The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (8 page)

“Please tell me this has nothing to do with you,” said Vadis in a low whisper.

“Well, I—”

“Because I went out on a limb with Orla Knock. You were desperate and I told her you were great. So please—tell me it was nothing you did.”

Eve wished she could but no words would come out of her mouth.

   • • •

She stood at her bar and poured a second highball. Booze at ten in the morning; things were going really well.

“Highball, highball, highball,” she mumbled. Why was a drink called that? Probably because it was fun to say. “Highball, highball, highball.” She said it again like a mantra, the dog cocking her head each time.

“You like that? Highball?” The dog stared intently. “That’s no name for a dog, silly.” Then again, thought Eve, her chin on the bar, “Eventual”—her mother’s capricious way of welcoming a girl after a pair of rambunctious boys—was a pretty odd name
for a girl. She held out her hand. “Highball?” The dog touched her baby-pink tongue to Eve’s skin. “Your gesture shall be read as assent. ‘Highball’ it is.”

“You’re naming that fleabag?” asked Donald.

“You startled me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I am,” said Eve. “I’m naming the fleabag!” This set her off into a wave of silent giggles.

“Are you drunk, young lady? What time is it?”

“It’s poetic license to drink before noon. I’m a writer now, remember? And this is what writers do.” Was she still speaking aloud or was she simply thinking? Not that it mattered with Donald but the bourbon made it difficult to tell.

“Ah, yes. The television job.” He said the word “television” like a gourmand might say “spray-on cheese.” “I take it the bouillabaisse was a success?”

“Oh yes. I am the queen of soup. And of language. I’m a writer who can do no wrong. Right, Highball?”

“Tell the truth,” said Donald. She took another sip instead. “How come I’m seeing a memory of an overpainted blond woman on a TV screen looking ill? And a Negro woman, looking as if she’d like to wring your little neck?”

Eve tried to banish these pictures from her mind, but they kept replaying as if on a loop. “You be quiet,” she said to Donald. “It’s none of your concern. By the way, my friend is
Latina
, not black.” She grabbed the leash. “And FYI? No one says ‘Negro’ anymore!”

As she slammed the door she heard Donald griping in confusion, “What in the heck is
eff why eye
?”

   • • •

Eve and Highball wandered down Bleecker Street, the city seeming to her like a giant clique, impenetrable. She was never going to find a way in. She looked hard at each person she passed,
every store merchant, every police officer, every deliveryman. What was the damn secret?

At 190 Bleecker, she stopped. It was just a hole-in-the-wall takeout place, but a plaque near the door caught her eye. It noted that an apartment in the building had been home to Gregory Corso, one of the most famous of the Beat poets. Eve had read some of his work at the library recently, but what she remembered now was that he’d suffered a run of bad luck second to none. Abandoned by his mother, he’d spent years in foster homes, was dispatched to New York’s most fearsome jail at thirteen, and after that lived on the streets.

Then he met Allen Ginsberg at a Village bar and everything changed.

They turned north and soon arrived at Washington Square Park. At the far end lay a cordoned-off area called a “dog run,” where it appeared dogs were permitted to go leashless. Eve closed the metal gate behind them, then plunked down on a peeling wooden bench. She unhooked the dog, wishing she didn’t have quite so much liquor coursing through her. It was a foolish way to deal with disaster, she knew it. Her eyes swept over the green peacefulness of the park, gathered contentedly under its bone white arch, a miniature version of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe. She leaned back, wishing she were in Paris for real.

Around her, it was knee-high chaos: thirty or so dogs engaged in what appeared for all the world to be a canine cocktail party. She shaded her eyes from the sun and surveyed the array: boxers, jowls flying like banners as their powerful legs propelled them around in short bursts; German shepherds with their sloping backs that made it look like they were forever sneaking up on people; dachshunds like fur-covered bullets; corgis, barrel-chested and nippy; and several pugs, plush gargoyles with madly twirling pigs’ tails.

There was one dog that remained apart from the hubbub, the surly guest at the party. He was dramatic in appearance: about
the size of a small Labrador but with blindingly white short fur, ice blue eyes, and a head like an anvil. He planted himself in a corner, his eyes following the squirrels in the trees.

A collie-basset mix sniffed Highball eagerly before running off, and Highball gave chase. As Eve’s eyes followed her, she wondered how bad law school could be. It would be nice to make her father happy. He’d been stunned and confused when she announced she was pulling up stakes for the Big Apple after what was supposed to be a long weekend with some school chums. And yet there had been a tinge of resignation in his tone when she told him. Almost as if he’d known this day was coming.

Just as Eve realized she couldn’t see Highball anywhere, a snarl erupted from the run’s general cacophony and Eve’s eyes flew toward the sound. About a dozen dogs had become part of what looked like a solid mass of writhing fur. Other dog owners darted over, shouting and gesturing.

In a breath, Eve was beside them. She caught sight of Highball’s speckled fur deep within the mass and stepped in, her legs battered so fiercely by hurtling dogs that she immediately fell, landing heavily on the gravel. Attempting to stand, she batted away the pummeling noses and tails and felt a pain shoot through her wrist. Suddenly the sea parted, revealing Highball in the grip of the white dog. Its teeth were buried deep in her neck, rich red-brown blood dripping from the wound.

Everything fell away, leaving only the pulsating sound of screaming, muffled and distant. Eve’s fingers found the place where the white dog’s teeth met Highball’s skin. She pulled with all her strength but they’d taken root like redwoods. With Highball starting to go limp, Eve flew to the rear flank. Blurrily, she heard the shouts:
Get outta there! You don’t know what you’re doing!
Eve wrapped her fingers around the white dog’s ankles and pulled. Nothing happened. She pulled again, harder. Still nothing. Why wasn’t anyone helping? She pushed her heels into the ground, closed her eyes, and put every ounce of her muscle
into another tug. The dog released its grip with a cry of fury, and Eve let go, falling backward. Two men rushed forward to grab the white dog as if it were what they’d been meaning to do all along. A third clapped her on the back.
Damn
, she heard from somewhere. The world began to come back and the faces of the onlookers came into focus.

Then her eyes fell on Highball, who lay pressed into the ground, eyelids fluttering, chest moving faintly.

   • • •

The vet, young and shiny-skinned, said Highball was extremely lucky. Her jugular had been missed by less than an inch, the thick ruff at her throat having likely confused her attacker. He told Eve it would take a few stitches, a couple of shots, and bed rest to restore Highball’s health, but in the meantime, hadn’t she better get herself to the ER?

   • • •

That evening, Eve looked down at the four stitches they’d given her at St. Vincent’s—the same number as Highball had received—on the pale inside of her left arm. Precise and lovely, they looked like those on the hem of her mother’s eggshell Chanel jacket. Unlike the Chanel stitches, though, they vibrated with pain, biting their way across the skin. She leaned over, blowing on them quietly to keep from waking Highball, who lay splayed next to her on the bed.

“What’s happened?” Donald’s tone was tender.

“Nothing,” she said, wincing.

“You’re hurt,” he replied. “I can feel it. Tell me.” Haltingly, Eve recounted the dog-run drama, but it came out in a painkiller-sodden jumble. At the end, she moaned, spent all over again. “I wish I could help,” said Donald. “But so far I’m utterly incapable of anything but continuing with my contributions to literature.”

“So far? What else have you been trying to do?” Despite her pain, Eve was curious.

“I’ve been attempting to marshal a measure of physical skill since before we met. Hopeless at the moment, but one day I may surprise you.”

“Really …” murmured Eve. “And just what might you do?”

“What would you like?”

“Hmmm,” said Eve, rolling over. “How about you pour me a bourbon?”

“You’re still juiced from your last bender and you’re trying to line up your next drink?” Donald chastised. “In any case, I’m a million miles from such a stunt.”

“Well, that shouldn’t stop you from trying. I’m a million miles from landing a job and that’s not going to stop me.” And it wouldn’t, she decided. She would not, not, not go to law school.

“All right, my little scamp. One day I will pour you a bourbon. But for now, why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

   • • •

When she awoke, shadows had stretched across the room like a net and Highball was curled in the crook of her arm, snoring in little wisps. The phone was ringing.

“Hello?” Eve whispered.

“Eve Weldon, please.”

“Speaking,” she coughed, trying to sit up and get her bearings. She looked at the clock. It was after six in the evening.

“It’s Mark.”

“Mark …”

“Mark
—Smell the Coffee
Mark. Remember? Bouillabaisse?”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I’m a bit …” She shook her head. “I’m fine. Sorry. How are you?”

“How am I? Are you kidding?”

“Oh, right.” The morning’s events returned.

“You saw the broadcast?”

“Yes.” Eve gathered her knees up under her chin. “I don’t know what to say. I should have called. I was horrified. Is—is everyone okay?” She swallowed. “Is Bliss Jones all right?” Her voice had dropped so even she could barely hear it.

“She’s fine—now. So is the person from the studio audience who got sick.” He covered the phone and had a few terse words with someone. Then he came back. “But they had a couple of uncomfortable hours. They eventually realized that each of them had gotten a piece of the halibut, which was bad. Thank God no one else did. Didn’t you notice something was wrong with it?”

“It did smell funny, but I thought, well, fish smells funny, doesn’t it? And you all seemed really busy and I didn’t want to trouble anybody.”

Mark exhaled loudly. “Look, in the journalism business you
have
to trouble people. Trouble them to answer your questions, trouble them to tell you the truth. If you don’t, you put wrong information on the air. A network can get sued for doing that.”

She had been hanging on every word, but now it occurred to Eve that this conversation might be sliding into a very bad place. “Are you—are you telling me all this because they’re suing me?” she breathed. “Over the soup?”

“No, Eve, I’m telling you all this because, unbelievable as it sounds, I’m giving you another shot.”

T
he following Monday, Eve gazed into the mirror, turning this way and that in a navy fifties pinstripe skirt suit with three-quarter sleeves. Though perhaps this was overdoing it. The rest of the
Smell the Coffee
staff’s attire, from what she’d glimpsed, was comprised of suits or button-down-and-slacks ensembles. Those she’d spotted along writers’ row seemed inclined toward jeans and baggy sweaters, looking as though they’d been beamed in from a smoky bar in the East Village where only minutes ago they’d been stabbing cigarettes into the air and making impassioned points about existentialism. Eve thought briefly about trying to adopt this costume, but she’d been waiting since she was a teenager to wear her mother’s vintage. Doing so in the Midwest, land of shirtdresses and khakis, would have made her feel too conspicuous.

She disembarked the subway at Thirty-fourth Street, still amazed at how different Midtown was from the Village. In the Village, locals meandered, strolled, ambled at best. Here everyone marched smartly in military precision, as if taking orders from some unseen general.
You there! Knees up! Look alive! And you! Watch the hot dog vendor. Keep up, you in the purple
sweater. All together now: Around the tourists! Around the tourists!

The gleaming, forum-like entrance to the network loomed. Enormous double doors swung open and Eve stepped inside the glistening marble foyer. A series of full-length color portraits of the network’s anchors and correspondents hung from the two-story ceiling. The men all wore gray or blue blazers, the women red or yellow. The men folded their arms across their chests like aging white rap stars; the women clasped their hands behind their backs in the manner of Degas ballerinas. Bliss Jones’s banner hung in the center, slightly in front of the others’. Blinding teeth and reassurance radiated from the gently fluttering canvas.

Eve showed her ID to the guard and, after tiptoeing her way up five flights of cigarette-butt-strewn back stairs, found her way to Mark’s office. The door was open, and as she walked in, several people simultaneously swiveled in her direction and stopped talking.

“Ah,” said Mark, waving her in. “Well, here we go. Everyone, this is Eve. Eve, these are the writers.” They looked at her with frank curiosity as Mark introduced them, one by one. First came Archie Meyers, graying, scruffy, and somewhat distracted, who appeared to come with a copy of
The New York Times
surgically attached under his arm. He’d worked at the show for fifteen years and his expertise was politics; he’d interviewed each of the last three presidents (or at least their top aides). Next came Quirine Veselier. She was French, though she’d lived in the U.S. for fifteen years. She still had a bit of an accent and was darkly gamine in a simple but perfectly cut dove gray blouse and wide-legged trousers. She handled most of the segments on social issues and the environment, about which she maintained Americans were “frighteningly ignorant.” To her left stood blond, green-eyed Steve Andrews, who had the look of a college quarterback crossed with a down pillow. He handled sports segments and anything to do with cars or power tools. Last to be introduced was Russell Washington, his pate black and glossy as an eight
ball. He held himself with great dignity but possessed a twitchy mouth that looked capable of unleashing a wicked string of bons mots. He and Mark had no journalistic “niche”; they handled, as needed, any topic that came up.