The Cosmopolitans (10 page)

“Let's see,” he played the guessing game. “Hmmm. You moved to New York with . . . two dresses . . . three pairs of panties . . . a diary . . . two pairs of socks . . . a nightie.” He paused, knowing he was missing something. Then snapped his fingers. “And a book!”

Bette was in the back chopping onions. They could both hear the knife hitting the cutting board. They were alone in this moment together, Hortense and Earl. And it was Hortense's responsibility to make it work.

The fact was that Hortense had never had a full conversation with a Negro. She had certainly never heard a Negro man say the word
panties
. It seemed audacious, and then she knew that it could no longer be so. It had to be regular.
Equal
. In this house, people said whatever words they wanted to each other and it was a gift, of candor and honesty. The world cracked open with possibility. Now Hortense could never go back. She had already learned too much.

“What book?” she asked, gamely, coquettishly, showing her gumption for the spar, a willingness to play. Her ability to be the same . . . with anyone.

Earl examined her closely. She was a rube, but she
had a mind. Few influences, but depth. What would someone with those abilities select as their one and only book? He made his choice.

“The Bible.”

Then he guffawed, triumphant. He had her number.

“Yes,” she answered. “The bible.
An Actor Prepares
by Konstantin Stanislavski.”

Earl laughed out loud. The lamb chops were sizzling in the background. He had to admit he was impressed. She'd outwitted him. That little pink one.

Chapter 10

F
rom that day on there was new life on Tenth Street.

Earl slept in, until the latest possible moment, and would give a wake-up knock on
his ladies
' front door as he started out for work. Five syncopated beats.

Shave-and-a-haircut . .
.

Then he would wait in the hallway, until a sleepy Hortense, in her nightgown, hair askew, opened the door and smiled.

“
Two-bits,”
they would sing in unison, and crack up. She'd wave goodbye and then watch his trip down the stairs as the sun rose, joining the other silent, sleepy workers in the morning's gorgeous blue-gray shadow.

Hortense would then run to the window, throw it open, lean out, and wave goodbye. And Earl would turn up from the corner below and smile.

This new energy at the beginning of the day allowed him to start off looking at the other fellows on the streets a bit differently. He saw them dreaming and scheming with their hands in their pockets, watching
the sun's flakes drip down the sides of the buildings sheltering their collective journey to the job. Weirdly, from time to time, he found he appreciated their beauty without the devastating pain of not being able to share it. What was that? What was that shift? It set his day in motion differently than it had been all those years when he rolled out of bed on his own. But by the time he'd get to the West Side and had been alone with his thoughts in the dawn, his countenance would move more to gray and become starker and more familiar. Perhaps the truth was that losing his family had kept Earl away from young people. Maybe that was why he'd cared so deeply for Leon. The energy. Or, was it just Leon's ass, sweet lips, and seductive promise? Or was it both? Was it about being young and beautiful, or was it about being a different force? That was it really, what Earl had been trying to get for so long, a different kind of light—a new person, on a daily basis, with their own new information and perspective. That's one reason he so badly wanted a boyfriend: he just needed a friend. Not the guys bantering by the chess tables in the park. They were sweet, but had their own families to go home to. He wanted more input. More surprises. Even at six in the morning. He liked being recognized. It allowed a new kind of comfort in that secret chill of dawn, and was worth foregoing a long, full breakfast for some quick toast and a steamy cup of coffee with other similarly situated men at the diner across from the meatpacking plant. How was Earl going to get a lover? How? Every effort ended in disaster and despair, ended in cataclysm. If only Hortense were a boy. He needed a man! He needed a friend to hold and
talk to, someone in bed, a man in his bed, every single goddamn day. Where was he? He was just nowhere to be found, that guy. Nowhere. Nowhere.

It had finally happened. Earl had grown up into an old, lonely fag with no way out. With too much pain and too much hurt and absolutely no clue how to turn that around. He'd seen those types his whole life, and now he was one. Sitting on the edge of life. A person who always shows up alone. Who sets off alone and tries to get in. The guy filled with stories to tell that no one wanted to hear. Realistically, that was the truth. It was time to just enjoy what he could and mourn in private over the rest. There was no way he was going to discuss this feeling with Bette or anyone else. With Hortense in the room, they couldn't discuss his feelings in the same manner as before, and in a way it was a relief. He was sick of others knowing how bad he felt. No way. It was too terrible. It was embarrassing. Too irrefutable. Too impossible to change.
Accept it
, he'd begged.
Accept it
. But he didn't want to. He just couldn't do that to himself.

At the same 7:00 a.m. moment that Earl finished his cup and suited up to hack gristle, Hortense was completing her toilette. She made Bette's morning coffee, and the two of them would chat, chat, chat. Then they'd bustle around the table, buttering each other's toast. Within a very short time, Bette felt comfortable leaving the plates undone and setting off to work, assured they would be washed, the table crumbed, and everything in place waiting for her when she returned in time to make supper. Clearly all would be cared for. It was new, this experience of not having to engage
all
the mundane details. Brand new. Truly knowing that another person was going to clean in her absence opened up a cavernous space in Bette to do, to rest, to think—indeed, to feel.

Once Bette was on her way, Hortense did indeed clear and rinse. She'd leave for her nine o'clock acting class, reciting lines to herself and studying the people she passed on the street on her way. So many of these faces and gestures would come in handy, later, as character studies. For example, that young mother's stride, like a man, but with such a pretty, soft face. Her body betrayed her responsibilities and her eyes held her true soul. The woman's story was evident. She had the burden of the family's finances, and this was an unexpected obligation. And so she had to simultaneously harden, physically, while holding a place of love and vulnerability for her child. Hortense could capture that! She was sure. And for the rest of the walk up to Twenty-Third Street, she tried on different pairings of smiles and strides, finding the right one. And spent the last few blocks perfecting it until she felt natural in her role.

This new arrangement also transformed Bette's approach to
her
job. Now, instead of reading a book or daydreaming about a piece of music heard alone the night before, she would wait for the bus across the street with a kind of energetic glow. She always got a seat because her stop was at the beginning of the line, and from that perch, she'd comfortably watch out the window as the bus crawled up Madison Avenue. Looking at the people around her and starting to wonder what their reaction would be to
television advertising
.
Not that she really knew what that was, but this was the subject now discussed in the office all day long, five days a week, and there was no point in pretending it wasn't happening. Why not at least try to understand? She had nothing to lose and it could be interesting. Change.

Newer riders came on board the bus, and by the north side of Union Square there were never any seats left. She saw their expressions of disappointment, realizing they would have to stand. How, even though they'd already known when they woke up that there would be no seat, they were upset about it. No one wants to stand on their way to work. People have desires, needs that don't meet their realities. And yet those wishes do not disappear. She had made her wishes disappear. Now she wanted to rediscover what they actually were.

Every day was a surprise with Hortense. And every day was a surprise at Tibbs Advertising. It was exciting. In fact, it was fun. The value of a day was entirely different, Bette noted. It was not something to be endured, but instead to be enjoyed.
That's what change can bring
, she thought. And laughed to herself out loud. The man reading the
New York Post
in the next seat stubbed out his cigarette. He looked at her and smiled.
People are moved by happiness
. She felt moved herself when she realized that happiness is more than getting through without pain.

This morning, when she entered the office, Hector was in his usual frenzy of worry. He was doing so much, but he had no idea what he was doing. Lately, Bette had been more willing to try to help him. That was the thing about healing. It only happened when something
was made right. If nothing was ever made right, there was only so much that one could do. But with Hortense's appearance and Bette's chance to have relatives finally—well, that mattered. It wasn't just willpower, it was substantial. And it made her feel better toward Hector. Someone was fair to her and so she had more to give. That's how it worked. A person just could not do it all on their own. It was a proven fact. Bette was almost ready to say that she and Hector were in there
together
, after all. But she still didn't grasp exactly how. All that was clear was that Hector was in over his head, and she felt a new kind of sympathy. An interest. This particular morning he was already pacing before she'd even hung up her sweater.

“Bette, I need you to take shorthand.”

“Right away.”

She could not bring herself to call him
Mr. Tibbs
after a lifetime of calling him Hector. So for the moment, she refrained from calling him anything at all.

“It's important.”

“Be right over.”

She draped her sweater casually over her chair and grabbed her steno book and a pencil, always kept sharpened in its holder.

The important subject so badly in need of immediate documentation was indeed something momentous. Accepting that he could never forge this new pathway alone, Hector had been advised by a friend on the New Haven Line commuter club car to hire a consultant. This was a new kind of job emerging in American business, and Hector's friend encouraged him to “get on board.” Three Canadian Club and sodas later, Hector
was convinced that experts were now available for all to engage, instead of being secreted away in the most powerful corners of the Pentagon. So, for a fee, even a small guy like him could take advantage of their “know-how.”

This morning he was interviewing his first consultant, a very lively, young, bright, and, well, brassy brunette named Valerie Korie, who had beaten both him and Bette to the office by a good fifteen minutes.

Prompt, that one
, Bette noted.

Valerie was the smart, independent type, there to offer the service of her mind. She was an expert at having ideas, imagining things, and making them come true. She was hired to think, to think of things no one else could come up with, to put seemingly unrelated themes together and to make them
click
. Her clothing confirmed these talents. Not necessarily the A-line skirt, but the bag and shoes of different colors and the seemingly masculine watch, prominently displayed on her wrist instead of a bracelet.

“Like it?” Valerie asked, noticing Bette's gaze.

“Why . . . yes.”

“It's waterproof and shockproof. Omega.”

“The last letter of the Greek alphabet,” Bette answered, surprising herself.

“Exactly! The be-all and end-all of . . . time.”

Hector took his place behind his desk, Valerie had the visitor's chair. Black leather, soft and pliant. Bette sat in her usual hardback, best for taking notes.

“Listen up, Hector,” Valerie snapped, not giving him a moment to take the reins.

Bette looked over at his reaction. Valerie's big smile,
red lips, and matching tight red sweater were very effective. He seemed grateful to not have to be in charge.

Although trying to remain professionally skeptical, Bette immediately saw the girl's appeal. Valerie was the 1958 version of the 1920s woman. What Hortense seemed to be aspiring to. This was a type that hadn't been around for, well, decades. With the Depression and the war effort, the independent gal who used to be a regular part of daily life had seemed to disappear. And Bette hadn't noticed, until just this second. But here she was, coming back into style, and it was refreshing. Perhaps that had happened to Bette herself, without even understanding it. American women had become reticent, and she'd lost some of her own pizzazz. Luckily, these young ones were reinvigorating the mold. Of course there would be adjustments for the modern age. This crop were not radicals, they
were professionals
. But the last crew had won the right to vote, so Bette felt excited to see what a different, grand revolution Valerie's kind would achieve. The 1958 model was sleek, slick, bright scarf, sharp heels.
Looks
, Bette reflected,
are a big part of it
. She meant business.

“I mean business, Hector. And business, as every American knows, means power.”

Business means power
, Bette wrote on her steno pad.

“Bring me in as a consultant for your firm, and I will expand Tibbs Incorporated into a vibrant, competitive advertising agency so that you can ‘Market Tomorrow to America Today.'”

She speaks in slogans
, Bette noted.
Convenient for shorthand
.

“Great!”

That was Hector. Whatever Valerie said was fine with him. His goals had proved beyond his grasp, so as long as someone could think of something he wouldn't have to do it. He smiled, and then crinkled his brow.

“But, how?”

“Good question. This requires . . .” She leaned in as though to whisper the answer, but then laughed, flipped her hair back, and trumpeted. “HARD SELL.”

Bette wrote the words
hard sell
and then added three exclamation points.

“As opposed to . . . ?” Hector leaned in so close that he was practically lying on his desk, grasping for the answer.

“Guess,” Valerie cooed.

“Soft?”

She nodded. He was learning. Bette was too, and so far, so good.

As Valerie explained it,
marketing
was what they needed to move into television. This corresponded strongly to what Hector had suspected, but what marketing actually was remained a bit of a mystery. It was different from advertising because of the element of subtlety. Advertising, as far as Hector was concerned, had always meant encouraging people to buy something. But marketing had to do with making people
feel
differently. So that they would then be better predisposed toward purchasing the thing. Toward wanting it. More. Marketing was some kind of modern science that involved how people think, and their desires. It was deeper, speaking to more human truths. A new realm of understanding that could not be overlooked.

“Television will reach EVERYONE!” Valerie proclaimed.

How?
Bette wondered.

“We want ALL of America to understand our ads,” Valerie said. “It's DEMOCRATIC!”

This further intrigued Bette. How could all the people understand the same thing? Was marketing the way to get her family to understand that her life mattered? For the men who ran the theaters to understand that Earl needed a part? Could marketing erase inequality, and let all people's feelings be seen on an elevated plane?