Summer and the City

and I’ve been wearing it practically nonstop for days. It’s perfect for sweaty weather, leaving my arms and legs unencumbered, and so far, no one has commented on my unusual garb except to say they liked it. Odd clothing is expected in New York. Here, not so much.

“I’m not going to change my style for Wendy. Did you know she has a cousin who’s a Hells Angel?”

Walt and I are sitting on the porch, sipping cocktails while we wait for the notorious Wendy to arrive. I begged Walt to join us for dinner, but he declined, claiming a previous engagement with Randy. He did, however, agree to come by for a drink, so he could see the Wendy person in the flesh.

“Maybe that’s the point,” he says now. “She’s completely different.”

“But if he’s interested in someone like Wendy, it calls into question his whole marriage to my mother.”

“I think you’re taking the analogy too far,” Walt responds, acting as the voice of reason. “Maybe the guy’s just having fun.”

“He’s my father.” I scowl. “He shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.”

“That’s mean, Carrie.”

“I know.” I stare out the screen at the neglected garden. “Did you talk to Maggie?”

“Yup,” Walt says, enigmatically.

“What did she say? About New York?”

“She had a great time.”

“What did she say about me ?”

“Nothing. All she talked about was some guy you introduced her to.”

“Ryan. Whom she immediately bonked.”

“That’s our Maggie,” Walt says with a shrug.

“She’s turned into a sex fiend.”

“Oh, let her,” he says. “She’s young. She’ll grow out of it. Anyway, why do you care?”

“I care about my friends .” I swing my Fiorucci boots off the table for emphasis. “I just wish my friends cared about me.”

Walt stares at me blankly.

“I mean, even my family hasn’t asked me about my life in New York. And frankly, my life is so much more interesting than anything that’s happening to them. I’m going to have a play produced. And I went to a party last night at Barry Jessen’s loft in SoHo-”

“Who’s Barry Jessen?”

“Come on, Walt. He’s like the most important artist in America right now.”

“As I said, ‘Aren’t you special?’” Walt teases.

I fold my arms, knowing I sound like a jerk. “Doesn’t anyone care?”

“With your big head?” Walts jokes. “Careful, it might explode.”

“Walt!” I give him a hurt look. Then my frustration gets the better of me. “I’m going to be a famous writer someday. I’m going to live in a big, two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. And I’m going to write Broadway plays. And then everyone will have to come and visit me .”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Walt says.

I stare down at the ice cubes in my glass.

“Look, Carrie,” Walt says. “You’re spending one summer in New York. Which is great. But it’s hardly your life. And in September, you’re going to Brown.”

“Maybe I’m not,” I say suddenly.

Walt smiles, sure I can’t be serious. “Does your father know? About this change of plans?”

“I just decided. This minute.” Which is true. The thought has been fluttering around the edges of my consciousness for weeks now, but the reality of being back in Castlebury has made it clear that being at Brown will only be more of the same. The same kinds of people with exactly the same attitudes, just in a different location.

Walt smiles. “Don’t forget I’ll be there too. At RISD.”

“I know.” I sigh. I sound as arrogant as Capote. “It’ll be fun,” I add, hopefully.

“Walt!” my father says, joining us on the porch.

“Mr. Bradshaw.” Walt stands up, and my father embraces him in a hug, which makes me feel left out again.

“How you doin’, kid?” my father asks. “Your hair’s longer. I barely recognized you.”

“Walt’s always changing his hair, Dad.” I turn to Walt. “What my father means is that you probably didn’t recognize him. He’s trying to look younger ,” I add, with enough bantering in my voice to prevent this statement from coming across as nasty.

“What’s wrong with looking younger?” my father declares in high spirits.

He goes into the kitchen to make cocktails, but takes his time about it, going to the window every second or so like a sixteen-year-old girl waiting for her crush to arrive. It’s ridiculous. When Wendy does turn up, a mere five minutes later, he runs out of the house to greet her.

“Can you believe this?” I ask Walt, horrified by my father’s silly behavior.

“He’s a man. What can I say?”

“He’s my father ,” I protest.

“He’s still a man.”

I’m about to say, “Yeah, but my father isn’t supposed to act like other men,” when he and Wendy come strolling up the walk, holding hands.

I want to gack. This relationship is obviously more serious than I’d thought.

Wendy is kind of pretty, if you like women with dyed blond mall hair and blue eye shadow rimmed around their eyes like a raccoon.

“Be nice,” Walt says warningly.

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly nice. I’ll be nice if it kills me.” I smile.

“Shall I call the ambulance now or later?”

My father opens the screen door and urges Wendy onto the porch. Her smile is wide and patently fake. “You must be Carrie!” she says, enveloping me in a hug as if we’re already best friends.

“How could you tell?” I ask, gently extracting myself.

She glances at my father, her face full of delight. “Your dad has told me all about you. He talks about you constantly. He’s so proud of you.”

There’s something about this assumed intimacy that immediately rubs me the wrong way. “This is Walt,” I say, trying to get her off the topic of myself. What can she possibly know about me anyway?

“Hello, Walt,” Wendy says too eagerly. “Are you and Carrie-”

“Dating?” Walt interjects. “Hardly.” We both laugh.

She tilts her head to the side, as if unsure how to proceed. “It’s wonderful the way men and women can be friends these days. Don’t you think?”

“I guess it depends on what you call ‘friends,’” I murmur, reminding myself to be pleasant.

“Are we ready?” my father asks.

“We’re going to this great new restaurant. Boyles. Have you heard of it?” Wendy asks.

“No.” And unable to stop myself, I grumble, “I didn’t even know there were restaurants in Castlebury. The only place we ever went was the Hamburger Shack.”

“Oh, your father and I go out at least twice a week,” Wendy chirps on, unperturbed.

My father nods in agreement. “We went to a Japanese restaurant. In Hartford.”

“That so,” I say, unimpressed. “There are tons of Japanese restaurants in New York.”

“Bet they’re not as good as the one in Hartford, though,” Walt jokes.

My father gives him a grateful look. “This restaurant really is very special.”

“Well,” I say, just for the hell of it.