The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (17 page)

Eve definitely wanted to go out. But if she accepted Alex’s invitation, it would be tantamount to admitting her status as social pariah. She sat at the bar, frowning in thought.

Donald appeared with a slight pulsing next to her left ear. She knew what he was going to say: She should stay home and help him tackle his next story.

“As it happens,” he huffed, “that’s not it at all.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“What were you going to say, then?”

“I think you should go.”

“Go where?”

“On this date.”

“You do?”

“This generation,” he groaned. “Such ceremony! One of the young women who lived here before you, she actually bought a book on how to trap a man. She had to say no to every boy three times before accepting an invitation, wouldn’t spend the night for three months, and all kinds of other nonsense. All part of some scheme to lasso a husband. Pathetic. In my day, things were much more free. Girls said what they meant and did what they wanted. They walked home in their Saturday night clothes on Sunday morning and didn’t care who saw them. Take my advice and loosen up. If you like this young man, accept his offer and try to have some fun for a change.”

Eve was touched. Donald had often been kind, but rarely had he given any real thought to her happiness, and certainly not at the expense of his own. Heart beating fast, she picked up the phone and dialed Alex before either she or Donald could change their minds. He answered on the third ring and didn’t sound in the least bit surprised to find her on the line.

   • • •

He buzzed at five after eight.

“Be right down,” she said, preempting any suggestion he might have about coming up. She looked in the mirror once more, taking in the shirred red cocktail dress and royal blue bouclé jacket.

“I’m sure you look very lovely,” said Donald.

“Thank you.”

“I wonder …”

“Yes?”

“Could you perhaps tell me what you look like?”

Eve pressed her lips together. What everyone always remarked on first was her slight build, ebony hair, and pale skin. Like any girl, often she felt quite pretty, but sometimes plain. Her father said she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Of course, most dads thought that of their daughters. But then again, Alex had picked her out of everyone—actresses and models included—at the Met gala.

“How do you imagine me?” she asked.

“Ah. Well, you’re a Midwest girl. So I picture you as corn-fed. Long blond hair, strong shoulders, large hands. Sturdy. I like to think of you that way. Am I close?”

“On the nose,” said Eve, smiling to herself. She couldn’t blame him. She herself had often imagined Donald as something of a Beat caricature: clad in a black turtleneck, slapping a pair of bongo drums.

“Well then. Have a good time.” Donald’s tone was upbeat yet wistful, like a father trying to affect bravery while sending his daughter off on her first date.

“I will.”

“But remember one thing.”

“Yes?”

“Actually two things.”

“Okay.”

“Everyone will disappoint you. And in the end, we’re all alone.”

Typical
.

She kissed Highball on the forehead, turned out the light, and left.

   • • •

Alex stood on the sidewalk, gazing down the block toward the sunset over the Hudson River, which was just visible at the end of the street, and now shimmered a smoky, soft purple. She cleared her throat and he turned.

“Ah,” he said, as if reregistering what she looked like, and not without pleasure. “The belle of the ball.” She gripped the rickety iron railing and made her way down the stoop. Standing on the bottom step, she was exactly his height. He kissed her on each cheek. “Ready?” Eve nodded and Alex led her to a waiting taxi. As they pulled away from the curb, Alex lowered his window and Eve did the same. The evening moved in, warm and close. Couples held hands, store windows twinkled, and high above them, plastic bags rattled in the trees like maracas.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” he said. “Been dealing with magazine stuff, up against the clock. I really did want to see you before this.”

“That’s all right,” said Eve, glad he’d mentioned it and sorry for all the times she’d cursed him. She liked his linen sports jacket and two-tone shoes. It wasn’t a vintage look, but there was something retro about it. Something imaginative.

“That’s where I lived as a kid,” Alex said, pointing at a Federal-style townhouse. “My parents were kind of boho and didn’t want to live on the Upper East Side like all their friends. If owning an entire townhouse on West Ninth Street can be considered boho.” A couple more blocks went by, one with a deli on the corner. “That’s where Zander and I used to steal gum when we were in junior high … and there,” he said, pointing at Washington Square Park, “is where I broke my arm when I was sixteen. Skateboarding.”

“I broke up a dogfight there. Got a scar from the stitches to prove it,” said Eve, holding out her arm.

“You’re tougher than you look,” said Alex, running his index finger along the slightly raised skin.

They passed 38 Washington Square South. “That’s where Eugene O’Neill lived,” said Eve. “And he also lived down there, at 133 MacDougal.”

“How do you know that? Or I mean—why?”

“I walk my dog a lot.”

“Huh?”

“I walk past all those plaques on old buildings that tell you about the famous people who’ve lived there.”

“What plaques?”

“The reddish oval ones. Usually near the front door somewhere. You’re a lifelong New Yorker and you never noticed?”

“Guess not.” Alex scanned the buildings outside looking for one but they were all offices and NYU dorms.

The car moved through the traffic on Delancey and Eve became aware that they were approaching the on-ramp of a bridge.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Brooklyn. Buddy of mine’s just opened up a place near me and I said I’d support him. Sound okay?”

“Of course. Wait—you say the place is near you?”

“Yeah, near my apartment.”

“You live in Brooklyn and you came all the way over to get me?”

“Of course,” said Alex, patting her hand.

As they reached the middle of the East River, Eve peered out the back window and the bridge behind them looked strangely narrow, like pulled taffy. Moments later, they were deposited in a maze of wide, buzzing streets, which coursed with fewer taxis but more trucks, more pizza places but fewer manicurists. If Manhattan was a slender, delicate girl, Brooklyn came off like her burly, ever-so-slightly coarse older brother.

They pulled up in front of a plain, two-story brick building that might have once been an office or a school. Its front door was padlocked and two of the windows were boarded up. Alex knocked on one of the windows with two sharp raps. Then he led Eve down the steps and around the side to a big metal door. He knocked six times. A slip of paper slid out the crack beneath the door. Alex opened it and grinned. Eve read it over his shoulder.

Which high school team’s banner hangs over the men’s room door at The Yachtsman?

He wrote
Choate
, and slid the paper back under the door, which, after one or two beats, opened. They found themselves in a pitch-black hallway on what felt like smooth wood floors.

“Hey,” said a voice in the dark.

“Who’s that, Ted?”

“Yeah. Just head toward the music, man. They’re all down there.”

Alex led Eve by the hand toward the sound of twenties jazz. After about fifteen seconds, a door opened and they stumbled into a small but beautifully appointed room dominated by a long bar of dark wood. Small tables were scattered around, each surrounded by four striped, silk-upholstered club chairs. About two dozen young men in khakis and girls in pencil skirts and cardigans looked up, a few breaking into smiles at the sight of Alex. He pulled Eve lightly through the crowd, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, introducing her to nearly everyone with some detail of their shared past. It seemed they were all either classmates, campmates, clubmates, or colleagues at some time or another. But Alex appeared to occupy a special place among the group; the others eagerly confirmed his observations and laughed at even the smallest of his jokes. A couple of girls looked at him with umbrage and several others brushed their eyes over Eve with naked curiosity.

They sat down at a free table and were immediately swarmed
by a pair of ruddy young men whom Alex introduced as Paul and David and a round, playful girl named Barbara who went by Bix. “We haven’t seen you in
forever
,” they mock-whined at Alex.

A burly carrottop in black slacks, a white shirt, and a long white apron appeared with teacups on a silver tray.

“Speakeasy theme,” he said. “Like it?”

“It’s terrific, Tom,” said Alex, holding his cup high in a toast.

Eve sniffed her own cup and detected scotch, a young one, but nice. She felt like she’d stepped into a time machine. “Wonderful,” she said. “I can just imagine Fitzgerald in that corner over there, writing
Flappers and Philosophers
.”

“If it’s good for business, I’m all for it,” said Tom absently, wandering off into the din.

“Tom was at Trinity with us but I don’t think literature was his strong suit,” said Alex, and the other three laughed.

Paul pulled out a cigarette. “I think the ponies were his strong suit. Remember how much money he lost sophomore year?” Everyone laughed again and Eve did, too, even though she hadn’t been there. It felt good to join in.

“What do you do?” Bix asked her.

“Eve works at
Smell the Coffee
,” said Alex, and the others looked at her with interest.

“What’s Bliss Jones like?” asked David.

The inevitable question. “What can I say? She’s a legend,” replied Eve. This was what she’d heard Mark say to Steve’s aunt when she visited, and somehow she felt it unseemly to criticize a member of the
Smell
family to relative strangers.

“No dirt?” asked Paul.

“Maybe when I get to know you better. Either that or after a few drinks,” replied Eve, and Paul jokingly signaled for another round.

“Hey, maybe you should have your launch party here,” said David to Alex.

“If we ever launch,” said Alex.

“Now will you tell me what kind of magazine it is? I’ve been curious since the gala,” said Eve.

Bix, who was balancing on the armrest of Eve’s chair, chimed in. “Yeah, c’mon. Enough already. No one’s gonna swipe the idea from you.”

Alex smiled and shook his head. “Okay, okay, you win. I’m sick of being pestered. But only because Eve is so pretty and charming.” He winked at her. “Here’s the concept:
The New Yorker
—for kids.” He sat back, folding his arms across his chest.

“Go on,” said Paul.

“Short stories by great young writers and adults who write well about kids. In-depth articles on the Tao of Saturday morning cartoons and the fairness of curfews. Stuff like that.” Alex leaned forward and began playing with a coaster as he explained more of his ideas. “We’re calling it
Our Turn
.”

Eve had no idea if it would work, but she was pretty sure from all the periodicals she read these days that there was nothing like it out there. “Where’d you get this idea?” she asked.

“A couple of years ago I read this article about how, in previous generations, kids couldn’t wait to grow up; they wanted to be like adults. But now parents want to be like kids. They dress like teenagers and act like them, too. It’s getting ridiculous. So I thought it might be cool to get back to the way things used to be, when aspiring to be an adult was a
good
thing. Plus there’ve been a couple of literary magazines that have started up in Brooklyn. No one thought they had a chance, but they seem to be doing okay.”

Whatever Eve had expected, it wasn’t this rather sober, sophisticated idea. “How far along are you?” she asked.

“We’re cramming to get the layout done so we can get it off to the printers and get it on stands next month. September’s big in the mag world. I’ve got six guys on computers in my apartment as we speak. The art alone is a nightmare. I’m the brains—and most of the cash—but they’re doing the heavy lifting.”

“How much money you got sunk into this?” asked Paul.

“Too much,” said Alex.

“What happens if it doesn’t work? I mean, what’s the failure rate for magazines?”

“We’ll be fine.” Alex smiled as he said this, but there was metal in his voice. Eve wondered if he had a bit of a temper. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing. In New York, it was probably essential, if only to make it clear you were no pushover.

David chimed in, “It’s gonna be great.”

“I think it’s fantastic,” said Bix.

Tom brought more scotch and there was a toast along with congratulatory noises. “To Alex,” they all said. A few moments later, Paul, David, and Bix waved at some friends who’d just come in and excused themselves.

“I’m impressed,” said Eve quietly.

“Thanks,” said Alex. He ran a fingertip over a daisy on his cup. “I’m just so
ready
.”

“For what?”

“To get out. Do my own thing. Stand on my own two feet. You just get to a point, you know?”

“Yes, I do,” said Eve.

Past midnight, they arrived at her building. The overhead light above Eve’s front door was out again, and the whites of Alex’s eyes, so close to hers, glowed like moon rocks. Eve faced him and he pressed her against the door. He put his hand gently on the side of her neck, his fingers reaching up into the roots of her hair. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?” he whispered.

Eve’s knees went buckly. “No.”

“It was the moment you walked into the room in that dress. This tiny girl, like a doll in a plastic case.”

Eve closed her eyes and breathed in through her mouth.

“And I was thinking …” he said, his lips hovering near her left ear.

“Yes?”

“I was thinking that we talked a lot that night.”

“We did.”

“So it was kind of like a first date.”

“Mmmm.”

“Which would make this our second.”