Missing Reels (12 page)

“The last time I was there he was singing in German. Does he even speak German?”

“No, he speaks Marlene.”

“
That’s what I mean
. He was singing in German—”

“Come on. Like he’s the only gay man on earth obsessed with Dietrich.”

“—and he was straightening the furniture. All of it. Twice.”

“Saves me and Jim the trouble.”

“Then he sat on the cushions and did that thing with his fingers …”

“Manual dexterity. They’re exercises. Ask him to teach you, you could use it.” His eyebrows rose and she added quickly, “All those equations you’re always writing out.”

“Believe I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you. And then he ate an entire container of ice cream and while he was doing it, he kept sucking in his cheeks.”

“That’s for his skin tone. He says if he does it enough, it makes his cheekbones pop.”

“I don’t dislike him, you understand. At all. It’s just that you and Jim …” She waited. “I’m not sure what made the two of you want to live with him.”

She thought about it. “He’s loyal.”

It was a bright, clear night, and when they walked out she could see a few stars. It was chilly, but not too bad, though there was a strong breeze blowing trash along the gutters.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s walk down to the Trade Center.”

“I’ve been to the top already.”

“Not that. This is really cool.”

“The only cool part is that there are two of them.”

“That’s what you think,” she told him.

The wind got stronger the further downtown they went, until she started ducking behind him to avoid the gusts and he told her buck up, this was her idea. When they arrived, she pulled on his arm to stop him and turned slowly, her eyes searching the whole vast expanse of the plaza between the buildings. It was nearly empty, just a handful of people probably working far too late.

“What are you looking for?”

“Cops,” she said. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward one of the big stone benches.

“Sounds promising. What do you have in mind?”

“Here. Lie down.” She’d found the perfect spot, near the sphere. The fountain was off.

“On second thought, I’d rather not get arrested, if you don’t mind. Looks bad to the students.”

“We’re lying down, that’s it. On our backs. Come on.” She stretched out and patted the space next to her.

He didn’t move. “Is that clean?”

“Will you stop worrying and lie down?”

“That line never worked for me,” he said, but he settled next to her. “Now what?”

“Now we look up.” She pointed to the buildings hulking over them.

“What am I looking for, King Kong?”

“Just
look
.”

The wind made whistles and gasps around the bench while she waited for him to notice. With one visible star as a marker, she watched as both towers slowly, perceptibly, moved back and forth.

“Do you see?”

“Passive viscoelastic dampers.”

Lately all he ever thought about was work. “Are you looking at the buildings?”

“Straight at them. Passive viscoelastic dampers. It’s what’s in skyscrapers, to keep them from swaying too much in the wind.”

Jim had told her about doing this on a date, and she’d hoped for a more poetic response. “And it’s cool, right?”

“Very.” He pulled her close. “Except I’m freezing.”

They lay there until the cold of the bench reached through to chill her skin. He said, “Your Thanksgiving is coming up.”

“Yes indeedy. The great American holiday.” She didn’t want to think about it.

“Are you planning anything?”

She rested her chin on his chest. “Sort of. Talmadge and Jim are going out to Long Island, this guy they know is having a dinner. I’m invited too.”

He picked his head up slightly to look at her. “Do you not want to go?”

“Not sure.” Last year she hadn’t felt like she fit in, and she’d spilled the host’s green-bean casserole. Matthew dropped his head and looked back at the towers.

“Well. There’s a probabilist at Columbia, friend of Harry’s. Every year he gives a dinner, for the foreigners and anyone else who doesn’t want to cook. Harry and Donna are going. Thought I’d see if you were free.”

A big dinner, full of colleagues. She wondered if the force of her heartbeat could be felt all the way through her coat. “That sounds great. As long as—” She stopped just in time.

“As long as what?” Give me a second, I need to change my what. “What?”

“Nobody’s going to think it’s odd, me being there with you?” She hated herself.

His arm loosened and his voice tightened. “Paru told me to bring a friend if I liked. I don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”

She rolled on her back again to see the towers. “Okay. It’s a date.”

About a month earlier, while he was in the shower, she’d spotted a small stack of air-mail envelopes under a book on his desk. She’d flipped them over to see the return address on the back. Italy. She had stared at them a long while, but when she finally decided to have a peek, she heard the bathroom door open. The next night the envelopes were gone. “You can’t hesitate when you get a chance like that,” Talmadge told her.

Last night she’d noticed a postcard on top of a stack of papers to be graded. The Colosseum. A boring photo, she thought. Looked like a lot more fun in
Nights of Cabiria
. This time she’d been able to read while he made dinner, but it was in Italian. Nothing she could make out, except the close.
Ti amo
. What Ingrid Bergman wrote to Roberto Rossellini, because it was the only Italian she knew.

When they got back to his apartment, she checked the desk as soon as she walked into the bedroom.

No postcard. She decided that was a good omen, too.

T
ALMADGE FLUNG BOTH HANDS IN THE AIR WHEN SHE TOLD HIM
about Thanksgiving. “Yes! The economist is history!”

“This does sound good, at that,” said Jim.

“It’s fabulous, that’s what it is. Up to Columbia. To meet and greet all the math elite.”

“A magic evening’s in store,” said Jim.

“With any luck, no one will be talking math,” said Ceinwen.

“We’ll have to make sure of that.” Talmadge folded his arms. “Dress code. Do we know what it is?”

“Matthew said it isn’t formal or anything, but it’s okay if I want to get dressed up.”

“Better and better.” Talmadge posed, one finger pointing at her door. “To the rack!” Jim fell in behind, and they crowded into her room. Talmadge put up both hands as though casting a spell: “What kind of a reaction are we looking for here?”

“Ideally, we’re looking to have his eyeballs fall out and roll around on the floor.”

“He’s English. Let’s not ask for miracles,” said Jim. “Let’s settle for making him loosen his collar.”

Talmadge pushed hangers one by one along the rack until he stopped on a dress. “Strapless?”

“Kind of stiff, what with all the bones. I turn, it doesn’t.”

“That’s how they made ’em in the fifties, honey,” said Jim. “Shove the good bits in a cage.” He pulled on a dress. “Halter?”

“Maybe I don’t want to go
that
sexy. The mathematicians might think I was, you know …”

“A rental,” finished Talmadge. He reached the end of the rack. “We have some possibilities. But we might need something fresh.”

She had decided on the halter; it was from the early fifties, and Jim said it wasn’t as blatant as all that, as long as she wore a strapless bra, although the white wasn’t strictly seasonal and it kind of washed her out. But when she came home the night before Thanksgiving, Talmadge jumped up from the couch and said, “Wait right there!” Ceinwen waited and Jim lit a cigarette while Talmadge rummaged behind his screens. He emerged holding something behind his back, posed for a second, then whipped it around and held it up to his shoulders. Jim whistled.

“Talmadge,” gasped Ceinwen, “that can’t be for me.”

Sleeveless, dropped waist, obviously from the 1920s. The fabric was silk velvet, a greenish bronze that shimmered even under their dim lights. The neckline was deep and the skirt was gathered a bit in front, the hem cascading down to about mid-calf. No lace, no trimming, just the gleam of the fabric. Ceinwen reached to feel the edge of the armhole.

“This didn’t come from the store,” she said. “This I would have noticed.”

“Where did it come from?” asked Jim.

“Bargain Bernie’s,” said Talmadge. Lily’s cross-Village vintage rival. “Try it on, try it on!”

Talmadge was giving her a present, so she changed in her bedroom to make him happy. The shoulders were a little too big and might slip, but otherwise it fit. She put on her highest heels and walked out.

“Wow,” said Jim.

“God I’m good,” said Talmadge. “Everyone should have me shop for them.”

“Speaking of shopping,” said Jim, leaning back and blowing a steam-whistle of smoke toward the arch of the living room entrance. “How much was this? Because as we all know, Bargain Bernie’s is no bargain.”

The price tag was still attached. She flipped it over. “Talmadge! $200! Have you gone crazy?”

“No, sweetie. I got a discount.”

During the ensuing silence, Talmadge walked over and began to adjust her shoulder seams.

“So,” said Jim. “Should Ceinwen wear this to Bargain Bernie’s, to show everybody how it looks on a pretty girl?”

Talmadge stood back to check his work. “Why bother? Such an ugly, crowded store. That’s why I go there, so poor Ceinwen doesn’t have to. You have to know exactly what you’re looking for or you never find anything.”

“Mm-hm,” said Jim, examining the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Wonder if they’re looking for this dress right now.”

“They didn’t understand this one,” said Talmadge. He squatted to check the line of the hem. “They had it crammed on a rack with a bunch of boring old sheaths from the sixties. It was going to get torn and dirty. I
rescued
this dress.”

“Talmadge, I love you so much,” said Ceinwen. “Thank you. I don’t care if the dress is …” She tried to think of a diplomatic phrase.

“Scalding hot?” suggested Jim. Talmadge continued to run his hands around the hem. She didn’t see a hole from the security tag; he’d probably lifted a tag-remover from Vintage Visions ages ago.

“Jim,” she said, ready to beg.

“I’m teasing, don’t worry about it. Bernie’s the biggest prick in the business. He makes Lily look like Santa Claus. I got a couple of things from there myself.”

“Ooh, what?”

“Not telling.” He stubbed out his cigarette with elaborate care. “Like the man said, don’t wear it to Bargain Bernie’s. They won’t appreciate it.”

“Promise. Won’t even walk down Bleecker.”

“I personally think it’s way too good for a bunch of math professors, too,” said Jim, “but what the hell. Give the nerds a thrill.”

The next day she went for the complete effect, putting her hair up in back so that the front looked almost like a bob, adding some finger waves. She met Matthew at the Christopher Street station and they took the subway together. She hadn’t been this far uptown since the guitar player; Paru’s apartment was even past the Thalia. And it was huge, a big hallway running past what looked like vast bedrooms, plaster molding she wished Jim could see, a double living room divided by arches, a dining room separated by those doors that slid into the walls, and windows that ran the whole length of one wall, overlooking the Hudson River. No wonder Matthew wanted tenure—it was worth all the late nights if you could live like this.

Paru turned out to be approximately nine feet tall, and Ceinwen had to keep even more than her usual distance in order to avoid talking to his shirt button. He offered to take their coats and she handed hers over. Matthew turned to say something and paused, his mouth still open.

“Do you like it?” she prompted eagerly. He’d shut his mouth but otherwise wasn’t moving. “Is something wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all,” he said, finally. “What, no tiara?”

She didn’t care that he was teasing, his expression was more than enough. “You did say I could dress up.”

“I did. And if someone wants to give you an Oscar while we’re here, you won’t even have to change. Listen, I’d like a word with Paru. Do you mind if I leave you a minute?”

She knew he was trying to get some paper going, so she said fine. She scanned the room for Harry. Nope, not in this room, anyway. Something was off, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. She spotted a table with hors d’oeuvres and decided to get something to eat before she started introducing herself around. As she piled shrimp on a plate she kept checking out the crowd, until she realized what she was missing.

Women. There must have been more than twenty people there, but she saw only two women, both a fair bit older than she was, with that ineffable wife vibe about them, standing close to a man and trying to look like they were part of his conversation. Where were they keeping the women? This was kind of creepy, like the men’s club in
The Stepford Wives
.

She’d never thought of herself as shy, but parties were a bit overwhelming. Back in Yazoo City she’d gotten into the habit of finding someone else who wasn’t mingling well and trying to draw the person out. She had a good prospect right here by the table, and he was eating shrimp, too. He looked wary when she introduced herself, but gave his name as Yoshi. He turned out to be from Kyoto. She knew better than to ask about his math specialty, so she contented herself with bringing up Japanese movies, which she actually wasn’t that familiar with, and neither was he. Still, she was learning how to pronounce some names from books, at least. He had a way of staring past her at something in the room, and she turned at one point to see what it was, except all she saw was the fireplace mantel. She’d gotten Akira Kurosawa and Sessue Hayakawa down pat, or so she thought, when she decided to get something to drink. She set down her plate, poured herself some seltzer, and turned back to discover he was gone.

Was I that boring? she wondered, feeling hurt. She picked up a piece of bread and wondered if she could smoke. Matthew was nowhere to be seen, but here was Donna, approaching for a cheek-kiss.