The number you have reached has been disconnected." The recording—whoever had made this message at the telephone company—was fat with poison. It was almost as if the telephone representative was imagining just such a situation as hers. She kept thinking that the voice would tell her what the new number was, but there must not have been one. Yet if he had moved, he surely would have left a forwarding number.

Outside the front door three overweight golden retrievers on plaid leashes squatted simultaneously to pee, right in the path of anyone coming in or out. She dialed again. "Allison, you've got to help me. I have nowhere to stay."

"Are you redecorating or something? Believe me, I sympathize. It was supposed to take three months to get our place redone and it ended up taking almost two and a half years."

"No, it's not that. I—"

"Oh, God, Florence. I wish I could offer to put you up, but there's not a single inch of extra space in the apartment. Thomasina and May were fighting so much we had to turn the guest bedroom into a room for May. And Georgie and the nanny are in one room until we get the playroom redone. Even my mother has to stay in a hotel when she comes into the city! I feel awful. I've got to run, sweetie, or Archie's going to kill me. But if you ever need me, I'm right here. You can always call. You know that, don't you? I'll try and call you when I get home, if it's not too late

and if the kids don't wake up, for once. You don't know what it's like, three kids and just the one nanny—"

She put down the phone. It was as if every cell in her body had a hole drilled in it and was crying out to be plugged.

She tried to think of all her acquaintances, but she was beginning to doubt that any of them would help. Was it because she was—momentarily—an outcast over the de Jongh business? But more likely it was because none of these people were her friends in the first place. If someone had called her up and said what she was saying now, she would have told them to get lost too.

She called Lisa Harrison. She didn't know why she thought of Lisa. Whenever she remembered Lisa it was past the right time to make a thank-you call or to return an invitation. Lisa, with her overdone apartment, her parties for jewelry designers and the losers of the world—maybe Lisa had more money than she, but Lisa was perhaps the one person who was worse off: she was more desperate.

Lisa said, "Darling, unfortunately I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow, and I'd say you were welcome to stay here while I'm away, only I've . . . I've sublet the apartment. But you're welcome to come overnight if it's of any use."

The look of relief on Mario's face was overwhelming. On her way out she stepped in the puddle of dog urine.

"Make yourself at home, Florence!" Lisa called from the upstairs of her duplex.

It was so good to sit down. She hadn't even realized until then that she had been on her feet practically all day. The back of her calves ached. "Lisa, do you mind if I use your phone?"

"Go right ahead. There's some white wine open in the fridge, or you can see if there's a bottle of red. I'm just trying to pull myself together. I had rather a late one last night, and I haven't packed a thing, and I'm only just now getting out of bed. I'm doing one of those face masks—that's why I sound funny. It's like a plaster cast."

She found the Yellow Pages underneath in the cabinet and began to look up taxi companies. "Do you have someone who works for you named Gideon?"