Hex and the Single Girl (17 page)

Emma said, “Why do I suddenly feel like John the Baptist?”

Victor opened the elevator cage door. He put his hand on Emma’s shoulder. Gently, lovingly, as only a best friend could, he pushed her further back in the box, and stepped in with her. He rammed the gate closed and pushed the down button.

As they descended, awkward with each other for the first time in years, Victor said, “You caught me between the fourth and fifth veil. Another few minutes and this might have been embarrassing.”

“Because it’s nowhere near embarrassing now,” she said.

“Ann was Salome last night,” he said. “We’re taking turns. She’s a better dancer than I am.”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” said Emma.

“We never went to bed,” he said. “I mean, to sleep.”

“You’ll be a wreck all day.”

“I cancelled my appointments,” he said. “Ann’s taking a personal day. We couldn’t stand the idea of being apart.”

“I’m happy for you, Victor.”

He said, “If you hadn’t taken me to Haiku that night, I never would have met Ann.”

They reached the lobby. Emma said, “You should close the inside elevator door when you go back up.”

He nodded and smoothed his veils. “How do I look?” he asked.

“Ridiculous,” said Emma. “But hot.”

“Exactly what I was going for,” he said.

Victor opened the cage for her to go out and then slammed it shut. He pushed the up button. “Did you need me for something?” he asked as it inched upward.

She shook her head. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You’re always in neighborhood.”

“I got a fat check from Daphne. I thought we could celebrate.” Or commiserate. Whichever.

“Great! We definitely will.” he said, stooping to see her as the elevator lifted him back to his girlfriend, back to bliss.

“I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “You and Ann should be alone. I’ll find someone else.”

Once outside, Emma called the Tribeca Grand. The operator connected her to Hoff’s room.

“Hello?” asked Hoff.

“It’s me.”

“Emma!”

“You sound better.”

“I feel like a new man.”

“How many Vicodin have you had today?” asked Emma.

“Just one,” he said. Then he put a hand over the mouthpiece. The voices were muffled, but she heard every word, clear as teardrops. “Should we tell her?” he asked. “Now? Not in person?”

“Tell me what.”

“Susan’s here,” he said.

“She came over first thing?” asked Emma.

“Actually, she never left,” said Hoff. Muffled giggles. Hoff put his hand over the mouthpiece again.

“She must need to leave for work,” said Emma. “Is Armand there yet? Should I come over?”

“I completely forgot about Armand,” said Hoff. “Susan already called in sick. Don’t bother coming over. You should take a day for yourself. Get some alone time,” he said.

That was the last thing she wanted. “If you’re sure,” she said.

Hoff changed the subject. “Susan and I are getting married!”

Emma blurted,
“Married?”

“If she can love me the way I look now, imagine how she’ll feel after I’ve had cosmetic dentistry!”

“She’s got good taste,” said Emma. “I’m thrilled for you both.”

“We had a fantastic time last night. I think I broke another rib. But it was worth it.”

Muffled giggles. Emma said, “Oops, my cell battery’s dying. I’ll check in later.”

“Susan wants to talk,” he said.

“Half a bar! I’m losing you.”

“We want to thank…”

She pushed end.

This had to be an all-time record for Emma. She’d engineered two new couples in a single week. (Three, if she could take credit for Daphne and William.) Her friends’ happiness and joy, though, wasn’t having the usual effect on Emma.

Not that she wished them ill. It was just that she wouldn’t mind a little happiness for herself.

Seeing only one kind of joy on the horizon, Emma walked across the street and into the Citibank on Sixth Avenue.

Mr. Cannery was surprised to see her. “Ms. Hutch. Back so soon?” He wore a red bow tie today. “I’ve got good news for you.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes. According to my screen, November first is on a Sunday. That means you have until Monday, November second to pay the mortgage. You get another day!”

“Don’t need it,” she said. Emma sat down in front of his desk and slid the check across the blotter. The banker picked up the piece of paper and made a yummy sound when he read the amount. He held the check close to his nose, sniffed it, caressed it, folded it, unfolded it. Made love to it.

Emma said, “You should buy the check dinner first.”

He said, “I assume you’d like a deposit slip.”

“And a withdrawal slip, too.”

“I advise you not to make a withdrawal until the check clears.”

“It’s good,” said Emma dismissively. “Make it five hundred in cash. Twenties and fifties.”

Mr. Cannery nearly moaned at the thought of all that green. He consulted his screen, printed out some slips, gave her receipts, and counted out the cash into Emma’s palm with his languid, shaking, lingering fingers.

“Thank you, Mr. Cannery,” said Emma. “And may I congratulate you for choosing exactly the right job for your

passion and skills.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I wish the same for you.”

She exited the bank. He wished the same for her? Emma had always thought she
was
in a job that matched her passion and skills. Her skills, anyway. And her passion? Problem there. If today was any indicator, she’d lost her ability to derive vicarious thrills from other people’s romantic happiness. She felt a sudden gnawing in her stomach.

“Why so glum?” asked someone on the street.

Emma looked up. It was the Jew for Jesus who’d refused to sell her his T-shirt the other day. “I’m not glum,” she said.

“I’m hungry.”

He said, “You look like you need someone to talk to.”

Emma said, “You just want to convert me.”

“That is the mission,” he said. “But I can restrain myself.”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said. “But I’ll just stand here, if that’s okay. And, if you talk, I’d rather hear from your Jewish side.”

“My name is Martin,” he said, offering a hairy-knuckled hand.

“I’m Emma,” she said. “Can I buy a shirt yet?”

“I’m still waiting for the bulk delivery.”

“Give me a stack of those pamphlets,” she said. “I’ll help you disseminate.”

Martin raised his bushy eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“We’ll be The Two Pamphleteers,” she said.

“Don’t be discouraged,” he said, “if most people C&D the brochures. That’s crumple and dump.”

I am those brochures,
thought Emma.

“I have to ask,” she said. “Why?”

“You mean, why turn my back on one religion and embrace another?” he asked. “The 2004 election was a real wake-up call for me. I figured, if you can’t beat them, join them.”

“That’s a bit defeatist,” said Emma.

“We were defeated,” said Martin.

Together, the two pamphleteers stood on the corner of Sixth and Waverly, passing paper. In five minutes, at least a hundred people zipped by. Emma handed out a dozen pamphlets. All of them were C&Ded. She was called “freak show,” “wacko,” “sicko,” and a few other slurs that didn’t end in “o.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Martin prompted. “You obviously have something to get off your chest.”

“I’m not a religious person,” she said. “My parents were atheists. I’ve never walked with Jesus. Never been carried by Jesus. Definitely not at this weight. I’m at the high end of my range. I doubt he could lift me.”

Martin offered a pamphlet to a hurried man in a cashmere overcoat who said, “Go to hell.”

“Have a nice day!” Martin called after him. To Emma. he said, “Hungry, lonely, and pagan is no way to go through life.”

“Pagan?”
She guffawed. “Not sure about that. I am definitely hungry. I might be alone, but I have friends, and I’m good to them. Just last night I set up two friends and now they’re engaged.”

“That’s impressive,” he said. “Matchmaking is your gift?”

“Among others,” she said.

“Having a special gift can take over your life,” said Martin. “That’s pretty standard. From Moses to Jesus to Spider-Man.”

He fanned a few pamphlets at a pack of moms pushing strollers. The kid in the lead stroller said, “You’re fat and hairy.”

Martin beamed and said, “Children are a blessing!”

“How can you stand this?” Emma asked. “These people are so rude. They’re not buying what you’re selling. They think you’re a nutcase who creates litter and hogs the sidewalk.”

Martin agreed completely. “They loathe me. I fill them with contempt. I could stand on this corner for ten years and I won’t convert a single one of them. It’s fruitless.”

“So why bother?” she asked.

“I’m on a quest. And unlike ninety-nine percent of the people who spit at me, throw pamphlets back in my face, kick my shins, disown me, divorce me, keep me from seeing my children, get restraining orders against me—unlike those lost souls,
I have conviction.
”

He waved a brochure at an elderly woman with a plastic shopping bag. She said, “Fuck off, Christ killer.”

“Jesus loves you!” he shouted after her. To Emma, he said, “What about you, Emma? Do you think I’m a raving

lunatic?”

“Not raving,” she said.

He laughed. “You know the second standard catch about having a special gift?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You can never give it to yourself,” he said. “But that shouldn’t deter you on your quest.”

“My quest.”

“We’re all on a quest,” he said. “Whatever yours is, however fruitless it seems, if you’ve got conviction, you’ve got to keep trying. When you stop trying, you might as well be dead.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she said.

“Should all else fail, there’s always God,” said Martin.

A memory rose from the cauldron of Emma’s mind. She was nine or ten, in her room in New Jersey, her black cat Cloudy on her lap. Emma was hypnotized by Cloudy’s twitching whiskers, her lush fur, the round eyes. Emma

believed that, if there was a God and if she looked hard and long enough, she would see Him (or Her) in Cloudy’s golden eyes.

Emma said, “Shake?” She held out her hand to Martin. He shook it, and gave her a little squeeze. The Good Witch sent the image of Cloudy’s feline face into Martin’s consciousness. She held it a few seconds and then dropped his hand.

“I put that picture in your head,” she said. “Don’t ask how. My gift to you.”

“What is it about pagans and cats?” asked Martin.

Chapter 19

E
mma made a quick stop and then headed across the street, back home to her white sanctuary.

A man was loitering outside her building. He was prematurely balding in an expensive suit, around her age, around her height, and had the tiny feet (in loafers) of a ballet dancer.

“Are you Emma Hutch?” he asked. “Otherwise known as ’The Good Witch’? Nice flowers, by the way. Roses are

your favorite?”

“They remind me of someone,” said Emma, shifting the just-bought red dozen from one arm to the next and lifting her key to unlock the front door.

“You are Emma Hutch?”

“The one and lonely,” she said.

“The…I’m sorry, did you mean, ’the one and
only’?
Because you said, ’The one and
lonely.
’”

“I’m a very busy woman,” she said, walking into her lobby.

He followed. “I represent a certain person who has heard about your success in a certain area. This person would like to hire you on a limited yet exclusive basis, for an inflated fee, if you are available immediately.”

Emma walked toward the elevators. She said, “In my limited yet exclusive experience with certain people, fee inflation tends to match ego inflation. Just how much hot air are we talking about?”

The man said, “I speak of the fee, not the ego.”

“Of course.”

“Are you familiar with the Good Year Blimp?”

“That bad?” She jabbed the elevator button. “Tell your certain person I’m not interested.” She wasn’t. With Daphne’s cash, she was okay for a month or two. She decided she was burnt out and needed to take some time off, to get away from women and men and the pursuit of love.

The man wedged himself between Emma and the opening elevator door. He said, “This is an emergency.”

She kicked him in the knee. He went down. Stepping over him and into the elevator, she said, “A matchmaking

emergency. I like that. Dial 911-match.”

The doors began to close. The man blocked them with his arm. Emma kicked at his hand. While fending off blows, he shouted, “Twenty thousand dollars!”

She stopped kicking. Emma stepped over him and back into the lobby.

“Twenty thousand dollars?” Her keenly sensitive hearing had to be mistaken. For that amount, she felt suddenly refreshed and ready to work.

“You stomped my pinkie,” said the short man, standing, rubbing his finger. “And, yes, I said twenty grand.”

“That figure is quite the blimp,” she said. “Who’s the client?”

He stood up, dusted himself off, and said, “I didn’t go to Harvard Law School for this.” He handed her a business card.

She read, “Sherman Hollow, Esq. of Park Avenue.”

“I do entertainment and contract law,” he said. “Currently, I’m acting as personal manager for one of my clients.”

“The client with the matchmaking emergency,” said Emma.

“She’s waiting for you around the corner. In her limo,” he said. “When you speak to her, don’t tell her that I referred to the Good Year blimp in our conversation. In fact, don’t use the word ’blimp’ at all. Or ’inflated.”’

Emma followed Sherman Hollow, Esq. back outside. They walked down Waverly Place and onto Gay Street. A six-

door white limousine with blacked-out windows idled at the curb. As they approached, one of the rear doors opened.

Emma peeked inside.

Marcie Skimmer squealed, “Roses? For
me?
”

The blond bombshell swiped the roses out of Emma’s hand, buried her bobbed nose in the bouquet, inhaled deeply, and then tossed the bunch at Sherman Hollow. He obediently—one could say, slavishly—received them and placed the flowers in the front seat next to the driver. Then he joined the ladies in the back.