Authors: Alice Simpson
“She won the trophy,” he explained to Myra, “and I got a Mustang,
and
my first tuxedo. From Paul Stuart. She made me grow a goddamn mustache. For one night. Of course I shaved it off when we got home.”
“I had no idea you dance, darling.” Myra stood and walked toward the picture window, which overlooked the golf course. “How charming.” Her voice was mocking, with the sharp edge she used when she didn’t like someone. “You live on a golf course. Just think, Gabe, we might have danced at the clubs while we were in Par—”
“I tell you, that was the best night of my life,” Lila interrupted. “No one dances like my son.”
Gabriel was still amused that the worst night of his life was her best.
Myra turned to look at him and rolled her eyes. “Is that right? Well, we’ll have to go dancing sometime. Won’t we?”
“Why, my dear, perhaps we can all go,” Lila said, brightening.
Gabriel and Myra stayed at a nearby hotel. Myra told Gabriel she wasn’t interested in visiting with his mother again, and to send her regrets. She seemed defeated. Several times she mentioned returning to Paris, but Gabriel ignored her.
Myra was anxious about flying. Heavily sedated for the trip home, she insisted on drinking, and he had difficulty waking her when they landed at La Guardia.
W
ithin a month of Hy’s death, Lila had found a dance partner. When Gabriel visited her again, he noticed that she’d had more work done on her face and form.
“He’s a far better dancer than your father ever was,” she said. “Frank is almost as good as you, baby.”
“God, he’s at least twenty years younger than you are, Lila.”
“I like younger men. He reminds me of you.” When she placed her hand on his, he noticed how withered it was, liver spots giving her age away.
“I can’t stand to be in the same room with him. He’s like some sort of lounge lizard.”
“How can you say that, baby? Why, the other night, Adele said that he looks like you.”
A
year later, at one o’clock in the morning, Gabriel and Myra were awakened by a phone call from Frank.
“Gabe?”
No one called him Gabe other than his mother and Myra.
“I don’t know how to tell you this. Your mother passed this evening. It was quite sudden. We were dancing at the Meadows Annual Ballroom Bash. It was her heart. She was such a wonderful woman. Everyone here loved her so much. Especially at the ballroom. We wanted to win the gold in the Peabody. It would have meant so much to her. It was what we’d both been hoping for. God knows we worked hard enough. We were so close. She was such a beautiful person. I loved her. Everyone did.” Frank began to cry.
Gabriel didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t stand all the
we
’s.
He flew to Florida to make the arrangements for her burial. Myra refused to go. Expecting an important shipment of diamonds, he didn’t stay long. He was surprised at how little he felt that he was now an orphan, so to speak . . . but then, he was a wealthy one.
“Everything out of the closets. Empty the drawers,” he ordered Lila’s Cuban housekeeper, Sonia. “Everything goes.”
“Everything is in cleaner’s bags, Mr. Gabriel,” Sonia explained proudly. “Madam wore nothing twice.” She carried on about his mother’s Regency pieces, which she’d spent years waxing and polishing under Lila’s scrutiny. What could he possibly want with six rooms of antique furnishings? Gabriel turned everything of value over to auction. He sold the condo, liquidated Lila’s stocks and bonds, sold her jewelry. Within a year he had a check in his hand for more than $3 million. The only thing he kept was his grandfather’s snake ring.
Myra pleaded with him to buy a loft, claiming that if he did, she could paint again. Instead, he bought a big three-bedroom penthouse condo in Forest Hills. He installed a black marble master bathroom with a Jacuzzi, and of course an enormous cedar dressing room to house his ever-expanding wardrobe. All the apartment’s furnishings were black, leather, granite, or chrome; Corbusier chairs, a matching sofa, and his beloved Eames chair. Myra hated everything. She began threatening to return to Paris, and he began to wish she would. With Lila’s money, he could finally have the apartment, the furnishings—the life of his dreams.
D
arling, I’m going to start painting again,” Myra said when the apartment was finished. “All this renovating and decorating has been very time-consuming, and now that it’s complete, I need to get back to work.”
“Time-consuming?” he snapped. “I did all the work.”
“Yes, but you expected me to go with you. To all the showrooms. To stand around while you made all the decisions and argued with the designers and contractor. Anyway, Bernard and Françoise have offered me a show next year, if I can complete thirty paintings. I can’t believe it’s been three years.” She paused to consider the time that had passed. “I’m certain I can do it. Especially if I have a place to work. They’ve invited me to stay with them for several months, and Françoise has offered to let me use her studio. Now that she’s writing articles and reviews, she rarely paints any more, but I’d rather find my own place.”
“Oh, isn’t that just grand,” Gabriel said sarcastically. “I did all of this for you, and now you are going to leave. For several months? How long, may I ask, is several months?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You didn’t do this for me. You did it for yourself, Gabe. Besides, I miss Paris and my friends. It would be for perhaps six months. You’re so busy. You’ll hardly know I’m gone. You could come for weekends. We could travel a bit.” She embraced him. “We could even go back to Mykonos.”
He had concerns about business. The diamond business was changing. Uprisings in foreign countries were creating problems. The price of diamonds in Antwerp had dropped below De Beers’s price.
“I sold some diamonds to a real estate broker on Sunday night.”
“You must have sold them to a female broker, then. I know where you were Sunday night. You were out dancing again.”
He ignored her accusations. “I took a loss on the sale, but I’ll call the broker tomorrow to start looking for a studio for you in SoHo.”
“SoHo is over,” she said. “No one but tourists. And there’s a Gap on every corner. Chelsea’s the place to find a workspace now. But I need to concentrate on the work, not travel from Forest Hills to Manhattan and back every day. I’ve been thinking that if I could live and work in Paris, I could get a series finished in six months. Fix me a drink. Please, darling?”
Seeing that he was not about to pour her a Scotch, she went to the bar to pour her own.
“You’re not moving to Paris.” He had no interest in hanging about a foreign city with her friends while she painted. “And six months? That would be pricey. Come on, now, Myra, you’ve had enough to drink tonight.” He’d hoped they could get through one night without her drinking. “Why don’t we start looking tomorrow? In Chelsea. I’m not about to leave New York. The business needs me. I want you here.”
Any ardor he had felt for Myra in Mykonos was long gone. He would have gladly paid for a downtown studio if it would get her out of the apartment once in a while. But he didn’t want her going to Paris. She was his wife.
“You want me here, while you’re out dancing? Perhaps you’d be willing to give up something
you
care about,” she said bitterly as she got up and poured a drink at the bar.
The next day, Myra stayed in bed all day.
F
or a while he thought Myra had given up on the idea of Paris, and was adjusting to and accepting life in Forest Hills.
Proud of his new place, he suggested they entertain more. Surprisingly, Myra, seemed to like the idea. She was an animated hostess, gracious and elegant—after she’d had a drink or two. She knew how to make people laugh and enjoy themselves. Before every party he gave her jewelry to wear. She was a mannequin for his diamonds. They hired the best caterers, and there was always plenty of champagne. Myra invited her creative friends when they visited from Paris and Berlin. Gabriel’s people in the diamond business were charmed.
Myra would begin the evening animated about art, music, literature, and her former Parisian life. As the evening progressed and she drank more, though, she began to make snide remarks about him—being his prisoner in Forest Hills; how he was selfishly keeping her from painting. Then she would mention his dancing. He had never had any tolerance for people who drank. A social drinker, he believed a glass of wine with dinner was sufficient. He found heavy drinkers sloppy; they talked too much, seemed out of control. That was when he began ending parties earlier, before she began belittling him, humiliating him in front of his clients.
It slowly became evident that she was not eager to go out. Anywhere. She had no friends. And the Scotch was disappearing. She made excuses for staying at home, turning down social engagements, then daily appointments and household responsibilities that entailed going outside the apartment.
Returning in the evenings from the city, he would find her in her robe, drinking and smoking. Whenever she was near him, he could smell Scotch on her breath. It nauseated him.
L
et’s just relax. Have one drink with me. Come on. Then we’ll go to bed. It’s been a long time,” she purred. He had decided not to cancel their annual holiday party. It had been lively, with the jazz trio he had hired. “We’ll take our time. Make love very, very slowly, and I’ll keep you hard this time.” Her speech was slurred.
She took off her jacket, revealing that she was not wearing anything underneath. Draping her legs over his lap, she began to unbutton his shirt, placing her arms around his neck the way she had in Mykonos. He ran his hands along the sleek silkiness of her legs. Wondered if he could. It had been more than a year since they last had sex. Early in the evening, he had watched Myra from a distance, dazzling his clients with her charm, and sexy in her fuchsia silk suit. The short skirt had brought every eye in the room to her long legs. It had turned him on.
“I’ll be along soon,” he said, removing her legs from his lap. “I want to clean up.”
“What’s to clean up? It’s all clean. Come on, darling. Don’t be such a hard-ass. You’ve become so uptight. You’re no fun anymore.”
“You’ve had too much to drink, Myra. You stink of Scotch.”
She gave him the finger as she got up and left the room, carrying the bottle with her.
H
e remembers that party, in particular that pink suit, because after she went into the bedroom, he stepped out onto the balcony for a breath of air. From there he could see into their bedroom, watch her as she sat on the edge of their bed, dressed only in the skirt, with no idea that she was being observed. She filled her glass and drank it down, relishing it like a lover’s caress. Her mouth was slack. Her eyes were joyless.
By the time he got into bed, she’d passed out. As usual, he turned his back to her, pretending she wasn’t there.
S
he told him that she’d decided the time wasn’t right to look for a studio, that she wanted to wait. While she waited, she continued drinking. It seemed to Gabriel that she was ruining his life.
F
ortunately, his problems at home with Myra are easily forgotten when the door closes behind him. More and more often he finds himself headed for the city to dance. As his mother was, women are eager to dance with him, and he enjoys the attention. It is wonderful getting away from Myra, exhilarating to meet new women. He senses the possibilities, particularly among those that meet his criteria: beautiful, impeccably dressed, and able to follow his lead. He knows where the hot clubs are, and dances several nights a week, at the Copacabana, Latin Quarter, China Kim’s. On Sundays the Ballroom is an excellent hunting ground. The attractive women there yearn for a dance partner; they’ll do anything.
He comes home later and later to avoid Myra, dreads getting into bed beside her. Afraid she will touch him, accidentally move toward him. Her dry skin. The dark raised moles that have begun to appear on her face, neck, and hands. The broken blue-black veins on her puckered thighs, like tributaries of rivers. How could he have ever found her beautiful? It’s been years since he’s wanted to touch her. He hates her aging body.
G
et out of bed, Myra,” Gabriel shouts. “Get dressed, for Christ’s sake. Do something with your life.”
“What?” she asks.
“Get a studio and paint. I thought that was all you ever wanted to do.”
“There’s nothing I want to paint anymore. You’ve seen to that.”
“Then go shopping. Get your nails done.”
“Those things don’t interest me.” Myra gets out of bed, heads into the living room, and pours herself a drink. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“You started drinking at nine this morning.”
“You brought me to this suburban shithole, and I’m just drying up. There’s no inspiration here. If I stay here, I’ll never paint again.” She raises her glass. “It’s Saint Patrick’s Day. I’m forty-four, and I’m going to celebrate!”
“And what’ll you do when you run out of Scotch and cigarettes?”
“I’ll give Laurie a list tomorrow. On Mondays she goes to the market.”
“What the hell is she, your slave? I don’t want her in my apartment.”
“I live here too, don’t forget. I’ll have her over whenever I want.”
“Well, not when I’m around,” he says. “God, she’s ugly.”
“That’s all you care about, looks. Believe me, she doesn’t want to be around you, either.” Myra lights another cigarette.
He waves away her smoke. “You’re home all day. Can’t you at least dust? Cigarette butts and ashes everywhere.”
“I hate this place.” She throws her match toward an ashtray. When she misses, she shrugs. “I hate Forest Hills!”
“I’m sick and tired of your complaints.” He picks up the match off the coffee table. “Get off your ass, open the goddamned door, and go somewhere. Anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re going out that door, if it’s the last thing you do.” Taking hold of her wrists, he picks her up and yanks her toward the door.
“Stop.” She slips out of his grasp, her bathrobe falling off. “I can’t. I can’t go out.”