The Mad Woman of Manhattan (a novel, Chapters 1-4)

 

 

CARLA

 

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“Life is hard. Love is harder.”  Alice Sterne

“Manhattan. Sometimes from beyond the skyscrapers, across the hundreds of thousands of  high walls, the cry of a tugboat finds you in your insomnia in the middle of the night, and you remember that this desert of iron and cement is an island.”        Albert Camus

“The ugly duckling felt worse than ever.”    Hans Christian Andersen



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Chapter 1:  Quite The Lady


Carla Packard spoke enthusiastically to her cell phone. “Yes, ma’am! I’ll make those three rooms as handsome as the Taj Mahal. But understand, when contractors say a week, they mean when they return from Atlantic City in a week, they’ll talk about it.” The client laughed. There’s progress. “Yes, yes,” Carla smiled back, standing on Park Avenue near 83rd Street, “patience is the supreme virtue. Along with the others, of course.” Always, Carla thought, give the clients something deep to ponder. I am such a bargain.

She clicked off, lining up the day’s remaining appointments. The deco furniture guy at three. The couple at four who might redo their SoHo co-op--perhaps even in this lifetime. Then the personal trainer, a sadist who had found his niche. What a happy guy! Followed by the Tommy Hilfiger party at six. And dinner with her husband at seven-thirty. Dear wonderful Tom!

Carla, a striking young woman in a brightly colored silk dress, scanned northward up Park Avenue for an oncoming cab. She stood straight, with her shoulders back, and looked taller than her five-five height. She gave the impression of being relaxed, unhurried, entirely comfortable with herself. The city jutted up sharply around her. She loved the strength and rhythms of the architecture. The city’s pace, which once struck her as so frantic, had become familiar and normal. A warm breeze wafted over from Central Park, stirring her auburn hair. Manhattan in the spring felt so good. Life felt good. A few months later, she would marvel at these upbeat minutes on Park Avenue; everything was disintegrating but she had no sense of it.

“Okay,” she lectured herself. “let’s get to work. Improve the world, help people, set high goals...”

She couldn’t see a cab for blocks. Park Avenue, with its flower-filled median, stretched away toward Harlem...She thought of Steven and his gorgeous technical skills. The man could paint like Salvadore Dali if he wished to. She imagined Dali’s Crucifixion, that startling and quite huge painting with the eight massive gold cubes in the form of a cross. Steven’s pale and angular body hung suspended against rococo skies above upper Manhattan. Oh, sorry, Steven! Well, everything for art, my boy. She smiled inwardly. Why he ever talked to me, I’ll never understand. Oh well, I don’t think I’ll be seeing him anymore. Ahh, here we go....

A taxi veered down Park toward her. Carla snapped her arm up in that commanding way that declared: See that cab? Don’t you dare step near it.

 

When she slid inside, she sang out, “Time to rock and roll!” She duly noted the driver’s puzzled, maybe annoyed face. “Okay! How about 48th and Second? Can we do that?”

Tom cautioned her not to joke with people--they wouldn’t understand. They’d be angry. Or they’d fall in love and stalk her. Her? Carla Packard knew this was silly; more likely, she’d be the stalker. Okay, okay, she was learning to be quite the lady, or to fake it anyway. She hoped she didn’t lose the gee-whiz part. Manhattanites could be so tough. What were these people made of? Boiled stock certificates perhaps? Carla often guessed she was having more fun.

 

At least, she thought, I have the good sense to be endlessly grateful. Carla supposed that some day she could be a successful business lady, maybe even an outstanding citizen. But in her heart she suspected she would always be a waif shivering in the cold, not sure how she survived.

Basso horns and screeching tires crashed through her thoughts. She gripped a door handle...Look how this maniac drives in bumper-to-bumper traffic. It’s the melting pot--guy comes from Turkey, thinks he’s in NASCAR. Hey, buddy. Slow down. We’ll live longer. That is such a sensible, grown-up thought. Five-ten years ago I’d be screaming, Hey, if it’ll make you feel better, hit the guy!! Wow. I was a fat broad with a big mouth. Maybe I’m making progress.

     
 


Chapter 2:  Your Evidence


Gallagher walked slowly, stolidly up Fifth Avenue. Saint Patrick's Cathedral a block ahead. His favorite client wanted to meet in a church? Probably a bad sign. Gallagher patted the video cassette in his jacket pocket. Damn, I hate this part. Client's young wife playing around. I got to hand this over, say, Hey, how about them Yankees? Have a nice day, Mr. Packard.  

The old cop wiped his neck. Early June and it's hot already. He scowled at tourists in front of Rockefeller Center. Have a big time, you silly bastards. Don't forget to get mugged. He smiled as if in pain.

Gallagher crossed Fifth toward Saint Pat’s and lumbered up the granite steps toward the huge doors. Inside, the feeling was dark, cool, quiet. A lot of people around, a lot of bowed heads. The front of the altar brightly lit, a priest in white standing there. Midday mass, Gallagher thought. I love this place but it still gives me the creeps.  

He scanned the pews until he found the client's head. Dark gun-metal gray hair, sleekly combed. The guy always looked like he just came from a barber. Distinguished in a tough way. Easy to pick out. Gallagher started down the aisle, heavily, warily. He sighted an empty pew, crossed to the far left a few rows behind the client, then walked up beside him.

Tom Packard looked up with elaborate casualness. "Gallagher, my friend. How are you today?"

"Doing good. How about you?" Gallagher grimaced. Boy, that sounded dumb. How the hell could he be doing?

Gallagher eased down beside the client, who watched him with a soft, unruffled expression. Guy in his three thousand dollar suit, the beautiful custom-made shirt, everything just right. Manners too, always slow and polite. Like he's got all the time in the world for you, never mind the goddamned fights he’s in and the big deals hanging. The client looked back toward the altar, didn't say anything. People were coming down for communion. Hmm, maybe Tommy says a few prayers, goes kamikaze, beats hell out of this artist guy messing with young Carla. That’s what I’d do. Of course, that’d be assuming I’m hare-brained enough to marry a sweet young thing in the first place.

 

"You a Catholic, Mr. Packard?"

"No."

Both spoke softly, even though no one was near them.  

"So...why are we here?"

"It's peaceful."

Gallagher’s face twitched. What’s that got to do with the price of bagels? "It is that."

Tom glanced at the old cop. "I'm getting interested in what they do here....You think that guy knows something we don't?"

"What guy?"

"Gallagher--the priest."

"Used to know Latin."

Tom smiled indulgently. “Try again."

"Know what?” Gallagher’s voice was like old bricks. “He's not banging somebody in the choir, maybe an altar boy, I'm tickled pink."

Tom focused on Gallagher's rumpled khaki suit, the tired face, the pitted skin, the hard blue eyes, the old prize fighter’s thick body. In his middle fifties, Gallagher still looked dangerous. "So, my friend...what do you have for me?"

Gallagher moved uncomfortably. His right hand reached for the cassette, lifted it out delicately. He waited for Tom to take it away from him.

Tom didn’t move. "Well?"

"Really, Mr. Packard, I feel bad about this."

"No reason, Gallagher. You did your job. And quickly, I might add."

"You did say the magic words. Don't worry what it costs."

"No, you shouldn’t.”

"Lots of waiting on this job, Mr. Packard. And some hi-tech stuff."

"I understand that."

Gallagher peered morosely atthe priest gesticulating, the people kneeling. He pushed the cassette at the client.

Tom put it in his coat pocket. "This the only copy?"

"Yes, sir."

"You looked at it?"

"I had to make sure you got your...evidence. Just me. I did the job alone."

More silence. Tom staring again at the mass, Gallagher watching him closely. The client was a trim man, not that big, but he had one of those big actor heads. He always looked bigger in photographs than he really was. He always looked rich and manicured.

 

“Anything else?"

Tom studied him for a moment; he knew how Gallagher thought. A mean ex-cop, great at his work, but his first thought was to smack people around. "No," Tom announced gently, "that's it."

"Good..." Gallagher shifted unhappily. "Uh, you going to look at it?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

Gallagher muttered, "Hmmp."

"You don't have to worry. We'll work it out."

Gallagher smiled in a glum way. Jesus, I was figuring shoot one, at least, haha. Ask me, Tommy’d like to kick some butt. The way he's drumming those fingers. Some tension in the jaw. What the hell, Tommy's so  smooth, who the hell knows what's on his mind? There's noisy tough guys, Gallagher thought. Then there's the quiet ones like Tommy. Any day I'd rather go up against the noisy ones. Not so many goddamned surprises. Punks mostly. Gallagher decided he'd take one more swing. Semper fi, anything for the client. "So I'm done."

Tom's expression turned amused, or maybe it was patronizing. "Gallagher, I've given this some thought. I want to do what's right."

Gallagher couldn’t believe this. Why'd he go to all this trouble? Run up a bill for $4OOO? "Maybe...you could tell me what that looks like."

"Understanding, I guess. Forgiveness...That's the best way, don't you think?" Tom heard himself speaking, the tone of the words. They sounded exactly right. He hoped he meant them. No--he meant them. What he hoped was that he could live up to them.

The old cop got slowly to his feet. That look was patronizing. Guy wants to lecture me about fuckin’ forgiveness. Screw you, Tommy boy. You're on your own now. Jesus, I worked for this guy--what?--seven years, ever since I went private. A real stand-up guy. Tough Tommy Packard. Where’s that guy?

Gallagher put out a big hand. Tom shook it warmly. "Gallagher? Let's just hope in this case you're wrong."

Gallagher choked a little. Bastard can read my mind. The quiet ones, always the worst. "Right, Boss. I bet I am."

Tom stared up at him. Very composed. “Thanks for your good work."

"Any time." Gallagher nodded good-bye and walked toward Fifth Avenue.

 

When he looked back, the client was still sitting there. Up by the altar, a priest was raising his arms. A church, Gallagher thought, it had to be a bad sign. Tommy--that priest, about some guy messing with your wife--that priest don't know shit. You listening?

Gallagher walked out into the sunlight, feeling worse than when he came in.

Tom Packard sat motionless for another ten minutes, watching people take communion, analysing their faces, wondering what they were feeling. Wondering if he talked too much to Gallagher. Hell, Tom thought, I figured if I could say it in front of him, I could do it. Gallagher’s a shrewd old cop, but I bet he's got no idea how hard that was for me.

Tom stared high up in the cathedral. I think this place helped. Supposed to be angels up there.

 

 

Chapter 3:  A Separate Country


Steven Merrick, on his hands and knees, looked down at her, savoring her unusual face. The way the features melded perfectly but not quite. He kissed her nose. His long black hair swept her forehead. He stared at her for a quizzical moment, as if trying to figure out something about her or himself... This Carla, he thought, she’s not at all what I thought.

"What?" she finally asked. "What?"

Steven shrugged. "Perhaps you'd like to see a certain new portrait. I think it's finished."
"Of Lesli? I can't wait."

“Yes,” Steven laughed darkly, "our dear friend Lesli." He jumped to his feet beside the bed and strode across the big cluttered studio.

 

Steven was as lean and sinewy as a greyhound, and with that same restless, pent-up feeling. He came from Missouri, but in Manhattan people always assumed he was Italian or perhaps Hispanic. Steven seized a big canvas with both hands, and swung it around. It was nearly his height.

Carla stood up more slowly and followed him. Critically, she studied the painting. Lesli in a formal but slinky turquoise gown, standing imperiously in a grand living room. A gigantic arrangement of orange and burgundy flowers along the right side. Lesli ageless, handsome, seductive, haughty.

Carla Packard inhaled the sweet, unhealthy smell of wet oil paints. That is great," she said decisively. What Cezanne did with oranges, Steven did with people. This boy could outwhistle Whistler. “A perfect likeness. Of course. Quite a clever composition. But these exquisite harmonies. This color and this--I could do a co-op with those exact colors and everyone would say it was beautiful. People would scream and go mad from pleasure.”

Steven grinned at Carla’s extreme language. “The harmonies are human,” he explained mildly, nodding approval of the colors she chose. “Go to MOMA and look at Matisse. Even after a hundred years, the harmonies are still radical, but not quite human. There’s one with green and black and burgundy that makes me shiver. Matisse might actually make people go mad. I believe it. I try to stay just this side of Matisse.”

Steven propped the painting against a table. Then he walked behind Carla and tightened his arms around her, his chin on her shoulder. "People think it's easy for me." His tone became tentative and vulnerable. "Really, I went down some dead-ends on this one. Every painting is a war. ”

Carla imagined a vast battlefield where all the opposing soldiers were paintings. They had cute little arms and legs, like the cards in Alice in Wonderland. Instead of bullets, the paintings fired off vicious put-downs. “Well, buddy, you won this one!”

They stared in silence at the big portrait. To his great surprise, he enjoyed seeing his work through Carla’s eyes. She had good judgment, made smart comments. But what intrigued him was that she didn’t calculate effects; there was a simplicity about her, a transparency. At first he had thought this was pretended, or even foolish or simple. How could anyone be so open? Now this was the quality he liked most. Manhattan was overrun by brains, talent, power, money, ambition, ruthlessness, whatever you wanted. But sincerity?! There was an unexpected surprise.  

"No question," Carla nodded decisively, "Lesli will love it."

 "Thanks. Well, Lesli introduced us, I'm grateful for that. But don't spend much time with that woman."

Carla reflected a moment. "She's nice enough. Interesting for sure."

"She's out of control," Steven complained. "She says to me, 'And how is Carla?' And she winked. It's all I can do to keep her dressed."

Carla laughed good-naturedly. “That's her act."

"You know what your problem is, Carla? I am quite serious. You could get along with anyone. That is not a compliment." Steven turned her around and pushed a strand of hair aside so he could stare into her green eyes. "You're very generous. I realize this more and more. Not to mention all your other lovely--"

“Now, now,” Carla teased him to silence.

His hand slid down her hip and he kissed her mouth.    

 
"No, Steven...I'll be late."

"Are you sure you can't stay?"

"Quite sure."

"What would happen if you stayed another hour?"

"No way. Tom's very punctual--"

Steven frowned, letting her go.

“And I am very punctual. I know--boring. We can’t all lead the artist life.” She stared at his shaggy hair and fierce eyes, the determined nose and full mouth. "What's wrong?"

He smiled like an uncertain teenager. "I actually don't like it when you say his name." Gesturing vaguely with both hands, Steven announced: "You know how jealous I am." He said the words to hear how they sounded. Awkward. A little overblown. But also, he realized, true.  

“Steven. I’m thrilled to be your friend. Nothing else needs to be said.”

Nothing else? Amazing, Steven thought, that’s where all the others start, and wouldn’t stop. "Well, I tried."

"You're so very sweet." She went to pick up her clothes.

Steven paced about, studying the portrait from different angles. Carla glanced at him. He was cool and aloof again, the great artist in his studio. Good! She thought back to what he had just said. No, no. He shouldn’t carry on like that. They were pals, only pals. For another thing, she had no  illusions about how ordinary she was, and what a phenom he was. I, Carla smiled to herself, will do the fussing around here.  

She checked herself in a big mirror. The main thing, she thought, is that Steven has just tremendous integrity. She knew he would never do anything to harm her.

As she moved toward the door, Steven walked beside her. "I want to paint you," he declared.  

She laughed at the idea. "I doubt I can afford you."

"We might be able to work something out."

"You're a genius," she said happily, changing the subject. “’The best’--and I quote from the Times--‘of the New Realists.’ That's all that matters."

"Now you’re on your way," Steven said casually, as if to reassure her he was joking all along. His voice was deeper, and more country, than she expected when she first saw him. He weighed about 160, but he had a heavier man’s voice.  

“Of course, I am." Carla leaned to give him a goodbye peck.  

"I'll perhaps see you again some day?" He held the door open.  

 
"Maybe." That was the right tone, the way it had to be. "Bye-bye. Your Lesli is a stunner."

 

As she moved into the hall, Carla glanced over Steven's shoulder at Lesli, close to life-size, staring at her from across the studio. Lesli seemed to wink. Go, girl.

The door slammed shut. In the decrepit hallway, waiting for the elevator, Carla played over Steven’s criticism of Lesli. Alone in the jumpy elevator, Carla heard Lesli’s amused and musical voice: "Do listen to me, Carla sweetheart. You have a rich husband. Your own business. Everything a young woman could want. Except perhaps a special friend or two. Tom works sixty hours a week. Not so young anymore. Believe me, Carla, he'll expect it. This is where we women are smarter today. We have our diversions too."

Carla walked out to the hot, noisy sidewalk on West 18th, remembering how offended she was by Lesli’s oh-so-worldly comments. Sex might not be such a big deal, but one ought to be best of friends, don’t you think? Mutual respect and all that. Diversions? It sounded so corrupt and jaded.

Ah well, as Lesli had preached more than once, “This is Manhattan, my dear Carla. It is quite a separate country. The rules are different here. The rest of the country doesn’t approve. And we like that.”  

Carla strode loosely east toward Fifth Avenue, plotting how many minutes she would need by cab, if she can find one, or by bus if she walked to Madison, or by subway if she took the R train...Now if I was late because a fire shut down the subway, I could tell Tom and that'd be fine. If I'm late because I'm with Steven, I wouldn't tell Tom the truth and I wouldn't lie about it. So there's no way I could stay later. Steven should understand all this.

Carla sighed. “Oh well, he’s just a boy.”  

--

After Carla left, Steven Merrick painted six more hours, sipping from a bottle of wine, then took a cab down to Saigon, the restaurant of the hour in SoHo. He strolled in looking distracted; wearing jeans, black tee shirt, black jacket, with a piece of silver costume jewelry on the lapel, a bucking bronco. A hundred voices, talking at once, filled the chic space with a choppy music. So much talent, so much ambition, an average person would scurry in fright back to Des Moines.

 

Steven maneuvered for the long table where his friends hung out, artists, critics, dealers, lovers.

Alixe, an Elite model, very blonde, waved and called out, "Steven. Over here." She made room and he moved a chair into the center of the table. People nodding, muttering greetings. "Where have you been," she complained. "It's almost eleven."

"Work, work, work," Steven declared. He signaled to a waitress. "Cheeseburger medium, Corona."

"Did you paint something beautiful?" Alixe asked. Her manner was languid and ethereal. "You look tired." She studied him carefully, and proprietorily.  

"I put in twelve hours. A good day." He sat very still, slumped in his chair. Seeing Carla...

 

The man across from him objected, "What's beautiful got to do with it?"

Steven squinted at this large, soft man in a brown corduroy jacket. "For me, a lot."

"Oh, come on...Who are you?"

"Steven Merrick," somebody answered, as if it was common knowledge.

 
"Oh, I know...Well, it's what you've got to say that counts."

Steven stared at the other man for a long moment, not interested in him at all. "Says who?"

"John Paulson," the woman beside him answered. "He had a major installation in the last Whitney Biennial."

Steven shrugged pleasantly. "Good for you, John."

"Steven," somebody asked, "you saw it, didn't you? What'd you think?"

"You don't want to know."

"Sure I do," Paulson insisted with aggressive confidence. When Steven didn’t answer, he pushed on: "You're doing that nineteenth century thing, right? Dead end, isn't it?"

"I think of it as twenty-first century."  

Paulson spoke to the table. "Seriously, who cares what Andrew Wyeth paints? Or is he dead? Or was he always dead?"

People laughed at that. The restaurant was dimly lit. Steven experienced the darkness as a force pressing on him, the night’s dark sky pressing down through the building. Faint stars seemed to glitter about the room. "Be honest," he almost whispered. "You couldn’t mix paints for a man like Wyeth."

Paulson grinned in derision. "I wouldn't want to. I have better things to do."

"I believe that show was ugly," Steven insisted. “The world got uglier because of that show."

"Steven. Wait..." Alixe pulled at his arm.

A dealer tried to calm thing down. "We need all kinds of art."

"It's got to be new," a high voice insisted.

"It's a question of politics,” Paulson argued, “of transforming the world through a better wisdom."

Steven frowned. "What are we talking about? Usual academic bull?"

"My installation dealt with the environment. It's transcendentally important."

The waitress handed a Corona over to Steven. He tried to concentrate on enjoying the beer. He had heard all these arguments a hundred times, and wasn’t interested in yet another take. The art world had definite opinions about everything. But those opinions changed every few years. Steven saw a path that didn’t change. All his people lived to be old. In fifty years, he was sure he would still be trying to do what what he was doing today, paint the perfect emblem of the world.  

"Well?" Paulson pushed. "Don't you see my point?"

Steven remembered Carla's faraway expressions. This bright, elusive quality she had. Like glints on the ocean. She seemed always to be receding. He twisted restlessly in his chair. Damn it. Who the hell is Carla Packard anyway? Nobody!  

“Congratulations on your major installation, John. I'm sure many people were bored."

"Steven," somebody complained, "lighten up."

Paulson smiled sarcastically. "Merrick. Don't you get it? You're ancient history. Why bother?"

Steven stood violently, reaching for the other man's shirt.

 

Paulson leaned away. His chair toppled backward and he rolled heavily on his side, grinning awkwardly. "Of course," he said, rising unsteadily to his feet, "if you don't have history on your side..."

Steven spoke with brutal emphasis: “You pompous fuck.” He stood very still, tense, almost shaking, glaring at the other artist, daring him to sit back at the table.

People leaning, half-standing, trying to see what happened.

 
"Steven. Don’t hurt him.”

"Come on, Steven. This isn't right."

"It was an awful show," somebody admitted. “Sorry, John. Everybody thought so."

Steven seemed to lose interest. The tension went out of his body. “Learn to paint, Paulson. Then we'll talk." Steven looked down at the beautiful model. "Alixe, would you like to get out of here?"

"You didn't eat....all right." She stood beside him.

 
Steven threw a twenty on the table. "See you later, nice people."

"Bye."

"Bye, Steven."

Paulson, with a complacent smile as if he had been entirely victorious, eased back in his chair.  

Chapter 4:  How Big A Deal Could It Be


Carla leaned away from her husband. "You look so great in a dinner jacket." She smoothed his lapel, then used both hands to straighten his bowtie. "You’re a handsome man, Tom Packard.”

They curved about the crowded dance floor. The big party a Renoir blur for Carla--the Waldorf's baroque decor, the women's colorful dresses, the men's black attire. The Real Estate Institute of New York Proudly Invites You To Our Annual Dinner Dance for 1998. The people, to Carla, older, aggressive, money-mad, power-crazy, and occasionally entertaining. Tom had to be here, it was business. For Carla it was more of an excursion to an exotic theme park. And you never knew when you might meet a great new client.

Tom admired her bare shoulders, the dark blue dress low-cut but dignified. "You're looking very good yourself."

Carla shrugged, dismissing what he said. She brushed a bit of lint from his shoulder, then put her hands around his neck. "I have noticed," she said in a playful, coquettish voice, "a number of women staring at you."

"They were wondering how I got such a pretty wife."

"Fiddlesticks. I suspect they were trying to figure out how to get you alone."

"Never happen." He pulled her back in and kissed her in that formal way of his. Moving smoothly, really a very good dancer. Carla relaxed, trusting his lead, trusting everything about him.

She's twenty years younger, Tom thought. More--twenty-nine to fifty-one. I'll be glad when she's thirty, won't sound so far apart. Never mind the numbers, she's a lot younger, that's the point. But she treats me more like a mother than my own mother ever did.

Tom remembered worrying that Carla might be fooling him, to get close to his money. He expected to have to carry his young wife, build her up. She had quickly reversed the roles, doting on him, building him up. Now he felt ashamed of his suspicions. "I feel bad about this." He heard Gallagher's worried voice in his head. Anything else? Jesus, a mean ex-cop like Gallagher starts feeling sorry for you, that's unsettling.

 

Tom felt the anger start up again. The temptation to use force. No, that's the old way. Carla deserves better.

I shouldn't have given Gallagher the go-ahead. What was I going to do with a video? Drop it in her lap, say, "Cut the crap." Slap her face? I sent this gorilla to spy on her--maybe she wouldn't ever forgive that.

Tom thought things over during the day, decided this party might be a good setting. Give a little nudge. If they're chatting in public, crowds of people around, how big a deal could it be? He was waiting for a good moment.

 
The song ended. Carla glanced at his face, sensed something. "What??"

"Let's go back to the table."

Two men talking loudly saw Tom. The big, red-faced one shouted, "Buddy, how are you?" He pulled his friend close to him, stage-whispered: "That's Tom Packard. Tough Tommy. Be careful. This goy will cut your balls off...Tom! Meet my friend Hank."

They shook hands. The friend said, "I've heard about you."

Tom said, "My wife Carla." She smiled and shook their hands.

 
"Honored," the big man boomed. "I'm Jerry. What a party, huh? Come on, Tom, what you got going?"

"Nothing special."

The big man wrapped an arm around Tom's neck. "Oh, nothing special? Big bullshit artist. I'll never forget that building on 52nd. We're all agreed, and this prick holds the contract up over some piece of bullshit. Holds it up four months. So he can fuck me out of--what was it, Tommy?--couple points on some performance bond?"

"Three per cent."

The man was almost choking Tom, laughing all the time. "Sonofabitch has to beat me out of three points. I can't believe I'm still talking to the guy. Seriously, I want a piece, Tommy. Whatever you got, I'll take a piece."

Carla loved the way her husband stood there calmly, not moving the whole time this lunatic was hanging on him.

The big man finally let Tom go, stood back grinning. He whispered to his friend again: "Tom's got my balls in brass somewhere. Go to his office! You'll find 'em. Tommy! Damn your ass, I want in."

"There are a few things....A mall in Westchester you might like."

"Mall? Westchester? You like it?"

"We've got some new concepts. Carla's a designer." Tom glanced at her. "She gave us some fresh thinking. We’re going to color-code the whole place."

The big man straightened up, reflected a few seconds. "What do you need? Ten million? Twenty? You got it."

"Let's talk tomorrow."

"You're not getting away. I'm in! Right?!"

"Of course, Jerry."

"Great. Done. Great seeing you two. Carla, sweetheart, nice meeting you." The big man and his friend nodded goodbye and moved unsteadily on, already talking about something else.

Carla watched them a moment, then turned smiling to her husband. "That guy can talk!” She winked. “You really have his balls in your office?"

Tom smiled his worldly smile. "Guy like Jerry keeps looking until he finds someone he can't screw right away, then he wants to get married. People want what they can’t have."

A new song had started. Carla followed the bass line. That’s the instrument she would play. Couples eased past them onto the dance floor. Carla asked, “Seriously? You see Jerry writing a check tomorrow?"

“He'll want to rough me up for a while. Then maybe."

They returned to their chairs at a big round table for ten. Red flowers in the center, drink glasses and coffee cups scattered about. An older man, gaunt-faced and fidgety, seated across from them, muttered, "...all my life I built things. Now it's a full-time fight just to keep things from falling apart."

"Sidney," his wife begged several times. "Please."

"It's the truth," another man broke in. "Tough doing business here."

The old man slumped down, looking too small for his tux. His face twitched. "My rabbi says to be Jewish means you're socially activist. Last week I tell him, I'm ready to strangle somebody in City Hall. That count?”

"Sidney!" The old lady wiped his mouth with a napkin, to shut him up.

The man on the other side of Carla kvetched about dealing with the city's EPA.

"That's really interesting," Tom heard her saying. He leaned forward on his elbows, watching her. She appeared entirely focused on this guy and his not-very-interesting problems. It's a gift she has, Tom thought. A young, attractive woman. I don't think she knows it sometimes. Seems she's getting prettier with age. Working out, great looking clothes. I thought it's partly because of me, that I've been good for her....

Tom felt the anger again, forced himself to listen to the man telling Carla, "Revenue enhancement, they call it. You hear bull like that, you know you're dead. They can't get enough money from taxes so they prey on people who own buildings."

"That's terrible," Carla sympathized.

"Damn,” the man said bitterly, "I think about this stuff, I need another drink." He stood up.  

Tom studied the side of her face. What's that word...gamine? Something boyish maybe, but so subtle he doubted many people noticed. They were dating, Tom remembered, and Carla joked about what a terrible tomboy she was at fifteen, maybe that put the thought in his head.  

"Leave me alone.” The old man pushed away the napkin. "I'm going crazy. So the world shouldn't know?" Carla felt sorry for the old man's wife. She was so frustrated and painfully self-conscious.

Tom nudged Carla with his shoulder, tilted his head close. “Maybe you want to take a little vacation.”

"What?" Carla shifted to give him her attention. His face had a stillness, a gravity, she found reassuring. "Why? You need a break?"

"I was thinking you weren't in the best mood. We could shoot over to the Costa del Sol. You always like that."

"I'm not in a good mood?"

"Maybe something's bothering you.” He spoke quietly, levelly. “I would want to know."

Carla smiled, deeply pleased by his concern. She spoke close to his face. "Tom, I couldn’t be happier."

"Good." Tom glanced at a couple walking by. What did he expect? She would confide in him? Why should she? She might just change her actions. 'I couldn't be happier,' she said. Doesn’t add up. Maybe I didn't do that right. Tom stared at his young wife. "Just checking. I want you to be happy."

She kissed him enthusiastically. "Pal of mine--you got it!"

"Sidney, no," the old woman pleaded. “You've had enough to drink."

The old husband grumbled. Carla smiled. In a far part of her mind, she saw herself like that, taking care of Tom when he was older. Not dreading this; looking forward to it actually. He'd be more dependent on her. Not like now. Tom was rich, strong, successful. Relentlessly self-made and self-sufficient. How much could he need her? If some criminals drowned her in the East River, if she vanished forever into the Staten Island garbage dump, would he even notice? Wouldn’t he find someone else right away?

Sometimes Carla woke up frightened, dizzy, wondering why he married her in the first place. Maybe he felt sorry for her, or married her as a sort of reclamation project. The Pygmalion story. Oh yes, let’s try to make a lady out of this one. Good luck, old chap! Or maybe, this was the most burdensome theory, he chose her because she was so inferior, she would be easier to control.

No, she reassured herself, he likes me too. I’m sure of it. As the years spin by, we'll grow closer. He'll really need me.

 
Carla stared into Tom’s eyes. "I want you to be happy." Being useful to Tom, to people in general, that was what she most deeply enjoyed, she knew that much about herself, about life. "Tom," she kissed him again, "you're completely wonderful. Now, do I get the next dance?"

His voice was hard and flat. “Of course. The next and the next."

Carla experienced his voice, his cologne, instuments starting up, the women’s dresses like flowers in a black woods, light glaring off the tablecloth, the old man’s parchment skin--all swirled together into an intelligent collage. “The Beatles,” she whispered. “I’m afraid they’re going to mangle it.”

“Sorry. Paul and Ringo were out of our price range.”

“Next year,” Carla exclaimed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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©Bruce Deitrick Prrice 2011

Completed.

Logline: good woman shows bad judgment. Romantic tragedy ensues.

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