Growing Up in Manhattan

Part 4: Saturday Short Story

“How do you do,” her mother said, friendly, svelte, and coolly beautiful, a former Vogue model: Paula Novack, her pictures, several of which were on display, showing what a looker she was during her magazine years. Lulu did not have her mother’s lean fashion model build but was more curvaceous, more buxom. Put it this way, Lulu might have looked out of place on a runway but pretty great lounging in a haystack. Sachs was right in his first impression when he sized Lulu up as Eastern European–looking. Paula was a Krakow gentile married to a New York Jew. She was casually dressed in slacks and a black wool turtleneck sweater. She greeted Sachs with a hand damp from holding a Baccarat glass with two ice cubes and four fingers of Bränneri pink gin. Her husband was on the way out but shook Sachs’s hand warmly and told his wife to “be sure to make a reservation for four at Giambelli’s for tomorrow night. Five, if he’s joining,” pointing to the new boy Lulu had brought home. He was not joining but felt it was a very generous gesture. With that, Arthur Brooks was out the door. 

“Can I get you anything?” her mother asked. He wanted to say a martini but knew if he asked for one she’d produce it and he’d have to drink it, and like all alcoholic beverages, it would make him drowsy and soon he’d be longing for his pajamas. Lulu opted for Evian, and when it was explained to him it was bottled water, he said he’d have whatever she was having.

The phone rang. It was not white. Paula answered it, became abruptly delighted, and proceeded to get into a splendid detailing of someone’s new house in Southampton with the caller, named Renzo. Lulu asked if he wanted a tour of the place. He did, and they ascended the stairs to Lulu’s bedroom. It was a lovely room with flower bud wallpaper, a four-poster canopied bed, and a small, light brown upright piano against one wall. There were many books in a bookcase, all good literature, he noticed, and the toys of her childhood were used as decorations all around. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Spoiled brat.” 

“That’s the second time you said you were spoiled,” he told her. “One could also say a Polish princess, but I would lay odds you’re an only child.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said. 

There were record albums: classical, jazz, popular, the Caedmon Poets. There were photos of Lulu at about twelve posing playfully next to Simone de Beauvoir, taken at the café Les Deux Magots in Paris. The famous writer was a total stranger but agreed to pose with the little girl, at her parents’ request. They went downstairs to the first floor. Lulu threw open the doors to the terrace and led Sachs outside. There was a commanding view of Central Park, and if one made the least effort, one could see everything from the Battery to the George Washington Bridge. She loved the rain, 156 

she told him, and would come out during the lightning storms and watch the great bolts of electricity zigzag through the New York sky and sizzle down to the rod on top of the Empire State Building. 

“I love getting soaked by the rain water,” she said. “It’s so clean and cool. Or do I sound like one of those schmucks?” 

He found the idea of her wet from rain as romantic as anything he could think of. 

“Aren’t you afraid of getting hit by lightning?” he said, always cutting directly to the grisliest possible outcome of any situation. 

“I’m not. The chances are very small, but if I have to die, what a way to go. Quick and full of drama.” 

“Yes, well, still,” he fumfered, unable to buy into the thrill of being electrocuted. 

“Can I read your play?” she asked. 

“Would you like to?” he said eagerly. 

“Yes. You’re so young to have a play optioned. Most of the boys I know write and nothing happens. But the stuff I read of theirs is never very good. And you support yourself writing. I’m impressed.” 

“I’m witty. You’ll notice that if you’re around me for a while. And if it doesn’t get on your nerves, you’ll grow to like me.” 

She laughed. 

“What’s your play about?” she asked. 

He was on the terrace of a penthouse talking about

his to-be-produced play with an adorable, if spoiled, violet-eyed Polish princess. He held a drink in his hand like William Powell, albeit his was mineral water. Down on the street Manhattanites were scurrying home, hailing cabs, heading to their Uptown East digs where they might change and go out for dinner. Maybe to Twenty-One, maybe El Morocco, maybe someday the theater to see his play. He imagined calling for Lulu and her coming down the staircase in a sweet summer dress, her black silk hair still a little wet and smelling of night-blooming jasmine. After a hello squeeze that he would milk and a joking exchange, it was out to drink and dance in a city lit till dawn. Of course, he didn’t drink and couldn’t dance, but the thought put a smile on his face. 

“Are you going to tell me?” Lulu asked. “Or did you zone out?” 

“Tell you?” 

“Your play. What’s it about? Where were you?” 

“Oh, my play. It’s about risk, taking chances. It’s about a Jewish woman forced to make existential choices.” 

“What’s it called?” 

“Thus Spoke Sarah Shuster.” 

“I love it. I did my thesis on German philosophy. ‘The Concept of Freedom in the Poetry of Rilke.’ I never finished it, but someone who read what I had thought it was very original. I love the idea of you treating these

mortal themes comically.” Her approbation caused the top of his head to dislodge, lift off like a flying saucer, and tour the solar system before returning. She noticed the clock. “Well, I have to shower and dress. I’m going to a show tonight.” 

“Which show?” 

“On a Clear Day. I love Alan Lerner’s lyrics.” 

“Can I see you again?” 

“I’m out of town this week. Some friends of my parents are going to the Kentucky Derby and taking us. My dad’s lawyer has a horse running.” 

“That’s exciting. Can I call you when you get back? I thought I’d show you the greatest little jazz record shop in town where you can find obscure Fats Waller and a lot of jazz piano and tons of great Billie Holiday. Plus some other musicians I think you would like.” 

“Great,” she said, scribbling down her number. “Only why don’t we just say I’ll meet you at the same bench a week from today at three. I always walk home through the park from my acting class on the West Side and come out by the sailboat pond.” 

“How will I recognize you?” he said, a lame joke he would rue for days on end. He rode down the elevator and began strolling toward the subway station at Fifty-Ninth Street. His head was not in the clouds but somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy. She was everything he had always wanted, dreamed of, fantasized about. She checked off every box on his wish list. The

cute meet, the penthouse, the terrace with all of Manhattan right out there. But most important, of course, was the lady herself, the girl in the raincoat; her face, her scrumptious body with every curve fulfilling its promise. Lulu—Little Lulu. She had it all. Her quick mind, her personality, her easy laugh. What if I’ve been wrong all these years? he thought. What if the infinite universe does not have a personal grudge against me? There was so much she brought to the table. But what did he bring? He replayed the afternoon in his mind and tried to gauge where he stood. OK, he made what he considered a bad one-liner. But he was amusing on the subject of death. “At least no more jury duty notices.” And despite her pricey education, he had no trouble keeping up with her on music, theater, literature. His observations about Norman O. Brown and polymorphous perversity were incisive, and he had corrected her on a line from Yeats. It was “the gong-tormented sea,” not “the gong-tortured sea.” 

All his undisciplined reading had served him well, and all in all it was not a bad first day. She was obviously piqued enough to invite him to see her home and agree to meet him on the bench next week. She even said about his promise as a writer that she was impressed and asked to read his play. Actually, it was quite a good day. There was just one small item he had neglected to bring up. He was married. 

Sachs and Gladys had discussed splitting up casually, with no need to rush out of marriage the way they rushed into it. They now spent even less time together, as she was busy campaigning for Kennedy and, out of left field, taking guitar lessons. They circled the notion of a split-up but decided to postpone any decision until she graduated, which seemed sensible. They both would have agreed they were in a kind of rut but somehow hoped it might magically get better. But now he was motivated to rethink the rut. He didn’t know if there was any future with Lulu, but what he did know was that there couldn’t be any present with her as long as he had a wife. There were also several issues to consider apart from his marriage. What if Lulu had a boyfriend? After all, she wouldn’t be going to the Mark Hellinger Theater tonight alone. Or what if she didn’t want a serious relationship at this point in her life? She was young and without a doubt popular. Why commit to one person? And why me, given the many choices she must have? He ran through the menu of possible deal breakers, and there were plenty. Example: What about sex? What if I just don’t turn her on? She, of course, oozed sex from every pore. Even eyeing her from the rear as she walked away in that little cotton dress was like an exaltation of larks; hot, perfectly shaped larks. Of course, what if she was as tepid in her lust as Gladys? His inner radar, if such a thing existed, told him not to waste too much time on that unlikelihood. And yet his initial fantasies were not carnal but connubial. He wanted to marry her. He dreamed of seeing her smile at him over breakfast every morning, of doing the city with Lulu on his arm, of sharing life, of making her laugh, watching her sleep. She was fun to talk with, to listen to, to strive to impress, which made him feel alive. And yes, ultimately to make love to, he thought as even now, hours after they said goodbye, her pheromones were bursting open in his brain like time-release capsules. 

He and Gladys chatted, and he brought up the subject of divorce in a non-threatening way. She agreed that probably they did marry prematurely, but the logistics would be simpler if they waited until she finished school and his play was mounted. Then their paths would be cleared, and they could assess their situation and separate in a civilized, sensible way, if indeed that was the final decision. It was very matter-of-fact, very organized, very Gladys. Meanwhile, nothing was settled, and there he was, kicking the can down the road again. That week he dropped a copy of his play off with Lulu’s doorman and for the next few days his emotions ranged from sweet daydreams to cold sweats over her possible reaction to the fact he was spoken for. He felt the best thing to do was to just be honest and level with Lulu. He would explain that he was a husband but was planning to get a divorce. He told himself that the truth is always the best policy, but when he saw her in her jeans, sandals, and a white tank top with her hair in bunches coming toward the bench where he sat frozen like a figure at Madame Tussaud’s, he tabled the best policy for now. 

“The Derby was exciting,” he said, having watched an event he had no interest in whatsoever so when she talked about it he wouldn’t come off like an uninformed zombie. 

“The horse we were all rooting for finished out of the money,” she said. There followed some light small talk about the premature hot weather the city was having, during which he tried to clock if her interest in him had waned or maybe never was. Yet here she stood, on time and full of smiling energy. He was brought up short when she said, “Did you miss me?” He didn’t know what to answer. “No” was boorish and a lie. “Yes” showed his weak hand too quickly. 

“What do you think?” he said, remembering how his Uncle Moishe Post had once said, In life you play the cards you’re dealt. Sachs felt he was holding two pair at best while Lulu was sitting with a full house. He recalibrated his hand to aces up when she said, “I hope so.” He had promised to take her to a jazz record shop and asked if she still wanted to go, and she said she did. The store was ramshackle and disorganized but fun and a treat if you were serious about jazz music. He was certain she’d love the divey appearance of the place, and she did. They browsed leisurely, talking music, laughing, and gobbling up discs to buy. He wouldn’t think of letting her pay and bought her some Monk and some Horace Silver and the Modern Jazz Quartet and some Billie Holiday. Eager to play them and listen and watch her reactions, they cabbed back to her apartment and went to her bedroom, where her hi-fidelity setup was. Her mother was not home, just a maid one floor below in the kitchen. In short, it couldn’t have been more ideal to make a move. She was delighted playing the Billie Holiday sides. “Did I Remember” knocked her out. Soon she drifted to the piano and played “Blame It on My Youth,” which she also sang, and her voice was chesty and warm. Her bedroom windows faced Central Park, and as the sun dropped behind the West Side building tops and Monk’s recording was up to “Crepuscular with Nellie,” and as the light in Lulu’s bedroom also became crepuscular, he felt nervous. “Kiss her now,” Jiminy Cricket said from behind his ear. “What are you waiting for, schmendrick? If you’re too scared to act, you deserve the rest of your life.” “Crepuscular with Nellie” playing, Monk’s solo piano, and alone with Lulu in her bedroom. Crepuscular with Lulu. He kissed her. He kissed her with reasonable grace, and she was up for it. Surprisingly deft, he eased her over to the bed, unbuttoning her shirt with fingers nimble as a card sharp’s. She did not resist his passion but rather lanced her tongue into his mouth down to his shoe tops, causing smoke to come out of his ears, or so he imagined. She made it easy for him, loosening her belt, and he fought not to get carried away but to be present at the event. As he suspected, she was a gifted love maker. He was reminded that Ginger did everything Fred did but backward and on heels. He manipulated enough of his pants off without experiencing a cramp in either his calf, thigh, or arch of his foot. Unlike Gladys, Lulu was hot, aggressive, imaginative, and tireless, and when it was all over he imagined he looked like one of those photos of the emaciated inmates of Auschwitz staring out behind barbed wire. After, they lay in her four-poster, and she lit up a cigarette, smoked, and was silent with her bunches messed. Either she had her share of experience, Sachs thought, or she’s like the young Mozart, a natural genius. He wanted so much to explain the part about his wife and that a divorce was practically in the mail, but if ever a moment was not right. 

“Someday, I’m going to marry you,” he told her. 

“Anything’s possible,” she said.