Summer and the City

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I sit tapping my feet in annoyance.

Ryan is at the front of the class, reading his short story. It’s good. Really good-about one of his crazy late nights at a club where some girl with a shaved head tried to have sex with him. It’s so good, I wish I’d written it myself. Unfortunately I can’t give it my full attention. I’m still reeling from my conversation with L’il and the perfidy of Viktor Greene.

Although “perfidy” isn’t a strong enough word. Heinous? Egregious? Invidious?

Sometimes there are no words to describe the treachery of men in relationships.

What is wrong with them? Why can’t they be more like women? Someday I’m going to write a book called World Without Men . There would be no Viktor Greenes. Or Capote Duncans, either.

I try to focus on Ryan, but L’il’s absence fills the room. I keep glancing over my shoulder, thinking she’ll be there, but there’s only an empty desk. Viktor has taken up residence in the back of the room, so I can’t study him without boldly turning around in my seat. I did, however, do a little reconnaissance on my own before class.

I got to school twenty minutes early and headed straight for Viktor’s office. He was standing by the window, watering one of those stupid hanging plants that are all the rage, the idea being that they will somehow provide extra oxygen in this nutrient-starved city.

“Yop?” he said, turning around.

Whatever I thought I was going to say got caught in my throat. I gaped, then smiled awkwardly.

Viktor’s mustache was gone. Waldo had been thoroughly eradicated-much like, I couldn’t help thinking, his unborn child.

I waited to see what he would do with his hands, now that Waldo was gone.

Sure enough, they went right to his upper lip, patting the skin in panic, like someone who’s lost a limb and doesn’t know it’s gone until they try to use it.

“Errrrr,” he said.

“I was wondering if you’d read my play,” I asked, regaining my equilibrium.

“Mmmm?” Having concluded Waldo was, indeed, no more, his hands dropped limply to his sides.

“I finished it,” I said, enjoying his discomfort. “I dropped it off yesterday, remember?”

“I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“When will you get to it?” I demanded. “There’s this man who’s interested in doing a reading-”

“Sometime this weekend, I imagine.” He nodded his head briefly in confirmation.

“Thanks.” I skittled down the hallway, convinced, somehow, that he knew I was onto him. That he knew I knew what he’d done.

Capote’s laughter brings me back to the present. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, for all the wrong reasons. I actually like his laugh. It’s one of those laughs that makes you want to say something funny so you can hear it all over again.

Ryan’s story is apparently very amusing. Lucky him. Ryan is one of those guys whose talent will always outshine his flaws.

Viktor ambles to the front of the room. I stare at the bare patches of skin around his mouth and shudder.

Flowers. I need flowers for Samantha. And toilet paper. And maybe a banner. “Welcome Home.” I wander through the flower district on Seventh Avenue, dodging puddles of water on which float wanton petals. I remember reading somewhere about the society ladies on the Upper East Side who send their assistants each morning to buy fresh flowers. I wish, briefly, that I could be that kind of person, concerned with the details of fresh flowers, but the effort feels overwhelming. Will Samantha send someone for flowers when she marries Charlie? He seems like the type who would expect it. And suddenly, the whole idea of flowers is so depressingly dull I’m tempted to abort my quest.

But Samantha will appreciate them. She’s coming back tomorrow and they’ll make her feel good. Who doesn’t like flowers? But what kind? Roses? Doesn’t seem right. I duck into the smallest shop, where I try to buy a lily. It’s five dollars. “How much do you want to spend?” the salesgirl asks.

“Two dollars? Maybe three?”

“For that you’ll get baby’s breath. Try the deli down the street.”

At the deli, I settle on a hideous bunch of multicolored flowers in unnatural hues of pink, purple, and green.

Back home, I put the flowers in a tall glass and place them next to Samantha’s bed. The flowers may make Samantha happy, but I can’t shake my own feeling of dread. I keep thinking about L’il and how Viktor Greene ruined her life.

At loose ends, I look doubtfully at the bed. Although not much has happened in it recently, besides the consumption of crackers and cheese, I should wash the sheets. The Laundromat’s creepy, though. All kinds of crimes take place between the washers and dryers. Muggings and stolen clothes and fisticuffs over possession of the machines. Nevertheless, I dutifully strip the bed, stuffing the black sheets into a pillowcase that I sling over my shoulder.

The Laundromat is harshly lit but not crowded. I buy a package of soap from a vending machine and tear it open, the sharp particles of detergent making me sneeze. I stuff the sheets into the washer and sit on top, staking my claim.

What is it about the Laundromat that’s so depressing?

Is it the simple reality of literally exposing your dirty laundry to strangers as you shove it quickly in and out of the washer, hoping no one will notice your ragged underpants and polyester sheets? Or is it a sign of defeat? Like you never managed to make it into a building with its own basement laundry room.

Maybe Wendy had a point about New York, after all. No matter what you think you can be, when you’re forced to stop and look at where you actually are, it’s pretty depressing.

Sometimes there’s no escaping the truth.

Two hours later, when I’m hauling my clean laundry up the steps to the apartment, I discover Miranda on the landing, crying into a copy of the New York Post .

Oh no. Not again. What is it about the last two days? I put down my sack. “Marty?”

She nods once and lowers the newspaper in shame. On the floor next to her, the top of an open bottle of vodka juts from a small paper bag. “I couldn’t help it. I had to,” she says, explaining the alcohol.

“You don’t have to apologize to me ,” I say, unlocking the door. “Bastard.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She gets up and takes a brave step before her face crumples in pain. “Oh God. It hurts, Carrie. Why does it hurt so much?”

* * *

“I don’t understand. I thought everything was great,” I say, lighting a cigarette as I prepare to bring my best powers of relationship analysis to the situation.

“I thought we were having fun.” Miranda chokes back tears. “I’ve never had fun with a guy before. And then, this morning when we got up, he was acting strange. He had this kind of sick smile on his face while he was shaving. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to be one of those girls who are always asking, ‘What’s wrong?’ I was trying to do everything right , for once.”

“I’m sure you were-”

Outside, there’s a rumble of thunder.