The Heights Part 16

"Tell me, Kate, why would she give away her wedding dress?"

I didn't know what to say. Then Philip laughed the laugh of a rich, confused man. "She's funny," he kept saying. "She's very funny."

I didn't say anything. I let him trail off. We were both quiet as Ray Charles crooned.

"Did she tell you the story of how I proposed? Probably not, because it's not a story she ever tells. The first time I saw Anna was at an opening in London. Now, here's all I know about art: The kind that I'm supposed to like is expensive. That night it was a group show of an 'exciting' new wave of artists-cows sliced in sections floating in formaldehyde, ice sculptures of the artist's frozen blood, lumps of cow dung covered with glitter glued to canvases-it was basically just ridiculous and indulgent, but what do I know about art? Everyone was young and excited. I felt like a very square dinosaur. Then I saw Anna, and I thought she was more spectacular than any painting ever painted. Soon we were dating. Or rather, I was dating. She was just having dinner with me because, I think, she was cash-strapped and hungry. Soon I was in love, and she was still just having dinner. We had many meals in those first weeks, and I was starting to get fat. I knew I needed to do something to get her attention. Because she loved art, I called one of my dealers and asked for something modest in size, very special, not overpowering, cost not an issue, something one-of-a-kind. He found a small painting, and I presented it to her after yet another dinner, and she knew the artist and seemed pleased. That night she kissed me for the first time. The painting she kept at her flat, resting on the mantel, leaning next to a small pot where she put her keys. I offered to have a security system/alarm installed for her, but she didn't want one. She said, 'None of us is safe.' More and more dinners. One day I stopped over on a whim and noticed that the painting wasn't in its usual place. I asked her, 'Where is it?' She said, 'Gone, Philip. It's gone.'

"Oh, wait," he said, "I skipped something. Anna is an avid grocery shopper. She loves, I don't know, squeezing fruit, figuring out what's ripe. Finding a good bargain. She may as well clip coupons, she's that frugal with food. Her one indulgence-and I hardly see it as that-is to have her groceries delivered. She had a delivery boy, a young man maybe in his early twenties-black, dreadlocks, but that's not important-who apparently was fond of the painting. Every time he made a delivery, he would stop and stare at it. They would discuss it. He loved it. He was possessed by it and, apparently, not because of who painted it-incidentally, it was by de Kooning."

"Oh, de Kooning," I said. "I think I've heard of him."

"Anyway, when Anna said it was gone, I knew immediately who'd taken it. I practically dove for the phone to call the police. Then she said, 'Philip, stop.' 'It was your delivery boy,' I said. 'I know,' she said, 'I gave it to him.' I couldn't speak for a moment. 'You what?' 'I like the painting, but not the way he does. And it seems to me, if somebody loves something so much, they should have it.'

"Well," Philip continued, "I almost lost it right there. But I didn't. Oh my G.o.d, I was angry, but I didn't yell or scream. No, I did the smartest thing ever. I went for a walk. During the walk, I remembered a deeply held belief of my father's-the successful person always tries to turn disappointment and adversity to his advantage. So that night, during what very well could have been our last dinner together, I gave her a note, which read: My love, you were right to give away the painting. And it's true what you said. If somebody loves someone so much, they should have them. Will you marry me?"

It was eerie how, when he finished the story, the cars on the bridge finally began to move. It was as if the whole world had stopped for him. A great effect. Part of me wondered whether he'd hired a bunch of drivers to stop in unison around us. But in truth, the accident up ahead had been cleared.

As I think back, even though he told the story in a clumsy manner, it had a certain smoothness, as if it had been told too many times.

Hank was now speeding up FDR Drive. He cut across two lanes and barely made the Houston Street exit.

"Tell me your opinion of the house tour," Philip said.

"Have you and Anna been asked?"

"Tell me your opinion."

The house tour is an annual fund-raiser for the Brooklyn Heights a.s.sociation. Five houses are chosen for uniqueness of architecture, quality of restoration, and interior design. A few thousand people from all over New York City and the surrounding suburbs come and tramp through these homes. It's sweetly voyeuristic, and I found it fun my first years in the Heights, but it can leave a bitter aftertaste if you don't have a comparable home. I told all this to Philip. "Basically," I said, "if you want my opinion, I wouldn't do it. Not your house. Keep it a mystery."

"Well," he said. "I'm glad Anna didn't talk to you."

"Oh, why?"

"They asked her. They've been after her to do it. And I told her she should. So she's doing it. And it's a good thing because Anna needs something to do."

"In that case," I said, "sure, great. Good."

"You can let me out here, Hank, I need to walk a bit." Philip turned to me and said, "He'll drop you wherever you need to go."

"Thank you."

Before he got out of the car, Philip said, "And Kate-may I trouble you for one more thing?"

Trouble. His word, not mine.

"Please don't tell Anna about my friend back at the house."

TIM.

"I JUST SPOKE TO YOUR FATHER."

"He's your father, too."

"Oh, right. Anyway, Tim, how are you?"

I sighed. Then my sister sighed. In the aftermath of our father's great unmasking, Sal and I talked nearly every day, trying to make sense of what we'd learned. But lately, we hadn't spoken much. We'd grown tired of rehas.h.i.+ng the mess he'd made, so with each call, we tried to sidestep the myriad of land mines and talk small for a time. For me, these phone conversations proved single-handedly why every family should have at least two children. A good sister or brother can help keep one sane.

"How are you, Sal?"

"Been better."

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, the nerve of the man."

"Yes," I said warily.

"Their fiftieth anniversary. It's coming up."

"Can't be."

"Not for another year, but he wants to celebrate early."

"A whole year early?"

"Yep. Next year Mom won't remember anything, so he's probably right. It's just . . ."

"What, Sal, what?"

"It's hard to imagine throwing him a party at this point. Mom, though. Mom deserves a parade. Anyway, he kept saying how terrific you were at his retirement s.h.i.+ndig. What an amazing MC you were. So I said, but probably shouldn't have, 'Let's have Tim organize your party.' "

"You didn't."

"I was kidding, all right? I know it's my turn. Don't worry. I'll do it all. But you have to be there. Okay?"

"Just postpone as long as you can."

"Why, are you hoping he'll die?"

"I didn't say it. You said it."

"So, brother, how are you?"

"I was just going to ask you."

"Don't ask."

"Are you smoking again? It sounds like you're smoking."

"Yep. Red broke up with me."

"No."

"She did. She left me for a man named s.h.i.+rley. It's okay, you can laugh."

"I'm sorry, Sal . . ."

"I said you could laugh!"

We laughed.

"How are you and Kate?"

"Why?"

"Everybody's getting divorced or breaking up. It's just a disaster area out there. I don't know, it's probably wrong of me, but you and Kate have, like, the only relations.h.i.+p that I know of that actually works. And to think we have to celebrate our parents just because our feeble mom never had the courage to kick the f.e.c.kless b.a.s.t.a.r.d out."

"Well . . ."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Forty-one years to go, that's how we are."

"Now, that's a party I'd like to plan."

I said nothing. The only sound was of Sal lighting another cigarette.

"So you guys going to make it? To fifty?"

"Well," I said, exhaling with her, "we're going to do our best."

After hanging up, I checked the kitchen clock. It was almost midnight. As I suspected, during my conversation with Sal, Kate had fallen asleep while reading Jane Eyre. Before turning off the lamp on her side, I studied her sleeping face. Her sweet features. The faint wrinkles around her mouth from smiling too much. The slight upturn of her near-perfect nose.

How will we be after fifty years?

Sleep was difficult for me that night. I took a bowl of Raisin Bran to the living room/dining room/toy room, turned on the TV, and channel-surfed. Finally, in desperate need for perspective, I returned to the kitchen. Because we'd married at a younger age than most of our friends-I had been twenty-three and Kate twenty-five-fifty years of marriage seemed a possibility. For me, it was a goal.

Yes, I had dueling fantasies: a golden-anniversary celebration with my would-be-seventy-five-year-old wife and the dream of a wild weekend with Anna Brody. But honestly, a weekend with Anna Brody seemed far from the realm of possibility, which made doing the math that night, at our jelly-stained kitchen table and without the aid of a calculator, all the more harmless. What if I had it both ways? Fifty years of marriage to Kate, one weekend with Anna Brody. What would it mean?

Listed below are my preliminary findings.

Over a fifty-year period, I will have shared the following . . .

2,600 weekends:

1 weekend (Anna)-2,599 weekends (Kate)

18,250 days:

2 days (Anna)-18,248 days (Kate)

438,000 hours:

48 hours (Anna)-437,952 hours (Kate)

26,280,000 minutes:

2,880 minutes (Anna)-26,277,120 minutes (Kate)

1,576,800,000 seconds:

172,800 seconds (Anna)-1,576,627,200 seconds (Kate)