“Biracial,” she corrected. “I’m Afro-Scottish.” James didn’t crack a smile, as he usually did in an attempt to humor her. Dakota wasn’t so sure she was joking.
“You could do a lot of other things this summer,” James pointed out. “Not to mention there’s the shop.”
“Peri and I talked about it already,” she said.
“Before you even discussed it with me?” James felt increasingly unnecessary in his daughter’s life. She had Peri, Anita, and Catherine when she needed to talk. Lucie to take her to Italy, apparently. Darwin to critique her papers. And her father to do . . . what? Pay the bills. That’s what it came down to: He was extraneous. Necessary only as a paycheck.
“It just happened,” said Dakota, but her explanation sounded lame, even to her.
“No,” said James. “No, I have not worked my entire life to have you become someone’s nanny just because you think all the rules don’t apply to you. You are going to be a businesswoman. Eventually you’ll control your interest in the store, and you can be a silent or active partner. It’s up to you. Want to do something else? Become a doctor, a lawyer, a statistician. I don’t care,” he said. “As long as you’re not baking cookies or wiping the ass of some little white girl.”
And with that he pushed back from the dining table and, taking large strides, marched across the apartment to the master bedroom. He entered, and then quietly but firmly shut the door, leaving Dakota to cry for the second time in one day.
fifteen
Anita sat at the large dining room table that had once been hers—was still hers—and waited for Catherine to bring out coffee. The two of them were going to meet the realtor and walk through the apartment, and Anita was a mix of nervous sadness, even as she was ready to let the apartment go. She didn’t hear the buzzing in her compact brown leather purse, the result of several frantic texts from Dakota over the course of the morning. And while she was always prepared to look after her dear young surrogate grandchild, right now she had a few problems of her own that required a little extra attention.
She’d been so distracted when she was getting dressed that she accidentally pulled off a button from her creamy beige suit and had had to reattach it before she set out for the day. Marty had suggested no one would notice; that was not what Anita wanted to hear.
She sighed loudly, as though she had been left to her own devices for far too long.
As if on cue, Catherine came out of the kitchen backward, pushing the door with her butt and balancing a mug of coffee in each hand. She looked very chic in a slim-fitting pair of black slacks and a loose, multicolored silk tunic set off by a chain belt. Her blond hair was held back by a black headband. Inching precariously toward Anita, she handed her a cup. Anita took the drink but didn’t put it down, looking at Catherine with meaning.
“Right,” said Catherine, after a pause of several seconds. “Coaster.” She went over to a large hickory sideboard, a very nice Revolutionary piece, one of the few she really loved here at the San Remo apartment, and took out a set of wildflower coasters to protect the nice wood. She put them on the table and pulled out a chair next to Anita.
“What do you think?” asked Anita, pointing to a picture of a multi-tiered cake in Wedgwood blue.
“Ah,” said Catherine, looking at the magazine and taking a sip of the too-weak coffee. She never could get it right: either too many beans or too few. This was yet another reason she had developed a liking for Marty’s deli. “You’ve brought over your stash of wedding porn.”
She laughed. Anita did not.
“I beg your pardon?” said Anita, noticing as she spoke that she’d spilled a drop on her light-colored outfit. Drat.
“Every bride-to-be becomes addicted,” Catherine informed her. “To the magazines. The reality shows. The thrill of the hunt for the perfect dress. It’s happening to you, Anita, I can see it.”
“I just want to get it right,” Anita replied, quickly adding an “again” lest there was any implication otherwise. Stan was a wonderful man, and if he hadn’t died unexpectedly, she knew she would have spent the rest of her life in this very apartment with him. Remembering coasters for the coffee.
She hesitated for a moment, then pulled out an old photograph. It was Anita as a young bride, a bouquet of roses cradled in her arms, Stan at her side. This was the only photo in which Catherine had seen Stan as a young man. His thick, dark hair, although neatly trimmed, couldn’t seem to hold back the wave at his hairline. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and, even in this decades-old snapshot, projected an aura of self-confidence. His hand was in his suit pocket and he grinned at the camera. A happy man. A happy day.
“He was a hottie,” said Catherine, playfully elbowing Anita. “No wonder you had three babies.”
Anita gestured with her hand, as though waving Catherine away. “Well,” she said slowly. “Yes, maybe. Oh, I’ve spent too much time with all you girls, and all your talk.”
“Hey, you give us hope for the future,” said Catherine.
“Oh, you, now, you fall in and out of relationships like you’re trying on new clothes,” said Anita. “There’s nothing wrong with staying put.”
“Marty’s giving you a reason to stay put.”
“He’s also a very handsome man, it’s true,” said Anita. “And a lot of fun. I’ve been lucky. Twice. Some women never even get one chance at real love.” The words were out of her mouth before she could take them back. Damn! She really was distracted. Typically Anita took great care with what she said.
“Too true,” said Catherine. “I’m the walking example of the woman Cupid forgot.”
“You are happy now,” said Anita, trying to cajole. “The store, and the darling little house, and you really are looking wonderful. I like this softer blond you’ve been doing, more golden and less yellowy. So nice.” She reached out a hand and patted Catherine’s hair lightly, as Catherine almost involuntarily leaned in to Anita. Her motherliness was like a magnet, drawing people into her orbit of kindness. Made them eager for her approval.
“It is what it is,” said Catherine. “My life. Not so much to say.”
“I can put these silly things away now,” said Anita, closing up her books and magazines. “My, what delicious coffee.” She took another substantial but not indelicate sip and nodded toward Catherine.
“I’m going away for the summer,” Catherine said. “So the apartment will be easy to show, don’t worry about that. I’ll move my things up to the cottage and then I’m going to fly to Italy, spend a little time on the coast, go up to Rome.”
“But who is going to help me with the wedding?”
“We don’t even know when it’s going to be—and if we’re going to try for any of the big hotels we’ll have to submit dates ASAP. I don’t even know if we could get something booked in less than a year.”
“All the more reason for us to plan it now.”
“You and Marty could elope,” said Catherine. It was a throwaway comment, with only a dash of a secret hope to get herself out of the potentially endless cake tastings she feared were in her future. “Why a big wedding anyway? You don’t need it.”
“Of course we don’t need it,” bristled Anita. “We want it. If we’re going to get married, then we’re going to shout it from the rooftops. And either you’re with us or you’re against us!” She raised a finger to make her point.
“Whoa, there, bridezilla,” said Catherine. “I’m one of your allies.”
Anita sat up a bit straighter in her chair and Catherine felt a sense of alarm that finally, Anita was going to let loose and let her know just how little she did think of her. The moment she’d been waiting for. Fearing. The confirmation that she was just an outsider, a stray.
“Catherine, I apologize,” she said formally. “It’s not you who has upset me. It’s my oldest. It’s Nathan.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” said Catherine quickly, feeling a twinge as she thought of that postcard she hadn’t yet told Anita about. She’d h
ave a right to be angry then. “What has Nathan done now?”
Over the years, the club had heard tell of many of Nathan’s antics. He lived with his family and his wife of seventeen years in Atlanta and very much wanted Anita to move south to live in the guesthouse. Which would have been a wonderful thing had Anita not been so adamant about wanting to live her own life. The presence of Marty caused him endless consternation.
“He’s flying in,” Anita said now. “Word has gotten around that I’m selling the apartment.”
“You didn’t tell him yourself?”
“Oh, I just did,” she said. “Last night. He asked me what the hell was I thinking to sell his father’s home. So I told him what’s been plainly obvious for over fifteen years: His father is dead and he’s not coming back. Well, you’d think it was the first time he heard the news.”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch nothing,” said Anita. “I gave birth to that boy, and two others besides. I’m the mother here. They’re not in charge and I don’t care how long I have to tell them so.”
“So is the broker still coming by today?”
“Of course the broker is still coming!” Anita frowned. “Why wouldn’t she be coming? Do you think Nathan phoned her up and told her she shouldn’t keep her appointment?”
Anita checked the watch with the thin gold band around her tiny wrist. It was eleven o’clock; she’d been so busy looking at the magazine feature on wedding cakes she had lost track of time. The broker should have been here forty-five minutes earlier.
“That little so-and-so,” she muttered, her face flushing red. “He’s going to get an earful when I see him tonight.”
The moment he crossed the Triborough Bridge. That’s when he felt like he’d returned home. The sight of the city and all the buildings reaching for the clouds felt powerful. Atlanta was a great town, he loved it, but New York had his heart. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker.
Nathan Lowenstein reached into his pocket and began counting out bills, getting ready for when the driver made it to their destination. He’d decided to go to his hotel in midtown, drop off his bags, and then walk the nearly thirty blocks to his mother’s new apartment. It wasn’t really new in the sense that she’d just moved in, but it felt strange and unfamiliar whenever he’d visited.
“You ever been to New York before?” asked the cabbie.
“What’s your favorite thing?” said Nathan, not answering the question directly.
“Ah, I can hear it in your voice,” said the cabbie. “You’re from around here. Guess I won’t take you the long route, then. Just kidding!” He slapped the seat beside him. “I like the hot dogs. Drive up to the corner and the guy’ll bring it right on over. With mustard. You?”
“I like the San Remo,” said Nathan. “Most beautiful building in the world. It’s where they set Ghostbusters.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said the cabbie. “You know, they make a lot of great movies in this town . . . ” Nathan watched out the window as the driver continued to ramble. They drove briskly through the park, saw a young mother wiping ice cream off her son’s messy chin. He smiled, recalling long summer days in the park with Ben and David, Anita laying out a blanket for a picnic of cheese and crackers and apples. His father was a serious man, hardworking, often busy. But his mother had kept things light. And efficient. She picked out their clothes at night until they were well into their teens, signed them up for ballroom dancing classes and etiquette lessons. Made sure they did their homework—but only until ten p.m., as bedtime was strictly enforced. She never ran out of time to hear about the ins and outs of their days, whether it was the trauma of middle school or the anguish of choosing his college thesis topic. His mother was one of the good ones. Funny and pretty and ready to laugh. His childhood friends, he could appreciate from this vantage point, all had crushes on her.
She loved to obsess over the details. His bar mitzvah had been followed by a wonderful party. Mother had spared no expense for music and food and she invited everyone they knew. His aunt Sarah had laughed and joked all night, one of the few times the family had been all together. She had been great fun, his aunt, taking him to Coney Island to ride the roller coaster or to look at the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History. She’d been at the dinner table several times a week, cooking in the kitchen with his mother, the two of them working side by side to make delicious meals for the entire family. His grandparents were thoughtful and kind, but his aunt had been more like a friend. And then she’d simply vanished. His mother took the photos out of the living room, and his father instructed him not to ask about Aunt Sarah anymore. It was one of the few instances when he was truly angered and confused by his mother’s behavior. Like now.
His father had taken him aside at his bar mitzvah, showed him his gold watch, and told him that he could not believe so much time had gone by since Nathan was just an infant. “I am so proud of you today,” he had said, “and one day you will be the head of this family.”
In later years, his father had worried often about Anita. He’d even encouraged her to take up working at that little knitting shop, something to keep her busy. “Maybe if you boys lived closer,” his father had said, “your mother would spend all her time chasing grandkids.” Instead, it was declared that Mother was a textile artist, and even as things got stranger and stranger—when she seemed to practically adopt the owner of the shop and her daughter—Nathan held his tongue. Or, rather, his father held it for him. “If it’s not hurting you or your mother, then you keep the peace.” That’s what he’d been told. “One day you’ll have to make the decisions around here,” his father had said, “but your only goal is to make sure your mother is happy.” “You must protect her,” his father had said, “because she lives in a bubble. She’s never had to face the real world.”
And yet nothing Nathan said or did made any difference to Anita. She ran off and shacked up with some guy who owned a deli, and now she was planning to sell the family apartment. For no reason other than she declared it was time for a change.
Well, it was time for a change, all right. Nathan agreed with her there. But the thing that needed changing was this relationship and his mother’s attitude about it. While it seemed inconceivable that Anita and Marty had the sort of full-on sexual relationship most couples had—she was his mother, for God’s sake—it was clear this man had tightened his grasp on her. Marriage was simply out of the question.
He’d done a terrible job looking after his mother, he knew. He’d failed Stan, let the family down. Nathan had worked very hard to come up with ideas that would appeal to Anita, that would take some of the strain out of her life. But she was petulant and difficult, refusing to move so he could take better care of her—refusing, essentially, to admit she was getting any older—and over the years she’d kept her visits shorter and shorter. During one dramatic Passover, in which his mother left immediately after dinner to go see her friends in the knitting club, his wife, Rhea, had yelled at him for her rude behavior. And certainly the mother who insisted on manners never taught them to leave guests sitting at the table while you went out to meet your pals.
The entire knitting thing was just the start, however, of the multiplying sense of crazy. Then there was Marty, the selling of the apartment, a wedding, and who knew what else? And through all of it, his mother seemed confused as to why Nathan cared so much about what she did. “You’re my mother,” he told her. It explained everything to him. And nothing, apparently, to her.
How awful it was to know your own mother didn’t much like you anymore. There was a time when she had tucked him in at night, wiping the toothpaste that stuck to the corners of his seven-year-old mouth, and told him there was nothing in the world that would ever make her stop loving him. But there was, and it was such a small word, too.
No. He’d said no. “No, Mother, you shouldn’t live alone.” “No, Mother, you shouldn’t work at the knitting shop.” “No, Mother, you shouldn’t date this man Marty.” “No, Mother
, you shouldn’t sell our family home.” “No, Mother, you can’t marry someone else.” She hated him for it. He’d lost his mom. And all because he was trying to uphold the promise he made to his father years ago.
His dark brown hair was mussed from the wind on the walk north. Nathan caught sight of himself in the steel around the elevator, his khakis relatively crisp and his blue shirt bright. He pulled a hand through his hair and turned slightly sideways to check out his stomach. Pretty flat, he thought approvingly. It was amazing what endless sit-ups could do. He’d started exercising daily once the problems began with Rhea at home. As much as he didn’t want to get into a squabble with his mother, and therefore dreaded seeing her, he was also pretty thrilled. It had been a long, long time since it had just been the two of them, no younger brothers, kids, or wives around. Marty, she had promised, would be out when he arrived. Just so the two of them could have some time to talk.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Anita said as she opened the door to the spacious apartment she shared with Marty. It was a Classic Six, with two bedrooms, ample living and dining rooms, and a maid’s room that Anita had the luxury to be able to use merely to store her personal stash of yarn.
“Hello, Mother,” said Nathan, feeling both elated and apprehensive. He leaned in to kiss her soft cheek. She still wore the same perfume as always, Chanel, and her scent was the same today as when he was a seven-year-old boy in 1962. Anita definitely looked older—there were more lines in the face overall, he thought—but she remained so beautiful. So elegant. She smiled warmly, her eyes sparkling. And Nathan felt, as he did every time he saw Anita, a tremendous sense of good fortune that this lovely lady was his very own mom.
“I brought you some chocolates,” he said. “I just picked them up at Teuscher.” He handed over a large gold box tied with a pink ribbon.
“How lovely,” said Anita.
“Maybe we could eat a few and talk,” said Nathan. “I brought photos of the kids playing in a soccer tournament last week.”