‘No.’
A pretty young airport attendant appeared beside me.
‘I work here. I can help you,’ she said enthusiastically.
He paused for a fraction of a second and then said, ‘Great.’ I waited to see what he would come up with, but the attendant glared at me, as if I were rubbernecking, and then rolled her eyes at him, as if she were protecting him from people like me. I wanted to yell, ‘It was a code! It had a secret meaning!’ But I knew how this would look, so I moved along.
That evening I found myself standing in the middle of my living-room floor. I had made dinner and eaten it, and then I had an idea that I might clean the house. But halfway to the broom I stopped on a whim, flirting with the emptiness in the center of the room. I wanted to see if I could start again. But, of course, I knew what the answer would be. The longer I stood there, the longer I had to stand there. It was intricate and exponential. I looked like I was doing nothing, but really I was as busy as a physicist or a politician. I was strategizing my next move. That my next move was always not to move didn’t make it any easier.
I let go of the idea of cleaning and just hoped that I would get to bed at a reasonable hour. I thought of Roy Spivey in bed with Ms M. And then I remembered the number. I took it out of my pocket. He had written it across a picture of pink curtains. They were made out of a fabric that was originally designed for the space shuttle; they changed density in reaction to fluctuations of light and heat. I mouthed all the numbers and then said the missing one out loud. ‘Four.’ It felt risky and illicit. I yelled, ‘FOUR!’ And moved easily into the bedroom. I put on my nightgown, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.
Over the course of my life I’ve used the number many times. Not the telephone number, just the four. When I first met my husband, I used to whisper ‘four’ while we had intercourse, because it was so painful. Then I learned about a tiny operation that I could have to enlarge myself. I whispered ‘four’ when my dad died of lung cancer. When my daughter got into trouble doing God knows what in Mexico City, I said ‘four’ to myself as I gave her my credit-card number over the phone. Which was confusing - thinking one number and saying another. My husband jokes about my lucky number, but I’ve never told him about Roy. You shouldn’t underestimate a man’s capacity for feeling threatened. You don’t have to be a great beauty for men to come to blows over you. At my high-school reunion I pointed out a teacher I’d once had a crush on, and by the end of the night this teacher and my husband were wrestling in a hotel parking garage. My husband said that it was about issues of race, but I knew. Some things are best left unsaid.
This morning, I was cleaning out my jewelry box when I came upon a little slip of paper with pink curtains on it. I thought I had lost it long ago, but, no, there it was, folded underneath a dried-up carnation and some impractically heavy bracelets. I hadn’t whispered ‘four’ in years. The idea of luck made me feel a little weary now, like Christmas when you’re not in the mood.
I stood by the window and studied Roy Spivey’s handwriting in the light. He was older now - we all were - but he was still working. He had his own TV show. He wasn’t a spy anymore; he played the father of twelve rascally kids. It occurred to me now that I had missed the point entirely. He had wanted me to call him. I looked out the window; my husband was in the driveway, vacuuming out the car. I sat on the bed with the number in my lap and the phone in my hands. I dialed all the digits, including the invisible one that had shepherded me through my adult life. It was no longer in service. Of course it wasn’t. It was actually preposterous for me to have thought that it would still be his nanny’s private line. Roy Spivey’s children had long since grown. The nanny was probably working for someone else, or maybe she had done well for herself - put herself through nursing school or business school. Good for her. I looked down at the number and felt a tidal swell of loss. It was too late. I had waited too long.
I listened to the sound of my husband beating the car mats on the sidewalk. Our ancient cat pressed itself against my legs, wanting food. But I couldn’t seem to stand up. Minutes passed, almost an hour. Now it was starting to get dark. My husband was downstairs making a drink and I was about to stand up. Crickets were chirping in the yard and I was about to stand up.
Cindy Stubenstock
A. M. Homes
Cindy Stubenstock is trading up - at a recent auction, she flipped two Gurskys, an early Yuskavage and her husband’s bonus, and was on the phone later live from London topping the bidding on a rare Picasso etching that looked ‘beautiful over the fireplace’.
‘Gives whole new meaning to up in smoke,’ the cryptic British auctioneer mumbled under his breath.
Now Cindy and her Scarsdale sisterhood - aka the ladies who linger at lunch - are on the tarmac at Teterboro, wandering from plane to plane.
‘There never used to be so many,’ one says.
‘Do we really need to take two planes?’
‘Well, there are six of us and I just hate being crowded, and besides, what if I want to leave early?’ They all nod, knowing the feeling.
‘Just the thought of being trapped somewhere makes me nervous - does anyone have anything - a little blue, a little yellow?’
‘I’ve got Ativan.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘We’re going to Miami, it’s not the rain forest, not the darkest Peru, you can get a commercial flight out any time you want - just call JetBlue,’ one of the women says.
And the others look at her horrified, aghast, shocked that she can even say the words ‘commerical flight’ so easily, without pause. Flying private is one of the perks of being who they are; it’s why they put up with so much. NO airport security.
‘Soon that will change, they’re going to have scented dogs everywhere.’
‘It’s not scented dogs, it’s sniffing dogs. Scented dogs would be like soaps, verbena, vanilla, Macchu Picchu.’
‘Why do you always correct me? I’m an old woman - leave me alone.’
‘You’re forty-eight, you’re not old.’
And then there is silence.
‘Which plane is it? He keeps trading them in. I never know which one is ours.’
‘She calls it trading them in - he calls it fractional ownership,’ one of the women whispers.
‘G4, Falcon, Citation, Hawker, Learjet - remember when they were all “Learjets”? Remember when the word “Learjet” used to mean something?’
‘Who is that bald man in the wheelchair? He looks familiar - do I know him from somewhere?’
‘Is it Philip Johnson?’
‘Philip Johnson died two years ago.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s so sad.’
‘Is that Yul Brynner?’
‘It’s someone with cancer.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s getting an Angel Flight back to where he lives,’ one of the ground crew says. ‘People donate flights - for those who are basically too sick to travel.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I could ever do that - I couldn’t have a sick person on the plane - I mean, what about the germs?’
‘I don’t normally think of cancer as contagious.’
‘You never know.’ She runs her hand through her hair - which she gels in the morning with Purell - prophylactically.
The group divides; Sally Stubenstock, the society sister of Cindy, and her ‘friend’ Tasha, the yoga instructor, go on their own plane. ‘We want alone time,’ Tasha says.
‘She wants to downward dog me at 10,000 feet,’ Sally says.
‘It’s gross,’ someone whispers.
‘What do you care - they’re not asking you to do it.’
‘Women kiss better than men - it’s a fact.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because one night Wallis (the weird woman who has a man’s last name for her first name) Wallingford planted one right on me.’
‘Was she drunk?’
‘I don’t think so. It felt very good.’
‘Better than a man?’
She nods. ‘Softer, more thoughtful.’
Cindy Stubenstock puts her fingers in her ears and hums loudly and sings, ‘This is something I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know-oh-o.’
The conversation stops. They climb aboard. The pilot pulls the door closed and locks it. The women take their seats and then take other seats. They move around the cabin until they are comfortable. They put all their fur coats together on one seat.
‘Where are you staying? The Raleigh, the Delano, the Biltmore?’
‘I’m staying at Pinkie and Paulie’s.’
‘Really?’ Cindy asks.
Her friend nods.
‘I’ve never stayed at someone’s house,’ Cindy Stubenstock confesses. ‘How do you do it? When you get there - what do you do - how do you check in?’
‘It’s like going for dinner or cocktails - you knock on the door and hopefully someone answers.’
‘Does someone take your bag? Do you tip them? And what if you can’t sleep - what if you need to get up and walk around? Do you have your own bathroom - I can’t stay anywhere without my own bathroom even with my husband. If you pee, do you flush? What if someone hears you? It just seems so stressful.’
‘When you were growing up, did you ever go on a sleepover?’
‘Just once - I got homesick and my father came and got me - it seemed like the middle of the night but my parents always used to tease me - it was really only about 11 pm.’
‘When I go to someone’s house - I bring a clean sheet,’ another woman chimes in.
‘And remake the bed?’
‘No, I wrap myself in it - do you know how infrequently most blankets are laundered - including hotel blankets - think of the hundreds of people who have used the same blanket.’
‘What’s for dinner tonight?’ someone asks.
‘A big corned-beef sandwich. That’s what I go to Miami for - Wolfie’s. I get sick every time - but I can’t resist. It reminds me of my grandparents - and of my childhood.’
‘I thought you were a vegetarian?’
‘I am.’
‘By the way, whatever happened with that Brice Marden painting you were trying to buy?’
‘It’s still pending - we haven’t completed our interview.’
‘Some of the galleries now have a vetting process - there is a company that will interview potential buyers, about everything from their assets, hobbies and intentions for their collections - and once that’s done - they schedule a home visit.’
‘Exactly, we still need the home visit, but CeeCee has been so busy with the re-do that she won’t let anyone from the gallery into the house.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re going from day to night - swapping all the black paintings for white, we sold the Motherwells and the Stills and now she’s bringing in Ryman, Richter and a Whiteread bookcase.’
‘Sounds great - very relaxing - no color at all.’
‘I heard you bought a Renoir in London.’
‘We had a good year. I like it so much I want to fuck it.’
‘When we got our Rothko - we had sex on the floor in front of it.’
‘Those were the days . . .’
‘And when we got the Pollock.’
‘Well, you got that really big one.’
‘Fairly big.’
‘The room is so large that it’s all relative.’
‘Do you remember that time we were all on that art tour and they let us touch a few things - Stanley stroked the Birth of Venus and got excited?’
‘Stanley, the seeing-eye horse - or Stanley your husband?’
‘Stanley, the human. He was mortified.’
‘I thought it was cute.’
‘Where is Stanley this weekend?’
‘Stan, the man, is playing golf and Stanley the seeing-eye horse is having his teeth cleaned this weekend and so the society gave me a stick.’ She holds up a white cane. ‘Like this is going to do me any good. I’ve got a docent meeting me for the fair - a young curator.’
‘God, I remember when Stanley, the horse, tried to mount the stuffed pony that your parents sent your son . . .’
‘We were all there - the Hanukah party.’
‘It plagued my son - the sight of Stanley trying to “hop” the pony. He said hop - instead of hump - it was soo sweet.’
‘There are people who are into that - stuffed animals. “Plushies” they call them.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Sex parties!’
‘And they invite stuffed animals?’
‘Speaking of animal behaviour - are we preparing for takeoff yet?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stubenstock,’ the pilot says. ‘There’s military aircraft in the area - and the airspace has been closed down.’
‘Oh now, is the President coming to town again? Thank God we’re leaving - he always blocks traffic.’
‘We’re third in line for takeoff as soon as the air opens.’
‘We usually fly on Larry’s plane, he redecorates it for every flight. Different art work depending on where we’re going. Something for LA, something for Basel, something for Venice.’
‘That’s because he’s trying to sell you something.’
‘No, I don’t think so. We always ask, and he tells us that whatever it is we want - it’s not for sale.’
‘That’s how he does it - that’s how he gets you.’
‘Did you hear about Sarah and Steve’s Warhol worries?’
‘No, what?’
‘Turns out their Warhols aren’t Warhols - they’re knockoffs like cheap Louis Vuittons on Canal Street.’
‘But they have Polaroids of Andy signing the pictures. Andy and Steve standing together while Andy signed them.’
‘Apparently he would sign anything, but that didn’t mean that he made it.’
‘They were banking on those pictures - literally.’
‘Well, you know what they say - you should never be dependent on your art collection to do anything for you that you can’t do for yourself.’
‘Are you invited to the VIP party?’
‘The VIP parties aren’t the good parties - there are no invites for the real parties, you just have to know where they are.’
‘I told Susie that I would go to the dinner but only as long as I didn’t have to sit next to an artist - I never know what to say to them.’
‘I always ask them if they’re starving - and they never get it,’ Cindy says. ‘I’ve noticed that most of the younger artists are carnivores. Remember when artists only ate things like sprouts and bags of “greens” that they carried with them? Now they all eat meat - it’s all post-Damien.’
‘Like how?’
‘Don’t you remember - Damien Hirst’s first big piece was really very small . . . It was a piece of steak that his father had choken on. Young Damien gave his father the Heimlich maneuver and the steak came flying out of his mouth and he could breathe again. Damien saved the piece of steak and put it in a jar of formaldehyde that he got from the school and called it I Saved My Father’s Life - Now What Will Become of Us.’
‘I never heard that story.’
Cindy Stubenstock shrugs. ‘It’s famous. I think the piece is in the Saatchi collection in London.’
Theo
Dave Eggers
Long had the poets pointed to the steep green hills around the village, noting in prose and song that with their irrational curves, their ridges rising and falling just so, the low mountains resembled the shapes of sleeping men and women. Most practical people thought the poets were pushing it a bit too far, poets being poets, but then something new happened one morning, just after most of the humans, about five or so hundred in that village at that time, were finishing their breakfast and dressing their children.
The land shook. Homes, all of them built with stone and barley, trembled and soon collapsed. Ani
mals stampeded, birds dropped from the sky, and in the midst of the chaos, the first giant emerged. The soft green rolls of the hillside gave way to a pale shoulder, an arm of twisted muscle, a waist, a hip. In minutes the hill had become a man, a colossal man everywhere striped with dirt and grass, rubbing his eyes. He sat up, his legs akimbo before him, and he began chuck-ling. He wiped the grass from his bald head and his shoulders, swept the dirt from his stomach, and, while he did so, he laughed softly, nodding to himself as if something long mysterious was finally clear.
His name was Soren.
Soon after, a mile or so away, the ground rattled again. The villagers looked south and saw another hillside rise. It was a range that the poet Eythor had called The Woman, and all the humans who watched the giant emerge from it thought, Too bad Eythor is dead, he would have loved to see this. This hill became a woman, as tall as Soren, and she rose from the earth covered in oil and soot, hair long and wild. Like Soren, she was greatly amused and only somewhat surprised by her awakening. She wiped her eyes clean and picked stones from between her aristocratic toes.
This was Magdelena.
By the time Theo, the last giant, arose from the hill closest to the human settlements, his arrival caused little notice. He was shorter than the other two giants, with a ruddy complexion and wide-set eyes. While Soren and Magdelena were tall, of noble and sinewy form, Theo had long arms but short legs, a flat face and narrow shoulders. But no one noticed the differences between them, at least not on that day. Already four people were dead, crushed under falling debris. There were tears, prayers, wails of men and women. Already the landscape had been broken, recast. Already the sky was brown with dust, and it was into this day, full of misery and regret and rebirth, that Theo awakened.
In those first days, Theo could only sit, dazed from thousands of years of sleep, and watch Magdelena. Yes, Magdelena. At first she was nothing much to see. Her hair gray with ash, her body covered in mica and sandstone, she barely looked female. But then, after some hours sitting, blinking and grinning, she rose and walked to the ocean, dove from the chalky cliffs into the surf below, and emerged a woman. A woman of many enticements.