She swept past me and into the living room. A fire was roaring in the grate, which made a convenient ashtray for her. “I suppose he didn’t want to be here when the movers got here. I’ll have to supervise.” She marched into the bedroom, leaving me alone in my socks and Boris’s T-shirt. “When’s the bed arriving?”
“At noon,” I said.
Ann came back out of the bedroom and took a long drag on her cigarette. “This apartment’s smoky as hell. I thought Boris wasn’t going to light another fire until he had the flue checked.”
I shrugged.
“You should get dressed, unless you want the movers seeing you like that.”
“I’ll dress. You make coffee.”
Boris and Ann shared a storage space in Williamsburg, and that’s where the extra furniture was going. Ann had some of her larger canvases there and, of all things, life-sized ceramic figures left over from a brief and unappreciated phase in the mid-seventies. Boris had said something frightening and odd the night before about moving out to Long Island or Westchester or Connecticut, somewhere where he could have all his furniture. He’d also said something about children, which he’d quickly replaced with the possibility of owning a dog. Or maybe a cat. He was undecided; he was drinking. I pulled on a pair of jeans. Ann made very good coffee and I was looking forward to drinking it and smoking, without Boris sending me out of the building or up to the roof.
“Did Boris say when he’d be back?”
“I wasn’t up when he left.”
“Did he leave any money for the movers?”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Typical,” Ann responded. She shook her head, but I could tell that she was pleased that she would have to take charge.
The bed was supposed to be me my wedding gift. Giving your significantly younger wife a bed seemed, if nothing else, in poor taste. In addition the bed was a monstrosity. I’m not sure what wood it was carved from, but it was a dense, grainless variety. The bed weighed close to a ton. A dark, universal stain soaked all the wood, inexplicably sticky in places; Boris said this was due to an ancient resin sealing process, which sounded plausible, although invented. The bed was almost a four-poster. Almost, because the proportions were off, and after some thought it was obvious that at one time the bed had had a canopy, now sawed off. The posts twisted around themselves in a sort of mannerist-meets-Willy-Wonka style. At the termini of these posts was more of the “ancient resin,” which was now looking like a bold attempt at fakery. Was the thing an antique? Most likely. Was it what Boris hoped, an unappreciated Renaissance work of art? Not possible, although certain parts had been cobbled together from a time long gone. And, thrill of thrills, on one of the short stumpy legs there was evidence of the woodworm.
A mattress would have to be specially ordered, and until the thing arrived, we would make do with a futon that bent up at the end, too long by half a foot.
The movers were late, of course, and when the bed arrived they were still struggling with the cedar chest.
“What the hell’s in here?” asked the younger one.
“A life’s achievement,” I said and smiled.
“What are you smirking about?” asked Ann as she stood by the window. She had been watching the sidewalk on and off for the past hour, waiting for Boris to make an appearance.
“I am not smirking, Ann. I am smiling. Happy people do this.”
The bed was now filling the hallway. The movers and deliverers were in a heated discussion, first in English, then in Spanish.
“What a disaster,” said Ann, pleased.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
“Now?” Ann disapproved.
“Yes.”
“Is that your solution for everything?”
I had no idea how she’d come to this conclusion. “No. Drinking takes care of most things.” I studied her studying me, neither of us impressed. “My plane leaves in two hours. I’m already running late.”
“And what about Boris?”
“What about Boris?”
“Aren’t you going to wait for him?”
“He knows what time my plane leaves. I have to close up the house, pack my things.” I folded my arms; I was not backing down. “If he wants to spend an entire day shopping for cheese, or whatever else it is that he’s doing, that’s hardly my fault, is it?”
When the car service showed up, the bed was stuck in the hall, one of its resinated posts lost in the ceiling tile, an ominous shower of electric sparks raining down from the hole. I had to crawl on my belly, dragging my bag, to get under it. Just as the elevator arrived, a cloud of smoke (defective flue) billowed into the hall and smoke detectors began to buzz from many different sectors. I think Ann was yelling at me, but I didn’t listen. I felt free, more free than I had in months, and was nothing but happy to be leaving.
By the time I got to Newark the sky was a threatening purple. Huge, cottony cloud banks were piled up, giving the sky a deeper dimension—less of a blue flatness—walls of cloud that I imagined might hide an angry God: bolt-wielding, fickle Zeus, or Hephaestus (god of blacksmiths, gimps, and cuckolds) himself. Perhaps not the best day for flying, but probably better than snow. The flight was delayed a half hour, which was normal. I called Arthur first.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” he said, “but it can wait until you get here.”
“What’s wrong?”
Arthur paused. “The leak in the bathroom seems to be getting worse.”
Which probably meant that the house was getting ready to break free from its moorings and float off to Turkey, like Noah’s ark.
I still had five minutes before my flight boarded, so I decided—in a generous moment—to call Boris’s apartment to see what was going on. Ann picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Boris?”
“Katherine. I guess Boris never showed up.”
“I’m worried.”
“He did this the day of his party. He’ll be there in a couple of hours, with Chinese takeout.”
“He would be here to see his bed arrive. He would be here, Katherine. I’m calling the police.”
“Ann, relax. You can’t call the police anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Actually, you can call them, but they won’t do anything for two days.”
“How do you know?”
“Law and Order.” There was a pause here as Ann lit a cigarette and I wished I could. “Ann, I don’t know why you’re so worried. I really don’t. Boris is fifty years old. He’s been gone, for what, four and a half hours? Is that really so unusual?”
“I trust my instincts. I’m going to look for him.” And she hung up.
Arthur came and got me at the airport. I’d offered to take a cab, but he wouldn’t let me. His van was at the curb, engine running. He’d decided against driving my Rabbit because of the hole in the floor. Everything was flooding and the world was loud— trickling, splatting, drumming water and the thump-wump of the wipers. Kevin was nervous, whining on the seat between us, his eye whiskers twitching with concern.
“All the snow is melting,” said Arthur. “A lot of places are in a state of national emergency.”
“Ah, federal relief.” I rubbed my head. “I’d settle for an ibuprofen.”
“How was New York?”
I shrugged. “I got married.”
“To Boris?”
“Are you angry?”
“No,” Arthur looked in the rearview mirror and then the side mirror. He stayed in his lane. “I think it’s sexy. You’re a married woman. I’m your boy toy.”
I started laughing. I grabbed his hand and held it. “I’m glad I’m home. Sometimes I get so… tired.”
“From doing what?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“You seem sad,” he said.