The Paper Dragon (62 page)

God bless America, Genitori said.

He spent the afternoon alone.

He was in excellent spirits, walking along Fifth Avenue for a while, his coat open, his muffler loose around his throat, simply walking, and watching everyone, and enjoying himself. Then he sat on one of the benches in Rockefeller Plaza, still watching the people who went by, comparing all the pretty girls to Chickie and deciding, as he had a hundred times before, that he was the luckiest man in the world. He watched the skaters for ten minutes or so, and then crossed over to Saks to listen to the Salvation Army band outside the store, all the while feeling a sense of impending joy, as though his present good mood were only the prelude to something inconceivably better.

He attributed part of his mood to the fact that Christmas was almost here. As a Jew, he had never fully appreciated the religious aspects of the holiday, but he could not deny the excitement that swept over New York at this time each year, nor could he attribute it entirely to the increased activity in the business community, as his father did. Well, his father attributed everything to either good business or bad business, his father was an old
pisher
, and that was all that could be said for him. So he listened to the tinkling of the bells everywhere around him, and the voices singing, and the trumpets and tubas, and the high-heeled rushing click along the sidewalks, and he savored the bite in the air, and knew it was the joyous holiday spirit that accounted for some of his own happiness.

Another part of his happiness, though, had to do with the fact that the trial was over. There was pure relief attached to the completion of any trial, but expecially this one where his opponent had been someone like Jonah Willow; he had to hand it to the bastard, he certainly knew his stuff. As he walked, Sidney still wondered whether Mrs. Driscoll's testimony had really been a surprise. He couldn't believe it hadn't all been carefully planned beforehand by Willow, but my God, what a chance to take, suppose McIntyre had refused to reopen the case? Well, it was finished now, there was nothing to do now but wait for McIntyre's decision which would be God knew when, especially with Christmas just around the corner, and then New Year's, they'd be lucky if they heard before March. In the meantime, he didn't have to worry about preparations, and he didn't have to worry about catching every word Willow said lest he miss an important point that could later trip him up, he didn't have to worry about anything but one thing, and that wasn't bothering him at all. That, in fact, was what accounted for the major part of his joy on this fine December afternoon.

He had put off calling Chickie because he wanted to give her time enough to make her decision, but he knew now, he sensed intuitively that she would marry him. He could not have said how he knew, just a feeling, just a tiny little something inside that told him nothing could go wrong today, everything was being done for the benefit of Sidney Brackman. The beautiful weather, the music in the streets, the city all dressed up in her holiday clothes, this was all for Sidney Brackman who had handled himself pretty well throughout the course of a grueling trial, even if he had to say so himself, right, Sidney? Right, he thought, and looked at his watch, and smiled.

It was close to five o'clock, which meant Chickie would be leaving the office soon, and which meant he should start uptown. He wanted to catch her shortly after she got home, wanted to ask her for her decision, certain he knew what the decision would be — after all, if a girl
isn't
going to marry you, she doesn't say she'll think it over, does she? She just says No, I'm sorry, go peddle your papers. He would kiss her. Very gently. No sex, just a gentle kiss, and he would say Well, darling, now that it's all settled, put on your coat, sweetheart, and we'll stroll right over to Tiffany's and pick out a diamond for you, I'm sure they're open late every night of this wonderful holiday season. And then he would take her to dinner in one of the best restaurants in New York, he'd pick a real fancy one, something very nice and suitable to the occasion, and they would drink champagne and talk quietly about their future plans.

The lights were on in her apartment when he reached the building. He glanced up, smiled, and then went into the foyer and rang the doorbell. Chickie answered his ring immediately, he
knew
it, nothing could go wrong today, everything was perfect and fine and right. He was beginning to think he might even win his cockamamie case,
despite
Mrs. Driscoll's sob story, McIntyre would certainly see through a bleeding heart gambit like that one. He climbed the stairs rapidly, his step light, feeling very young, feeling the way he had in Boston with Rebecca Strauss, wanting to sing, sliding his hand along the banister, tipping his head jauntily, actually humming a little tune inside his head, if you knew Susie, like I know Susie, oh, oh…

He knocked on her door.

"Ruth?" she said.

"No," he said. He smiled. "It's me. Sidney."

"Oh. Just a minute, Sidney."

She opened the door immediately. She was wearing black slacks and a black sweater. The sleeves of the sweater were pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was pulled to the back of her neck, tied there with a green ribbon. She was wearing no makeup. She looked beautiful, but she did not look as if she had just got home from the office.

"Come in, Sidney," she said.

There was a curious disorder to the apartment, shoe boxes dumped on the living room floor, pieces of tissue paper trailing through the foyer, jackets and dresses draped over chairs and on the sofa, skirts hanging from doorknobs, blouses laid out in rows on table tops, bras and panties piled in stacks everywhere.

"Some mess, huh?" Chickie said, and smiled.

"Yes," Sidney said, amused. "What are you doing, cleaning out your closets?"

Chickie pecked him on the cheek and said, "Would you like a drink, Sidney?"

"All right," he said. "Where does a man sit in all this… this…" He gestured helplessly with his open hands, still amused, and feeling that he looked boyish and cute, putting a slightly exaggerated puzzled look on his face and hoping she would kiss him again.

"What can I get you?" she said. — I'm all out of bourbon, but I've got scotch and rye. Choose your poison."

"Well, you certainly sound cheerful," he said, smiling.

"Oh, I
am
very cheerful," she said.

"In that case, I think I'll have one of each, how's that?" he said.

"All right, Mr. Brackman, one of each it is. You asked for it."

"I asked for it, right," Sidney said, and laughed, and watched her as she walked to the bar. "Well, the trial's over," he said, and impulsively clapped his hands together.

"Did you win?"

"Who knows, who cares?" Sidney said. "It's over, and the hell with it."

"That's a good attitude," Chickie said. She was busy at the bar, her back to him.

"Have you made up your mind yet?" he asked, smiling. He knew for certain that her happiness, her cheerfulness, her busy puttering little female motions at the bar were all due to the fact that she had decided to marry him. So he smiled as he asked his question, asked it a trifle coyly and in the same boyish manner he had used when opening his hands wide at the mess in the room, even though she couldn't see him.

"Made up my mind about what?" Chickie said.

"You know," he said, still coyly, still confidently, feeling more and more confident all the time. He took off his hat and sat down on the arm of the big easy chair, avoiding her stacked underwear spread on the chair's seat, certain that Chickie was playing her usual teasing game with him, the game they always played together, and loving her for it. She turned from the bar, carrying a small tray just below her breasts, smiling as she came across the room to him. She offered the tray. There were two glasses on it.

"Scotch and rye," she said, and smiled, and curtsied.

"Thank you, miss," he said, "I think I'll try the scotch first." He lifted the glass and sniffed it. "Ahhh, excellent," he said, and drank. "And now the rye."

"You're going to get sick, Sidney," she warned.

"No, no, this is nothing for an old sailor, nothing at all." He sniffed at the second glass. "Is this any good?" he asked. "How's your rye, miss?"

"How's
your
eye?" Chickie said, and burst out laughing.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said.

"My eye is fine, thank you. Hey, get your hand off there, you fresh thing."

"Oh, excuse me, m'dear," he said, using a W. C. Fields voice, "excuse me, m'little chickadee, wandering hands, bad failing, here we are, let me taste this fine rye whiskey of yours."

He swallowed the second shot, feeling the whiskey burning all the way down to his stomach. "About my question," he said.

"What question?"

"You know."

"Oh," she said. "Yes."

"And, m'dear?"

"Sidney," she said, "I've decided to take a trip to Europe."

"Oh, really?" he said, smiling. "Well, now
that's
an interesting development, m'little chickadee, that's truly a very interesting…"

"Really, Sidney," she said.

"What?"

"
Really
," she said, and she stressed the word so strongly that he knew all at once she was serious. The smile dropped from his face.

"Wh… what do you mean?" he said.

"I'm going to Europe, Sidney. Ruth and I are going to Europe."

"What did you say?"

"I said we're going to Europe. Ruth and I."

"What?"

"
Yes
, Sidney."

"Europe?"

"
Yes
, Sidney. Italy and Greece. We're leaving for Rome tomorrow morning, the nine forty-five a.m. flight."

"You're… you're joking," he said, knowing she was not, and not at all surprised when she did not answer. "Chickie?"

"Yes?"

"You're joking," he said again.

"No."

"But… I thought…"

"What did you think, Sidney?"

"That… that… I don't know."

"You poor dear man," she said, "I'm going to Europe."

"Ch-Ch-Chickie?"

"I'm going to Europe, Sidney."

"But…"

"I'm going, Sidney. Really."

"You d-d-didn't tell me."

"I wasn't sure. I had to decide. Now I've decided."

"Wh-wh-what about me?" he asked. "What about me?"

"You poor dear man," she said. "Sidney, I must rush you out now, because you see I've got a million things to do before tomorrow morning."

She caught both his hands in her own, and pulled him gently off the arm of the chair.

"Now put on your hat like a dear man," she said, "and let me get all this packing done. I hate to pack. Don't you hate to pack, Sidney?" She had led him to the door, she was reaching for the doorknob, she was twisting the knob, she was opening the door.

"Chickie,
wait
!" he said sharply.

"Yes, Sidney?"

"I have to… Chickie, it's… it's im… p-p-p-portant to me to… Chickie, you've
got
to…"

"Sidney, dear," she said, opening the door wide, "what can I say? It's all arranged. Really, Sidney, I'm terribly sorry, but it's all arranged."

"Chickie, I love you," he said.

"Yes."

"I love you."

"Yes, Sidney." She stood silently just inside the open door. "Goodbye, Sidney," she said, easing him into the hallway.

"Chickie… what about me?" he asked. "What about me?"

"I hope you win your case," she said, and blew a kiss at him.

The door closed. He heard the lock turning, the tumblers falling.

"What about me?" he said again.

Behind the door, he heard her giggle.

It was 6:10 when Jonah got to Pennsylvania Station.

He did not expect the terminal to be so crowded because by all reasonable standards
next
Friday was to be the start of the Christmas weekend. But he had not counted on the scheduling vagaries of colleges and prep schools; the station was thronged with milling students and excited, waiting parents. There seemed to be an overabundance of servicemen as well, sailors carrying sea-bags, soldiers lugging duffles, everyone hurrying and intent, worlds colliding, separating, touching, dispersing, touching again, everyone in frantic, busy motion. He asked the man behind the information counter what track the train from Trenton would be on, and was told the train had been in for fifteen minutes already. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he hurried toward the gate.

She was waiting at the entrance.

She was wearing a plaid skirt and a black ski parka. A kookie leather Ringo hat rested lopsidedly on her dark head. She stood with her legs slightly spread, the Dun-seath posture, but there was a spring-tight tension in her body, and her eyes flashed searchingly at each passing face. A small suitcase rested near her feet. She was wearing black boots her mother had bought for her at Bendel. He walked up to her swiftly, and she turned to him immediately and mouthed the word "Daddy" soundlessly, and threw herself into his arms. He held her close to him, and closed his eyes, and kissed her cheek and said, "Hello, darling," and she said, "Oh, Daddy, how good to see you," and threw her arms around him again, and kissed him again, and hugged him to her and said, "Do you like my hat?"

"It's lovely," he said, "where'd you get it?"

"It's my roommate's, Yolanda's, did I tell you about Yolanda?"

"I think so. Is this all you have?" he asked, picking up her bag.

"I always travel light," she said, and wiggled her eyebrows, and then laughed, her mother's laugh, her grandmother's laugh, head thrown back, blue eyes flashing. He took her hand in his own, and they hurried through the station. He was tremendously proud of her, aware of her trim good looks, pleased when young college boys turned to look at her, their eyes traveling down over her youthful backside and to her legs. She walked with her mother's loping gait, hips thrust forward, wearing her nutty hat with all the authority of a
Vogue
model, talking to him animatedly as they came out onto Eighth Avenue and tried to find a taxi.

"… boy had a guitar, he got on at Philadelphia, and we just sang songs and were drinking…"