A Cry In the Night (3 page)

Erich Krueger helped her on with her coat. “Mr. Hartley is going to have to eat alone today,” he said. “I'm very hungry and I intend to go to lunch with you. Unless, of course, you're meeting someone?”

“No, I'm going to get something fast at the drugstore.”

“We'll try the Tea Room. I imagine they'll find room for us.”

She went under protest, knowing Mr. Hartley would be furious, knowing that her hold on her job was becoming increasingly more precarious. She was late much too often. She'd had to stay home two days last week because Tina had croup. But she realized she wasn't being given a choice.

In the restaurant he brushed aside the fact they had no reservation and succeeded in being placed at the
comer table he wanted. Jenny turned down the suggestion of wine. “I'd be drowsy in fifteen minutes. I was a bit short on sleep last night. Perrier for me, please.”

They ordered club sandwiches, then he leaned across the table. “Tell me about yourself, Jenny MacPartland.”

She tried not to laugh. “Did you ever take the Dale Carnegie course?”

“No, I didn't. Why?”

“That's the kind of question they teach you to ask on a first meeting. Be interested in the other fellow. I
want
to
know
about
you.”

“But it happens that I do want to know about you.”

The drinks came and they sipped as she told him: “I am the head of what the modern world calls ‘the single parent family.' I have two little girls. Beth is three and Tina just turned two. We live in an apartment in a brownstone on East Thirty-seventh Street. A grand piano, if I had one, would just about take up the whole place. I've worked for Mr. Hartley for four years.”

“How could you work for him four years with such young children?”

“I took a couple of weeks off when they were born.”

“Why was it necessary to go back to work so quickly?”

Jenny shrugged. “I met Kevin MacPartland the summer after I finished college. I'd been a fine arts major at Fordham University in Lincoln Center. Kev had a small part in an off-Broadway show. Nana told me I was making a mistake but naturally I didn't listen.”

“Nana?”

“My grandmother. She raised me since I was a year old. Anyhow Nana was right. Kev's a nice enough guy but he's a— lightweight. Two children in two years of
marriage wasn't on his schedule. Right after Tina was born he moved out. We're divorced now.”

“Does he support the children?”

“The average income for an actor is three thousand dollars a year. Actually Kev is quite good and with a break or two might make it. But at the moment the answer to the question is no.”

“Surely you haven't had those children in a day-care center from the time they were born?”

Jenny felt the lump start to form in her throat. In a minute her eyes would be filling with tears. She said hurriedly, “My grandmother took care of them while I worked. She died three months ago. I really don't want to talk about her now.”

She felt his hand close over hers. “Jenny, I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'm not usually so dense.”

She managed a smile. “My turn.
Do
tell
me
all about
you.”

She nibbled on the sandwich while he talked. “You probably read the bio on the brochure—I'm an only child. My mother died in an accident on the farm when I was ten . . . on my tenth birthday to be exact. My father died two years ago. The farm manager really runs the place. I spend most of my time in my studio.”

“It would be a waste if you didn't,” Jenny said. “You've been painting since you were fifteen years old, haven't you? Didn't you realize how good you were?”

Erich twirled the wine in his glass, hesitated, then shrugged. “I could give the usual answer, that I painted strictly as an avocation, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. My mother was an artist. I'm afraid she wasn't very good but her father was reasonably well known. His name was Everett Bonardi.”

“Of
course
I know of him,” Jenny exclaimed. “But why didn't you include that in your bio?”

“If my work is good, it will speak for itself. I hope I've inherited something of his talent. Mother simply sketched and enjoyed doing it, but my father was terribly jealous of her art. I suppose he'd felt like a bull in a china shop when he met her family in San Francisco. I gather they treated him like a Midwest hunky with hayseed in his shoes. He reciprocated by telling mother to use her skill to do useful things like making quilts. Even so he idolized her. But I always knew he would have hated to find me ‘wasting my time painting,' so I kept it from him.”

The noonday sun had broken through the overcast sky and a few stray beams, colored by the stained-glass window, danced on their table. Jenny blinked and turned her head.

Erich was studying her. “Jenny,” he said suddenly, “you must have wondered about my reaction when we met. Frankly I thought I was seeing a ghost. Your resemblance to Caroline is quite startling. She was about your height. Her hair was darker than yours and her eyes were a brilliant green. Yours are blue with just a suggestion of green. But there are other things about you. Your smile. The way you tilt your head when you listen. You're so slim, just as she was. My father was always fretting over her thinness. He'd keep trying to make her eat more. And I find myself wanting to say, ‘Jenny, finish that sandwich. You've barely touched it.'”

“I'm fine,” Jenny said. “But would you mind ordering a quick coffee? Mr. Hartley will be having a heart attack as it is that you arrived when he was out. And I have to sneak away from the reception early which won't endear me to him.”

Erich's smile vanished. “You have plans for tonight?”

“Big ones. If I'm late picking up the girls at Mrs. Curtis' Progressive Day Care Center, I'm in trouble.”

Jenny raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, imitated Mrs. Curtis. “ ‘My usual time for closing is five
P.M.
but I make an exception for working mothers, Mrs. MacPartland. But five-thirty is the finish. I don't want to hear anything about missed buses or last-minute phone calls. You be here by five-thirty, or you keep your kids home the next morning. Understan?'”

Erich laughed. “I
understan.
Now tell me about your girls.”

“Oh, that's easy,” she said. “Obviously they're brilliant and beautiful and lovable and . . .”

“And walked at six months and talked at nine months. You sound like my mother. People tell me that's the way she used to talk about me.”

Jenny felt an odd catch at her heart at the wistful expression that suddenly came over his face. “I'm sure it was true,” she said.

He laughed. “And I'm sure it wasn't. Jenny, New York staggers me. What was it like growing up here?”

Over coffee they talked. She about city life: “There isn't a building in Manhattan I don't love.” He, drily, “I can't imagine that. But then you've never really experienced the other way of life.” They talked about her marriage. “How did you feel when it was over?”

“Surprisingly, only the same degree of regret that I imagine I'd have for the typical first love. The difference is I have my children. For that I'll always be grateful to Kev.”

When they got back to the gallery, Mr. Hartley was waiting. Nervously Jenny watched the angry red points on his cheekbones, then admired the way Erich placated him. “As I'm sure you'll agree, airline food is not fit to eat. Since Mrs. MacPartland was just leaving for lunch, I prevailed on her to allow me to join her. I merely nibbled and now look forward to lunching with you. And may I compliment you on the placement of my work.”

The red points receded. Thinking of the thick sandwich Erich had consumed, Jenny said demurely, “Mr. Hartley, I recommended the chicken Kiev to Mr. Krueger. Please make him order it.”

Erich quirked one eyebrow and as he passed her he murmured, “Thanks a lot.”

Afterward she regretted her impulsive teasing. She hardly knew the man. Then why this sense of rapport? He was so sympathetic and yet gave an impression of latent strength. Well, if you're used to money all your life and have good looks and talent thrown in, why wouldn't you feel secure?

The gallery was busy all afternoon. Jenny watched for the important collectors. They'd all been invited to the reception but she knew many of them would come in early to have a chance to study the exhibit. The prices were steep, very steep, for a new artist. But Erich Krueger seemed to be quite indifferent whether or not they sold.

Mr. Hartley got back just as the gallery was closed to the public. He told Jenny that Erich had gone to his hotel to change for the reception. “You made quite an impression on him, Jenny,” he said, sounding rather puzzled. “He did nothing but ask questions about you.”

By five o'clock the reception was in full swing. Efficiently Jenny escorted Erich from critics to collectors, introducing him, making small talk, giving him a chance to chat, then extricating him to meet another visitor. Not infrequently they were asked, “Is this young lady your model for
Memory of Caroline?”

Erich seemed to enjoy the question. “I'm beginning to think she is.”

Mr. Hartley concentrated on greeting guests as they arrived. From his beatific smile, Jenny could surmise that the collection was a major success.

It was obvious that the critics were equally impressed
by Erich Krueger, the man. He had changed his sports jacket and slacks for a well-tailored dark blue suit; his white French-cuffed shirt was obviously custom-made; a maroon tie against the crisp white collar brought out his tanned face, blue eyes and the silver tints in his hair. He wore a gold band on the little finger of his left hand. She'd noticed it at lunch. Now Jenny realized why it looked familiar. The woman in the painting had been wearing it. It must be his mother's wedding ring.

She left Erich talking with Alison Spencer, the elegant young critic from
Art News
magazine. Alison was wearing an off-white Adolfo suit that complemented her ash-blond hair. Jenny became suddenly aware of the drooping quality of her own wool skirt, the fact that her boots still looked scuffed even though she'd had them resoled and shined. She knew that her sweater looked just like what it was, a cheap, misshapen, polyester rag.

She tried to rationalize her sudden depression. It had been a long day and she was tired. It was time for her to leave and she almost dreaded picking up the girls. When Nana was still with them, going home had been a pleasure.

“Now sit down, dear,” Nana would say, “and get yourself relaxed. I'll fix us a nice little cocktail.” She'd enjoyed hearing what was going on at the gallery, and she'd read the children a bedtime story while Jenny got dinner. “From the time you were eight years old, you were a better cook than I am, Jen.”

“Well, Nana,” Jenny would tease, “maybe if you didn't cook hamburgers so long they wouldn't look like hockey pucks . . .”

Since they'd lost Nana, Jenny picked up the girls at the day-care center, bused them to the apartment and placated them with cookies while she threw a meal together.

As she was reaching for her coat, one of the most important collectors cornered her. Finally at 5:25 she managed to get away. She debated about saying good night to Erich but he was still deep in conversation with Alison Spencer. What possible difference would it make to him that she was going? Shrugging away the renewed sensation of depression, Jenny quietly left the gallery by the service door.

P
atches of ice on the sidewalk made the going treacherous. Avenue of the Americas, Fifth, Madison, Park, Lexington, Third. Second. Long, long blocks. Whoever said Manhattan was a narrow island had never run across it on slick pavements. But the buses were so slow, she was better off on foot. Still she'd be late.

The day-care center was on Forty-ninth Street near Second Avenue. It was quarter of six before, panting from running, Jenny rang the bell of Mrs. Curtis' apartment. Mrs. Curtis was clearly angry, her arms folded, her lips a narrow slash in her long, unpleasant face. “Mrs. MacPartland!”

“We had a terrible day,” the grim lady continued. “Tina wouldn't stop crying. And you told me that Beth was terlet-trained, but let me tell you she isn't.”

“She is terlet-, I mean toilet-trained,” Jenny protested. “It's probably that the girls aren't used to being here yet.”

“And they won't get the chance.
Your kids are just too much of a handful. You try to understand my position; a three-year-old who isn't trained and a two-year-old who never stops crying are a full-time job by themselves.”

“Mommy.”

Jenny ignored Mrs. Curtis. Beth and Tina were sitting together on the battered couch in the dark foyer that Mrs. Curtis grandly referred to as the “play area.” Jenny wondered how long they'd been bundled in their outside clothes. With a rush of tenderness, she hugged them fiercely. “Hi, Mouse. Hello, Tinker Bell.” Tina's cheeks were damp with tears. Lovingly, she smoothed back the soft auburn hair that spilled over their foreheads. They'd both inherited Kev's hazel eyes and thick, sooty lashes as well as his hair.