I head over to Fifth Avenue, walk north, and turn east onto 12th Street. There it is, the familiar faded blue awning. Jake’s Luncheonette. As I get near, I have the impression that it is busy. Through the large front window ahead I can see a crowd of heads rising above the booths. I’m almost to the door when I stop.
I can’t move. An icy fist clenches tight in my chest.
I’ve taken in the scene all at once. But I cannot make sense of it. . . .
It’s the jacket sleeve, the man’s arm flung across the back of the bench. His back is to me, but I know that jacket, the herringbone weave, and the red scarf tucked inside. I’ve seen them, just like that, a thousand times. Lorenzo.
But it isn’t the sight of Lorenzo that’s got me stuck there, as if the sidewalk had turned to quicksand. It’s the man across the table. An old man, white hair in a ponytail.
Well, there can be no mistake about it. It’s Robert all right.
Robert.
Lorenzo.
The sight of these two mesmerizes me. They are laughing. And there is something . . . something about the way Lorenzo is so relaxed, about the way they both gesture with their hands, lean in toward each other. I can’t see Lorenzo’s face, but Robert’s is animated. They do not look like two people who have just met, who are tentative, trying to think of what to say next.
I want to leave, but I am riveted, watching the two men in the booth as if they were playing a scene in a movie. Robert, with the collar of his dark jacket up, just so. One of those opera scarves, white with fringe.
How perfect.
At last I find the strength to move my limbs, turn around.
I walk up Fifth Avenue, my head swirling. What, exactly, does it mean? Has Robert been here other times, been with Lorenzo? Or— have they been talking by phone for years? How long has this been going on?
I keep going back to it, how they looked so comfortable together.
And then I remember my own thought, just the other day. All he had to do was to call long-distance information. How many Lorenzo Schlicks can there be in Manhattan?
I’d been scornful, then, thinking how easy it would have been for Robert to find his son. But . . . why is it I never thought about Lorenzo . . . that he might try?
I should have thought . . . why did I never think of it?
All he had to do was call long-distance information. How many Robert Schlicks can there be in Portland?
Is that how it was? And if it was, how long have they . . .?
It’s all I can think as I climb the stairs, holding the banister with one hand for support, clutching the bag of éclairs in the other. How long?
How foolish I have been.
II
It is almost one o’clock when I get back to my apartment. For a long time, I just sit on the couch, coat and boots still on, the bag with the éclairs in my lap.
Absentmindedly I pet Byzantine. His purring is steady. Loud.
I think of Robert in his well-fitting jacket with the upturned collar. How happy he looked, there in the diner, talking to my son.
Forgiving Robert might release a burden of your own, Pamela.
My mother might as well be sitting here right next to me, speaking those words aloud.
There is no telling how long I stay on the couch.
Well, there it is.
I rise from the sofa, put away the coat, the boots. I set the box of éclairs on the kitchen counter. I find the drain cover and push aside the pile of dirty dishes to secure it in place. I run the hot water, squirt some dish soap into the sink. When the dishes have disappeared under a cloud of bubbles, I turn off the water. I sponge off the kitchen table, the painted blue relic that’s stood in our family kitchens ever since I was a small child in Paris. I open the overhead cabinet, find my favorite ones. There never was a matched set, Mam always liked it that way.
So—three saucers, three cups. Roses, Willowware, Queen Elizabeth. I set them on the blue table.
Now there is only the note I must write. There’s just time.
It won’t take long. There’s not much to say.
I write “Lorenzo” on the envelope in large script. I dig around in the junk drawer, find the Scotch tape, and head downstairs.
III
I cross the lobby to the front door. I haven’t put my coat back on. This will only take a minute.
Four strips of tape, each lined neatly around the edges of the envelope.
There. It’s done.
Tomorrow the dishes will be clean, put away. I’ll wash my hair. I’ll put on my nice wool skirt. The one that’s flounced at the hem. It’s awfully old, but it’s still in good shape.
Won’t Lorenzo be surprised to see me dressed up for a change?
He’ll know it’s all right, then. He’ll know right away.
Lorenzo darling—
Please forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m still just a bit under the weather today. Could you come over tomorrow instead? I promise not to postpone it any longer.
If you don’t call me, I will expect to see you here at 4.
And please do bring your father with you.
Saturday January 15
Evening
Well. Tomorrow, then.
I’m weary after all that’s happened, but I don’t want to lie down. I know I wouldn’t sleep, I’d just go over and over everything, maybe start to worry about tomorrow, and I don’t want to do that.
I’ll go up to the studio, do some work on the portrait.
I push open the door of the studio and hear the scurrying of mice. They’ll be nesting among my rags. God, this place is a mess. I’ve meant to clean it up for ages. But the task always seems overwhelming, it’s never a good time.
It’s awfully cold in here. I find the old shawl that I keep up here for the purpose, wrap it around my shoulders. From a dark corner I pull out a small chair, the one Mam used at her dressing table. Now there’s a pattern of frayed holes in the old chintz, and the once-plump seat cushion has long been flattened into a thin disc.
I’ll just take a look around. See what needs to be done.
But I don’t want to look for the nests of mice. I don’t really want to investigate anything too thoroughly up here.
I settle back, look up at the skylight. Evening has fallen, and the skylight is aglow.
All those lights in the city now. Not so many stars anymore.
Perhaps, if I sit here long enough, I’ll see a star.
It’s uncomfortable on the old chair, it’s too low, really, but I’m too tired to move. I look at the unfinished painting on the easel, a portrait of two girls. It’s barely begun—no faces, just the bodies blocked out. I can see so clearly how it will look in the end, the almost-twins with their black rectangles of dresses overlaid in ornate semicircles, neckpieces and wide ribbons covering their fronts like armor made of lace.
Somehow, though, I’ve lost interest in the portrait.
I take down the painting from the easel, replace it with a blank canvas.
I stare, I cannot take my eyes away, as the painting appears.
A dark stage. Somber blues and greens. The colors of night.