New York Echoes (2 page)

“Gotta go, Bob. Keep your chin up. Life
goes on.”

“Wonderful talking with you, Carol,” he
said.

“Caroline,” she corrected patiently.

“Oh yes.  I'm so sorry.”

She smiled and shook his proffered hand.

“Thanks. It's been very comforting
talking to you.”

She went back up to her apartment,
dismissing Bob Rainey and his dilemma from her mind. But she remembered it
later when she and Jules had their usual before-dinner aperitif and she told
him about it. At times she either cooked simple meals or they ordered in or
went to a neighborhood restaurant.

“Are we supposed to shed tears?” Jules
said.

“I guess he needed to confide in
someone,” Caroline said.

“So you lent him your ears.”

“Nothing wrong with giving comfort by
listening.”

“Save it all for me. I'm a glutton for
comfort.”

He smiled and patted her cheek.

“He's a real nice guy, Jules,” Caroline
said. “Maybe we can invite him in for dinner sometime?”

“We're not therapists. You have no
obligation to comfort him.”

“Just being neighborly,” she sighed, on
the verge of telling him about her daily walks with Betsy, but quickly
retreating.

She was into the second week of walking
Sandra Siegal's dog when she bumped into Mary Schwartz, who was sitting on a
park bench behind which Betsy was sniffing.  They had brief eye contact and it
was unavoidable for either of them to deny recognition.

“I'm Caroline Kramer from the building.”

“Oh yes, I remember. But I don't recall
a dog.”

“It's Sandra Siegel's”

“Who?”

“One of the other tenants. Hurt her
ankle. I'm being a good neighbor.”

“I see.”

She had picked up some of Betsy's poop
offerings and flung them into a trash basket.

“I've been laid off,” Mary said.
“They're dumping all the oldies. Anyone over fifty. They deny it, of course,
but it's apparent as the nose on your face. I've been sitting here figuring out
ways to really hurt them, the bastards.”

“I can't imagine how devastating it
would be,” Caroline said.

“I worked for this advertising agency
for nearly twenty years. I thought I was the resident expert on media,
especially the new media, you know cable, the Internet, etcetera etcetera. Sons
of bitches. I trained this little rat and now she's taken over.”

“I'm sure something else will turn up,”
Caroline said.

“They want the sweet young things, I'm
afraid. I'm neither sweet nor young.”

“I wish you luck,” Caroline said,
starting to lead Betsy away. Then she thought of something and came back.

“My husband's a vice president of a
company in the media business. I'll talk to him if that's okay?”

“Why not?” Mary muttered. “You never
know.”

She picked up the mail and brought the
dog back to Sandra Siegel, who came to the door without a cane. She picked up
Betsy, kissed her on the snout and talked baby talk to her as the dog licked
her face.

“I think I can hack it now, Caroline. I
can't begin to thank you. You've been great.”

“That's what neighbors are for.”

Caroline felt good about it. After all,
it didn't take much time. Betsy was an obedient dog. It generated good
feelings. She supposed she could tell Jules about it now.  Jules came in at his
usual hour carrying a bottle of champagne with a ribbon around it and a card.

“The doorman gave it to me. It says,
‘Thanks a million from Sandra Siegel,'” Jules said. “Who the hell is Sandra
Siegel and why is she thanking you?”

“For walking her dog,”
Caroline admitted. “She's a tenant and twisted her ankle.”

“Part of your good
neighbor campaign?”

She held up the
champagne bottle he had given her.

“Good fellowship and
good cheer,” she said. “And this.”  She handed him an invitation to a dinner
party from Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Agronsky. “The ninth floor Agronskys,”
Caroline said, winking. “You see what happens when you open up to them? People
are hungry for companionship.”

“Couple of days. Short
notice,” he commented, reading the invitation.

“It's the thought that
counts,” she said.

“I haven't really been
against the idea,” he said. “Only wary of involvement.”

“I like the idea of
involvement with people. After all, I work alone all day. It's nice to have
friends to chat with.”

“Like that guy with
the girlfriend.”

“Like him, and today I
talked with another neighbor who just lost her job. I told him what you did and
maybe you might see her.” Caroline explained her credentials. “She says
companies look askance when you're over fifty, no matter what your expertise.”

In a comic mime, he
looked around him as if he were checking for spies and he put a finger over his
lips.

“Don't ask. Don't
tell.”

“It's not fair.”

“Neither is life.”

In the morning, when
she went to get the
New York Times
outside her door, there was an
envelope with Mary's resume. She gave it to Jules.

“I'll look it over,”
he promised. “Don't encourage her.”

When she went for her
afternoon Frappuccino, Ben Rainey was sitting alone at a table. He motioned her
over after she got her order. It was impossible to avoid him without seeming
rude and she sat down at the table.

“I was hoping you'd
come.”

“Were you?”

“You were so
considerate the other day. You were great.”

“So, how are you
doing?”

“I'm lonely as hell,”
he said. “I miss her like crazy. I'm barely able to function.”

“Maybe there are
people you can talk with,” she said, hoping he might take her subtle suggestion
to see a therapist.

“They can't help. They
can't bring her back to me. She's gone to Europe for a long tour.”

“Maybe she'll return
when she comes back,” she suggested. His downbeat talk was having a negative
effect on her.

“No she won't. I know
her. She's made up her mind.”

He then went into a
long dissertation on their history together, how they had met, how they decided
to live together and the things they did together, describing the most intimate
details.

“I felt, don't take
this amiss, rejuvenated. Every time we made love, I felt twenty years younger.
We slept together like spoons.”

“You'll be fine, Bob,”
she said, offering a big smile, suddenly wary at the reference. “You'll see.
Someone will come along to recharge your batteries.”

She was immediately
sorry she had put it that way, not wanting to give him the wrong impression.
“I'm very happily married,” she said, as if to draw the curtain on any errant
ideas he might be entertaining.

“I'm so grateful to
you for listening, Carol.”

“Caroline,” she
corrected again, putting out her hand to say goodbye.  He took it and squeezed
it in obvious gratitude.

A couple of days
later, they went to Agronsky party. Caroline counted eight guests, none of whom
she recognized as coming from the building. Mrs. Agronsky, her name was Sheila,
was a tall blonde in a ponytail with high cheekbones and the stringy body of a
model. She was dressed in tight, shiny silk slacks and a colorful, almost sheer
blouse, greeting each guest with enthusiasm.

“So glad you could come,”
she said. Then bending over, she addressed Caroline and Jules in a whisper. “I
know it was short notice, but one couple crapped out. You guys are life
savers.”

Caroline looked at the
carefully laid table set for ten with an elaborate flowered centerpiece.

“So we're last minute
fill-ins,” Jules said.

“Be glad she thought
of us.”

“I'm overjoyed,” he
said with sarcasm surveying the group.

The guests were youngish, thirties and
forties, some dressed preppy like their host and a number of the women of the
type she designated to herself as “blonde goddesses.” It soon became apparent
that most of the male guests had known each other from college. Yalies, mostly.
Not knowing anyone, she and Jules felt somewhat out of place. They had met at Queens College.

“Because you live
under one roof,” Jules whispered. “It doesn't mean you have things in common.”

“Be a good guest,”
Caroline remonstrated, working the room, trying to engage people in
conversation. She noted that the wine flowed copiously and dinner, which was
catered, was timed so that the cocktail time would last longer.

“When are we going to
eat?” Jules whispered at about nine. The guests had been cocktailing for about
two hours by then, with no sign of letup.

“Ben told me you were
a very interesting person,” Sheila said, finally getting around to a more
in-depth conversation with Caroline. By then, Jules had recognized his
irrelevancy to the group, most of whom were young Wall Street hotshots. He
feigned looking over the books in the bookcases.

“We met on the
elevator,” Caroline said.

“Did you?”

They traded the usual
pleasantries. Sheila was, as she suspected, a fashion model.

“We don't know many
people in the building,” Sheila said. Her words were slurred. “I guess its time
we got acquainted.” She was interrupted by another of the guests and moved
away.

“When are we going to
eat?” Jules whispered again.

“That is total
bullshit,” Ben shouted suddenly, directing the remark to Sheila. It was quickly
apparent to Caroline that a drunken argument was ensuing.

“Look who's talking
about bullshit.”

“Hey, cool it guys,”
one of the guests said.

“Mind your own fucking
business, Charley,” Ben said.

“Pardon me, Benny
baby,” Charley said, walking away.

The obvious
conflagration between host and hostess silenced the group and Sheila finally
called everyone to the dining room table.  The conversation was quieter now.
Caroline was seated next to a large, red-faced man who had beads of
perspiration on his upper lip.

“So what do you do?”
the red-faced man, whose name was Tom something, asked.  His question seemed
obligatory, but she answered politely.

“Oh,” he said, turning
away to talk with the woman on the other side of him.

“You are a scumbag,”
Sheila shouted across the round table to Ben.

“Takes one to know
one,” Ben said.

“Are they always like
this?” Caroline asked the red-faced man.

“Booze rage,” he
snickered, then turned back to the woman on the other side of him.

The conversation ebbed
and flowed.  Most of the subject matter of the conversation centered on stocks,
deals, and money, sprinkled with the names of people unknown to neither she nor
Jules. They used initials to describe things that she didn't understand. She
exchanged glances with Jules, who was sitting between two women who were
holding a conversation around him as if he didn't exist. He looked at her and
shrugged.

As the evening wore
on, she felt more and more irrelevant to the group and when they left, Ben, who
slurred his words, walked them to the door.

“Thanks for helping us
out,” he said. 

“Your pleasure,” Jules
mumbled. Ben, not getting it, smiled and closed the door.

Jules was livid when
they got back to their apartment.

“Yes, we all live
under the same roof, but that is not the way to pick and choose our friends and
companions. We were props. They were preppy Wall Street shits.  Admit it, this
was purgatory.”

“You can't win them
all,” she said, knowing he was right in this case.

“I don't think we
should just accept invitations willy-nilly because we live under the same
roof.”

It was late and she
could see an argument was coming and decided to ignore the subject and go to
sleep. For the next few days she concentrated on pressing deadlines and did not
go to Starbucks for Frappuccino. Then, one day, she got a call, from Sandra
Siegel.  By then, the weather had turned and it was raining.

“I did it again,
Caroline. My ankle gave out. Could you please take Betsy out?”

“I'm in the middle of
a deadline, Sandra,” she protested. She looked out the window at the rain
coming down in long slanting sheets.

“Please, Caroline.
Betsy needs this. I tried to do it but I could barely stand.”

She heard Betsy
barking in the background. “Hear that? The little girl is in pain. Please, help
me Caroline.”

“And the doorman? What
about him?”

“She wants you,”
Sandra replied.

“How do you know?”

“I can tell.”

Reluctantly, Caroline
complied. She put on her rain gear, took an umbrella, and picked up Betsy.
Coming back soaked, she handed Betsy back to Sandra.

“Oh my God, look at
the poor baby; she's soaked to the skin.”

She hobbled away with
Betsy in her arms without saying thank you or goodbye. Caroline went back to
work but her concentration was broken, and it was difficult to pick up where
she left off. She did not tell Jules what had happened.

It was still raining
the next morning and she had promised herself that she would refuse, absolutely
refuse, to take Betsy for a walk. When the phone rang she picked it up,
dreading that it would be Sandra and vowing that she would have to get a caller
identification system for their home phone. She was relieved it wasn't Sandra,
but the call offered yet another complication.