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  “You can put it on the dining room table, honey. I’ll do a wash before bed.”

  Chapter 10

  New York City, Spring 1982

  The first night in her apartment after being at Philip’s for ten days, and already the solitude of her bed feels novel, enjoyable in its way. She stretches herself in a big X, taking over the whole mattress. She’s meeting Maya the next day. She’ll introduce Philip as a fait accompli and that will be that. She’s through worrying about it. She gets to sleep without too much trouble and wakes to the twittering of birds. She goes through a couple of outfits before deciding that a motorcycle jacket and jeans with an old-fashioned floral-print sweater is the look she’s after. Tough, but not too tough. She spends more time thinking about what to wear for Maya than for Philip or anyone else. Maybe she is a little nervous. But the nerves leave her the moment she opens the door.

  It’s a spectacular day, the first real day of spring. The sun is a fresh idea, an alien magnificence. The people on the street tilt their faces toward it, and trip along drugged with pleasure. The shards of glass in the sidewalk sparkle, and the crocuses pop up from between tree roots. You can smell the green, the buds, the bark. It’s a crime descending into the darkness of the subway, but luckily the train comes quickly, and when she gets out, at 68th and Lex, it’s warm enough to take off her jacket. The sun streams through the wool of her sweater, seeps through her T-shirt, spreads over her chest. Those old myths about the gods leering at maidens, leaping down to lay with them, were based on this sensation. The fingers of the sun.

  She turns toward the park, the trees mostly gray and naked, and gets to Maya’s impressively gargoyled building. “Hello,” she says to the old black doorman, who bows and replies, “Nice to see you, Miss Sarah,” in this Uncle Remus way that always freaks her out. A new attendant with a white waxed mustache presses the elevator button for her. The elevator cab is a beautiful box of inlaid wood so beautiful that you must forgive its excess.

  Maya’s personal assistant Martha greets her, a surprise as Martha is usually diligently at her desk, almost invisible. But here she is in a green dress and a new bob. “Sarah, so good to see you! Maya’s on the terrace catching some of this amazing sun.”

  Out on the deck, Maya’s white pajamas poke through the black crisscrosses of a wire chair. Her elegant neck and voluptuous knot of hair look way too regal for the calculator and clipboard that occupy her lap. “Darling!” She jumps from her chair, wobbling it backward, and hugs her tight. There is her perfume and her arms, such strong arms Maya has. “You look wonderful.” Maya steps back to inspect her. “Just wonderful! I could eat you up!” She gives Sarah a wolfish grin. “Sit down. I want to hear all about iconography.”

  “I know nothing about icons—I just learned how to hammer gold leaf from Bambi, who learned from an old Russian guy out in Brighton Beach. Apparently if you crack the leaf, it’s a reflection of the state of your soul, so you have to be careful on many accounts.”

  “Can I try someday? Oh, Sarah! Wait just a sec, I have to show you something.” Maya leaps up, leaving her clipboard on the table between them, a bulleted memo on tax regulations in London, salty commentary scribbled in the margins. Maya quickly returns, an object cupped in the palm of her hand. A scarab, carved out of green stone. “It belonged to a king,” she says, delighted.

  “Really. What king?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Psamtik II or I or something like that. I thought you’d like it, you and your ancient history.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was given to me.”

  “Is it legal? It looks like it should be in a museum.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “Remember Rich Sommers? Mr. Happy Birthday Cotswolds? He has become rather ardent.”

  Sarah grins. “So that’s why you sang at his party.”

  “He popped up in London, and wouldn’t quit.”

  “And Mrs. Sommers?”

  “She wasn’t there,” says Maya innocently.

  Martha rolls in a tray of coffee. Down in the park people walk dogs and the mud puddles shine glossily in the sun. Sarah studies the scarab, pleased at its gentle weight on her palm, thinking about the people who held it before, and whether it did indeed belong to Psamtik I or II, and if so, what was its purpose? And for that matter, what is its purpose now—why has it been given to Maya?

  “Are you in love with this Sommers? The scarab guy?”

  “Unclear.” Maya smiles shrewdly. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

  Sarah crosses her ankles on the terrace rail, thinking of Philip with a softness she does not show. Maya peers out at the park, a muted, intelligent gaze with a touch of sadness in it. Not the look of a power broker or a Cotswolds snatcher. Sarah leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

  “What’s that for?” Maya asks quietly, touching the spot where Sarah kissed.

  “I’m glad to see you. You’ve been so busy with all of this London business. Am I ever going to see you once you own half the world?”

  Maya laughs. “Just you wait!” And ignoring or unaware of the melancholy that has come over Sarah, she expands on her project, the partners and politicians involved, the contingencies, the possibilities for further growth. She works things out as she talks, the coffee jiggling in her cup. Martha comes out with the telephone, a guy from Lloyds. Maya takes it, apologizing to Sarah, who is relieved, who no longer wants to talk, who wants to be like the birds, flying in great circles over Central Park.

  *

  June rolls around and she still hasn’t told Maya about Philip, which is awkward, as her show at the cheese shop is coming up and she’ll have to invite them both to the opening, although Maya probably won’t be in town. She tugs at her hair, twisting it between her fingers, releasing a faint smell. Of Philip. Fuck. She forgot to take a shower this morning, and she’s meeting Maya for lunch. She digs through her bag for her brush and strokes vigorously. Her hair crackles with static. The static is still going strong when she gets to the restaurant.

  Maya grins. “Your hair, my dear, is all over the place.”

  “I know. I was brushing it in the cab.”

  “If you’re worried about that man,” Maya says grandly, “please. It’s ridiculous to worry about men.”

  Sarah sinks into her chair.

  Maya laughs. “I wish you could see your face.”

  Sarah tries to hide whatever it is she’s showing.

  “I’m not a moron,” Maya continues. “You’ve been dancing around for months. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just trying to figure out why you finally decided to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, Maya. I meant to.”

  Maya rolls her eyes.

  “It’s true,” Sarah says. “I was just worried you wouldn’t like him. Don’t be angry with him. It’s not his fault.”

  “Why would I be angry with him? I’m happy for both of you. I’m thrilled.” Whatever Maya is, she’s not thrilled. But she’s not exactly angry either, at least not as angry as she’d have the right to be. She breathes on the tines of her fork, then polishes them on her sleeve. “In any case, it was bound to happen.”

  “It was?”

  Maya nods gravely. “I’m glad you’re not pregnant.” She reaches under the table and hands Sarah a long white box. “I got it in the islands. It would not be kind to a bun in the oven.”

  Sarah peeks inside—red silk fabric with delicate orange beadwork. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “It’s going to look great on you, all necky and leggy. I want you to wear it to Temple’s. I’m opening there—”

  “I know, on Friday. I’ve been looking forward to it, and now I have a perfect dress to wear.”

  “And bring Philip.”

  Sarah sits straighter in her chair, her alertness returning. “You know his name?”

  “Of course,” Maya crows. “He’s an architect.
Built a house for Chaz Peabody. Single, no exes, no prison record, but—”

  “You didn’t.”

  “What? Nothing wrong with a little security check. What’s wrong?”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Maya.”

  “Please. I just had my boys do some due diligence. Don’t you want to hear more?”

  “No.” Sarah lights a cigarette.

  “Jesus, Sarah. I’m giving him my blessing.”

  “He doesn’t need your blessing. He’s fine on his own. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that Philip would be upset knowing that you’d been digging around in his affairs.”

  “Well, don’t tell him.”

  “I won’t.”

  Maya smiles. “It will be our secret. Are you sure you don’t want to hear more?”

  “Maya. Stop.”

  Maya studies her, a sharp look in her eye.

  Sarah takes another drag off her cigarette. A cylinder of ash lands on the dress box. “I should have told you about him earlier. I’m sorry.”

  Maya nods, acknowledging her apology. “I’ve known for a long time, ever since your first marvelous date. Since then I’ve been watching you squirm.”

  *

  Sarah bumps into furniture, bruising elbows and upper thighs, determined to get water to her long-neglected plants. “If you put them in easy reach, it wouldn’t be so hard,” says Philip, sensibly, from the couch.

  Sarah stands on a milk carton, lifts the rusty watering can over her head, aims. Philip frowns at a scuff on his shoe and finds a rag to wipe it off. He agreed to go to Maya’s concert, though the idea didn’t seem to thrill him.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah. I’m not going to fall in love with your sister.”

  She floods the asparagus fern. “What?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re worried about?”

  “Who said I was worried?”

  Philip laughs. “Oh, no one. Just a wild guess.”

  She kisses him on the top of the head. “Okay, maybe I’m a little worried. But I’m not worried about that. I mean, you are allowed to fall in love with her a little. That’s her due. Just, you know … keep it under control.”

  He doesn’t smile. She gets a roll of paper towels and squats to wipe up the water and flecks of soil dripping on the floor.

  Philip pours himself a glass of port. “You want some?”

  She takes a sip, then grimaces. “How can you drink this stuff?”

  “I think it’s good.”

  “It’s syrup.” She puts the glass on the coffee table. She pulls out a record, her favorite, a live concert in Antwerp. “Just listen to this. Tell me it’s not good.” She pauses to examine the record. The photograph shows Maya from behind, the silver sweat on her back, a profile of her face. She hands Philip the cover. He looks at it, and Sarah looks at him looking at it, and the record trembles in her hand. Maybe she is a little worried that he’ll fall in love. But that’s the least of her concerns. She’s more worried that Maya will be horribly rude. But most of all, she’s worried about herself. She feels like such a different person when she’s with each of them. What will she do when they are in the same room? She feels like she might split right down the middle.

  “Aren’t you going to put it on?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  She finds “Mi Corazón” and places the needle down. The first notes come out of the speaker: “Mi corazón, no se, no se. No translation, no price to pay …” The audience roars. She closes her eyes, the amplitude of that roar getting into her, dimming her concerns, until she’s back in that night. The sticky humidity, the closely packed bodies, that roar. Underneath and over it, you can hear Maya’s voice, throbbing. She shivers. Only when it’s over, as the needle circles in the end-of-the-record dust, does she check on Philip. He could be sitting at a bus stop, he looks so composed.

  “What do you think?”

  “Sounds good,” he says.

  Sarah wipes the sweat off her lip.

  “Why are you still over there?” he asks. “What’s wrong with this spot on the couch? This perfectly viable cushion?”

  “Can I have the cover back?”

  “Sure.”

  She slips the vinyl back into the slip and the slip back into the cover and the cover back into the shelf. “Funny how you can store music vertically. It doesn’t seem vertical when you’re listening. It doesn’t seem containable.”

  *

  The dress is outrageous, red silk with a plunging V-neck that cuts between the breasts. A getup that gets up, as Maya would say. Rita Hayworth might have worn it, slinking into some nightclub, back muscles purring. Rita Hayworth is Maya’s favorite actress. She saw Gilda thirty-two times as a kid, squirming with delight at her shoulders, her high-slitted gown, the way she rolled off her black, elbow-length glove. It was only a glove, but she removed it so audaciously that Franco censored the scene on grounds of obscenity. Maya still brought it up. Huh? Men in charge? Wanna explain old Francisco Franco, thirty-year dictator of Spain, unmanned by a glove?

  Sarah takes one last look in the mirror then runs down to the street. She waves for a taxi, and three swerve toward her. The power of a Rita Hayworth dress. At Philip’s office, an older woman with glasses on a chain sits behind the reception desk. Mrs. Harris. Sarah knows that she left a good job at Philip’s old firm to help him set up his own business, and that she lives in New Jersey with two cats and a husband whose bladder, kidneys, and parking tickets have been discussed with Philip in great detail, but whose first name remains undisclosed.

  “Hello, I’m pleased to finally meet you. I’m Sarah.” She offers her hand. Mrs. Harris, blind to it, stares at the dress. “Is Philip here?”

  Mrs. Harris looks her straight between the breasts, purses her lips, and presses the buzzer. Her eyes finally move up to Sarah’s. They flicker then steady into a pale brown. “You’re a lucky woman,” she says. “Mr. Clark is a good man.” Philip opens his door and whistles. Mrs. Harris’s lips get whiter.

  On the staircase, he grabs Sarah from behind. “Oy vey, it’s the Harlot Marker. Where did you get that thing?”

  “The dress? Do you like it? I was worried you might think it was too much.”

  “Too much? Quite the opposite.” They get into the cab. “Are you sure you want to go?” He sits near, but not too near, a sliver of cool air between them, through which she can sense his fingers and breath. Her nipples poke into the red silk.

  “We have to,” she says sternly.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She frowns at her dress. “I don’t know why Maya wanted me to wear it.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It might be a joke. She has a perverse sense of humor.”

  “Why would it be a joke?”

  “I don’t know. She gets into these elaborate games, and they can go too far, make a real mess.”

  “A trickster,” says Philip.

  “Exactly. Ma blamed it on the fairies. She swore up and down that Maya had fairies in her blood.”

  “Only Maya? Not you?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m 100 percent human.”

  “So how did the fairies get into Maya’s blood?”

  “I’m not sure, but early on, in the womb. Apparently, if a child is born with its eyes open, then you know the fairies were somehow involved. Ma used to say that Maya was born ‘eyes open, staring through a film of blood.’ It scared the hell out me.”

  “But how do the fairies get into the womb?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they dive through the belly button or something.”

  “Maybe Max was a fairy.”

  Sarah giggles. “He certainly was not.”

  *

  They get to Temple’s: a smoky cloud of chatter and anticipation, the host bobbing his head, eager to please, ushering them to the best spot in the house, an honor wasted upon Philip who looks down on Manhattanite seating wars, though he likes the complimentary champagne and the old Ne
w York feel of the place, the lamps glowing on the tables, the dark, polished panels that have soaked in a century’s worth of expensive cigars and handshake deals. He smiles his lopsided smile and Sarah squeezes his arm, glad that this night has finally arrived, that it will soon be over with. The pianist starts up and suddenly Maya appears shimmering in a silver suit that Bowie might have worn or, years before, Dietrich. She slips through the tables, mercury smooth.

  “Let me introduce my sister … who humbles me daily.” She leans down for Sarah’s champagne flute, showing off her cleavage and a new necklace made out of silver feathers. “This one’s for Sarah and her new beau.” She takes a sip. “A little ditty I thought up about an hour ago. Do me a favor and forgive its kinks.”

  Sarah’s chest is alarmingly tight. Maya and Philip are both in the same room at the same time. But they look okay; it’s just her who can hardly breathe.

  Maya nods to the pianist, then turns back to the audience. “Really. Do forgive its kinks.” Her eyes sparkle. She twists the mike cord around her fingers and strolls around the room, thankfully visiting other tables.

  “Forget me not.

  One last Foxtrot

  before you blow,

  we who took the O-hio.

  “Now you set off Columbus sailing,

  hi ho silver big white whaling.

  “Forget me not.

  X marks the spot

  that we once knew.

  Where we had our fond canoe.

  Where we baited rusty hooks

  and read our dirty books.

  “Forget me not.

  I’ll go to pot.

  Plow up fallow land.

  Turn up empty hands.

  Be destroyed—

  and be annoyed.”

  The audience laughs, as does Sarah. A sweet euphoria flows through her; Maya has never written a song for her, and this one is so right.

  “Baby, all I need’s a kiss, an invitation, hit or miss.

  A garden party, spot of tea, a bouquet of flowers for me.

  Snapdragon, sugar pea …

  Forget me not.”

  Maya wiggles her hips and winks, a triumphant, contagious wink that melts through the last of Sarah’s tension. This is exactly how she wants Maya to love her. Exactly this way. Sarah leaps up and gives her a hug. Her face is damp, glowing, her scent heady.