So much for Mimi opening up.
School was three miles away as the crow flies, but the crow didn’t have to deal with rush-hour traffic. We pulled into the gate half an hour later.
“Be prepared to pick up Frank later today,” Mimi said before she got out of the car.
“Of course,” I said.
“I gave them your cell phone number.”
“Okay. The school day ends at two-fifty-six, right?”
“Something like that.” Mimi slipped off the heels Frank had selected for her, tucked her gloves inside them, and walked into the house in her stocking feet, shoes in one hand, unwrapping her T-shirt headdress with the other as she went.
I’d harbored this fantasy that Mimi and I would really get down to work together now that Frank was tucked away in school. But the way she banged her office door shut just as I reached it made me think maybe not. I stood there for a few minutes, wondering if I should knock anyway so I could assure Mr. Vargas I was doing everything I could to keep the whole writing process moving. I took a breath to steel myself, then another and another. Just as I raised my knuckles, Mimi yanked the door open and said, “Why are you still here? I can hear you breathing. Are you waiting to be invited in? Then let me spell it out for you. You are not welcome in this office, ever. You’re bothering me. Go away.” Slam. Then I heard the tumble of typewriter keys.
Fine, I remember thinking. I will never knock another unscheduled knock on that door. Not if I could help it. Not even if the house were on fire.
A superstitious person might say I brought that down on us just by thinking it.
BACK IN MY bedroom I washed my hands and held a damp cloth over my face and counted to a hundred. After that I changed into a pair of shorts, slipped my cell phone into my pocket, and headed for Frank’s closet. He’d gone through a major growth spurt lately and I’d been eager to purge clothing he shouldn’t wear in polite company anymore. Which had been out of the question while Frank was in the house.
I should note here that Frank’s bedroom was surprisingly austere for a little boy who dressed like a Savile Row version of the Artist Formerly Known as Prince. White walls. A simple bed and nightstand that wouldn’t have been out of place in a monk’s cell, with a studio portrait of Buster Keaton hanging over the headboard where the crucifix would be. A desk furnished with a battered dictionary and Dr. Frank’s copy of The Merck Manual, circa 1917. The windup clocks, out of sync again and staying that way.
Frank’s closet was more what you’d expect. It was outfitted with a dazzling array of built-ins, all stuffed to capacity: cupboards and shoe racks and shelves with cubbies for hatboxes and a dressing table with a mirror that had folding panels you could adjust to check your side and rear views. The cupboards were fitted with little brass rings in the drawer fronts that flipped out to pull open. It was the kind of hardware used in the outfitting of yachts, Frank had explained, since a random wave could fling an unsuspecting yachtsman against a plain old outie knob and thus mar the smooth perfection of his yachtsman tan. Also a nice feature for a young man in a thrashing rage unable to find the cummerbund he’d had his heart set on wearing that day. Another excellent platform for the tantrum-tossed was the Oriental runner on the floor, a thick, soft rug that was the only nice one in the house, really. In place of a porthole a skylight spilled natural light into the closet, a key feature when distinguishing navy socks from black from charcoal.
But all that sunshine spilling in, plus Frank’s enthusiasm for heavy jackets, long sleeves, and woolens made the place a hot box. After twenty minutes I would have traded all that closet’s fabulousness for my pathetic window opening onto the airshaft back home in Bushwick. I needed water.
Mimi had stopped typing, so I stood at the kitchen sink, wondering what she was up to. Reading her manuscript and making notes? Napping? Wishing she could enjoy having her house all to herself now that Frank was in school but knowing she couldn’t leave the office without bumping into me?
As I rinsed out my empty glass it struck me that something was different about the yard. No station wagon. I checked the front door for the keys. Also MIA. Mimi was driving again? How about that. Good for her. I hoped she had a valid driver’s license.