5
IN SPITE OF A DESIRE TO SEEM “COOLER” THAN THAT, Gray had called Sylvia the night he got back to New York on the first of September. It was the Labor Day weekend, and he wondered if she'd be away. It turned out she wasn't, much to his relief. She had sounded surprised to hear from him, and for a moment, he wondered if he had heard her wrong, or misread her, and was doing the wrong thing.
“Are you busy?” he asked nervously. She sounded distracted, and not entirely pleased.
“No, I'm sorry. I have a leak in my kitchen, and I have no idea what to do with this goddamn thing.” Everyone in her building was off over the long weekend.
“Did you call your super?”
“Yes, his wife is having a baby tonight. And the plumber I called said he can't get here till tomorrow afternoon, for twice the rate since it's a holiday. My neighbor called that it's dripping through his ceiling.” She sounded exasperated, which was at least familiar to him. Damsels in distress were his specialty.
“What happened? Did it just start out of nowhere, or did you do something?” Plumbing was not his area of expertise either, but he had a sense of how things worked mechanically, which she didn't. Plumbing was one of the few things she couldn't do.
“Actually”—she started to laugh sheepishly—“I dropped a ring down the sink, so I tried to take the damn thing apart, before it wound up in the Manhattan sewer system. I got the ring, but something went wrong, and I couldn't get it back together fast enough. I seem to have sprung a major leak. Now I have no idea what to do.”
“Give up the apartment. Find a new one immediately,” Gray suggested, and Sylvia laughed at him.
“You're a big help. I thought you were an expert at rescue work. Some help you are.”
“I specialize in neurotic women, not plumbing issues. You're too healthy. Call another plumber.” And then he had a better idea. “Do you want me to come over?” He had just arrived from the airport ten minutes before. He hadn't even bothered to glance at his mail. He had gone straight to the phone and called her.
“Something tells me you don't know what to do either. Besides, I look disgusting. I haven't combed my hair all day.” She had stayed home doing paperwork, and the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. It was one of those lazy days when she had nothing important to do. Sometimes it was pleasant being in town while everyone else was away, although by the end of the day, the solitude usually got to her, with no one to talk to, which made it nice to hear from him.
“I look disgusting too. I just got off a plane. Besides, you probably look better than you think.” How disgusting could she look? He couldn't imagine her looking anything but terrific, even with uncombed hair. “Tell you what, you do your hair, I'll do the sink. Or I can do your hair, and you do the sink. We can take turns.”
“You're crazy,” she said, sounding good-natured and amused. It had been a boring, lonely Sunday on a holiday weekend and she was happy to hear from him. “I'll tell you what. If you fix the sink, I'll buy you a pizza. Or Chinese takeout, you pick.”
“Whatever you want. I ate on the plane. I'll change into my plumbing clothes, and be over in ten minutes. Hang on to your hat till then.”
“Are you sure?” She sounded embarrassed, but pleased.
“I'm sure.” It was an easy way for them to see each other again. No anticipation, no fancy clothes, no awkward first date. Just a leak in her kitchen sink, and uncombed hair. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and was out the door ten minutes later. He was at her door another ten minutes after that. She lived in a loft south of him, in SoHo. The building had been renovated, and looked very sleek. She lived on the top floor, and the art he saw everywhere as soon as he got off the elevator looked serious and impressive. It wasn't the kind of work he did, but he knew it was what she sold. She had some major artists in her own collection, which caught his eye immediately. It was easy to see from the look of the apartment that she had great taste.
She had made the same effort he had, washed her face, combed her hair, brushed her teeth, and put on a clean T-shirt. Beyond that, she was barefooted, wearing jeans, and she looked happy to see him. She gave him a quick hug and looked him over.
“You don't look like a plumber to me.”
“I couldn't find my overalls, sorry. This will have to do.” He was wearing good shoes and a clean pair of jeans. “Did you turn off the water?” he asked, as she led him to the kitchen. It was all black granite and chrome. It was a beautiful place, and she told him she had done most of the design work herself.
“No,” she said, looking blank, in answer to his question about the water. “I don't know how.”
“Okay,” he said, muttering to himself, as he slipped under the sink. There was a steady cascade of water, flowing from the sink through the cabinet beneath, and she had towels all over the floor. Gray was on his knees looking for the shut-off valve, and asked her for a wrench. She handed it to him, and a minute later, the water stopped. Problem solved, or at least put on hold for the moment. He emerged from under the sink with a broad smile, and wet jeans from the knees down, from where he had knelt.
“You're a genius. Thank you.” She smiled back at him and then glanced down at his jeans. “Sorry, you're all wet. I'd offer to dry your pants, but it might be a little forward to ask you to take them off on a first date. I'm a little out of practice, but I think that's probably not the thing to do.” On the other hand, she knew that if she didn't, he would be miserable sitting through dinner in wet jeans. And besides, she assumed correctly, he was tired from the trip, he didn't need to be wet and uncomfortable too. “Maybe we ought to skip dating etiquette for this time. Take off your pants. I'll put them in the dryer. I'll get you a towel. We can order a pizza delivered.” She came back with a white bath towel five minutes later. It was a big fluffy luxurious one. She pointed at her guest bathroom, where he could change. He came out a minute later, carrying his jeans, and with the towel wrapped around his waist. He looked funny wearing it with a shirt, socks, and shoes.
“I feel a little silly,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, “but I'd probably feel sillier eating dinner in my boxers.” She laughed at him then, and he followed her into the loft's main room. She had an enormous living room filled with sculpture and paintings. It was an incredible backdrop for her art. He noticed a number of important artists represented as he looked around the room. “Wow! You've got some great stuff.”
“I've been collecting for years. One day I'll give them to my kids.” What she said reminded him again that this was not as simple as it looked, for him at least. Hearing her mention her children was like a roll of thunder in the background. He had never wanted to deal with a woman who had kids. But Sylvia was different. Everything about her was different from any woman he'd ever known. Maybe her kids were different too. And at least they weren't his. He had a psychotic terror of small children, or a phobia about them. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he knew it wasn't good.
“Where are they?” he asked, looking around nervously, as though expecting them to spring out of a closet and leap at him, like pet snakes, or a pair of pit bulls. She saw the look on his face and was once again amused.
“In Europe. Remember? Where they live. In Oxford and Florence. They won't be home till Christmas. You're safe. Although I wish they were here.”
“Did you have a nice trip with them?” he asked politely, as she went back to the kitchen and adjusted the setting on the dryer, and then came back to the living room.
“Very nice. How about you? How was the rest of the trip?” She sat down on the couch, and he sat in an enormous black leather chair, facing her. She looked beautiful in her bare feet and jeans, and he was happy to see her. Happier than he'd ever been in recent years. He had missed her, which seemed crazy even to him. He hardly knew her, but he had thought about her constantly during the last weeks of the trip.