Chapter 14B

During that same week, more complications ensued. As usual in New York, it was best to expect the unexpected, while expecting the expected to involve unexpected hassles.

On Monday I got a little financial relief when Fiore announced that I was in good enough shape to get transferred to a less expensive class, out of the more costly, personalized sessions. The change lowered the overall price of Fiore's training to one-half the former cost -- a good move for me because I was beginning to see the bottom of my formerly bottomless pit of New York spending money.

As it happened, there were a couple of young people in the class with whom I had picked up a passing, hello-in-the-hallway relationship. There were twenty-six young people in the class, all teens, most of them in various stages of training for athletics or dance. Among them was an astonishingly lovely young woman, brown-haired, with dark brown eyes, who always wore solid black exercise outfits based on ballerina tights and little dancing skirts or black shorts. We never spoke. She was beautiful, graceful, soft spoken and good humored, always friendly, always working hard at the movements, with a teen girl's body that was fit and perfect in every way.

We never spoke. I occasionally saw her in street clothes leaving the building and she seemed dressed expensively. She usually carried a small leather equipment bag that definitely wasn't found in Macy's bargain basement. She looked Hispanic, but on the few occasions when I could overhear her she spoke with a well bred American accent with no discernible regional color. Her voice was soft and musical, a little on the breathy side, and she had a precise, gracious way of speaking.

Now and then I would glance at her; she was hard to miss, with her big brown almond eyes, fluttery lashes, a cheerful, rounded face, and skin that looked so perfect it seemed unreal. On a few occasions she seemed to notice me, but only in a passing, accidental way. Even when she began to see me daily in our class for an hour, I never caught her looking back for more than a brief, random second. And I never made an effort to strike up a conversation; I had seen enough wealthy New Yorkers, young and old, to know that her pedigree was beyond my means.

On Saturday night, I was in Martha's getting dressed in my best for a semi-formal cocktail party that Martha was attending, with me and Ronnie as guests. It was being held by some United Nations bigwig by the name of Carreras, at his posh home in the East 80's. The people I'd previously met who worked with Martha at Columbia would be there, and some heavy duty government and education types, along with many students and graduate students who were part of a United Nations project.

Martha came into the bedroom and straightened my tie. As we looked ourselves over in the mirror I told her, "You know, those ritzy people can spot me a mile away."

Martha said, "Of course they can. You look terrific."

"No."

"Yes."

"I look like a fifteen year old hayseed from Memphis."

"Turn around, let me look at you. Is that the suit you had altered by Ronnie's tailor? They did beautiful work."

"C'mon, I don't have any business going to this shindig. The announcement said you could bring one guest, and you're bringing two."

"Oh, they don't care. We're so far down in the hierarchy of this project, we could all stay home and no one would notice. Here, how do I look? Here, along here. Is it okay?"

"It's okay."

"Oh, you didn't even look. Here, in back. How do I look?"

I looked at her in the mirror. I stood behind her and smelled the sweet powder and the hair spray and the lipstick, and she had her hair smoothed back and bowed in back, and her pale white, full skirted dress had no neck and no sleeves and showed just enough bosom, and she looked the way I always wanted my dream lover to look.

I said, "You look like Grace Kelly."

"She's taller than I am, she has a different hair color, and she's much prettier."

"Well, you look like Grace Kelly. And I look like Francis, the Talking Mule."

"You look very good." She hastily dug for her earrings in the little jewel box beside the mirror. "You don't realize how different you look since you arrived here. You carry yourself better, you handle yourself better, you've learned to dress like a New Yorker. Thank goodness you don't act like them." She frowned at herself in the mirror as she worked with an earring. "Oh, these never fit when you're in a hurry. Never. I hope Ronnie shows up soon, we're already late." She picked up the second earring and glanced at me. "Hon, stop pacing. You're making me nervous."

"Well, I don't know how to talk to these people."

"Of course you don't, you never met them. You start with hello, and then you learn how to think on your feet." She winked at me in the mirror. "Don't worry, stick close to me or Ronnie."

Someone knocked on Martha's front door.

Martha winced with the earring in her ear. "Ouch. Oh, speak of the devil. I left the door locked. Let her in, can you?"

I strode to the front door, feeling too high off the ground in the new dress shoes I wore. I opened the door and was presented with one of the most alluring women I'd ever seen. It was Ronnie, leaning on the wall with an impatient frown on her face. I moved aside to let her enter, and stepped back to look at her. Actually, I stared at her like an imbecile. She saw me and stopped in the middle of the room and looked down at herself.

She asked, "What's the matter? Did I forget something?"

She was radiant, in the way a softly glowing pearl radiates on a black background. She wore a long, sleeveless, low necked black dress that was as slinky as her slinky body, perfectly matching her combed, wavy black hair, black stone earrings, and dark blue eyes.

I closed the door and said, from the bottom of my heart, "You're beautiful. You're absolutely gorgeous."

She sighed, "I like you, Steven, but don't push it." She looked me over. "And you look perfect. Really. Boy, have you come a long way." She smiled and walked to me and gave me a kiss on my neck, and said, "Not that you had that far to go." She briefly hugged my face to hers. She smelled and felt so good, I didn't want to go anywhere but to bed. She kidded me, "Thanks for the compliment, though. I love a guy who knows when to lie well." She started for the bedroom. "Is Martha in here?"

I followed her into the bedroom. "You look like a million, and you know it."

Ronnie stood next Martha, who was still fighting with her earring in the mirror, and said, "Martha, I'm down to my last pair of hose. If these tear, I'm done for."

Martha indicated a lower drawer in the dresser. "Oh, get a pair of mine, out of there. Put 'em in your purse."

Ronnie said "Lemme help you with that earring first."

I stood in the doorway looking at both of them, two lovely, svelte, very glamorous women, with whom I had partaken of both love and lust. The strange thing about seeing the two of them together, looking so pretty, was that I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't believe it. I said to Ronnie, "I told Martha she looked like Grace Kelly. She won't believe me."

Ronnie looked at Martha in the mirror and said, "Yeah, I can see something of Grace Kelly here. With Lee Remmick's eyes."

Martha said, "Stop it."

I said, "Ronnie reminds me of Phyliss Thaxter. With black hair."

Ronnie frowned and said, "Who's Phyliss Thaxter?"

"Van Johnson's wife in 'Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo'."

Ronnie said, "I'll have to take your word for that. You remind me of something between a young Montgomery Clift and a young James Dean."

I said, "No. Can't be. I was hoping for Gary Cooper."

"Oh, not him. He always looks half asleep." Ronnie glanced at me while she helped Martha with the earring. "Martha, don't look now, but there's this really nice looking young guy standing in the door, giving us the eye."

Martha smirked. "Great. Let's bring him along." Martha looked around Ronnie's arm, grinning. "Hey, wanna go with us?"

I leaned against the door frame. "You two better get used to me, because I'm not letting you out of my sight. I don't have the slightest idea why I'm going, where I'm going, or what I'll do when I get there."

Ronnie said, "That's okay, just stick with us. You'll be fine. Here, Martha, you're fixed. Now, let's have a look at me, and see if any straps are showing."

Martha walked around the room, gathering her purse and scarf.

I said, "But, I don't know want to say. What do I say to these people?"

Martha said, "You do what they do. Say hello and introduce yourself."

I said, "Then what?"

Martha said, "Then do what they do. Ask questions."

I said, "Well, what if they ask *me* questions?"

Ronnie said, "Do what they do. Lie."

Martha and Ronnie stood together, primping in the mirror. "Okay, now," Martha said, "one last flight check, here. Steven, while we're there, don't stray too far. You're meeting your next date at this party tonight."

"My next what?"

"Your next date. Mister Carreras' godchild, and some of her friends. She's seventeen, she's very bright, and she's just your type."

I stared her. I didn't say anything.

Martha said, pinning a broach on her collar, "Did you hear what I said?"

I said, annoyed, "Are you fixing me up again?"

Martha said, "Yes."

I sighed, heavily, making sure she heard it.

Martha said, "And it so happens she already knows you. Sort of. Her name is Anita."

Ronnie straightened up and stared at Martha. "Anita? Is that the same Anita I met? From last spring?"

Martha nodded.

Ronnie turned to me, "Hey, Steven, congratulations. You've hit the big time. Aneeeeeta. The Cisco Kid's daughter."

Martha said, "She's not the Cisco Kid's daughter, she's the greatgranddaughter of some former Mexican diplomat or something. She's Carreras' godchild."

I sighed again, and shuffled and turned around and wanted to stamp my feet and scream. "Oh, for godssake..."

Ronnie came over to me and patted me on the shoulder. "Hold on, there. pal, let's don't look a gift horse in the mouth. She may eat tacos instead of meat balls, but she is very, very attractive."

Martha said, "Mainly, she's a lot like Steven. And very bright."

I said, "She'll know I'm a fraud right away."

Martha stepped from the mirror and grabbed her purse off the bed and said, firmly, "She'll know you're sharp, and bright, and considerate." She walked past me out of the room.

I followed, grimacing, "Oh, come on," and Ronnie took me by the arm and whispered, "Shh. Wait til you see her."

We walked onto the street and headed for the east 80's, only a few blocks away. I was ticked off. Martha and Ronnie knew it, and ignored me as they strolled along. I started feeling ignored. Then they started walking faster, and I fell behind. It was a better view, anyway; they both had gorgeous rear ends. But after a while, Ronnie turned and waited for me to catch up.

She said, "Come on, I'll fill you in on Anita."

I said, "I don't wanna know."

Ronnie said, holding my arm and walking, "Martha's so right, you can be so stubborn."

I said petulantly, "So what's so good about this Anita?"

Martha told me that Anita was born in Mexico but moved to California when she was a baby. She was educated, partly in France, partly in the States, partly in Mexico, and Martha arranged for some of her tutoring for over a year. She was seventeen, just graduated from high school, interested in dance, film, and all the arts. Her dad died in an auto accident in Mexico when she was three. Her Mom inherited wealth, but Mom had little t do with Anita, because Anita refused to attend Catholic Church. Anita moved to live with her godparents in New York five years earlier.

Martha pulled me into position between her and Ronnie and said, in her exacting manner, "Now, listen. She's very rebellious. But she is also -- are you listening to me? -- she is also considerate, and she knows *not* to bite the hands that feed her. Which means, hon, she has learned how to behave in the environment in which she must live until she's free to be on her own. So you take a good look at someone who's in a position very similar to yours."

Ronnie said, "Just wait. Anita will eat you alive."

I said skeptically, "That remains to be seen."

"It's just a figure of speech, honey."

Martha frowned at me. "You're not wearing your glasses."

I winced and sighed.

Martha said, "Steven?"

"All right." I reluctantly withdrew my glasses case out of my jacket pocket and put my glasses on, my face set in a hard scowl. Martha said, "That's better," and I caught Ronnie giving me a smirk, and Ronnie said, "Believe me, they look good on you."

Then Martha said, "I haven't even told him about Jessica."

Ronnie said, "Martha, not Jessica. Give him a break."

I griped, "Oh, no, not another one!"

The Carreras family lived within a three story luxury building in the East 80's off Fifth Avenue. As soon as we entered the place and checked in with the doorman, and followed the porter into and up in the elevator, I knew we were in a neighborhood that required a pretty good chunk of pocket money for the rent. Marble walls in the hallways. Cathedral doors at entrances. Not exactly a flophouse. But neither Martha nor Ronnie seemed uncomfortable. I simply followed their lead and hoped for the best.

One of the first people I spotted when we walked into the main lobby and started down the hall to the reception room was the actor, Henry Fonda. He was holding a glass and stood with one hand in his pocket, talking to some guy who looked rich and suntanned. I asked Martha, "Is that who I think it is?"

Martha looked, and smiled at me. "Of course. Wanna say hello?"

"No."

"Oh, come on. He's just someone else who contributes to the project, just like everyone here. He's very big in theater."

"All I know are his movies."

"He does theater, too. He was in 'Mister Roberts' on Broadway, remember?"

I gulped. "Are you sure I belong here?"

"They're just people, hon. Some are snobs, some are not. Just like every other part of New York, there are people here from all over the world and every walk of life."

I walked with the two women into the reception area, which was pretty much a huge, fancy living room furnished with an open bar and a lot of silk covered sofas. I asked Martha, "This is their house?"

Martha said, "No, these are the conference rooms and ballrooms. Their residences are across the hall."

Ronnie murmured, "Wish my living room had a dTcor like this. I think the bar in the corner is an especially nice touch."

Martha said, "You would. If you had all this, you'd never get any work done."

Ronnie said, "If I had all this, I wouldn't have to."

I was introduced to Mr. Carreras, who seemed like a gracious sort, a kind of older Anthony Quinn with a black goatee, and his wife, looking well fed and Spanish, and to a couple of the people I'd met at the coffee shop near Columbia. They were all friendly enough, and as the evening wore on I began to feel more at ease. I even worked up the guts to shake hands with Henry Fonda, who basically ignored me but at least was nice about it. Now and then I somehow ended up alone, standing around looking for Ronnie or Martha. And every time this happened, some smooth guy would approach me, introduce himself, ask me where I attended school and how I liked New York, ask me a couple of questions, and then say that they noticed me arriving with either Martha or Ronnie try to wheedle their telephone numbers or other information out of me. I soon learned to feign total ignorance about both women, save that they gave me a ride to the party.

After this happened a couple of times I spotted Ronnie across the room, standing by herself with her cocktail glass at her lips. I walked to her and she gave me a little smile and indicated her glass. "Ice water," she said. "No bubbles for Ronnie. Ronnie doesn't want to be seen lying on her face in a place like this."

I said quietly, "You look beautiful."

She blushed. "Come on."

"You do."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She held her glass to her lips to demurely take a small sip and said, "Thanks," and then she arched her brows and winked and muttered from one side of her mouth, "Wanna fuck?"

I laughed, looking around, and she shifted her eyes around and said furtively, "I hope nobody heard me say that." She sipped her water and asked, "So how's it going? You holding up?"

I shook my head no. "I'm not gonna touch that question."

She suppressed a laugh and asked, "You met Anita yet?"

"No."

"Well, she just arrived. Over there by the door."

"I won't look."

She smiled and said, "Come on, let's get Martha to introduce you."

"Oh..."

She grabbed my arm. "Come on."

Martha and Ronnie stood at my side as both moral and physical support while Martha introduced me to Anita. I nearly fell over myself. She was the lovely girl I'd seen in my class at Fiore's. And she recognized me right away.

She said, "Oh, I thought I'd seen you before. Isn't that strange, when Martha described you to me and told me you worked out at Fiore's, I was sure I'd seen you."

I smiled at her feebly, trying desperately to find something to say, and I was captivated by her rich, red lips and charming smile and big brown eyes, and her easy, unpretentious manner, and I suddenly realized I was still shaking her warm, soft hand.

She said, "It just goes to show you, we've seen each other every day for weeks, but we never quite met. Of course," she said, laughing, "I have no idea what that means."

I said, "Well, we should have just said hello and got it over with."

"Yes," she said sweetly, "we should have."

"So, uh... how do you like that class?"

"Oh, it's great! I'm getting so good at it, I can almost stand up on my own when it's over."

Someone tapped Anita on the shoulder and she said, "Excuse me," and she turned to him, a smile on her face as she listened, and beside me I felt Martha and Ronnie start to move away, and I turned a little and frowned at Ronnie, and waved my hand, begging her to stay, but they both backed away, frowning back at me. Then I was there alone with this perfect, absolutely beautiful teenager who stood there like a Spanish princess in her simple but expensive full skirted, light blue dress and smiled with radiant confidence at a young guy who was whispering in her ear, and she said, "Oh, good. Thank you for letting me know."

And then there I was. And Anita. She was slightly shorter than me. Her long, wavy, dark brown hair hung over her shoulders and halfway to her waist. She held a cocktail glass filled with the same pink, non-alcoholic punch I was holding in my trembling hands.

She said to me graciously, "I'm so sorry. I asked Ralph to let me know if someone had arrived."

I smiled and said, "Oh, that's all right. No harm done." Which I thought, considering my state of mind, was a fairly brilliant statement.

She beamed at me, seeming genuinely glad to meet me, and I thought: What style, what confidence, how absolutely charming, how do people learn to do that? Are they just born that way? Why had I not been born that way?

She said, a soft laugh in her voice, "Martha told me you were from Memphis. But I won't embarrass you with the questions you usually get about Elvis Presley."

I shrugged, and despite the fact that I felt as if my face were paralyzed and the flesh was slipping off, I heard my mouth saying nonchalantly, "Oh, that's too bad. I've memorized all the answers to those questions. Now I don't have anything to talk about."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that."

I said, "I'll come up with something."

She paused, sipping from her glass, her eyes still on me, and we both paused together, looking at our glasses, and suddenly she said, "Introductions are so clumsy, aren't they? Do they ever get easier?"

I felt so relieved when she said that, my dick started to get hard. I smiled gently at her. "You're not doing bad at all."

She said, looking around, "Neither are you." She looked at me, her eyes easy, almost intimate. "Well, I feel I already know you, seeing you every day. That's what's so silly about it, you see someone you know so well, but you suddenly realize you've never said a word to one another." Her eyes glanced over and past my shoulders. She said, sounding relieved, "There. Martha's gone now. I can act my age."

I said, "You weren't acting your age with Martha around?"

"Well, you know, she always wants you act older, somehow. But she's sweet. I really love Martha. I don't see her enough these days." She sipped again, and I knew her eyes were looking at me, testing, asking.

I sighed uneasily and said, "Well. This is my first time here. It's nice."

She said, "I live here. Want me to show you around?"

"Sure."

She smiled and tilted her pretty head. "Come on. Let's walk around and bother people we don't know."

"Sure. We can pester them with introductions."

She giggled, her eyes brightening, and she said eagerly, her lovely red mouth laughing, "Yes! That's a great idea!" And I was in love with her.

Anita actually spent a couple of hours with me, showing me every nook and cranny of the ballroom and dining area and explaining how the rooms were used for official and social functions and talking about all the famous who had visited there and some of the dramatic events that had occurred in those palatial rooms. I was mightily impressed, and she could see I was.

We were standing alone, in the entrance hallways looking at a portrait on the wall of some general or other, and she stood beside me and said, "I'm afraid all this must make me seem intimidating."

I said, feeling much easier with her by that time, "I guess I would feel that way, if I didn't know you."

"That's what I mean," she said, a little glumly, her eyes looking up at the general. "That's probably why people sometimes don't just say hello to me. Maybe it's the way I look."

"Well... you do stand out."

"Oh, I don't mind standing out. But there are many people I'd just like to say hello to." She sighed, and asked, not looking at me, "Did you feel that way about me when you first saw me?"

I thought for a minute, and decided I might as well play it on the level. Something about her made me want to do that. I answered, "Yes."

She smiled. "See what I mean?"

During the course of the evening she brought me to the other side of the floor lobby into the residence of her godparents, where the rooms were smaller, though still exquisitely furnished. We went through their two libraries, one of which was set up as a music room with a splendid and very high-tech audio setup. Some of her friends were there playing record albums, and she introduced me to them. A strapping, tall teenage blonde guy gave me a hefty, friendly handshake and we got into a conversation that moved to the music system.

I mentioned, "I see they have a nice JBL setup here."

His face brightened and he said, "You know about this?"

"Sure. I'd love to have this at home."

"Oh, you and me both, man. These JBL's are great. Ever build any of your own stuff?"

"I have a Heathkit at home. Not much."

"Yeah, but all their stuff's classy, isn't it? And I really like building it myself."

I said, "You know, they're coming out with stereo. Now you'll need two of everything."

I sat with him, listening to a few record tracks, talking about the sound of the speakers and how they appeared to have certain sonic characteristics. The guy's name was Ken. He listened to me for a while and said, "Man, you really have a good ear. You know, I did notice that little tremor on the flutes and clarinets, I wondered where that was coming from."

"Crossover," I said. "Not easy for some crossovers to handle harmonics if the crossover region is in that range. But it sounds like the designer made a good compromise. That's what any loudspeaker is, anyway, a collection of compromises."

"Yeah, they are."

We both turned around to find Anita sitting on a small chair near us, looking confused. She smiled and said, "I'm glad you two know what you're talking about."

When Anita and I returned to the crowded main hall we were strolling and talking. And casually holding hands. I have no memory of how that happened, or who reached out first, but it seems we both reached out at the same time. Her fingers hung loosely from mine, and she looked down smiling and I looked down talking, and when I looked up I saw Martha eyeing us. Anita and I had made a date to meet on Tuesday afternoon to browse some Greenwich Village spots, and she wanted me to attend a party with some of her friends on Saturday.

As Anita and I were talking to Martha, Anita happened to mention that her theatre group was holding a contest of solo readings at her home within two weeks or so. Just as she mentioned it, Anita's eyes widened suddenly. She said to me, "Oh, I just remembered! Martha told me you're in theater!"

I looked at Martha accusingly and muttered, "Well, yes. I guess Martha must have mentioned that."

Anita said, "That's wonderful. Would you like to do a reading? Just a short piece, you know, from a play or some poetry or something. Come on, you can be a contestant and meet everyone in the club. That'll give you plenty to talk about."

I said, "Well, I'm not really prepared. I didn't bring any scripts with me or anything."

Anita said, "Would you like to use our library? We have so much material in there, or someone in the drama club can get you anything you need." She sidled close to me, squeezing my arm, and making an anxious face and laughing, saying to Martha, "Oh, please, don't let Steven get away. We'd love to see a new face at these things." Then she straightened up and said, earnestly, "Well, frankly, to get away from the same old faces each month, we're desperate!"

I said, still glancing at Martha, "Well..." I looked at Anita, who was holding my arm, smiling and pleading playfully, and she said sweetly, "Steven. Please? I know you'd be wonderful. Martha told me so much about your theater work. Come on. We'd love to see something." Then she sighed at Martha, "Oh, don't let him be too shy."

Martha laughed and said, "Anita, never fear. Steven has greasepaint in his blood and he'll be--" a quick little glance at me "glad to do something. He really wants to, I can tell."

I shrugged. "Sure."

Anita said, "Oh, good. The whole group will be looking forward to it. Thank you, Steven. It'll be so refreshing."

Anita soon took her leave, and it was time for Martha and Ronnie and me to get home. After Anita left, I stood there looking at Martha, my gaze growing more irritated.

I said, "She says it'll be refreshing. Refreshing. For who?"

"You'll come up with something and you'll be a major hit. And it's just a recreational drama club, it's not life and death."

I said again, "Yes. It'll be refreshing."

Martha looked right into my eyes and said, "She had you right in the palm of her hand. Figuratively and literally."

I blushed. Martha was right.

Sunday, none of us could find a movie worth seeing. Martha and Ronnie and I had a cheap meal at a Greek diner. At dinner, Ronnie told me she was envious. "You spend two hours with her and you get three dates? I was there for four hours and only got one."

I muttered, "All three dates were her idea, not mine."

Ronnie said, "Sure beats asking on your own, and getting 'no' three times in a row." She grinned at me. I told you she'd eat you alive. You just watch your step. She's very independent."

Martha looked up from her dinner. "Ronnie, you didn't tell me you got a date out of that party."

"Unlike you, Martha, I couldn't afford to turn guys down all night."

"Who was it? That Bolivian?"

"God, no. Who wants to go out with somebody who gets rich off forced peasant labor? There's already enough cruelty in my life."

"So who was it?"

"The guy from NYU."

"Oh, Ronnie. No."

"He's very nice!"

"Well, he's a little conventional."

"You can only give it a try and find out."

Ronnie left to go to the restroom, and Martha drank her tea quietly for a moment before asking me casually, "Steven, it's not that late. I was thinking, maybe Ronnie could come up for a while tonight."

"Okay," I said, not thinking too much about it.

"But if you're tired..."

"No. No, it's fine. I was gonna ask her about posing."

She said, "Oh," and she didn't say any more, and I wondered what she was thinking about. I asked "Why?"

She said, "Just thinking," and she sipped her tea.

We left the diner at eight and strolled home, with me between them. It was a slow, ambling journey with a couple of pauses at storefront windows. And it seemed like our slow stroll home from Penn Station several days before, seemingly aimless and yet with a single thought on all three minds, a kind of trusting assumption, and little did I know how it would all be repeated. We made our tired way up the stairway in their building and as Ronnie searched for her keys to open her door, Martha turned to her and said, "Ronnie? It's not very late. Want to come up? The three of us?" And Ronnie said, "I thought you were tired," and Martha said, "Just a little. It's not that late."