Three-Martini Lunch (19 page)

I
held up my end of the bargain: I worked hard. At the office, I typed and filed, took dictation and ran the mimeograph, dispatched correspondence, and made sure Mr. Nelson's office was never lacking coffee—or any other variety of beverage, for that matter. I skipped lunch; I was alert at every moment. In the evenings, I stayed up all night reading manuscripts and scribbling down notes, which I typed up during the early hours of the mornings, before any of the other secretaries had arrived.

Unfortunately, however, my plan backfired, if only for a brief spell. I worked so hard, I wound up running down my immunities and catching a terrible flu. I went into the office one morning in a state of denial, working as best I could for a few hours; but when my temperature spiked and I began seeing spots, I waved the white flag of surrender. I got another girl to cover my desk and poked my head into Mr. Nelson's office to tell him of my illness.

“Flu, Eden? Why, it's summertime. How unusual,” Mr. Nelson said, not looking up from his desk.

“Yes,” I said. “It's certainly unexpected.” Despite having the shivers, I could feel the heat of the fever rushing to my cheeks and forehead. My perception of things began to blur. I was dizzy and wobbled a bit in my heels. I knew I couldn't stay standing up for very much longer. Mr. Nelson glanced up and sighed.

“Well, then, Eden, I suppose you may as well go home early today and rest up over the weekend. We've a lot to do next week.”

“Thank you, sir,” I managed to say. I staggered out of the office and back to my desk to gather up my things, everything around me appearing like a bizarre, faraway dream.

I'd made it all the way to the elevators when suddenly my constitution failed me. I realized I was going to faint. The elevator doors opened just in time to reveal a familiar-looking young man with sandy hair. As I lurched forward, he automatically moved to catch me and I fell into his arms.

“Cliff?” I murmured, confused. Perhaps I was hallucinating. I struggled to get my feet back under me. But it was no good; I had lost all my strength. He looked down at me, equally confused, still holding me in his arms.

“I thought this sort of business only happened in the movies,” he said, smiling, his blue eyes twinkling. I tried to laugh off my embarrassment but wound up coughing instead. The dizziness intensified as the effort of coughing overwhelmed me, and I began to see black spots. My eyelids fluttered as I fought the urge to let my eyeballs roll back in my head.

“Oh boy,” he said. “You're not foolin'. We'd better get you to a doctor.” He bent over and I felt him slip an arm under my knees as he lifted me more fully off the ground.

“No doctor,” I murmured, dimly fearful of the extra expense. “Home, please. Just put me in a taxi. I'll be fine.”

“Where's home?”

“The Bar . . . bi . . . zon,” I said. Then I gave up and let the darkness
close in around me. I heard the bright ding of the elevator. The last thing I remember thinking was that it sounded so very far away, as though it were at the end of a long tunnel.

•   •   •

W
hen I came to, I was in a strange room. I blinked and took in my surroundings, trying to remember what had happened. I was in what appeared to be a small studio apartment. There was a kitchenette at the far corner, and it was hot and sunny in the room. Curiously, the whole place carried a distinctive scent that reminded me of a theater playhouse, like a combination of fresh paint and ancient dust and mildewed costumes. There was visible evidence of the paint smell, as the entire room—even the wooden floors—had been painted entirely black. The furnishings were both Spartan and chaotic: a mattress lying in the center of the room, a couple of mismatched bookcases and bureaus, and finally a pair of folding chairs and a card table upon which sat an old-model Smith Corona typewriter. A heap of books lay on the floor near the window, piled in such a careless, haphazard way as though to suggest their owner was less interested in reading them and more interested in starting a small bonfire.

For a fleeting moment I believed it was a weekday, and felt my body jolt more awake with cold panic. The sun was streaming in the windows; I would be late for work! But then it dawned on me that it was Saturday, and I relaxed. I sighed and lay there, gathering my thoughts and trying to recall the blurry events of the day before.

“Say—you're awake,” a voice called from across the room as the front door opened. “That's swell. I was just beginning to worry you'd gone comatose on me, and it would've been a real drag to figure out what to do with you then.”

The door closed and I found myself looking at the familiar sandy-haired, blue-eyed young man.

“Oh, it
was
you!” I said. “I thought I'd hallucinated that part.”

“I didn't take you to the Barbizon after all,” Cliff said, stating the obvious and looking sheepish. “You kept mumbling, ‘No doctor,' but I was pretty sure you were going to pass out cold and I thought I'd better keep an eye on you. Gentlemen aren't allowed upstairs in the Barbizon, you know. So I took you here.”

“Oh!” I said, seized by a fresh rush of embarrassment. “I fainted on you!” He chuckled and puffed up a bit at this.

“Good to see you again,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Fainting aside.”

“Yes,” I replied, shaking his hand with a rather feeble grip. By then the fever had gone but I was still feeling very weak. Every muscle in my body quivered with that queer feeling you get after having a fever, as though they had all completely atrophied during the last twenty-four hours. “I'll admit, I'm a bit mortified,” I said. “I hope I didn't cause a scene.”

“Well, I got some funny looks carrying you down the elevator and through the lobby, but I wouldn't worry too much about it,” Cliff said. “Fainting's nothing to be embarrassed about, especially for a woman.”

I nodded and began to sit up. I blushed again to realize I was wearing only a slip. I glanced around the room for my clothes and spotted them on the floor near the foot of the mattress, neatly folded, with my shoes lined up next to them. I swiveled in the bed to put my feet on the floor, but as I did, I bumped into something heavy and metal.

I looked down to see a row of canned goods stacked near the head of the mattress. “Oops. Beg your pardon. What are
those
?”

“‘What are
those
?'” Cliff snorted, his eyes wide with belief. “Are you pulling my leg? You were asking for those all night. I had to go to three different grocers to find some.”

Utterly baffled, I squinted to get a closer look. “Oh!” I exclaimed once I'd riddled out the labels. Stacked in front of me were several cans of Del Monte brand peaches and pears. “
I
asked for these?”

“Over and over,” Cliff said. “You kept mumbling, ‘I need canned peaches and pears. Where are my canned peaches and pears?' So finally I
went out and got some.” I chuckled. He peered at me. “What's so funny?” he asked.

“I guess I was hallucinating after all. This is what my grandmother used to feed me when I was sick,” I said, picking up a can and smiling at the familiar logo. “When I was a little girl. I guess she figured they were soft and mushy—easy to eat when you're sick—and I'm sure I liked the sweetness of the syrup. But, honestly, I don't remember asking for them last night. I'm so sorry; I must've been really quite ill.”

“Well, anyway,” Cliff said, shrugging, “you asked for 'em, and here they are. How's about I fix you some now?” He lifted a can from the floor and moved to the kitchenette. “You
were
pretty sick, and you haven't eaten anything in a while.”

I suddenly felt shy. “Well, all right.” I watched as he cleaned out a bowl and opened the can and poured the contents in. He came over to the mattress and perched on the edge beside me, then handed me the bowl and a spoon. I thanked him, accepted the bowl, and took a nervous bite. He'd picked one of the cans containing pears, and the soft, grainy texture filled my mouth and slowly dissolved like sugary sand. A bit of juice dribbled down my chin and I quickly moved to wipe it away.

“Here,” he said, reaching for a shirt—one of his—and dabbing my chin as though the shirt were a napkin. I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks. “Say, it looks like you're getting some of your color back,” he commented.

“Yes. I'm feeling a little better,” I said, embarrassed.

“Your hair's awfully different these days.”

I put a self-conscious hand to my short hair. “I cut it.”

“It suits you.”

“Thanks.

“So,” Cliff said, “what were you doing at old Bonwright, anyhow?”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly realizing. “I guess I'd better explain about that.”

29

W
hen Eden told me she'd been working for My Old Man, it kind of blew me over sideways. It wasn't that it didn't make sense because when you thought about it, she worked in publishing and so did he, and the publishing world is a small place after all, so it shouldn't have come as such a surprise. The truth of it was I had put Eden in one part of my mind and My Old Man in the other and when they came together in my head it was all very disorienting.

“In a way, I have you to thank,” Eden said, sitting there in her slip on my mattress. This statement surprised me some more, because I couldn't think of why or how I'd played any part in My Old Man hiring her. As far as I knew I'd never had any influence on the stubborn bastard.

“That day at the Minetta Tavern,” she explained, “you told me not to give up on finding another job, and you mentioned his secretary had quit.”

“Hmm, so I did,” I said, remembering.

“I didn't plan for it to work out this way, but I'm awful glad it has,” she said. I tried to figure out if I was glad, too. Eden working for my father . . .
There were reasons to feel jealous, maybe, but it was hard to determine which way around the jealousy went. Anyway, I knew I ought to be happy for Eden, because she was a smart girl and deserved to have the job she wanted. I told her she was welcome, and as I said it I decided it was true and a self-contented feeling came over me, having done something nice for someone else.

“There's another thing I ought to tell you . . . something I rather hope we can keep between us,” Eden said. I didn't have a clue in hell what she was talking about but it sounded like she was about to confide in me and I was intrigued. She went on and told me there'd been a woman at Torchon & Lyle who'd had it out for her—I remembered some of this from the day at the Minetta when she told me about her firing—and her confession now was that she'd wound up getting hired at Bonwright under a different last name. “I hope you don't think awful things of me,” she said. “At Bonwright . . . I'm ‘Eden Collins.'”

“I don't think that's anything so terrible,” I reassured her. “You got a bum rap with that Miss Everett, and you were clever enough to do something about it. The world doesn't cater to wallflowers or patsies.”

She smiled at me and I could see she was tremendously relieved.

•   •   •

S
he had been awful sick but now she was feeling better. After she got dressed and fixed herself up, I helped her get back to the Barbizon, and as we said good-bye in the lobby an old prude painted up with enough make-up to give Carmen Miranda a run for her money glared at me and reminded Eden that male visitors were not allowed upstairs. They'd done away with the curfews at the Barbizon but to see this woman you wouldn't think so. It was plain she was keeping track and had noticed Eden hadn't come home the night before and she was mad as hell that she wasn't allowed to give Eden a lecture or fine her or throw her out or whatever it was the Barbizon used to do to women of wanton ways. Not that Eden
was a woman of wanton ways, but it was clear this hypocritical hawk of an old lady thought so. When I said good-bye to Eden I kissed her hand like a gentleman and threw in an exaggerated old-timey bow just to thumb my nose at the lady at the front desk.

“See you in the Village later this week?” I asked. “How 'bout we bump into each other again on purpose, say at the White Horse on Friday?”

“Oh,” she said, biting her lip. “I'm supposed to meet a girlfriend of mine. Is it all right if I bring her along?”

“Of course.”

“I'll be there.” She blushed again and I knew I had her on the hook.

•   •   •

L
ater, I wondered if she didn't have me on the hook, too, because I thought about her an awful lot all the rest of that week. I recalled the picture of her sitting there in her slip, perched on the edge of my mattress. On Friday I was intent on the White Horse and not even Bobby with his plans to round up a couple of gals for us dissuaded me. He knew right away something was fishy when I turned him down, because no one ever turned Bobby down when he invited a guy to go catting with him.

“Pal could use a girl,” I pointed out.

“Sure. Problem is Pal never knows what to do once he gets one,” Bobby said. “I've done everything but gift wrap 'em for him.”

It took some convincing to get Bobby to give up on me but when I finally got him to leave my pad, I put on a clean shirt and combed my hair and went solo over to the White Horse. It was funny to feel so nervous over a girl. I left my tenement on the east side of the Village and hurried westward towards Hudson Street. It was a warm night and groups of fellas were milling about out in front of the bar with beers in their hands, their faces looking ghoulish whenever someone struck a match to light a
cigarette. Sometimes the White Horse could be a rowdy place. It was always full to the brim with hipsters hopped up on bennies and beer.

“Cliff!” I heard a voice shout as soon as I walked in the door. I looked to my left and sitting in a booth in the next room was Swish. I hadn't expected to bump into him although I don't know why I hadn't thought of this, because Swish frequently went to the White Horse and he always sat in the booth where it was rumored Dylan Thomas had drunk his final drink. Now there was nothing to do but make my way across the creaky wooden floor and join him.

Swish and I made small talk as I glanced periodically back into the main bar, checking for Eden.

“So, it looks like old Eisenhower is on board with the bill to sign Alaska into statehood,” Swish was saying. He had developed a recent fascination with Alaska after reading somewhere that there was a place in Alaska where you could stand and look out across the Bering Strait and see the USSR in the distance on the other side. Neither of us knew if there was any truth to this, but Swish insisted we ought to take a road-trip as soon as possible to see for ourselves. “As soon as you finish that novel of yours,” he was saying now. “We'll go up there, Cliff old boy, and it'll be grand because you'll have a pile of money from publishing your genius book and we'll learn to hunt and live like kings and take a couple of Eskimo wives to cook up all the game we'll catch.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, looking again towards the bar's entrance. Swish was always coming up with epic adventures, but so far we had yet to go on any of them.

“Say, who do you keep looking for, anyway?”

As if on cue, in walked Eden. The sweater sets she'd worn the first time we'd met were long gone—or at least she knew enough not to wear them down to the Village and instead she looked like a real bohemian chick now with her short, slick haircut and Capri pants. With her was that gal,
Judy-something-or-other. I recognized her from the night we'd all gone to hear Bobby do a cold reading of his buddy's play. Eden glanced around the room with that intelligent, curious way she had and spotted me and Swish sitting in the next room.

“Hullo, hullo,” Swish said, waving them over. He was energized and happy to see Eden. But after we'd all said our hellos and settled back into the booth, Swish looked at me and cocked his head as a new thought occurred to him. His eyes slid from me over to Eden and back again and I believe in that second he'd caught the truth of it.

“How're you feeling?” I asked Eden. “Have you made a full recovery?”

“Good as new.” She smiled. She and Judy exchanged knowing glances and it was plain that Eden had told Judy the story prior to their arrival. I hoped this meant Eden had put in a good word about how I'd been so thoughtful, taking care of her and bringing her those goddamned canned fruits. The way Eden blushed whenever she looked at me and chattered away nervously with her hands made me think she probably
had
talked me up, just as I'd hoped.

But either way, it didn't matter much to Judy, who was in an ornery mood that evening. She had on a little silver bracelet of a watch and she kept touching it and looking at it and twice she even showed it to Eden while wearing a little grimace on her face and it didn't take a genius to figure out that Judy had set a time limit on how long she wanted to spend with us bohemians down at the ol' White Horse. She thought the lot of us were beatniks and up to no good and Judy was the kind of girl who was out to snare a husband—or, at the very least, some martinis at a nice restaurant and plenty of change for the powder room.

The last straw came when Bobby turned up. At first, Judy perked right up at the sight of Bobby. I thought we were in luck, because it looked like Bobby hadn't successfully picked up any girls yet that evening. He came barreling into the White Horse with another fella who looked a little like Marlon Brando and the pair of them together made for a sight
that was rather easy on the eyes, and between the two of them I thought they ought to keep Judy occupied. They sat down to join us and for a short time Judy stopped looking at her watch. But then . . . it was clear Bobby and Brando were more interested in talking to each other than anyone else. Judy looked both disgusted and a little let down as the comprehension set in and even I sighed and felt bad for her.

Meanwhile, I was having a grand time talking to Eden. She'd matriculated from a small private women's college out in good old Indiana and even though I'd never heard of her alma mater, Eden had read a lot of good books and knew an awful lot about politics and current events, so I guess it must've been a pretty okay school in the end. But even with the mutual enthusiasm of our book banter I could sense I was running into a sort of wall. The wall was Judy and it was becoming evident that in order to get to Eden I needed to earn the approval of her friend. Now Judy was gathering up her pocketbook and getting ready to go, and if she did, she would likely bring Eden away with her. I had to think of something fast.

“Say,” I said, “I wonder if you gals would help me out with something.”

“What's that?” Eden asked. Judy just looked at me dryly.

“Well, it's for my mother, really. She's throwing a charity luncheon tomorrow afternoon at the Cedarbrook Club and some people have dropped out at the last minute. She needs to fill up tables. If you two are free, you'd be doing me a real favor if you'd come occupy a table with me.”

“The Cedarbrook Club?
”
Judy's eyes went wide, as I knew they would. “Isn't that the famous country club out in Connecticut?”

“Lunch would be on me, of course,” I said. This was only partly true, because strictly speaking lunch would be on my mother—or at least on her membership—but I figured the less I said about that, the better. “All you'd have to do is show up and eat a crab Louie salad and say hello to some people.”

“But would that mean saying hello to your mother?” Eden asked.

“Sure.”

“Won't she think it's funny? After all, I work for your father.”

“Nah, c'mon . . . she's pretty oblivious to all that. She won't know if we don't tell her. She'll probably just think I finally found myself a nice date I can bring around. She'll be friendly, I promise.”

I could tell this flattered Eden. She bit her lip and exchanged a look with Judy, politely checking with her friend for permission.

“Well, yes,” Judy said finally. “I suppose we could go. I've never been to the Cedarbrook, but I've heard plenty about it.”

“Swell,” I said. “I'll borrow a car, and pick you gals up at the Barbizon at noon.”

Judy was still all packed up and ready to split, but at least now I had an assurance I would see Eden the next day. They asked me a few questions about whether it was formal and what to wear, which is natural, I guess, because girls are always worrying about things like that. I answered their questions but the truth is I didn't know for sure. My mother
had
invited me but I hadn't been planning on going and now I would have to telephone her first thing tomorrow morning and tell her I'd changed my mind.