The City When It Rains by Thomas H. Cook
Jeffrey called for the waiter and ordered another scotch. “So, what do you think?” he asked. “About my helping out a bit. Just between the two of us, of course. Lexie couldn’t know, and neither could Lucy for that matter.”
Corman actually found himself thinking about it. “How would I explain where the money came from?” he asked, after a moment.
Jeffrey shrugged. “A rich uncle?”
“I don’t think so, Jeffrey.”
“Use your imagination,” Jeffrey said insistently.
Corman shook his head. “No.”
Jeffrey looked at Corman intently. “Does that mean you won’t allow me to help you?”
“I don’t see how it could be arranged.”
Jeffrey eased himself back in his chair, his face now very stern. “David, I have to tell you, Lexie is very, very concerned about the way you live. She’s very concerned about the effect it will have on Lucy.”
Corman listened and said nothing. He wondered how it must feel to see the world as Jeffrey saw it, a place where no prize game was so rare it couldn’t ultimately be sighted through the cross hairs of his checkbook. And yet, there was another side to him as well, and as he watched him, Corman could see it as if in pentimento behind his face. He was scared, as Corman thought Joanna’s husband must be scared, his eyes forever drifting down toward the lump in his groin. Jeffrey had the same, faintly panicked look, time breathing down his neck, sucking up his days, whispering incessantly that he was dying, dying, dying, that he could not afford a single moment’s loss. “I wish I could help you out, Jeffrey,” he said.
Jeffrey looked at him oddly. “Help me out?”
“In this situation,” Corman explained. “With Lexie.”
Jeffrey nodded peremptorily, then looked at Corman solemnly. “Well, I think you should know that she’s getting more and more adamant about this whole thing,” he said. “And I honestly think that she might sue for custody.”
Corman’s fleeting sympathy for Jeffrey’s mortality withered instantly. “She left Lucy,” he reminded him sternly. “Winning her back won’t be easy.”
“She left under difficult circumstances,” Jeffrey said. “And ‘left’ is a little strong. She never really abandoned Lucy.” He smiled tentatively. “She had to find herself. When she did, she fell in love.”
“With you.”
“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “But I understand that in matters of fidelity, you had your own problems.”
“Proving that won’t be easy,” Corman said.
“It’s an old story anyway, David,” Jeffrey said dismissively. “And we both know it. The real question now is what would be best for Lucy. Lexie has one idea. I have another. And I guess you have a third?”
“That’s right.”
“Which is for her to stay with you.”
“Yeah.”
“In the same apartment, on the same street, going to the same school,” Jeffrey said, as if he were ticking off the descending circles of Hell.
Corman nodded.
Jeffrey shook his head. “It won’t do, David,” he said wearily. “It really won’t. Lexie is becoming obsessed with this whole question, and I’m sure you have a very good idea of what that’s like.”
Corman watched him silently, half-contemplating his offer once again. He was not really sure why he’d refused it so quickly. Was it pride? If it were pride, then it was wrong. Why should Lucy be deprived of things because he was too proud to provide them in any way he could, even this way, a discreet arrangement between two worldly gentlemen, arrived at in the muted elegance of the Bull and Bear while the stock prices streamed silently above them like a lighted pennant.
“David,” Jeffrey said sincerely, “Lucy’s a very bright little girl. She’s not being served by that school, and you know it. What’s to gain by keeping her in it? What’s to gain by staying in that apartment, on that street? What’s to gain for either one of you?”
Corman realized that he absolutely did not have an answer, and he could feel the lack of it at the very center of himself, a dull, dead space that insisted upon its right to exist without a conscious reason, purpose or claim on anything.
“I could understand how you would feel if it were a question of losing her,” Jeffrey went on. “But that’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
Corman shook his head. “I can’t, Jeffrey,” he said, then repeated it. “I just can’t.” He got to his feet immediately. “I don’t know why.”
Jeffrey stared at him imploringly. “Please think about it,” he said.
“I can’t,” Corman repeated as if it were part of an addled litany. “I can’t.” He pulled on his coat and his hat, and felt the clammy chill that had gathered in them. “No. No. No.”
He picked Lucy up at Maria’s and then the two of them walked the short distance to the apartment. Lucy sometimes ran ahead of him, her body moving in a zigzag pattern along the sidewalk, her bright yellow rain-slicker perfectly visible despite the slightly foggy air. As he continued to walk at some distance behind her, Corman realized that he liked the way she ran in the streets, the way her head was always turning left and right, as if she were searching for something, an oddly torn window shade or dark, mysterious alley, something with a story that could not go untold.
Once in the apartment, she quickly completed her homework while Corman struggled with dinner in the small kitchen, whipping up a quick meal from a mound of hamburger meat, a small scattering of frozen french fries, the few remaining leaves of lettuce which had managed to survive for one more day.
They ate together quietly, savoring the simple relaxing calm more than the food, then sat down on the sofa. Lucy took a copy of The Secret Garden, a luxury edition Lexie had given her, and began to read aloud.
He listened silently while she nestled beneath his arm. He relished her voice and looked forward to its changes, just as he looked forward to the day when she would leave him. Because of that, it seemed to him that loneliness was not the issue, that the fact that he would miss her was not enough to keep her with him. If Lexie went through with the custody suit, he would fight for Lucy with an animal rapaciousness, but he also knew it was not her presence he would be fighting for. His life would be easier without her. As to love, he would always love her, and be loved by her. Even love was not the issue with him, but he was not exactly sure what was.
“What’s this word?” Lucy asked suddenly.
Corman glanced down toward the word she was pointing to. “Obtuse,” he said.
“What does it mean?”
“Stupid,” Corman told her. “That’s the usual meaning.”
“You mean like dumb?”
“Sort of.”
“Like retarded?”
“No, not like that,” Corman said. “Dense. You know, hard to get through to.”
Lucy nodded. “Oh,” she said. “Like someone who doesn’t get it.”
“That’s right.”
Lucy smiled then went on reading.
Corman eased himself back into the sofa, closed his eyes and tried to relax. Her voice curled around him, very soft and youthful. He drew her in more closely, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, squeezing gently but steadily until she finally stopped reading and glanced up at him.
“Let go,” she said, jerking her shoulders right and left to loosen his grip.
“Sorry,” Corman said quickly.
She looked at him accusingly. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what I read.”
“Just keep going,” Corman told her sternly.
She gave him a doubtful glance then began reading again.
He kept his arm delicately around her shoulders, but didn’t try to draw her more firmly into his embrace. He didn’t want to hold her down, tie her up or crush her. He wasn’t sure what he wanted for her, or even what he could provide. Jeffrey had been right about everything, just as Lexie would be right
And yet? And yet?
It struck Corman that at the center of every conclusion there was always a lingering “And yet?” It haunted every fixed idea, troubling, discordant, a quavering at the core.
He shook his head silently, still listening as Lucy continued to read beside him. He tried to think of all the other fathers who’d listened to their children read while just beyond the door the wolves had howled through the night, war, fire, plague, poverty, all the bad faith of the age. He doubted that any one of them would have been able to prove how much he loved his children, worked for them, and taught them. Not even a thousand expert pictures could prove what he had done.
And yet?
CHAPTER
TWENTY
“NEED A LIFT to school?”
Corman turned around, reflexively reaching for Lucy’s hand, then tilted the umbrella slightly upward to find a face to go with the voice behind him.
Victor stood in a long black leather coat and shimmering red scarf. “I’m the rider in the rain,” he said grandly, then stretched his arms toward Lucy in a perfect portrait of the outlaw in his pride.
Lucy smiled excitedly. “Hi, Uncle Victor.” She ran to him and leaped into his arms. There was something in Victor’s wildness that had always drawn her to him.
Victor held her tightly in his arms, kissed her softly and whispered something in her ear, then lowered her back to the sidewalk, his eyes drifting up to Corman as he released her. “Hello, brother,” he said.
“Hello, Victor.” Corman stepped toward him, and they shook hands.
“I thought I might give you a ride this morning.” Victor nodded toward a small black sedan. “As you can see, I brought my wheels.”
“Yeah, great,” Lucy said brightly.
Victor opened the door, watched as she scrambled in, then turned to Corman. “Good to see you, David.”
“You too,” Corman said. He walked to the passenger side and slid into the car, the umbrella resting awkwardly between his legs.
Victor pulled away from the curb, sped around the block, then stopped in front of Lucy’s school. “This close enough?” he asked her jokingly. “Or should I drive you to the classroom?”
Lucy leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “ ’Bye, Uncle Victor. Thanks for the ride.”
“Nice kid,” Victor said as he watched her dart up the stairs. He turned to Corman and smiled teasingly. “You don’t deserve her.”
“When did you get back?” Corman asked.
“Early this morning. The red-eye from Las Vegas.” He inched the car back into the traffic, moving down the street toward Ninth Avenue. “It was a pretty good game. Some moderately heavy hitters.”
“How’d you do?”
“A living,” Victor said. He stopped at the light on the corner and drew in a deep breath. “So, how have you been?”
“Okay.”
The light changed, and Victor turned left onto Ninth Avenue, heading downtown. “You going anywhere in particular this morning?” he asked.
Corman shrugged.
“Well, do you have time for breakfast?”
“Yeah.”
“Good for you, David,” Victor said, then smiled the charming, open-faced smile that Corman knew had pierced a thousand unprotected hearts.
They parked near a small diner in Chelsea. It was shaped like a stainless-steel railroad car, long and silver. Coils of neon spun around, throwing pinkish light. Beyond the large windows, the Hudson spread out like a field of gray slate.
“The weather’s better in Las Vegas,” Victor said as he glanced briefly out the window, turned back and motioned for a waiter.
Corman looked toward the river and the 23rd Street pier which stretched over it. The old city had used it as a makeshift morgue for the scores of young women who’d died in the Triangle Fire. Daughters, he thought, so many daughters.
“You’ve never been to Las Vegas, have you?” Victor asked.
Corman shook his head. They’d left the bodies out till dawn, some charred beyond recognition, some merely broken by the fall, their skirts still smelling of the smoke that had driven them to the windows of the building’s upper floors.
“Two coffees,” Victor said when the waiter stepped up to the table. He looked at Corman. “Want anything for breakfast?”
Corman shook his head again, without turning from the river. He imagined night falling over the city, the black, gutted ruin of the Shirtwaist Factory building illuminated by searchlights as the bodies were brought down from the upper floors by block and tackle, small gray bundles swinging slowly in the still smoldering air over Greene Street. The shooters had remained on through the night, wandering wearily among the distraught relatives, or back and forth from the pier, bowed, silent, their boxy black cameras and spindly tripods hung over their shoulders as if they were going through some hallowed shooter’s version of the Stations of the Cross. Far from lilies and lace, incremental falls. Lazar had always thought of it as their finest hour.
“Just two coffees, then,” Victor told the waiter. He glanced back at Corman, waited a moment, then spoke. “How do you like my new car?”
Corman turned toward him, blinking the old city from his mind. “Nice,” he said.
“I got it in Florida. But don’t worry about it. I don’t hustle people who can’t afford to lose.” He looked at Corman pointedly. “I have a few rules. How many people can say that?”
Corman didn’t answer.
Victor watched him a moment, then broke it off with a smile. “We’re a lot alike, David. At least in one respect. We’re both major disappointments to our father.” The smile turned slightly bitter. “He must think God hates him.”
Corman nodded.
“Have you been out to see him lately?” Victor asked.
“Not in a while.”
“He probably misses you.”
“You, too.”
Victor shook his head. “I doubt it.” He grew silent a moment, his eyes concentrating on the plain paper napkin which rested beside his coffee.
“He’s been sick lately,” Corman said.
“Anything serious?”
“The usual complaints.”
Victor’s eyes drifted up from the napkin and settled on Corman. “To play it safe, that’s all he ever wanted us to do.” He smiled ironically. “Edgar is his pride and joy.” He shrugged. “What can I say? People don’t get what they deserve in this world, David, they get what they settle for.”
“He had big plans for all of us,” Corman said.
“Big plans,” Victor said dismissively. “That’s what the average bourgeois always has. Instead of love, honor, conviction. Big plans.”
In his mind, Corman saw his father curled in a beach chair beside the pool, his body wrapped in the bright Connecticut air, a pair of binoculars hanging like a heavy black amulet from his neck. “He’s become a bird watcher,” he said.
Victor laughed. “The last refuge of a bullshitter. What’s his goal in life now, to spot the yellow-throated turkey buzzard?”
“It’s how he spends his time,” Corman said. “Mostly by the pool, when it’s warm enough.”
Victor took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Corman.
“No, thanks.?
Victor took one for himself then returned the pack to his jacket pocket. “Maybe I’ll get out to see him.” He shrugged. “I still like the trees.”
Corman nodded, remembering them, the great cradling branches of the oak, the deep green tent of the weeping willow by the pond. Lucy had only the metal igloo of the climbing dome in Central Park, the layer of black rubber beneath the slide, only cement, asphalt, granite fissures filled with glass. “It’d be nice to have a summer house,” he said.
Victor thumped the end of the cigarette against the side of the pack. “Summer house?” he croaked. “You’re getting soft.”
“Maybe.”
“How’s the photography coming?”
“I haven’t sold anything lately.”
Victor looked surprised. “Anything? You mean, not anything?”
“Not in a while.”
Victor lit the cigarette and waved out the match. “Why?”
“Most things don’t sell,” Corman told him. “That’s just the way it is.”
“The artistic life,” Victor said. “It’s a tough business. But then, you knew that when you started, right?”
“Yes.”
The waiter brought the coffees then disappeared behind the counter at the far end of the room.
Victor took a sip, his eyes watching Corman thoughtfully from over the rim of the cup. “You giving up, David?” he asked, as he lowered the cup to the table.
“On what?”
“The adventurous life.”
“It’s never been that adventurous.”
Victor took another drag on the cigarette, then crushed it into the ashtray. “Just make sure you keep your edge. That’s all you’ve got. It’s all anybody’s got. People should spend their time sharpening it, instead of flattening it out.”
Corman said nothing.
Victor looked at him solemnly. “I mean it, David. You lose that, and you’re nothing. Just a shutterbug with bills to pay.”
Corman let him go on about it for a few minutes after that, watching his face, the glint in his eyes, the way his fingers moved constantly, first drumming lightly on the table, then ceaselessly massaging the fork, spoon, cube of sugar, anything they settled on. A picture would reduce him to a caricature of the middle-aged hustler, the rogue male on parade, childless, wifeless, the nomadic habitué of countless resort hotels. And yet, as Corman remembered it, he had never been entirely wrong about anything. How many people can say that?