The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (30 page)

Bliss seemed to have died with her eyes open. Giles was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Sam rotated his index finger rapidly, indicating they had to wind things up.

“Oh,” said Eve. “I see we’re out of time. Well … I guess—I guess I’d like to thank myself for being here,” she finished brightly.

Eve looked at Mark, expecting him to be apoplectic. Sure enough, his hands were thrust into the hair at his temples, which
was sticking straight out. But she thought she saw something else in his eyes. Along with horror and disbelief, it looked like amazement. And maybe, if she wasn’t imagining things, even a touch of admiration.

Sam pressed his right headphone into his ear, listening to the control room. Then he gave a thumbs-up. “Okay, and … we’re out,” he said, exhaling loudly.

Eve blinked once or twice and gazed around. It appeared the studio universe had just suffered something akin to the Big Bang.

C
laire, Giles’s beaky assistant, gripped Eve’s elbow like a vise and hustled her out the giant doors used for moving large props in and out of the studio and onto the sidewalk. Claire flagged a cab and did not let go of Eve until she was safely inside.

“Don’t set foot in the building until you receive a call from us.” She closed the door and banged on the hood of the car.

When the cab pulled up in front of her building, Eve saw Vadis gesturing animatedly to a small gaggle of reporters and handing out business cards with the speed of an Atlantic City blackjack dealer. Everyone turned when they saw Eve get out of the car.

“There she is!”

“What happened after they cut to commercial?”

“What do you have to say to Bliss Jones? What do you have to say to the Stiletto?”

Eve pulled Vadis aside as best she could. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you kidding? I saw the show and came right over. Let’s get the hell upstairs so we can talk.”

“No,” said Eve. “Let’s get out of here. To a coffee shop or something.” She grabbed Vadis’s arm and pulled.

“What?” Vadis yanked her arm away. “And have these guys follow us? No way.” She turned her palms upwards. “Let’s. Go. Up. Stairs.”

“We … can’t,” replied Eve, starting to feel dizzy. She needed a drink, badly. How could it be only 7:55 a.m.?

“Why on earth not?” Vadis asked, over the reporters’ din.

“It’s Highball. She’s injured from the attack and—and needs to rest.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” But Vadis’s tone had softened and Eve knew she wouldn’t have to embroider further on her excuse. “All right, let’s go.”

   • • •

They wound up at a diner over by the West Side Highway, at a table in the back in case any reporters had managed to follow them.

“I can’t get over it,” said Vadis, slathering grape jelly on some rye toast. “You, this little mouse, and—and then
this
.” She chewed a bite thoughtfully. “The thing is, we have to act fast.”

Eve pulled at a corn muffin, which was dry and crumbled all over the plate. Her thoughts felt similarly fragmented. She couldn’t believe what had happened in the last thirty hours. No, not what had happened. What she’d done.

“Hello?” Vadis was waving at her from across the table.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said we have to get on the ball.”

“What do you mean?” Eve pushed her plate away.

“A moment like this only comes along once. We have to make the most of it.”

“A moment like what? When you kiss your whole career goodbye?”

“Are you kidding? This is going to
make
your career.”

“Huh?”

“You’re the name on everyone’s lips. People want to see more of you. We can parlay this.”

“How?”

“You’ve just become a symbol. For everyone who’s had enough. You’ve shown people that they don’t have to take it!” As she said this, Vadis lifted her arms overhead in a kind of Olympic flourish.

“Don’t have to take what?”

“Any of it!” said Vadis. “It’s like that movie
Network
, except with a cute girl instead of some old man.” Eve felt completely lost.

“Oh, baby,” continued Vadis, her internal wheels spinning fast now. “I see specials. Magazines, a book, even. We’re going to create the Eventual Weldon brand. We start with some well-placed interviews. Not with those small-timers back there, but with people who can help us and who let us set the parameters.”

“I don’t know if I can do any interviews,” said Eve, putting down the coffee she’d just started to lift to her lips. “At
Smell the Coffee
, we’re not allowed to talk to the media. If I even still have a job there, which I seriously doubt—”

“Honey, forget
Smell the Coffee
. By the time I’m done with you, someone will be offering you your own show.”

“What?”

“We’re going to take your little heroine act to the moon. The problem is, this city has a short memory. Next week some cop will save a bank full of people from armed robbers and you’ll be history. So we need to get cracking.” She dumped four packets of sugar into the fresh cup the waitress had poured and turned her attention to her exploding datebook. “I’m thinking Janet at the
Times
, Frank at
Newsweek
, maybe I can even get Karen at
Vanity Fair
.…”

   • • •

When she got home, several reporters remained on her stoop. They leapt into action, brandishing pens and microphones, but Eve only shook her head at them and went inside. She pulled herself up the stairs by the railing and stumbled in the door feeling
like she was a hundred years old. The bed swallowed her whole and within minutes she fell fast asleep, coat and shoes still on.

Sometime later, she didn’t know when, she stirred.

“There’s the girl,” came a whisper in her ear.

“Donald …” she mumbled.

“Shhh. Back to sleep,” he said softly, and soon she was dreaming again.

She came to for real hours later, sweltering in her coat. She rolled out of it and kicked off her shoes. In the bathroom she threw cold water on her face.

“Better?” he asked.

“Mmmmm. I don’t know. It’s been a—I don’t think I can even explain it.”

“No need to. I’ve seen it all. In your dreams. You were so goddamned brave. I’m in awe, little one. And so relieved that you’re all right. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I …”

“Thank you, Donald.”

“And the attack, why, it was like something out of one of my stories. Your weapon, a prime metaphor for the scatological nature of society today …”

“I … guess.” Eve was relieved that amid all the insanity, Donald was behaving as one would expect, which was to inflate his own importance.

“And then—the interview,” said Donald.

“Um-hmm.”

“It’s like you have taken to heart everything I’ve been trying to teach through my work.”

“It is?”

“Yes, standing up to that vile news harpy, right there in the temple of her mediocrity. You are a champion. A firebrand.” He sounded like Vadis. “And the fact that I have inspired you in this way is so gratifying.…”

Eve wandered into the living room and collapsed on the love seat. “Is this your way of saying you want to do some dictation?”

“In your present state? Of course not.” There was a pause.

“Of course, if you’d like to get your mind off all this hullabaloo, I’d be more than happy to oblige you.”

“Why not?” sighed Eve, rolling her shoulders back. She could use a break from fretting about everything that had happened and the fear of what was to come. She found their current pad—the last of twelve in the packet—underneath the seat cushion and scanned the last few paragraphs of “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” The story had been creeping up on Eve, growing more and more interesting despite its stubborn opacity.

“Where were we?” Donald asked.

“Let’s see.” Eve located the last few lines of the story. “ ‘Paper and Scissors live in harmony. It is a relationship that confounds the critics but thrills the gods.’ ”

“Ah, yes. Here we go: Their closeness is not romantic but it is nevertheless a love affair. The skies of Paris smile down on the pair, the trees along the Champs-Élysées wave at them. The monuments all stand at attention when they pass by and at night the lights twinkle their names in Morse code.”

“Hang on.” Eve took a sip of her drink. “… Morse code. Okay.”

“One night they leave a restaurant very late, so late it is early, and take one of their walking trips by the river. There is a hush in the air. The streets are empty and the city feels ancient, sacred. The skies go from black to silver and the stars begin to fade. The river stirs as if waking up and sends waves crashing to shore. They see something in the water, glinting in the new dawn. An island? But there has never been one there before. Paper and Scissors look at one another and decide it is worth the risk. They jump in.

“The current is strangely colored, a dark blue-green shot through with black, like rare sapphirine, which some say lies beneath the streets here. It has ideas of its own about whether it will be crossed. The water buffets and rolls them, almost pulling them under. They are half dead before they make it to the middle. But there, before them, shiny and trembling, lies a tiny island.

“Rock.

“They pull themselves up and collapse on her, exhausted by their swim. They rest in tiny hollows on her surface; her dimples cradle them tenderly. Beneath their weary bodies, they feel her breathe, deep and steady.

“ ‘Will you join us?’ they ask her, each speaking before realizing the other has also opened his mouth.

“ ‘Yes! I cannot hang on here much longer. Please take me with you!’ she cries over the roar of the current. Paper and Scissors lower themselves into the water and are nearly sucked away. Their strength is spent from the trip over. Rock reaches out to them and the three clasp hands. The current tries to force their hands apart, to cull the herd. But they hold firm. Together, they possess just enough might to make it across. Slowly, laboriously, their little circle moves through the waves until it reaches the shore.

“When at last they stagger out of the water, they find they are tinted with its odd hue. It clings to their hair, their limbs, their eyes; they know in an instant that it will mark them forever.

“The journey has left them famished. Paper and Scissors are poor and can only afford to make a picnic, but it transforms before their eyes. Cold sausages become pâté, and water, wine. Passersby gasp, but not at the enchantment of the food.
Isn’t Paper supposed to wrap Rock?
they wonder.
Isn’t Rock supposed to smash Scissors? But look at them, they don’t even try. They are an affront
.

“The three ignore the stares. They have been through hell and high water and have their own idea of destiny. They run through the streets, laughing.”

Donald’s transmission had a dreamy quality to it and Eve became positive that it was no mere construction. There was something here, an emotional resonance that “The Numbered Story” and the other works hadn’t had. But what was it?

“Suddenly, the wind picks up, and around them, the trees begin to laugh. They shake merrily, letting go the blossoms in
their hair and turning the sidewalk into a flower girl’s trail. The sky overhead is licked by pink and orange flames. Sound drains. Colors deepen. A bird cries and flies out of a tree. It is as if the world mirrors their happiness: Nature herself celebrates the improbability and purity of their friendship.” He paused. “They form a nation of three, a country at peace.”

Eve rubbed her hands together to relieve a cramp and waited, mesmerized, for him to continue. After several moments of silence, she said his name, but he did not respond. Whether he’d been pulled away by the forces he did not understand, or the subject matter had simply overwhelmed him, she didn’t know.

   • • •

She looked at the phone for quite a while before dialing.

“Hi, Dad.”

“This is a nice surprise.”

“You didn’t watch my show yesterday by any chance, did you?”

“Sweetie, I’m sorry. I just got back from a four-day retreat with the partners. No TV, no computers. We even had to turn our cellphones off. Did I miss a big story you did?”

“You could say that.” Eve told him everything, trying to get it out quickly, to skip over the worst moments and emphasize her rapid recovery. “My stitches will come out in a few days and everything and—”

“Stitches. My God.
Stitches
.” There was a long pause. “Why don’t you come home and we’ll have Dr. Olsen take a look at them?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“He’s very good, you know. He took care of you when you hurt your wrist, remember?”

Why was her father so focused on the stitches, the least interesting part of her tale? Perhaps he found the rest of it inconceivable.

“The doctors here are pretty good, Dad.”

“I thought you’d
want
to come home at a time like this.”

“Oh.” Eve stood up and started to pace. “To be honest, I never even thought of it.”

“Ouch, kid.”

“I’m sorry.” Why had she said that?

“No, no. You have every right.” He sighed and there was a long pause. “I guess I’ve never really been there for you, not the way a dad should be. After your mother … I suppose I dropped the ball.”

Eve couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You did the best you could. I know that.”

“If you came home, I could do better.”

Eve sat on the floor and tucked her knees under her chin. “That’s so nice to hear. It really is. But I don’t want to leave New York,” she said, pulling Highball in close.

“Your mother told me that once. Eventually, I changed her mind.” He paused. “Get it,
eventually
?” he asked.

“I get it.”

“Though maybe it wasn’t me who convinced her.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we first met, she was here for a friend’s wedding, staying with her parents for a few days. She spent the whole time itching to get back to the Big Apple. Suddenly, a few months later, she calls me and says she’s coming back. And this time she’s going to stay. That’s when we started seeing each other. We were so happy. Though sometimes I caught her crying when she thought she was alone. But my friends said all girls do that, and what did I know? When you kids were born, she’d come alive for a while, but it never lasted. You were too young to notice, of course. How far away she was.”