From time to time some stranger will ask me how I can bear to live in New York
City. Sometimes it happens when I am on vacation, passing the time in a buffet
line filled with the sunburned and the semidrunk. Sometimes it comes up at a
professional conference, drinking coffee in the corner of a hotel meeting room
with a clutch of social workers, most of them wearing the dirndl skirts and
dangling earrings of the socially conscious woman of a certain age. My aunt’s
friends will ask, although they live only a half hour north, up the Saw Mill
Parkway, but in a state of bucolic isolation that might as well be Maine.
Even in New York itself I will sometimes hear the question, from the ld men on
the Coney Island boardwalk who knew Irving Lefkowitz when he was a bar mitzvah
boy and who, from their benches on the Brooklyn beach, envision the long and
slender island of Manhattan as an urban Titanic, sinking beneath the weight of
criminals, homosexuals, and atheists, sailing toward certain disaster.
“And you live there why, sweetheart?” one of them once asked me with an
openmouthed squint, his neck thrust forward from the V of a ratty cardigan so
that he looked like a Galápagos tortoise with a wool-Dacron argyle shell.
Sometimes, if I’m tired, I just shrug and say I like it here. Sometimes, if I’m
in a foul mood or have had a bit too much to drink, which often amounts to the
same thing, I will say I live in New York because it is the center of the
universe.
Most of the time I say my sister lives here and I want to be near her, and her
husband, who is like a brother to me, and her son, whom I covertly think of as
at least partly my own. The old men like that answer. They make a humming sound
of approbation and nod their mottled hairless heads. A good girl. A family
person. They peer up at Irving. The next question will be about marriage. We
flee to Nathan’s for a hot dog.
I do like it here. It is the center of the universe.
And I do want to be near my sister, as I always have been. We have our rituals.
Every Saturday morning, unless she is covering the Olympics, the Oscars, a
disaster, or an inauguration, my sister and I go running together in the park
and have breakfast either at her apartment or at the Greek diner down the street
from mine. She will tell you she is forced to set a slower pace because I don’t
exercise enough. She sees this as evidence of my essential sloth. I see it as
emblematic of our relationship. Our aunt Maureen says that I was a baby so plump
and phlegmatic that the only reason I learned to walk was so I could follow my
older sister. Some of my earliest memories are of wandering down a street of old
Dutch Colonials and long-leafed pines, the backs of a covey of eight-year-old
girls half a block in front of me, the demand from the one at their center
carrying on the breeze: “Bridget! Go home! Go home now! You can’t come!”
I’m always a little breathless when I run with Meghan on Saturday mornings. But
I’m accustomed to it now. “Listen and learn,” she has said to me since we were
in high school, and I always have.
“How weird is it that we were at the same dinner party last night?” she said one
overcast March morning as we began to trot down the park drive in tandem, and I
tried not to hear that long-ago plaint in her comment: Go home, Bridget! You
can’t come. It had indeed been strange to enter a vast living room, beige velvet
and Impressionist paintings, and see her at one end nursing a glass of sparkling
water. Our hostess had attempted to introduce us, since no one ever suspected
Meghan and I were related. Then she had disappeared to hand off the bunch of
anemones bound with ribbons I had given her at the door.
“God, flowers, Bridge?” my sister said, running around a stroller-size class of
new mothers trying to trim their baby bodies. “I couldn’t believe you brought
flowers to a dinner party. That’s the worst. With everything else you have to do
when people are showing up, you have to stop to find a vase and fill a vase and
cut the stems and then find a place for them and if they’re blue, Jesus, I never
know where to put them in our apartment, and then-”
“How is it possible that you can make bringing someone flowers sound like the
Stations of the Cross?”
“Sometimes I just leave them on the kitchen counter and toss them with the
leftovers.” I knew this was not exactly true; Meghan had long had staff to toss
the leftovers, and the people from Feeding Our People, the big society
starvation charity, sent over a van to pick up the excess food from her larger
dinner parties. “Just bring wine. Even if they don’t want to use it they can put
it away for cocktail parties. Or wait and send an orchid plant the next day. I
don’t know why, but every damn living room on the East Side has to have an
orchid plant. I think they’re creepy, like big white bugs. They don’t look like
flowers at all.”
“I thought you loved them. You always have one on that chest under the windows.”
“What can I tell you? I’m a slave to fashion.”
We always see the same people when we run: the soap opera actor with the
carefully tinted hair and heavily muscled legs, the small woman with the spiky
gray hair who had the ropy muscles and sharp bones of a marathoner, the Chinese
couple who wore identical fashionable warm-up suits and ran with a pair of
borzois. One of our regular anorexics streaked past us, collarbone draped in the
shroud of an extra-large Harvard sweatshirt. “You know that woman who does the
financial news? Grace Shelton?” Meghan said.
“The one with that great haircut?”
“I don’t understand why everyone says that. That haircut is not that great.”
“Okay, fine. What’s the point?”
“Someone told me that she doesn’t eat anything except apples and Triscuits.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Probably not, but you never know.”
A runner in front of us turned and began to run backward. Meghan dipped her head
so that the bill of her cap covered her face.
“I want to go back to the dinner gift issue,” I said. “How much does an orchid
plant cost?”
“A hundred and fifty dollars. You have to send the ones with two stems.”
“Jesus Christ. That’s a lot of money for a stranger who invites you to dinner.”
“Accepted and acknowledged,” Meghan said. Like the aunt who raised us, Meghan
has a variety of expressions that she uses constantly and whose meaning is
somewhat obscure on their face. This one has endured for decades. I think it was
even beneath her yearbook picture. Once she told me it meant “I know but I don’t
care.”
On the sidewalk, glittery with mica in the late winter sunlight, a solitary
glove lay, palm up, as though pleading for spare change. Meghan barely broke
stride as she lifted it and blew through the doors of her building. “Good
morning, Ms. Fitzmaurice,” the doorman said. The modern honorific was
articulated plainly, a sound like a buzzing bee. The building staff know our
Meghan.
“Can you see if someone dropped this?” she said, handing over the glove. “It’s a
shame this late in the season for somebody to find out they’re one short.”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I’m such a good citizen,” she muttered as we got into the elevator and Meghan
took off the baseball cap that shaded her face so conveniently.
“Oh, get over yourself,” I said.
“I am so over myself.”
“As if.”
We are creatures of habit, Meghan and I. At the diner we have western omelets
and rye toast; at her house we have oatmeal and orange juice. This works fine
because we live in the city of habit. New York is so often publicly associated
with creativity and innovation that outsiders actually come to believe it. The
truth is that behavior here is as codified as the Latin Mass. The dinner party
the night before had been no exception. The dining room walls glazed red, the
tone-on-tone tablecloths, the low centerpiece of roses and some strange
carnivorous-looking tulips. The single man on one side of me. “I hear you’re a
social worker,” he said as we both lifted our napkins and placed them on our
laps, as so many had said before him.
That was best case, of course. At the home of one donor to the women’s shelter
where I work, two men who were equity traders spent an entire dinner talking to
each other about the market within spitting distance-literally-of my face, bent
so close above my dinner that I couldn’t reach my bread plate. At the duplex
apartment of a woman who worked with my brother-in-law at Sensenbrenner Lamott,
I’d turned to the man on my left and asked, “How do you know Amelia?” and
watched his face crumble and tears run into his beard. Everyone at the table
ignored the display as he talked of his wife, who had been our hostess’s college
roommate and who had left him for a well-connected lesbian who lived in London.
With very little help from me he worked his way through their college years,
marriage, apartment renovation, career changes, and the dinner party (of course)
where he himself had been the lesbian’s dinner partner, the hostess having
mistaken her for a more conventional single woman. He had invited the woman to
their home for brunch because the two shared an interest in Fiesta ware, an
interest his wife had never, in his words, “given a tinker’s damn about.” (“Oh,
God, he’s gay himself,” Meghan had said at our next breakfast. “What kind of
straight man even knows what Fiesta ware is?”) In the face of his grief and
rage, the table had fallen silent except for the torrent of words from one
stay-at-home mother, who was doing a monologue about her child’s learning
disabilities.
It wasn’t always that bad, of course. I once dated a professor at NYU for almost
a year after I met him at a dinner party given by a woman who’d graduated from
Smith and whom I met at an alumnae phonathon. I developed a firm friendship with
a lighting tech who works on Broadway shows, an Irish expat named Jack who was
seated next to me at a neighbor’s annual Fourth of July potluck.
That was a good dinner, excellent company, excellent food. There were figs with
goat cheese stuffed inside, and pumpkin bisque, and rack of lamb with broccoli
rabe. The men all run together in my head, all the
lawyers/filmmakers/academics/brokers/editors with whom I’ve been paired. But I
almost always remember the food, even the bad food. There was a lot of that in
the early days, before all around me grew rich while I moved from a studio to a
bigger studio to a small one-bedroom to a one-bedroom with a window in the
kitchen, that window that will be presented by brokers to apartment supplicants
as though it were a fresco by Michelangelo. As, by Manhattan standards, it is.
For some of us the kitchen with the window means we have finally arrived at some
precarious level of prosperity. For others it was a momentary triumph, a way
station between the first book proposal and the third bestseller, the summer
associate’s job and the partnership, the husband who teaches comparative lit at
Columbia and the one who runs the big brokerage house. One moment a kitchen with
a blessed window, the next a kitchen with two imported dishwashers, two
glass-fronted fridges, terra-cotta floors, stainless countertops, an extra-deep
sink, a tap over the restaurant range for the pasta pots, designed in
consultation with the caterers because they use it more than the homeowners. The
kitchen is always hidden in the back of the apartment, away from the pricey
views of Central Park and the master bedroom with the cherry chest at the foot
of the bed that holds the television, which rises up out of the chest at the
touch of a bedside button. It’s funny how everyone feels they need to hide the
TVs and the food, since both are the things they talk about most often. Meghan’s
kitchen has a flat-screen television, although Meghan hates to watch TV when she
is not working.
“Where’s Evan?” I mumbled with my mouth full.
“Evan? Evan who? Oh, you mean my husband? That is his name, isn’t it? Evan.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” I said.
“Evan is at the office. The office here, not the office in London or the one in
Tokyo, although God knows he’s spent enough time in both in the last six months.
When he’s in New York, he usually comes home when I’m already asleep. I turn
over and look and say to myself, Yep, that’s him. Every dinner party now, he
says, I’m exhausted, can you go without me? And people accuse me of being a
workaholic. Which reminds me: Where the hell do the guys keep the Tupperware?”
Only the team of Robert and John, who made the meals, served the meals, and
cleaned up after the meals, had a clue where anything was stored in Meghan and
Evan’s kitchen. Except for Leo, my nephew, he of the take-out Chinese and
late-night ramen noodles, of the endless bowls of Count Chocula and the ice
cream eaten straight from the container. He’d shown me where the Tupperware was
one night when we’d eaten enough rice pudding to kill us both.
“In the square cabinet over the wine fridge,” I said.
Another reason not to bring flowers: the lady of the house doesn’t know where
the vases are kept. If she had to find the vacuum cleaner or the Windex, the
world would stop on its axis.
“Why do you need Tupperware?” I asked.
“We’re doing a Tupperware party on the air on Monday morning, and apparently I’m
going to have to do something called burping the Tupperware. We talked ad
nauseam about whether it would be better if it was clear that I didn’t know what
the hell burping the Tupperware meant or if I burped it convincingly. With
authority, I think they said. I opted for authority.”
“Of course you did. On the other hand, it’s hard to figure how anyone can look
authoritative with Tupperware. I mean-Tupperware. Who cares?”
My sister gave me a long level look, her lip slightly raised on one side. “Maybe
you’re preaching to the converted here?”
“Hey, who am I to talk? I spent yesterday trying to break up a bootleg sneaker
ring that apparently is being fronted by two of the women living in our shelter.
The precinct was nice about it, but they said either we could shut down the Nike
Air operation or they could shut us down.”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Rise and Shine
by Anna Quindlen
Copyright © 2006 by Anna Quindlen.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
