Missing Reels (23 page)

“Never,” she protested.

Whump. “Could happen. All he has to do”—whump—“is miss the wall one night and connect with her face.” He pulled the steak off the cutting board, laid it in a baking dish and grabbed another. “She goes to France with him.” Whump. “He drinks.” Whump. “She does who knows what to support them”—whump—“sewing, maybe, or laundry”—whump—“and this goes on for ten years”—whump—“until the day his countrymen”—whump—“show up in tanks.” Whump. He peeled off the wax paper and stuck the mallet in the sink. “You say that’s grand thwarted passion. I say she was well out of it.” He laid the second steak in the baking dish. “Quit glaring at me. You’ve plenty enough sense to know I’m right.”

“I thought I didn’t have any common sense.”

“I didn’t say you had none. I said you didn’t use it.” He picked up the bowl and poured the marinade over the steaks.

“Maybe you have no sense of romance.” He stopped, the bowl poised over the sink. Then he lowered it in.

“Haven’t seen enough old movies, I suppose.”

“Well then, are you going to help me see what’s left of this one?”

“I don’t see how I can get out of it.” He shoved the dish with the steaks to one side of the counter.

“Aren’t you going to put that in the fridge?”

“Tastes better if you leave it out.” Matthew and Jim were the only men she’d ever seen who washed their hands with the dish soap.

“How long?”

“Couple of hours or so.”

“What? It could go bad or something.”

“Christ. Americans and their germ phobias.” He shut off the tap and shook the water off his hands.

She leaned over to have a look. “I don’t even know what you have in there. It could kill us both.”

“Wouldn’t that be just like a movie?”

“I don’t know any movies with a big food poisoning angle. It isn’t very cinematic.” She slid off the barstool and headed for the couch.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He followed her.

She grabbed the book and curled her legs up on the couch. “I have to read this. I only have until Friday. Unless …”

“Unless what? Unless I have a better idea? I have
much
better ideas.” He was standing over her.

“There’s a lot of Xerox machines at Courant,” she reminded him. He covered his face with his hands. “What?”

“Yes, there are copy machines,” he said from under his hands, “and they’re all guarded by harpies.”

“Go to Harry’s secretary and use your charm,” she suggested.

He lowered his hands. “Angie can’t stand the sight of me. And I haven’t any charm, I’m a mathematician.
And
I’m a priss.”

That meant he wanted her to take it back. But if he was going to insult her common sense, as far as she was concerned, he was still a priss. “Sneak into the office when she isn’t there, then. Or tell her it’s for a big secret conference. Come on. Improvise. Live a little.”

This was ridiculous. Every time she picked up the book, Matthew was pulling it out of her hands. Wasn’t she ever going to get some time alone with it? “Fine, Miss Reilly. I’ll just spend the next couple of weeks perjuring myself for you. No worries. But you have to put this sodding book down
now
.” He closed the book and tossed it on the coffee table. Great, he’d lost her place. “And I’ll take it as a personal favor if you don’t sit there giving it long, yearning looks.” He put his hands on the couch on either side of her, still standing.

“I’ll need two copies,” she told him.

T
HEY GOT COFFEE AT A DELI AND DRANK IT AS
M
ATTHEW WALKED HER
to work. She had on yesterday’s outfit, but it wasn’t the first time that had happened. And anyway, nobody at the store had seen yesterday’s outfit yesterday.

Once she found out when Miriam could come uptown with them, he was going to call the Brody. Her anxieties about how he was going to get them in were dismissed out of hand: “If I can’t come up with a good reason why a mathematician would want to see a movie clip, they should send me back to Cambridge.”

She figured they would have to be honest about who Miriam was. If Matthew tried to claim she was his grandmother or a professor emeritus, his two half-serious suggestions, even now Miriam’s face was so clearly the one in the movie that the Brody people might figure it out. But explaining Ceinwen herself would be a snap, said Matthew; “you’re my research assistant.”

“Doesn’t assistant sound kind of suspicious?” she asked.

“Suspicious how?”

“I don’t know,” she said, unwilling to admit that she thought it sounded like a stripper he’d stashed in an apartment on 42nd Street. “I think secretary sounds more respectable.”

“Secretary sounds worse.”

“There’s nothing dodgy about being a secretary,” she said, showing off a word she’d picked up from him. “My mother was a secretary.”

“That so. Where?”

“Cotton broker.”

“A cotton broker having a secretary is perfectly logical. A postdoc showing up with his own secretary, that sounds dodgy.”

He peeled off one door down from Vintage Visions, still refusing to have anything to do with Lily. He had kept the monograph and promised her about five different times that yes, he’d find a way to finagle two copies. She watched his back for a moment, then checked her watch. Five minutes early. Take that, Lily. This year was finally turning around.

She clocked in and breezed over to the counter. Talmadge was on the men’s side showing leather jackets to a man she thought was kind of handsome, but since he was a blond she knew Talmadge wasn’t going to linger and try to flirt. And she also knew Talmadge would have something to say to her today. She had called the apartment last night and left a brief message on the machine to say she wasn’t coming home, she was spending the night with Matthew. Sure enough, when Lily disappeared outside for her cigarette, Talmadge sidled over to the counter.

“And how are we this fine afternoon?” he asked.

“We’re swell,” she said, and took out the Windex so she could clean the counter mirror. “At least, I’m swell. Do you have something you want to tell me?”

“No, gracious no. I have no problem here. Nooo problem at allll.” He reached in his pocket and put on his glasses, black-rimmed sixties-style things he wore only when he wanted to emphasize his seriousness, since the lenses were plain glass. “As long as you’re doing this for the right reason.”

“What’s the right reason?” She grabbed the paper towels.

“Going back for the sex, that’s the right reason. Going back because you’re attached to this guy, that would be the wrong reason.”

She sprayed the mirror. “The sex is great. For the record.”

“That surprises me. I don’t know if you know this, but I had an English guy once, too. We lasted maybe a couple of months. All he did was talk.”

“No sex?”

“No sweetie, I mean he talked during sex. The whole time. Like he was narrating, I swear to god. So I always thought that must be because most of them are funny-looking—”

“Matthew is
not
funny looking!”

“Oh, Matthew’s fine. I told you that. He showers, he shaves, he makes eye contact.”

“He’s—”

“But come on, England isn’t wall-to-wall hunks like Spain or Italy. Let’s face it, all most of them’ve got is the accent. After that, the party’s over.” She tried to break in again but he forged on. “I figured Julian, that was his name, Julian, and it wasn’t the kind of name you wanted to be calling out at a big moment—”

“Talmadge—”

“I figured Julian thought if he didn’t keep reminding me of what was cute about him to begin with, I could change my mind at any point.”

“There has to be a reason you’re telling me this.” She finished wiping off the mirror and stashed away the Windex.

“I’m telling you to be careful.”

“We use condoms, all right?”

“I think you know,” he said, removing his glasses, “that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“He came back. That says it all, doesn’t it?”

“It could say all kinds of things.” He suddenly turned around. “Shit, there’s Lily.” She wished she had his ability to sense Lily’s disturbance in the force, without even facing the door. “I’ll talk to you later sweetie.”

Talmadge’s shift ended before hers. The day held no potholes, although early February was as dead as it got in retail, and she sped home to see if she could catch Miriam. She galloped up the steps to the fifth floor, but no light shone under Miriam’s door. She knocked and waited. No response.

She trudged into the apartment and put her coat away. Jim came out from his room and stood in the door.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Swell,” she told him.

He leaned against the doorjamb. “All right then. Do you want to watch a movie?”

Thank god. This was Jim’s way of letting her know he wasn’t going to give her a hard time about Matthew. “I won’t be able to concentrate. I have to go ask Miriam something.” Jim’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a secret,” she added. “I’ll tell you later.”

Talmadge came out of the kitchen with his ice cream pint and a spoon. “All right Talmadge, here’s our chance,” said Jim cheerfully. “Ceinwen’s not watching the movie with us.
Nightmare on Elm Street
, how does that sound?”

She went into her room and picked up the copy of Louise Brooks’s essays that she’d just bought at the Strand, flipping through the pages to the tune of muffled cries of pain and horror from the TV set. She kept checking the clock and each time another half-hour or so passed, she walked through the apartment, trying not to look at the TV, and went downstairs to see if Miriam had arrived. The third time she did it, Jim paused the video and said mildly, “You could leave a note on her door, you know.”

She could, at that. Ceinwen thought about it. “I don’t know, I’d feel funny doing that with Miriam.”

Sometime around midnight she gave up.

She woke up early, tiptoed into the kitchen and discovered that even the Cafe Busted was gone. Thrifty would be open. She pulled on her blue Harlow dress and didn’t bother with underwear. She added some striped leggings and her Doc Martens. Ceinwen had been wanting to see how she’d look if she mixed up her vintage with new items, like some of the girls who came into the store. Now she had her answer: terrible. Even a bra wouldn’t help.

But it was good enough for Thrifty. She put on her coat, picked up her bag and closed the door to the apartment as quietly as she could.

She passed Miriam’s door without stopping; too early to knock. On the next landing she realized she was hearing a steady noise. Rattle, bump. Rattle, bump. She slowed and looked down the stairwell. Praise be, it was Miriam.

“Hey!” she called, then looked around, hoping no neighbor would pop out to rebuke her. Miriam waved and paused as Ceinwen scrambled down to meet her. The noise was from Miriam’s laundry; she had a bag stuffed in one of those rolling wire boxes that homeless guys used to wheel their stuff.

“Sorry,” said Miriam, “do you need to get past?”

“Nah. Let me take this for you.”

“I’m not an invalid. I do this all the time.”

“I know, but I’m going down anyway.” Ceinwen grabbed the basket and lifted. It was a bit heavy even for her, and she had no idea how Miriam was managing.

“I go early,” Miriam was saying, with what amounted to cheeriness for her. “No waiting. I used to have a little washer-dryer in the apartment, but the landlord made me get rid of it. Said it was against the rules, because of the pipes.” They’d reached the bottom. Miriam held open the door.

“That’s terrible.”

“Isn’t it just. Making a poor broken-down old lady do this every week. The man’s a monster.” Miriam put the back of her hand to her forehead, then grinned. “He was hoping I’d move out. Ha. Fooled him. Had to give up the washer six years ago and I’m still here, just like that Sondheim song.” They were at the street corner now; the closest laundromat was halfway down the next block.

“Why would he want you out? You’re the least trouble of anyone in the building.”

“Not to a landlord I’m not.” Miriam put a hand to her mouth and whispered, “Rent control.”

“How did he find out you had a washer?”

“As the English say, somebody shopped me.” Miriam stopped just short of the laundromat door. “I’m sorry. These days I don’t suppose you care what the English say.”

“It’s fine,” said Ceinwen, feeling happy about it all over again. “Matthew and I got back together.”

An honest-to-goodness smirk from Miriam. “I thought that might happen.”

“Why’s that?”

“You seemed quite taken with each other.” Miriam opened the door and braced it with her back. “Thank you dear, but I can handle things from here.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Ceinwen. She wheeled the basket in.

“All right then, keep me company a bit if you like,” said Miriam. “Eight o’clock on a weekday morning this place is basically a morgue. Of course,” she added, looking around, “it’s never cheery at the best of times, is it.”

They were the only ones there besides the attendant. The laundromat’s floor was covered in chipped, warped tiles, the dusty machines were a hideous yellow and the walls were mottled with scorch marks from a fire that Mr. Rodriguez at the Thrifty Mart said had happened in 1978. Her head felt foggy and achey. If she was going to introduce the topic of the clip at the Brody in anything resembling a smooth way, Ceinwen figured she was going to need coffee. They had pulled up in front of a washer and Miriam was untying the top of the bag.

“Let me put this in the washer for you and then I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” she said.

“Ceinwen,” said Miriam, with great firmness. “You have nice manners. I’m sure they were very proud of you back in Mississippi. But I can handle getting the laundry in the machine. I promise you, I will not collapse.” Ceinwen hesitated. “Go on, get some coffee.”

“You want some too?”

“From where, the Thrifty Mart? Thanks, but no.” Miriam was already putting towels in the washer, and Ceinwen gave up and left for Thrifty. She bought a cup of coffee, a can of Cafe Busted and a pack of cigarettes, and while Mr. Rodriguez was ringing her up and telling her she should really get a tan or something, she decided the best approach was to bring up the book first, and then introduce the Brody’s fragment.