The City When It Rains

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

GROTON WAS SITTING in one of the enormous high-backed chairs which dotted the lobby of the Waldorf. Plush carpet spread out in all directions. Two huge porcelain vases rested on either side of the lobby, both of them overflowing with sprays of silk flowers. As Corman strolled across the lobby, it was hard for him to imagine that the place itself had once been a potter’s field, and after that, the site of a women’s hospital. Much was buried under the marble floor, deeply buried. Except for still surviving photographs, it was all beyond recall.

Groton had taken a chair near one of the vases. He looked as if he’d been sent down to make sure no one used it for an ashtray.

“You the guy they sent?” he asked as Corman came up to him.

Corman nodded and sat down.

“So you talked to Pike?”

“Yeah.”

Groton took a long drag on his cigarette. “He tell you the problem?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“I told him he could do that,” Groton said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No.”

Groton shrugged. “Even before I knew, you know, for sure, I said to myself that I was going to take it like a man. What else can you do?”

Corman smiled quietly.

“Nobody’s problem but mine, anyway,” Groton added. “I never connected, you know? You got a kid, right?”

“A daughter.”

“That’s good,” Groton said with a casual nod. “Somebody to do the crying for you.” He crushed the cigarette vehemently into the stainless steel ashtray beside his chair, lit another, glanced at his watch. “They’ll be having us in pretty soon.”

“Having us in?”

“Inviting us to the party,” Groton told him. “You wait until everything’s set up. That’s the way it’s done.” He thought a moment. “And another thing, there’ll be a shitload of food spread around. Don’t eat any of it until you’re invited to. They usually invite you, but wait until they do. A beat like this, you got to have manners.” He took another long drag on the cigarette and let his eyes drift from Corman’s shoes to the hat that still rested unsteadily on his head. “And spruce up a little for this kind of gig,” he added. “Brush the dust off your jacket. It’s not like the street. These people, they’re what you might call fashion-conscious, you know? I mean, you don’t see a chauffeur in a sweatshirt, right?”

Corman nodded.

“And another thing about the food,” Groton added. “Don’t eat too much. Don’t make like it’s your meal of the day. Just a nibble, to be sociable. But don’t gobble the stuff. You look like an asshole, you do that.”

“Okay.”

“These are just the tips of the trade,” Groton said. “That’s what you want, right?”

“Yeah.”

Groton glanced about, chewed his lip, turned back to Corman. “You got to get along with the society reporters, too,” he said. “Whoever it is, you got to make like they’re top notch, really know how to move with the upscale crowd, you know? One thing you notice, they get to believing that they’re really one of the bunch, not just people who tell the rest of the world what the rich are doing, but one of the group themselves. That’s bullshit, and the shooter never falls for it. It’s the writers who get sucked into that, but you got to play to it, anyway.”

“All right,” Corman said, then listened as Groton continued on with the rules of the game. He tried to imagine what Lazar would have said in the same situation. But Lazar had never been in the same situation, had never had anything to think about but his camera. He’d lived in a small furnished room just off Times Square, had slept in his clothes, listening for the next voice on the police radio, and leaped up the instant it called to him. He had lived with only the streets as his companion, lover, wife, child, everything. He had nursed the streets, loved them, pitied them. They were in his eyes, mind and heart. He had grown old in his devotion; it had become a state of grace.

“Never more than one glass of champagne,” Groton said. “They see you swilling the good stuff, they might mention it to somebody. And I don’t mean to some greaseball from the City Room. These people don’t know him from the shoeshine boy. They don’t know the people who work at the paper, they know the people who fucking own it.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “You got to remember that.”

Again, Corman nodded, and for the next few minutes the two of them sat silently while people swept past them, heading for their rooms or in the opposite direction, toward the large revolving door which led to Park Avenue.

Stuart Clayton came up slowly, his long, slender body draped in an elegant blue double-breasted suit. “You ready, Harry?” he asked.

Groton pulled himself to his feet. “Anytime, Stuart,” he said. “Hey, by the way, you know David Corman?”

Clayton’s eyes shifted over to him. “I don’t think so.”

“He’s a free-lance shooter,” Groton said. “He may be taking over my job.”

“Really?” Clayton said. He offered Corman his hand, shook it, looked back at Groton. “I didn’t know you were leaving the paper.”

“In a couple of weeks,” Groton said, adding nothing else.

“Retirement?” Clayton asked.

Groton shrugged. “I guess that’s what they call it.” He headed off toward the ballroom. “Let’s get going.”

They walked to the ballroom immediately, and for the next few minutes, Corman strolled about, taking in the surroundings, the long tables, filled with hors d’oeuvres, the fully stocked bar, the enormous flower arrangements which stood here and there throughout the room. In the old city, the Fifth Avenue mansions had had ballrooms of their own, sleek marble corridors where the Fricks and the Vanderbilts ate, laughed and made deals across glittering ice sculptures of slopenecked swans. Now they gathered at the Waldorf, the Plaza, the Pierre, their ranks swollen by the well-dressed security men who lined the floral walls, glancing about apprehensively while they spoke softly into the little microphones that winked from their lapels.

It was late in the afternoon by the time the last of the guests had drifted out of the ballroom, but Groton was still shooting, his body craning for this shot, stooping for the next one. There was an obsessive quality to it which Corman found alarming. It was as if Groton were trying to get one last shot of everything he saw, repeatedly taking one picture after another until he’d photographed every face in the room a hundred times, every square inch of carpeting or wall space, every petal of every flower.

Finally Corman caught up with him and touched his shoulder. “Clayton left a long time ago,” he said.

Groton crouched at the edge of a table, focused on a small porcelain tureen and snapped the picture.

“Everybody’s gone,” Corman added softly.

Groton straightened himself, turned to Corman. “Everybody but us,” he said.

“Time for us to go, too, Harry.”

Groton nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said with a sudden weariness. He slung the camera over his shoulder and headed for the door.

The rain had started again by the time they reached the wide entrance to the hotel. Up the avenue, a fountain was spurting its white frothy torrent. For a moment, Groton watched it expressionlessly.

“It wasn’t a bad party,” Corman said, to lighten the atmosphere.

Groton said nothing, his eyes still on the distant fountain.

“Well, I got to go,” Corman said after a moment. He turned up his collar and stepped out from beneath the wide sheltering canopy.

Groton’s eyes darted over to him, intense, wondering, as if he’d just heard something he could not possibly believe or any longer doubt. “I got two more shoots,” he said urgently. “And that’s it.”

Corman glanced back toward him, felt the rain drumming on his hat.

“One on Wednesday, one on Friday,” Groton added.

Corman smiled. “Maybe I’ll come along.”

Groton’s face brightened very briefly, then sank again. “Up to you,” he said.

The Bull and Bear was only around the corner from the Waldorf, but by the time Corman got there he was drenched. A slender stream of water spilled over the brim of his hat as he took it off, shook it gently, then hung it up beside the table which Jeffrey had already taken.

“I don’t think it’s ever going to let up,” Jeffrey said amiably.

Corman eased himself into a chair and glanced at the speckled marble table which separated him from Jeffrey.

“Care for a drink?” Jeffrey asked.

“Scotch.”

“Any particular kind?”

Corman gave him a chilly smile. “Why don’t you order for me, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey looked at him glumly. “I didn’t mean that to sound pretentious.”

Corman glanced away and said nothing.

“I guess we’ve started off badly,” Jeffrey said.

“Looks that way.”

Jeffrey offered a tentative smile. “So, shall we start again?”

Corman looked at him and nodded.

“Well, is there any particular brand you’d prefer?”

“I usually settle for the house brand,” Corman said. “If you know a better one, order it.”

Jeffrey nodded for the waiter. He appeared instantly. “A Glenlivet for both of us,” Jeffrey said to him.

The waiter vanished.

Jeffrey tested another smile, didn’t like the feel of it and grew solemn. “I hope this can be a profitable talk, David,” he said hesitantly.

“Me, too.”

“I understand that Edgar spoke to you.”

“That’s right.”

“About Lexie.”

“Lucy.”

“I mean, Lexie’s concerns.”

“Yeah, he talked to me,” Corman said. He tugged his collar down, felt a trickle of rainwater make a jagged dive down his back.

“And I understand that you’re meeting Lexie on Saturday night?”

Corman nodded.

The waiter returned, placed the drinks in front of them and disappeared again.

Jeffrey lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said.

Corman nodded and drank. “So what’s on your mind, Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey shifted uneasily in his seat. Behind him, a lighted tickertape machine was running off the closing prices from the New York Stock Exchange. American Telephone and Telegraph was up an eighth, but things didn’t look good for the steel industry.

“Lexie is quite unhappy these days,” Jeffrey said softly, casting an eye about quickly to make sure only the anonymous strangers in the Bull and Bear were in earshot.

“She is?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “Particularly about Lucy.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, she’s worried about a great many things,” Jeffrey said. “I’m sure Edgar mentioned a few of them.”

“She doesn’t like my apartment,” Corman said coolly. “Lucy’s school, she doesn’t like that.”

“She wants the best for her, David,” Jeffrey said sincerely. “She really does. She wants to protect her.”

“From what? Me?”

Jeffrey laughed nervously. “You? Of course not.”

“The bottom line is that she gave me custody,” Corman said bluntly.

“That’s true.”

“And now she wants custody herself.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey admitted. “I think that’s what she wants.”

“And you’re here to persuade me.”

Jeffrey looked at him, puzzled. “What?”

“I said, you’re here to persuade me,” Corman repeated.

“Persuade you to what?”

“To give Lucy up.”

Jeffrey’s face relaxed. He laughed. “Well, no,” he said. “Not exactly.”

Corman watched him, confused.

“I’m not here to try to get Lucy,” Jeffrey said, still chuckling to himself. “Just the opposite.”

“What?”

“Well, as you can see by my hair, David,” Jeffrey said, finally bringing his laughter to an end, “I’m not getting any younger.” He shifted his head to the right, so that the abundant gray could catch the light. “And, as you know, I already have three children by my first wife.”

Corman nodded. He had never met Jeffrey’s first wife, but he had seen her picture from time to time in the society pages of the paper. She had the look of a woman who had once been beautiful, but whose skin had now dried to a wrinkled crisp, her lips curling down, sagging, along with what was left of her self-esteem.

“I’m fifty-three, David,” Jeffrey announced. “And to tell you the truth, males in my family are notoriously short-lived.”

Corman stared at him expressionlessly.

“My father died when he was sixty-three,” Jeffrey added. “And his father was even younger, fifty-eight.” He shook his head. “Those are biological facts, and in my estimation, they are very good predictors of one’s own life span.”

Corman leaned toward him and stared at him intently. “So what are you getting at?”

“Well, the fact is, when I married Lexie, I didn’t bargain for the possibility of a second round of parenthood.”

“So you don’t want Lucy?” Corman asked.

“Well, that’s not exactly it”

“What is?”

“I want to ease Lexie’s mind,” Jeffrey said. “About Lucy’s surroundings.”

“How could you do that?”

“I’d like to help with some of the expenses,” Jeffrey told him.

“What expenses?”

“Yours, David,” Jeffrey said. “And Lucy’s. The rent, maybe a private school for Lucy, things like that.”

Corman felt his lips part involuntarily and closed them.

Jeffrey leaned forward slightly, fidgeting with the napkin. “I’m a wealthy man,” he said. “I have everything but time. That’s the one thing I’m not rich in.” He took another drink of scotch. “I believe that these are my last years, David, and I want to live them well. I care about Lucy. I really do. And I certainly care about Lexie. I want both of them to be happy, but I don’t want both of them in my house.” He shrugged. “I’m being very frank. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Corman said.

“I’m being selfish, I admit it,” Jeffrey added. “Lexie is a beautiful woman, and I want her to myself.” He lifted the glass again, downed the rest of the scotch. “So there you have it.”

Corman’s eyes drifted up to the ticker-tape scoreboard. If he had money, he realized that he would keep it in a nice little country bank where nobody cared if Ecuador could pay its bills.

Jeffrey called for the waiter and ordered another scotch. “So, what do you think?” he asked. “About my helping out a bit. Just between the two of us, of course. Lexie couldn’t know, and neither could Lucy for that matter.”

Corman actually found himself thinking about it. “How would I explain where the money came from?” he asked, after a moment.

Jeffrey shrugged. “A rich uncle?”

“I don’t think so, Jeffrey.”

“Use your imagination,” Jeffrey said insistently.

Corman shook his head. “No.”

Jeffrey looked at Corman intently. “Does that mean you won’t allow me to help you?”

“I don’t see how it could be arranged.”

Jeffrey eased himself back in his chair, his face now very stern. “David, I have to tell you, Lexie is very, very concerned about the way you live. She’s very concerned about the effect it will have on Lucy.”

Corman listened and said nothing. He wondered how it must feel to see the world as Jeffrey saw it, a place where no prize game was so rare it couldn’t ultimately be sighted through the cross hairs of his checkbook. And yet, there was another side to him as well, and as he watched him, Corman could see it as if in pentimento behind his face. He was scared, as Corman thought Joanna’s husband must be scared, his eyes forever drifting down toward the lump in his groin. Jeffrey had the same, faintly panicked look, time breathing down his neck, sucking up his days, whispering incessantly that he was dying, dying, dying, that he could not afford a single moment’s loss. “I wish I could help you out, Jeffrey,” he said.

Jeffrey looked at him oddly. “Help me out?”

“In this situation,” Corman explained. “With Lexie.”

Jeffrey nodded peremptorily, then looked at Corman solemnly. “Well, I think you should know that she’s getting more and more adamant about this whole thing,” he said. “And I honestly think that she might sue for custody.”

Corman’s fleeting sympathy for Jeffrey’s mortality withered instantly. “She left Lucy,” he reminded him sternly. “Winning her back won’t be easy.”

“She left under difficult circumstances,” Jeffrey said. “And ‘left’ is a little strong. She never really abandoned Lucy.” He smiled tentatively. “She had to find herself. When she did, she fell in love.”

“With you.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “But I understand that in matters of fidelity, you had your own problems.”

“Proving that won’t be easy,” Corman said.

“It’s an old story anyway, David,” Jeffrey said dismissively. “And we both know it. The real question now is what would be best for Lucy. Lexie has one idea. I have another. And I guess you have a third?”

“That’s right.”

“Which is for her to stay with you.”

“Yeah.”

“In the same apartment, on the same street, going to the same school,” Jeffrey said, as if he were ticking off the descending circles of Hell.

Corman nodded.

Jeffrey shook his head. “It won’t do, David,” he said wearily. “It really won’t. Lexie is becoming obsessed with this whole question, and I’m sure you have a very good idea of what that’s like.”

Corman watched him silently, half-contemplating his offer once again. He was not really sure why he’d refused it so quickly. Was it pride? If it were pride, then it was wrong. Why should Lucy be deprived of things because he was too proud to provide them in any way he could, even this way, a discreet arrangement between two worldly gentlemen, arrived at in the muted elegance of the Bull and Bear while the stock prices streamed silently above them like a lighted pennant.

“David,” Jeffrey said sincerely, “Lucy’s a very bright little girl. She’s not being served by that school, and you know it. What’s to gain by keeping her in it? What’s to gain by staying in that apartment, on that street? What’s to gain for either one of you?”

Corman realized that he absolutely did not have an answer, and he could feel the lack of it at the very center of himself, a dull, dead space that insisted upon its right to exist without a conscious reason, purpose or claim on anything.

“I could understand how you would feel if it were a question of losing her,” Jeffrey went on. “But that’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

Corman shook his head. “I can’t, Jeffrey,” he said, then repeated it. “I just can’t.” He got to his feet immediately. “I don’t know why.”

Jeffrey stared at him imploringly. “Please think about it,” he said.

“I can’t,” Corman repeated as if it were part of an addled litany. “I can’t.” He pulled on his coat and his hat, and felt the clammy chill that had gathered in them. “No. No. No.”

He picked Lucy up at Maria’s and then the two of them walked the short distance to the apartment. Lucy sometimes ran ahead of him, her body moving in a zigzag pattern along the sidewalk, her bright yellow rain-slicker perfectly visible despite the slightly foggy air. As he continued to walk at some distance behind her, Corman realized that he liked the way she ran in the streets, the way her head was always turning left and right, as if she were searching for something, an oddly torn window shade or dark, mysterious alley, something with a story that could not go untold.

Once in the apartment, she quickly completed her homework while Corman struggled with dinner in the small kitchen, whipping up a quick meal from a mound of hamburger meat, a small scattering of frozen french fries, the few remaining leaves of lettuce which had managed to survive for one more day.

They ate together quietly, savoring the simple relaxing calm more than the food, then sat down on the sofa. Lucy took a copy of The Secret Garden, a luxury edition Lexie had given her, and began to read aloud.

He listened silently while she nestled beneath his arm. He relished her voice and looked forward to its changes, just as he looked forward to the day when she would leave him. Because of that, it seemed to him that loneliness was not the issue, that the fact that he would miss her was not enough to keep her with him. If Lexie went through with the custody suit, he would fight for Lucy with an animal rapaciousness, but he also knew it was not her presence he would be fighting for. His life would be easier without her. As to love, he would always love her, and be loved by her. Even love was not the issue with him, but he was not exactly sure what was.

“What’s this word?” Lucy asked suddenly.

Corman glanced down toward the word she was pointing to. “Obtuse,” he said.

“What does it mean?”

“Stupid,” Corman told her. “That’s the usual meaning.”

“You mean like dumb?”

“Sort of.”

“Like retarded?”

“No, not like that,” Corman said. “Dense. You know, hard to get through to.”

Lucy nodded. “Oh,” she said. “Like someone who doesn’t get it.”

“That’s right.”

Lucy smiled then went on reading.

Corman eased himself back into the sofa, closed his eyes and tried to relax. Her voice curled around him, very soft and youthful. He drew her in more closely, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, squeezing gently but steadily until she finally stopped reading and glanced up at him.

“Let go,” she said, jerking her shoulders right and left to loosen his grip.

“Sorry,” Corman said quickly.

She looked at him accusingly. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what I read.”

“Just keep going,” Corman told her sternly.

She gave him a doubtful glance then began reading again.

He kept his arm delicately around her shoulders, but didn’t try to draw her more firmly into his embrace. He didn’t want to hold her down, tie her up or crush her. He wasn’t sure what he wanted for her, or even what he could provide. Jeffrey had been right about everything, just as Lexie would be right when she took the stand, made her point and rolled off the figures in a city where nothing mattered quite so much as the figures. He could hear her now. It was a husky, solid voice. It would be persuasive. He knew it would. He couldn’t even deny that most of the facts were on her side. He had left a steady job to pursue one that was not only unstable, but in his way of doing it, ineffable. He worked too many days, too many nights, wandered sleeplessly even when at home. He provided too little of himself, or anything else for that matter. Those were the facts, and there was no way to change them or even give them a gloss that wouldn’t look self-serving. If it went to court, the most obvious fact would also be the most damaging one. It was simple, straightforward: there was no way he could actually prove he was a good father.

And yet? And yet?

It struck Corman that at the center of every conclusion there was always a lingering “And yet?” It haunted every fixed idea, troubling, discordant, a quavering at the core.

He shook his head silently, still listening as Lucy continued to read beside him. He tried to think of all the other fathers who’d listened to their children read while just beyond the door the wolves had howled through the night, war, fire, plague, poverty, all the bad faith of the age. He doubted that any one of them would have been able to prove how much he loved his children, worked for them, and taught them. Not even a thousand expert pictures could prove what he had done.

And yet?