Vivian In Red (21 page)

She takes my arm as if I’m supporting her, though I know it’s the other way around. “Shall we? Our chariot awaits.”

From the corner of my eye like this, she could be my Bee, and this thought makes my heart cave in a little.

Paul is waiting on the steps and between them all they get me down the wet stone without incident, and loaded into the car, which is not our usual town car at all but a limo. Of course, it’s a
gala
, after all, and there are a bunch of us going anyhow.

Linda and Paul are seated as far away from each other as they can manage, which in this big car is pretty far in fact. Eleanor is staring out the window as the limo pulls into the halting traffic.

Vivian smiles back at me from the front seat, next to the driver. She gives me a fingertip wave, then blows me a kiss.

I stare back at her long enough to show she doesn’t bother me, and then I stare out my own window, and we all sit in silence like a bunch of store mannequins.

I’m getting a handle on this Vivian-apparition business. I might startle if she really sneaks up. But mostly I just look at her like, so what? You’re there. Enjoy yourself.

It’s not terrific that she’s hanging around. I’ve stopped thinking of her as “the thing” or “it” or “hallucination” because it’s tiring to make my mind think that way when my gut just calls it Vivian. I still figure she’s stroke damage, in any case.

My stroke damage turns around in her seat and looks from one of us to the other. She looks from Paul to me and nods with a knowing look. Then she puts her slim hands on the back of the front seat, near the little privacy window, and rests her chin on those hands, inspecting Eleanor.

I look over at Eleanor, too; she has turned toward the front of the limo and is gazing out the window closest to her face. Not much to see out there she hasn’t seen a thousand times before. It’s that time of evening where some of the city is fully dark, shadowed by the buildings, but then the setting sun spills gold down a street, bright and thrilling as could be, for just a moment, as you glide past.

When she’s not pulling at the corner of her eye, she’s tugging on a curl, and there’s a softness around her eyes that makes me thinks she’s so very sad. I hope it’s not for me. That’s the thing I’ll hate the most when I kick it. Whatever happens I’ll either be fine, or just dust, but either way, I hate to think of them sad. I wish I could tell her not to be sad, that I’m old and when I’m gone it will be fine because old people are supposed to die. Not like her dad.

And not like me.

I reach out and slam the little door shut, Vivian disappearing from view. I can’t tell if the door closed over formless fingers, or if she moved, but in any case I can’t see her. I listen for that husky alto in my head but there’s nothing.

I glance around and they’re all staring at me. Paul has his portable phone to his head. Linda’s mouth is frozen in an oval, a lipstick stilled in her hand, her compact open in the other. Eleanor touches my knee. “You okay, Grampa?”

I nod and look out the window, and I’m glad for once that I can’t explain, because what on earth would I even say?

It’s a fine fall night, cool but not cold, the boiling heat of August blown away. I’d have loved to stride up the steps of the New York Public Library past all the flash bulbs, right between those two stone lions, but the limo pulled right up to the 42
nd
Street entrance; either the driver knew the old geezer couldn’t manage the stairs or Linda gave him advance word.

I try to look around casually as Paul gives me a hand out of the car, to see if Vivian would appear out here, too. No sign of her, for now anyway. I know by now that a closed door—car or house—is no obstacle.

We walk into the side entrance of the library, and now I have a good excuse to stare, because everyone is staring, looking for whoever they might schmooze up to. I’ve been the schmooz-ee more than a few times. Being a producer forces you to do that. And of course I’ve perpetrated the schmoozing many a time. Being a producer forces you to do that, too.

Eleanor hands a champagne flute into my left hand, and touches the brim of hers to mine. “Cheers.”

I smile and raise my glass. I’m not tired of standing yet—I sit too damn much as it is—so Eleanor and I gaze around at the crowd like we’ve gone to the zoo. A flash of red zips past me and when I look over it’s Naomi swooping onto someone with her hand out. I’ve seen her darn near shake a man’s hand right off, no limp-wristed girly handshake for her. I spot some people I know and they acknowledge me and wave, or nod, and then they lean to their companion and whisper. I can well imagine.
Oh look, Milo Short is here. He still can’t talk since his stroke, though. So sad.

Finally, a few of them break away from the pack to come greet me, approaching with the sad little head-tilt of “poor you” I remember after Bee died.

When an old casting director of mine breaks eye contact to laugh at her own story, clearly on her third or eighth glass of champagne, I elbow Eleanor and cross my eyes at her. Eleanor laughs, which is fine because the casting gal thinks it’s for her own story which is incoherent and has something to do with a Tony award statue and a bathroom stall.

Eleanor jumps in when the gal—I think her name is Leslie—pauses for air. “I’m sorry, I think we should excuse ourselves and sit down. Nice to see you, though.”

At our own table near one of the pillars supporting the glass dome, Eleanor takes a moment to stare up. Tiny circles of light speckle the inside of the dome, which rises three stories over our heads. “It looks like a starry sky. You know I hardly went to the beach this summer?” Eleanor turns to me, and she tugs the skin near her eye again. “I was working so much. I’m not sure the last time I saw real stars.”

I smile back, thinking about trying to reply, like my therapy lady Marla would have me do. But I don’t want to try it here, out in public, and end up groaning like an imbecile, or spouting nonsense.

Eleanor fills the silence, toying with the stem of her glass, rolling it back and forth. “Oh, do you know I might have found Vivian’s records? Did you know she died young? In Michigan, of all places. Not even thirty years old.”

Now I feel warm, all right. I clear my throat and try to be subtle about loosening my tie, but it’s so awkward left-handed I quickly give up. Eleanor hasn’t noticed; her eyes have a faraway look, like she’s mentally in Michigan.

Then she turns to face me, tilting her head and squinting a little, as if in concentration. “Was she an actress, maybe? Vivian, I mean? Seems the most likely way you’d have known her. Maybe she was in one of your very early shows? I suppose I could get the cast lists of those shows easily enough and look. There must be an archive of playbills somewhere. Not that it matters, really. It’s just one of those irritating things, do you know, Grampa? Like when you can’t think of an answer to a riddle but you’re sure it’s really obvious and it haunts you until you figure it out? I feel like I’m going to lie awake at night until I can figure out how she knew you, is all. I guess if you remember we can play some Twenty Questions until I get it right.”

Twenty questions, charades. My past reduced to party games.

Eleanor’s makeup is all smeared up from where she was rubbing her eye. I take out my clean handkerchief and hand it to her, pointing at my own eye so she’ll know what I mean.

“Oh, shoot. I’m not used to wearing much makeup either, but Eva told me if I didn’t put some on and ended up being photographed I’d look like a cadaver. Will you be okay here a minute if I go try to fix this up?”

Sure, sure, I wave her away. Fine.

She shuffles away as quickly as she can manage in her shoes, which are taller than she usually wears and seem a little big, too. They keep slipping off. Probably also Eva’s.

I stare down at my own hands and wonder if I shouldn’t just let her know I remember Vivian. Pretending not to know has turned this into a bigger deal than it would have been. I smirk to myself. It’s what they always said after Watergate. It’s the cover-up that gets you.

I’ll just let Eleanor know through our questions and charades that she was a secretary for Harms and that Allen didn’t like her and neither did Mrs. Allen. That’s it, ta-da, we can dust our hands of this. Maybe then I’ll stop seeing her, too, because I won’t be thinking about her anymore.

And maybe then I can concentrate on getting my words back.

Smoke and flowers, dark waves of hair, and now the pressure of a small feminine hand on my forearm.

I push back from the table, scrabbling away, shaking the pressure of that hand off my arm. How is she touching me? How can I feel her? I hear broken glass and a couple of startled yelps but in my sweaty panic all I see is a blur of candlelight and glasses and dresses.

I try to slow down my breathing before I black out, then will myself to look right at her… Not Vivian! This gal has brown eyes, and she’s short. I can still smell roses and smoke but then, lots of people smoke and walk around smelling like perfume and ashtrays. Her eyes are wide and watery, and she’s angled slightly away from me, a wet splash across her pink dress.

“Oh, Mr. Short, I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m so sorry. I just saw the empty chair next to you, and wanted to tell you how much I admire and respect your work.” She looked around to the assembled crowd. “I swear, I only lightly touched his arm, I didn’t know it would scare him so bad.”

Now it’s my turn to look apologetic, as the crowd rushes in, some of them ministering to her dress, others asking me if I’m all right. Other than my body temperature shooting through the roof with this scare and all the gaping attention, I’m in the pink. I nod, dab my forehead with a cloth napkin, make another apologetic face at the girl, who is acting so flustered and upset you’d think I’d thrown my drink in her face on purpose.

Eleanor strides up, almost sliding in her too-big shoes. Her face is half made up now. Looks like she was washing her makeup completely off and got interrupted.

Joel has appeared now, and he and Eleanor have a whispered conference with each other and the nearest bystanders, who are either old business contacts and friends, or vaguely recognizable types who make the gala circuit something of a second job. None of them approach me. They either stare, or look sideways like I can’t tell they’re staring.

Finally they come back to the table, and Joel tells me he has to go because the twins’ nanny has to get home. He says Eleanor will escort me back to the townhouse. “I’m going to stay over,” Eleanor adds, with a weak smile. “Just to keep an eye on you.”

The nurses are paid to keep an eye out, but I won’t mind the company, anyhow.

Just now I want to get the hell out of here, too. Eleanor says, as the crowd around us thins out, clucking their expressions of concern over their shoulders, “I’m going to wait just a few minutes to give the driver time to get back to the door. Joel called his car phone. Then we can blow this joint.” Eleanor gives me a tired sideways smile. “Slumber party at your house.”

I can feel an arc of interest around us, where people are standing back, giving me and my granddaughter a moment, I guess, but they’re gawking in that too-cool-for-you society way. If only I could get up and do a soft-shoe on the table just to show them what for. Back when I had good knees and strong bones, I never did. Too polite, I guess, and too busy keeping everyone else in line. Shame, truth be told. When I get my words back I’m telling that to every young person I meet, starting with Eleanor. Dance on tables, kid, just because you can.

“You know, Grampa, why don’t I move in?”

I frown. Move in with me? Not that I wouldn’t enjoy her company, but doesn’t she want her own real life? She can’t really think that being a nursemaid to her rickety, mute grandfather counts as a future.

“I mean, look, staying at Uncle Paul’s apartment doesn’t make sense anymore, does it? It’s too big for just me, and he should get a tenant in there who can pay him some real money. I know, I know”—Eleanor waves away the objection I can’t give anyway—“but really it’s just embarrassing. That place was meant for Daniel and me, and there is no Daniel and me.” She peers into her empty champagne flute. “Well. Let’s go find that driver.”

We get up and she takes my elbow, and I wrap my opposite hand over hers, and together we make a slow but steady progression away from the rapacious, glittering room.