Fall and Rise (25 page)

Most of the room of about a hundred people get quiet. A few people near the food table are still talking and laughing.

“Shh, shh,” some people say.

“I won't make a toast till the room is totally quiet.”

“Boy, this fellow really takes command,” Arthur says to me.

“A toast, everyone,” Peter says louder. “Everyone has to be quiet. A toast, everyone.” The room's now quiet. “Waiters, please see that everyone has a fresh glass of champagne or fresh champagne in their glasses.”

“I can't believe this friend of yours,” Arthur says. “No let-up. What's he think the waiters are, his slaves?”

The waiters bring in several trays of glasses and bottles of champagne. In a couple of minutes nearly everybody's holding up a glass of champagne.

“Dorothy and Sven,” Peter says. “Please come to the middle of the floor.” They do. “Join hands.”

“Hey, get on with it,” Arthur says in a disguised voice. “We're thirsty; our hands are getting heavy.”

“Maybe I should,” Peter says to Arthur, who looks around as if someone else had yelled it out. “Thank you, sir—Dorothy and Sven. I'm not good at toasts—not even at making toast. I burn my toast half the times I make it. Maybe that means I should get a new toaster. But even a halfway good toaster doesn't blame his bad toasts on his toaster. But it is true that while my toaster's dial is always aimed at ‘light,' my toasts, if I don't watch it, always end up dark. I don't like dark toasts. But my toaster also doesn't pop, which is another reason why my toast is usually hard and dark. But the champagne tonight certainly has popped. And months before tonight one of you must have popped the question to the other and the other accepted that pop. And maybe one day not too far off one of you will be a pop, and the other will be what in most traditional families goes with that pop, as in a mom and pop store—so, what's in store for you. You might think this is funny”—Dorothy and Sven are laughing—“but it's very serious. But one thing neither of you will ever be is seriously burned, unlike my toast, nor will you be roasted by this toast. You were made for one another, like toast is made for breakfast and roasts are made for supper. You are bread and butter for each other, one spread on top of the other, but which of you will be the bread and the other the butter nobody can say, since those rolls are transposable today. As far as putting rolls into my toaster, that's out of the question and one that can't be popped. Since how can the rolls pop if they can't fit into the toaster? And if they can't fit, they also can't be burned or toasted and certainly not roasted, since nothing gets roasted in a toaster. But I'm sure both of you will always fit together and keep the other toasty—something on the order of a perfectly functioning toaster. So, I toast to your order of that perfectly functioning toaster and the bread that won't be burned that goes into the toaster. And the butter that will be spread but won't go into the toaster, though will be closely associated with it after the toast—perfectly toasted, the way you love it and each other and the way toast and bread love butter—pops out, but not to the floor. Pops out for you both to handle easily and without it burning your fingers. So here's to all of those and lots of rolls and no more toasts tonight at least from this imperfectly functioning toaster and especially to you both, Dorothy and Sven Baker—and I swear only now do I see the connection between your last name and my toast—sip sip away.”

Almost everybody says “Sip sip away,” and drinks up. Peter drinks up, puts the glass on the floor and crushes it with his foot. There's lots of applause, he sits and says “Drink. You haven't touched a drop.” I drink a little.

Arthur says to him “I might have been a smart-ass before but only because I'm jealous of any guy who can take over the way you did. But that was without doubt the best toast I ever ate. I didn't want to like it. In point of fact I hate all toast: dark, light or roasted—but I liked yours. It was palatable and kosher and I now think you ought to send them a real toaster as a present, maybe one that can take rolls. If you don't, I will, but not your old one or my toaster-oven-broiler. I drink to you, sir—you're a clever sonofabitch as there ever was one.”

They click glasses and then mine on the table. I drink all my champagne, say “Excuse me,” and go over to Dorothy and Sven and kiss them both. The music's started. They take my hands. “No, I couldn't.” We start dancing, just holding hands, sort of a Jewish dance to Jewish music. Other people take our hands and soon twenty to thirty people are holding hands in a circle and doing this dance. Arthur breaks the circle, takes my hand and the hand of the person I've been holding and dances around with us. Peter takes my other hand and the other hand I've been holding—Sophie's. Soon about half the guests are part of the circle and the other half and most of the waiters are clapping in rhythm to us. I see the two women from the ladies' room in the circle. The one who was sick drops her hand and waves to me and I nod and she takes back the hand of her friend and kisses it. The music stops. I'm panting from all the dancing. Sophie hugs me and says “My darling, all the same for you,” and I say “One day, maybe, but no rush.” Dorothy and Sven kiss Sophie and then me and then one another and Peter puts his arms around their shoulders and squeezes them into him and then hugs Sophie and then me and kisses my cheek and says “Why can't I stop thinking about you? This is no b.s. I'm such a fucking fool. Can't live with, can't without, that's my problem.”

I get out of his grip. “It's all right, please, and stay. You're having fun. I am too, but too much partying tonight.”

“No, I promised, and my work tomorrow starts early.”

I tell Dorothy and Sven I'm leaving. “Peter's driving me home.” She raises her eyebrows. My look back says “Not what you think.”

“Before you go,” Sven says, “have you seen the view?”

“I've looked outside. We're very high up.”

“But from the outside? Half of what Soph's paying for is the balcony view. It's memorable and I want the party to be remembered. You too, Peter. Arthur. Nils. Who else? Everybody who can fit out there, come with us to the balcony. Sophie, you too.”

“I can't,” Arthur says to me. “I'm phobic when it comes to heights. They were lucky to get me up here, but I haven't looked outside once tonight and did you notice how I stay away from the windows? Minimum of fifteen feet. I couldn't get near the crudités table because of it, and I love those things, so someone had to bring me over a plate.”

Sven takes my hand and Dorothy's and leads about twenty people out to the balcony. It overlooks the Staten Island ferry station and Statue of Liberty and New Jersey or Staten Island and some ships in the water and a liner all lit up heading out to the ocean.

“A cruise ship,” Dorothy says. “That's what Sven and I should be on. Instead, what? A posh hotel here and tomorrow Atlantic City.”

“I like to gamble,” he says.

“Listen. You can even hear the music from it seventy stories up. Let's dance,” and she grabs Sven and dances one turn around and lets go.

“I don't hear anything,” Sophie says.

“I'm a little cold,” I say to Peter. “I'm going in.”

“No, all of us,” Sven says, “me and mine included, stay and don't make jokes or start dancing—just look. It was a lot nicer the night we came up here to see if we wanted to rent it. Clearer, more stars, the skinniest of quartermoons, but you can't predict the weather months ahead, and all the nights that same-sized moon was due, the room was booked. Look—the plane up there. Cloudy and all, it's still a remarkable sight. Only in New York.”

“I think Chicago has a catering place like this on top of one of its lakefront office buildings,” a woman says. “And taller, but with different type food. But it is very nice indeed. I'm glad you brought us out here—I would have missed it.”

“And no comparisons, if you can. Experience it for what it is, if I can sound vaguely familiar—which is great. I also, while we're out here in front of this view, want to make an announcement.”

“You're getting married,” a man says.

“No, and not that I love Dorothy and she loves me and we shall cherish each other forever, which is all so, but that we're going to have a baby. That's something else I wanted to tell you, my best friends and relatives who braved it out here at my behest. Sophie, did you hear?”

“What am I supposed to do now—say no? Dorothy told me.”

“Snitcher,” he says to Dorothy. “But did she tell you it's going to be a girl and we're calling her Marina Claire?”

“I knew and I'm thankful. Girls are better than boys.”

“I didn't know any of it,” I say. “It's wonderful, what could be better?” I kiss them both.

“But is this the fantastic place to hear that kind of news?” Sven shouts.

“Unbeatable,” Peter says, “and appropriate. The heart of the New York harbor and with Brooklyn in the foreground and Manhattan in back and a jet going west overhead and the two rivers splitting up and going their own way. And my mom and pop store speech was pretty prescient, eh?”

“That's what I whispered to Dorothy on the floor. ‘Does Peter know?' She didn't answer. Why didn't you answer?” he asks her.

“Now I really have to go,” I say.

“Of course,” Peter says. “Goodbye to you all. It's freezing and gorgeous out here and the news was a knockout—Wait up,” he says to me.

“Marry her,” Sven yells after Peter. “Don't be a boob not to.”

“Sven, that's an awful thing to say,” I say. “People have to work things out their own way.”

“But you're a terrific couple and two of my favorite people and I'm deliriously happy, so what else could I say? I'd love to see you married and in a family way, which is my next big fantasy for you two and no doubt another one I should have omitted saying, but that's just tough titty on me.”

“All right, I hear, and probably at your wedding reception you should be allowed to say anything you like.” I go back, kiss him, he's been crying, says “Forgive me, Helene, I get too enthused and emotional,” say “Bye Sophie, many thanks,” blow a kiss to Dorothy and say “Hope I didn't dampen things,” and she says “Pay no mind, nothing but a nuclear holocaust on us could ruin this day,” go into the room, Peter says “Truthfully, I had nothing to do with that marriage-fetus wish, but you handled him right,” and goes to the men's room, get my coat and sit on a bench by the elevator to wait for him. The rooms to the other parties are at the other side of the elevator bank and lots of laughing, music and chatter are coming from them. Arthur comes over. “Oh, I'm sorry,” I say, “I forgot to say goodnight.”

“That's what I thought I forgot. And, I'm not sure how close you are with this curator fellow, but if it isn't too close—even if it is…”

“We can always have lunch. I'm in the book. Only Helene with a Winiker at the end of it. W-i—”

“I know. I asked Dot about you already and she gave me your number. Six-six-three, two-five, three-six. An easy one, but I've a way with numbers. I can still remember my selective service card number and army rifle registration number and all the combination lock numbers from high school and college. Phone numbers? You only have to tell me them once. I've got a regular rolloflex—but what do you call those rolling things that have a thousand phone numbers and addresses on index cards and you spin?—well that's my head. I also want you to know I'll gladly do your tax returns this year if you want. As a favor, and I bet I get you back seven hundred more than if you do them yourself and four hundred more than with a professional accountant, but maybe not a competent CPA, and all legitimately: I do nothing to jeopardize the reputation of my firm or my own personal name.”

“Sounds good. I do them myself, so I might take you up on it.”

“Great. So, it was words-can't-say tonight, Helene.”

Peter comes over, has on his coat, says “Nice to meet you, Arthur; see you around,” rings for the elevator. Elevator comes. “Hold onto me if you're still not feeling well,” and he presses the lobby button.

I hold his arm as the car descends. He kisses the top of my head. He's about six inches taller than I and has put aftershave or men's cologne on his face though I don't know where he'd keep it. Not in his pocket. Maybe for men there's such a thing as overnight cologne packages I'll call them. More likely the management provided some for the men's room, but why wouldn't there also have been some in ours? Maybe there was and someone stole it. Could be he devised his own traveling package. He was always very inventive and liked to smell good. “You all right?” I nod. “Elevator not going too fast? I can slow it down.” I shake my head. “This might seem dopey, but why—” The car stops at the fourteenth but nobody gets on. “Why did you object so strenuously to Sven when he came on with that marriage talk?”

“Because he knows that that's what mainly broke it up for us: your not wanting to. Even if he was drunk or stoned, and who knows what those two are into these—” The door opens, a guard in the lobby nods to us and Peter salutes him and we head for the door. “I also don't go for that shoot-from-the-heart crap in a crowd he's also been into these days.”

“Hold it. About that particular time we're talking of, it wasn't so much marriage I didn't want but that you wanted to have a baby then and at the time I didn't think I wanted one.”

“I wanted to get married and have a child eventually. Why else get married or at least if you can have kids? But what does your ‘at the time' talk mean? That now you think, to the woman you eventually do get married to, that you would have a child? That'd be interesting.”