Authors: Ellen Hart
Night Vision (3 page)
C
ordelia carried Hattie, her three-and-a-half-year-old niece, on her shoulders as she sauntered down the hallway to the loft where Joanna would be living during her stay in Minnesota. Since it was a sublet, and Cordelia had brokered the arrangement, she'd already been in the space and knew it was comfortable and clean, although the way Tammi Bonifay had it decorated was enough to make her gag. It was the same general space as her loftâsixty by eighty feet, with fourteen-foot-high ceilings, exposed brick, and floor-to-ceiling windows on one entire wall overlooking downtown Minneapolis.
ordelia carried Hattie, her three-and-a-half-year-old niece, on her shoulders as she sauntered down the hallway to the loft where Joanna would be living during her stay in Minnesota. Since it was a sublet, and Cordelia had brokered the arrangement, she'd already been in the space and knew it was comfortable and clean, although the way Tammi Bonifay had it decorated was enough to make her gag. It was the same general space as her loftâsixty by eighty feet, with fourteen-foot-high ceilings, exposed brick, and floor-to-ceiling windows on one entire wall overlooking downtown Minneapolis.
Cordelia had kept her loft space open, with tall screens dividing off separate sections. Thus, she could change it at her whim. And Cordelia had lots of whims. She had a tendency to borrow pieces of old sets from the theater's storage garage. Since she was the creative director, nobody objected. Creative types were supposed to be eccentric, and on that score, it was Cordelia's mission in life never to disappoint.
But her visits to the storage garage had ended when IKEA came to town. All her gay boyfriends told her she simply
had
to goâif she didn't, they'd revoke her gay credentials. She was intrigued but not sold. At the time, she was in the midst of a languid, Deep South
period. Thanks to many of the props and furnishings from the Allen Grimby's brilliant production of Tennessee Williams's
Summer and Smoke
last spring, so was her loft. With fake Spanish moss dripping from the screens, frayed Orientals covering the hardwood floors, old-fashioned couches and overstuffed chairs with frilly white doilies pinned to the backs and arms, and with the scent of magnolia potpourri in the air, the loft was a study in genteel disintegration. Cordelia had even ordered a bunch of potted palms from Bachman's. She was a bit annoyed to find that one of them was dying. But then it occurred to her that rotting vegetation was an essential part of Southern ambience. She nursed it along in its slow death and then allowed it a place of honor near the window when if finally bit the dust.
had
to goâif she didn't, they'd revoke her gay credentials. She was intrigued but not sold. At the time, she was in the midst of a languid, Deep South
period. Thanks to many of the props and furnishings from the Allen Grimby's brilliant production of Tennessee Williams's
Summer and Smoke
last spring, so was her loft. With fake Spanish moss dripping from the screens, frayed Orientals covering the hardwood floors, old-fashioned couches and overstuffed chairs with frilly white doilies pinned to the backs and arms, and with the scent of magnolia potpourri in the air, the loft was a study in genteel disintegration. Cordelia had even ordered a bunch of potted palms from Bachman's. She was a bit annoyed to find that one of them was dying. But then it occurred to her that rotting vegetation was an essential part of Southern ambience. She nursed it along in its slow death and then allowed it a place of honor near the window when if finally bit the dust.
But all that changed the moment she entered IKEA. She was dazed. Mesmerized. So was Hattie. She loved playing in the children's area while Cordelia went hunting. Cordelia honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd been so surprised. Not only was the furniture cheap, but it was generally well designedâif you liked Swedish modern. Which she didn't.
But it grew on her. She was seduced by the weird names: The Hensvik bookcase, the Akurum/Lin/Jar kitchen island, the Fagelbo corner sofa, the Kvadrant panel curtain. Anno, Knopp, Lesvik, Ek-torp, Hustad, Borgholmâpresumably these were the designers, unless someone had an odd sense of humor. It sounded to Cordelia like a page out of the Minneapolis phone book, only on steroids. If you wanted Scandinavia in all its functionally boring gloryâand who didn't like mass-produced sweet rolls, meatballs and gravy with lingonberry sauce, and cod?âit was right
here
in Bloomington, right across the street from that dreadful shrine to modern consumption, the Mall of America. Such a deal! Cordelia hated the Mall of America, but then she had to admit that she
consumed,
so she could hardly throw stones.
here
in Bloomington, right across the street from that dreadful shrine to modern consumption, the Mall of America. Such a deal! Cordelia hated the Mall of America, but then she had to admit that she
consumed,
so she could hardly throw stones.
Thus Cordelia's Deep South period ended. When she found out she had to assemble all the new furnishings herself, she had a moment of misgiving. Not only did Cordelia Thorn not
haul,
she did not
assemble.
That's when she got the brilliant idea to invite all the guys who'd recommended IKEA to her over to her loft for dinner. After the pizza and pinot grigio were consumed, she told them to get busy. They did. In a matter of a few hours, Cordelia was swimming in a completely new ethos.
haul,
she did not
assemble.
That's when she got the brilliant idea to invite all the guys who'd recommended IKEA to her over to her loft for dinner. After the pizza and pinot grigio were consumed, she told them to get busy. They did. In a matter of a few hours, Cordelia was swimming in a completely new ethos.
Thus began her IKEA period.
The loft Joanna would live in, one floor down from Cordelia's, was filled with both French provincial furnishings and tackyâthough expensiveârustic country stuff. Captain's chairs. Velvet couches. Plaid upholstered chairs. Carved wooden trout on the walls. Hutches loaded with garish country-themed plates, all faceout. Lots of pictures of Jesus were scattered around, and knicknacks to the point of psychosis. There was even a Martin Luther bobblehead, but there were no blank spaces, not even in the bathrooms. Unlike her loft, with all its new, clean lines, this one was so covered in crap that Cordelia couldn't imagine finding another loft like it this side of the “country section” of lower hellâor east Texas.
The loftâagain, unlike Cordelia'sâwas divided into rooms. Two bathrooms. Three bedrooms. A large living room. A large study. Big kitchen and formal dining room. Joanna was only one person and she wouldn't be spending that much time here. Cordelia liked the idea of having her under the same roof. It would make everything so much easier. And who knew? Maybe Joanna liked bucolic bric-a-brac, religious gewgaws, and quasi-patriotic plaster objets d'art. The only thing Joanna had seemed concerned with was the loft's security system. Cordelia had been president of the tenants' board for the past ten months, so she could attest to the fact that it was as good as, if not better than, any other downtown loft.
The Linden Building had originally been built as a two-story livery in the warehouse district of downtown Minneapolis. It had been constructed in the late eighteen hundreds and had housed horses and delivery wagons, which entered and left through oversized arched doorways. Cordelia thought the huge doorways were cool and should have been left the way they were. Because she herself was larger than
lifeâin every wayâshe was drawn to anything that was grand, dramatic, or excessive. But sometime in the early nineteen hundreds the doors had been bricked up and made smaller, and four more stories were added. Today, the six-story building was home to Athena's Garden, a Greek restaurant, on the first floor; a printing company on the next two levels; with the final three floors turned into lofts with glorious views of the city or the Mississippi River, depending on which side of the building you were on.
lifeâin every wayâshe was drawn to anything that was grand, dramatic, or excessive. But sometime in the early nineteen hundreds the doors had been bricked up and made smaller, and four more stories were added. Today, the six-story building was home to Athena's Garden, a Greek restaurant, on the first floor; a printing company on the next two levels; with the final three floors turned into lofts with glorious views of the city or the Mississippi River, depending on which side of the building you were on.
Cordelia bounced Hattie on her shoulders as she continued down the hallway to Joanna's loft. As she was about to slip the key in the lock, Hattie pointed to the door on the other side of the hall. “Yook,” she said, growing excited.
Cordelia turned, squinting her disgust at Faye O'Halleron. Faye was the retired owner of a hair salon in Fort Dodge, Iowa. She'd grown up there, married and divorced there, and worked at the hair salon until she'd sold it and moved to Minneapolis six years ago. She'd been living at Linden Lofts for only about a year, but already she'd weaseled her way into Cordelia's infamous poker night. Faye was in her mid-seventies now, still a spunky old broadâa tall, flat-chested woman with short, dyed red hair and a face that looked like a road map of deep wrinkles. Faye liked to give advice, something she'd no doubt honed over decades of conversations with clients. Cordelia thought she was a hoot, but at the moment, she found her more frustrating than amusing. “Close the door, Faye. Joanna isn't here yet.”
Faye took a drag off her cigarette. “Just checking.” She had a deep, whiskey voice, a voice that a Mafia don would have envied.
“Yeah, well, Joanna needs some privacy. Remember? We had that little chat about leaving her alone, at least for the first few days.”
“I'm not gonna
bother
her,” muttered Faye, stepping farther out into the hall, a pissed-off look on her face. “Jeez, you must think everyone in this building is some pathetic star fucker. I've met my share of celebrities in my time, you know. I know how to act. Did I ever tell you about the time I gave Debra Winger a haircut?”
bother
her,” muttered Faye, stepping farther out into the hall, a pissed-off look on her face. “Jeez, you must think everyone in this building is some pathetic star fucker. I've met my share of celebrities in my time, you know. I know how to act. Did I ever tell you about the time I gave Debra Winger a haircut?”
“Yes,” said Cordelia, trying to sound patient. “Look, I just don't want people descending on Joanna as soon as she walks in the door. Who she chooses to make friends with is up to her. I'll be happy to introduce you, but give her a little space, okay? We clear on that?”
“I was just looking. A gal can
look,
can't she?”
look,
can't she?”
“Hi, Faye,” said Hattie with a shy little wave.
“Hi yourself,” replied Faye. Her grin was lopsided. “You're as cute as a bug, you know that?”
Hattie's face puckered. “I'm not a bug!”
“It's an expression, Hatts,” said Cordelia, patting her leg. “It just means you're sweet.” She glanced at Faye. Out of the side of her mouth she whispered, “She's into a very
literal
idiom at the moment.”
literal
idiom at the moment.”
Hattie gave a big nod. “Yup. Sweet. Yike strawberries.” Like all true Thorns, she wasn't plagued by self-doubt.
“Remember what I said. You ever need a babysitterâ”
Cordelia held up a jewel-encrusted hand. “I've got you on the list. Between Hattie's live-in nanny and me, we can usually cover everything, but I'll keep you in mind.”
“I love little girls. Don't forget.” Faye fixed her eyes on the floor for a second, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth, then turned her back to Cordelia. “Yeah. Well. Gotta go.
The Price Is Right
is on.” She slipped back inside and shut the door.
The Price Is Right
is on.” She slipped back inside and shut the door.
Lifting Hattie off her shoulders, Cordelia entered the loft. She wanted to give the place one final look-see just to make sure everything was in order. Fresh linens. Fresh towels. Cordelia had already stocked the kitchen with the bare necessitiesâfresh-roasted coffee beans from Dunn Bros, a slice of double-cream Brie from Surdyk's, a loaf of Asiago pepper bread and two baguettes from Turtle Bakery, a dozen organic eggs and a large lump of brown sugarâsmoked salmon from the Wedge, a quart of fresh OJ from Lunds, a pint of red pepper mascarpone and an antipasto salad from Broders, and for a treat, a dense, fudgy Finlandia Torte from Taste of Scandinavia. Cordelia figured these, and a few other essentials, were enough to tide Joanna over until morning.
“What
is
this pyace?” Hattie asked reverently. Today, Hattie was dressed in a long black velvet dress and bright pink slippers. At three-and-a-half, she was already a budding Gothâbut with a few unresolved color issues.
is
this pyace?” Hattie asked reverently. Today, Hattie was dressed in a long black velvet dress and bright pink slippers. At three-and-a-half, she was already a budding Gothâbut with a few unresolved color issues.
“This is where Auntie Joanna is staying,” said Cordelia.
“I
yuv
this pyace!” exclaimed Hattie, turbocharging over to a rack of cheap colored glass water goblets.
yuv
this pyace!” exclaimed Hattie, turbocharging over to a rack of cheap colored glass water goblets.
“No touching, okay?”
Before she could begin checking out the loft, the phone rang. Rushing into the kitchen, she picked up the receiver. It was a delivery guy downstairs wanting to come up with some flowers. Cordelia buzzed him in. At the same time, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hattie climb up on one of the dining room chairs, pull her bubble gum out of her mouth, and plop it down on the wood tabletop.
“Hatts! Stop!” The interior wasn't exactly child-friendly.
Sprinting across the room, she reached the table just as Hattie squished the gum flat with the palm of her hand. “What did I tell you about gum? It belongs in your mouth.”
“Or in my hair,” added Hattie knowingly.
As Cordelia finished peeling the gum off, the doorbell rang.
“Coming,” she called, depositing the sticky wad in a wastebasket.
When she opened the door, the delivery guy asked her to sign for the package. “You Joanna Kasimir?” he asked, cocking an eye at her.
“Yes,” said Cordelia, scribbling her name.
“The actress?”
“What do you think?” she snarled.
“I think I'm leaving,” he said, turning and walking away.
Cordelia glanced at the gray-and-orange paper the flowers came wrapped in and decided it was a tasteless florist. She looked around the room for someplace to set it. Hattie was now under the dining room table.
“It's
beau-ti-ful
down here!” She motioned for Cordelia to climb under with her.
beau-ti-ful
down here!” She motioned for Cordelia to climb under with her.
“Hattie, do the math. Auntie Cordelia won't fit under there. Now come out this minute. I'm counting.” She set the package on an end table, then changed her mind and moved it to the floor behind one of the hideous chain-saw sculptures.
“Y
ou goin' out?” called Hillary Schinn's dad. Fred Schinn was a retired stonemason, a man with cottony white hair, a red face, and rough hands. And he was diabetic. He was lying on the couch in the living room of his Richfield home, cup of coffee resting on his stomach, his swollen legs propped up on a pillow.
ou goin' out?” called Hillary Schinn's dad. Fred Schinn was a retired stonemason, a man with cottony white hair, a red face, and rough hands. And he was diabetic. He was lying on the couch in the living room of his Richfield home, cup of coffee resting on his stomach, his swollen legs propped up on a pillow.
Hillary was standing by the entrance to the kitchen, looking at herself in a full-length mirror that was hung on the back of the door. “Yeah,” she said, standing sideways and pressing a hand to her stomach. She'd been on a diet for the past three weeks, ever since she found out that Joanna Kasimir was coming to town, but she hadn't lost more than two pounds. It was depressing beyond belief. Her boyfriend always said she looked great, but guys lied to get laid. It was a simple fact. She was a good thirty pounds over the number on the weight chart at her doctor's office, and that meant she was a frumpy butterball, one who still lived with her dad. How pathetic was that?
During her twenties, Hillary simply assumed that by the time she was thirty, she'd have kids, a great job, a reasonably handsome husband, a home, a yard, and a fat bank accountânot a fat body. Nothing had worked out the way she'd planned. She'd gone to the U of M,
got her degree in journalism, but the year she graduated the job market was in the toilet. Maybe she didn't always interview well. She was often immobilized by a bad case of nervesâjust like right now. Her hands were clammy and her stomach was in knots.
got her degree in journalism, but the year she graduated the job market was in the toilet. Maybe she didn't always interview well. She was often immobilized by a bad case of nervesâjust like right now. Her hands were clammy and her stomach was in knots.
To get by, Hillary had worked various dead-end jobs over the yearsâBurger King, the Nicollet Car Wash, the Town Talk Cleaners, and Blockbuster video. She'd finally taken a position at a local hospital. For the past two years she'd been selling flowers and balloons to the families of the sick and dying. It was too depressing for words, which only made it seem even more important that she find a job as a freelance journalist. All she needed was one measly break. If things worked out as she hoped, Joanna Kasimir would be that break.
“Where you goin'?” asked her dad, flipping channels on the TV.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Don't pressure me, okay? I feel like my brain is about to explode.”
He sighed loudly. “Always so dramatic. You got that from your mom. Hey, will you make me a sandwich before you go? My legs are really bad today.”
The deal was that Hillary could live at home free of charge as long as she helped her dad with the upkeep of the house and also did the cooking and grocery shopping. Sure, her dad was ill, but he also used his illness as an excuse to get out of doing his part. “Can't you make yourself a peanut butter sandwich or something?”
“That's what I had for dinner last nightâand the night before.”
“Well, I'm crazed, can't you see that? I can't deal with anything else.” She charged up the stairs to her room. She saw now that the dress she'd picked was all wrong. She needed a more professional look. Her closet was crammed with clothesâall the way from size ten up to size sixteen. She was a fourteen at the moment. And that thought made her remember the dark blue suit she'd bought last fall for a funeral.
“Here,” she whispered, pulling it free. She shimmied out of the dress, dug through a drawer until she found a white silk blouse that wasn't too wrinkled, then slipped it on. Next came the pants. They were a little tight, which was just about the last straw, but she was
able to get them zipped. The suit coat fit her perfectly. This, finally, was the right image. Professional but approachable. Friendly. Young. Hungry but definitely not desperate.
able to get them zipped. The suit coat fit her perfectly. This, finally, was the right image. Professional but approachable. Friendly. Young. Hungry but definitely not desperate.
On the way to the airport, Hillary experienced everything from dry mouth to vertigo to shakes to nausea. She was a messâboth exhilarated and scared to death. She'd never met a celebrity before. Every off-ramp she passed was an opportunity to turn back, but she refused to look at them. She had to keep going. The alternative was just too horrible to contemplate.
Hillary had been lucky, which was another reason she thought this meeting with Joanna Kasimir was meant to be. She knew a guyâNoel Dearbornâwho was an intern at the Allen Grimby Repertory Theater. He'd been itching to date her forever. She kept putting him off but never totally shut him down. The day he overheard the top brass at the theater talking about Joanna's plane coming in on September 24, three-ten P.M. at Flying Cloud, he called Hillary and told her the news. That was three weeks ago. Noel knew that Joanna Kasimir was Hillary's film idol. Hillary talked about her all the time. Hillary asked him once if he thought she looked like Joanna Kasimir. He said yeah, definitely. Which just confirmed what she'd already believed.
Forty-five minutes after she'd left her dad's house, Hillary parked her white Toyota Tercel next to a gray minivan. She'd never been to Flying Cloud airport before. The MapQuest directions had confused her, but amazingly, she'd made good time. So good, in fact, that she had almost an hour to wait until the plane landed. In an effort to get her mind off her anxiety, she decided to make a mental list of the things she wanted to say.
Except, instead of concentrating on the task at hand, Hillary was immediately overwhelmed by all the negative voices in her headâthe ones that told her she was a failure; a rotten writer. A liar. A sham. She had no business thinking she could be a professional journalist. She was just setting herself up for a fall. Joanna Kasimir wouldn't give her the time of day because she'd see Hillary for the fraud she really was. The smart thing to do would be to leave right now, not waste everyone's time. But if she did leave, if this didn't work out, Hillary
wasn't sure what she'd have left. If her life didn't change, she was beginning to think it wasn't worth living.
wasn't sure what she'd have left. If her life didn't change, she was beginning to think it wasn't worth living.
Leaning her forehead against the steering wheel, Hillary felt the weight of her own negativity squeeze the air out of her lungs. She'd been so upbeat, so thrilled when she'd first learned Joanna would be coming. She and Joanna were kindred spirits. They'd both suffered and survived. They were destined to be not just friends but sisters of the heart. Confidantes. Family. Joanna would take Hillary's hand in hers and smile that wonderful smile. “Sure,” she'd say. “I'll give you an exclusive interview.” And then she'd promise that they'd get together soon.
It had to work out that way.
It just had to.
It just had to.
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