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Dress Her in Red
Excerpt From A Novel By
Tina Appleton Bishop
Chapter One
Anastasia was her name when she was born 28 years ago. With a last name of Gray, her mother had said, “We had to do something to put some zip into it.”
Even with an exotic name there was no denying the blunt truth: the child was colorless. Behind her back her classmates sometimes chanted cruelly, “Hey, hey, color her gray!” Little did they guess that in later years they would boast, “I knew her when she was a nobody.”
Anna, as she was then known, grew into a pleasant – but lackluster – young woman. Her mother had had plenty of “zip” – too much perhaps, for she died in a skiing accident in Vermont when Anastasia was just four years old, too young to have absorbed any of her mother’s electric personality.
Anna was hardly a beauty, with a sprinkle of freckles on her square-shaped face, but her classmates all agreed that she was friendly and above all, honest.
For years she had found it surprisingly easy to be truthful and still survive in a cynical world. Recently, however, she had for the first time in her life done something really dishonest. And she despised herself.
It had happened in Greenwich, Connecticut, in that town’s last remaining old-time department store, Jayson’s. Many wondered how such a place could survive against the competition of so many elegant specialty shops catering to the influx of newly rich customers. Those in the know simply said, “Old Money.” Jayson’s loyal, conservative clientele had kept the store afloat for more than a hundred years. For those older residents the store served as an anchor of stability in a fast changing world.
Anna Gray did not qualify in either class of customer – new or old rich. An ad about a sale of cashmere sweaters had caught her attention. For Anna the very word “sale” was like catnip to a cat. She hoped the half-price would hold in the children’s department as well. As a rule Anna did not bring Christmas presents to children in her piano classes, but Debby Littlefield was special. Not only was she a charming child, and full of promise, but her enthusiasm had brought many new students to Anna. Debby deserved something nice. And Anna found it in a pale blue cashmere cardigan, reduced to $45.
“Oh, this will be perfect for my little student. She’s worked so hard with her piano, she really deserves it.” Her smile made her face radiant.
“Store charge or credit card?” asked the stern-faced sales woman. Cash customers were indeed rare she thought as she watched Anna carefully doling out five ten-dollar bills from her wallet.
“I guess I’ll look around while this gift gets wrapped. Do you still have that special showing of Christmas crystal and ceramics on the second floor? I remember it from last year. Really lovely things, but way out of my range, I’m afraid.”
“You got that right, lady,” thought Laura Rice, the clerk. Her years of experience had sized up the young customer’s social and economic status. “Imagine spending that much money on a gift for a piano student,” she muttered to herself.
As she wandered through the store Anna noticed that there seemed to be no evidence of security guards during that busy Christmas shopping season. But she also noticed that there were a number of cameras hung from the ceiling to discourage shoplifting. She surmised that there probably were security personnel walking among the shoppers, but you couldn’t tell them from the real customers.
She spotted some discretely placed cards near the most expensive and fragile items: Handle with care. If you break it, you’ve bought it. Jayson’s annual Christmas display of imported Italian gifts had originally been situated on the ground floor, but the crowds there increased the risk of breakage and theft. There were surprisingly few customers in the gift area when Anna arrived on the second floor. Maybe the special sales below had drawn most of the shoppers.
Anna had inherited from her family a few good pieces of ceramic from Italy and she was particularly interested in a spectacular Christmas tableau that had been set up on a raised platform in a specially lighted section. The crystal pieces nearby were equally appealing, but they seemed cold compared to the lustrous colors of the ceramics.
Sighing, she admired one of the richly robed figures of one of the Magi in a nativity scene. Alas, it was much too big and pricey a set for her three-room apartment.
Leaning in more closely to inspect the expression on one of the black-bearded kneeling kings, her left elbow accidentally nudged one of the major figures at the end of the platform. Horrors! A large Madonna and Child figure toppled towards the bare floor. With a gasp Anna grabbed for it with both hands, just managing to grab it and save it from crashing to pieces on the floor. But in doing so, Anna did knock it against the edge of the wooden stage. After quickly righting it and restoring it to its proper place in the display Anna was too shaken to examine the piece for any damage. She looked around somewhat furtively and was greatly relieved to note that no one else was nearby. Feeling much better about the near disaster, she now felt comfortable enough to handle the piece to see if indeed it was in pristine condition.
Carefully picking up the piece and turning it around she felt an instant chill as she spied the little – almost imperceptible – chip on the edge of the Madonna’s blue gown. Dear God, she prayed, what did the price tag read? $450. Suddenly she realized that there was a camera in the corner of the ceiling with a little red light on it. Had it recorded the whole incident? That price – $450 – was more than she had in her bank account. With her stomach in knots, she quickly moved away from the display, wiping a bead of sweat from her face. For once in her life she regretted having no credit card. Buying something with a credit card had always seemed somehow dishonest to her, but at that moment it would have been her salvation.
Panic sent her rushing to the elevator. When she reached the ground floor she swept past the sales clerk, who called out, “Wait, Miss, you forgot your package!”
“Must have forgotten to feed the meter,” Laura said to a customer at the counter. Actually, the young woman did not look as if she could afford a car, but Laura was too kind to give voice to that thought.
******
After she arrived in her small apartment in nearby Stanton, Anna had been too upset to cook anything for her supper. Though quite aware that she had abandoned the gift at the shop, she had no intention of going back, even if it meant throwing forty-five dollars down the drain. She was uncomfortable, still felt that she was being followed. Perhaps there had been a store detective? If only she had had the courage (and the finances) to own up to her sin. The little white card on the counter still haunted her: “Handle with care. If you break it, you’ve bought it.
“I know,” she once told a friend, “You’ll think me hopelessly out of sync and downright eccentric, but to me, using a credit card to buy things that I can’t pay for is simply dishonest. Underhanded and risky, too. My father drilled that into me while I was still in college. My mother had once gone over-the-top on credit card spending, you see, and he didn’t want it to happen to me.”
“Fat chance, Anna,” her friend laughed. “You’re as tight as paper on the wall.”
Anna flinched. Since her father’s death two years ago and her move from his New York apartment she had lived alone – and frugally – in Connecticut. It was not ideal, but compared with Manhattan it was blissfully cheaper and less hectic. She seldom felt lonely. Making friends was never a problem. Her pleasant rosy-cheeked, open face and easy laugh were very engaging. What you saw was what you got – a true blue person, solid in shape and character. She was not adored, simply liked and trusted.
In New York she had made an adequate living as a piano teacher. Her musical talents were nothing special, but she still had plenty of students whom she taught in their homes. People simply trusted their children (and possessions) in her care. A former high school friend who had married a man from Stanton had persuaded her to move there, where she assured her she would have plenty of work. Never mind if she had talent or not, said her friend, “with so many absentee parents these days they’re desperate to find a person with integrity – and that’s you, Anna. You’ll do beautifully here.” And she was right.
Yes, Anna ruefully acknowledged, she was only a fair pianist, a would-be concert artist, Julliard schooled, who had settled for a comfortable, safe life as a teacher of rich, talentless children. It was not exciting, but let’s face it, neither was she. But at least she was honest, she told herself, and now she was not even that. Her shame was deep.
Desperate was her need to talk to somebody. In her volunteer work with Catholic Charities she had become friends with Father Barry O’Brien. Anna rarely went to confession, but in the privacy of the confessional box she might have the courage to tell him about her moral dilemma. Perhaps he could counsel her.
******
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is six months since my last confession.” She practiced saying it to herself as she entered the confessional box at St. Joseph’s church.
Nervously, she waited in the dark for the sound of the priest’s little window being shoved open.
Dimly, she could see Father O’Brien’s snub nose and gray, curly hair, one ear pressed against the screen. No word from him. He was a listener.
“Father, I don’t have much to say.”
Anna always felt apologetic in the confessional. There was so pathetically little to confess. She was not an adulteress or a junkie or a thief. She did not think evil or even look at evil, she rarely skipped Mass and her occasional swear words were too feeble to mention.
“I have a very special student, Father. Like me, she lost her mother as a child. Like me, she’d been living with her father – a rather nasty piece of business, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. I was so anxious to give her something to show my real affection for her. A friend had suggested Jayson’s. It was a happy choice. Jayson’s is a comfortable, old-fashioned store and I found the perfect gift for my little student. Now for the bad part of my story. Later, while I waited for the present to be wrapped, I was browsing through the store’s collection of Italian ceramics when something terrible happened. My elbow accidentally knocked over a beautiful Madonna and Child figure. I tried to catch it before it shattered and I was mostly successful, but a little chip broke off.
She swallowed before continuing. She told him about the store’s policy on breakage.
“I ran off, too chicken to admit what I had done. The problem is, my conscience tells me to own up, but my bank account tells me I can’t possibly come up with $450. To make matters worse, the present I’d bought and paid for got left in the store and I haven’t the guts to return for it.”
The priest was silent for a few moments.
“Tell you what – I know you to be an exceptionally honest young woman. Rare, these days. You have a strong moral sense, which right now is torturing you. Let’s take it one step at a time: first, you want to get that present to your student. Okay, how about asking a friend to pick it up at the store up for you?”
He cleared his throat before continuing. “In the store they might not notice the damage for some time, and they won’t know who did it. Your guilt will eat at you and make you miserable, however, until your sense of honor forces you to fess up. Sorry, Anna, but until you can pay the price there’ll be no peace for you. It may take some time before you can come up with that kind of money, but above all don’t go back to the store until you come in with full restitution in your hand. ‘Fraid this is not the kind of advice you were hoping for, but you can do this, dear, I know you can.” He closed the window.
So that was that. Not even a “God bless you” or, as penance, a few “Hail Marys” to say in the pew before leaving. Guess he didn’t think I’d sinned, but that I might sin if I didn’t follow his advice.
******
Retrieving the present from the store had been far easier than Anna had imagined. She had simply asked her Stanton friend, Sylvia Ashton, to pick up the purchase, “that my friend Anna had left behind last Thursday afternoon.”
Handing over the elegantly wrapped box to Sylvia, Laura said, “Oh, dear, I hope she wasn’t ill?”
She still wondered why the young woman had left the store in such haste, and Sylvia wondered why Anna had been so anxious to avoid returning to Jayson’s. Could something unpleasant have taken place there? Neither woman would ever know the answer. Sylvia had learned that with Anna you did not ask too many questions.
******
Despite the delay there was still time enough to give the present to Debby Littlefield before Christmas. Anna looked forward to the family’s holiday party as she headed north. A light snow had powdered the landscape that week, but not enough for driving problems. Anastasia knew the area well, but never had she seen the rolling hills of the Stanton backcountry look so Christmas-card perfect. In her imagination she pictured a Dickensian scene: a top-heavy coach-and-four lumbering over the snowy landscape. By the time she reached the Littlefield estate, her mind had stirred up images of Tiny Tim on crutches, and in the kitchen, steaming hot, a plump goose, ready for carving.
The Littlefields’ invitation was specific: Come to the Littlefields for Cocoa, Cookies and Carols. Harold Littlefield was an ad man. Alliteration was food and drink to him and he took his Christmas traditions seriously. Each year he added more elaborate touches to the holiday decorations. Fortunately, the twelve-room Tudor style house was large enough to accommodate them.
A maid removed Anna’s coat before she entered what the real estate crowd called “The Great Hall.” In the center an enormous Christmas tree, a live one of course, was almost collapsing under the weight of its burden: miniature toys, crystal balls, candy canes, popcorn garlands, tiny wooden houses, and enough lights for a Broadway marquee. Underneath the tree a miniature train ran ‘round and ‘round.
Harold, a tall man with an over-hearty voice, was not drinking cocoa, Anna noticed. He smiled at her as he walked towards her. “I’ve had my cocoa. Now it’s time for some serious drinking. I’d offer you a Martini, but I think in front of your student, you’d best stick to cocoa.” He did not introduce her to the others present.
As usual he was making it clear that Anna was not a guest, just a babysitter for his little girl. One notch above a servant.
Anna gave him a frozen smile. “Where is Debby, by the way?”
“Oh, you’ll find her in the music room. The kid’s been at the piano all day, practicing. She has a surprise for you.”
The music room had been carefully planned to be situated well out of earshot of the Littlefields. It was a barren place, no festive Christmas decorations there, just the basics: an upright piano, a bench, four cheap wooden chairs, and in one corner, the remnants of a drum set, once played by Debby’s college-aged brother. Neither Harold nor his new wife, Angela, cared for music, but in their circles piano lessons were considered an important part of social status. Ironically, little Debby actually was beginning to show signs of real musical ability. Not only that, but with her short, dark hair and dimples she was a charming child, whom Anna adored. At Anna’s approach she jumped off the piano bench and hugged her.
“Oh, Miss Gray, I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Sit here with me while I play you your Christmas song. I made it just for you.”
“Made,” mused Anna. Of course the little girl was far too young to write music. Teary-eyed, she listened to the short tune.
“Why are you crying, Miss Gray? I worked all day on it. Didn’t you like it?”
“Darling, it was beautiful. I have a present for you, too.”
She eagerly watched the child’s expression as she tore off the fancy wrapping and saw the cashmere sweater. It was worth the price to see the glow of Debby’s smile.
“Oh, I wanted a beautiful one just like this, but Angela wouldn’t buy it for me. She said I was too spoiled. Do you think I’m spoiled, Miss Gray?”
In answer, Anna took the little girl’s face between her hands. “Honey, of course you’re not spoiled. Now, let’s hear your lovely piece over again.”
It was that fox-faced Angela who was spoiled, not poor Debby, thought Anna. ‘Angela’ what a ridiculous name for such an uptight, selfish woman. Nobody in his right mind would ever confuse her with an angel. (Anna had never had a stepmother and was grateful for it.)
As she half listened to Debby’s effort on the piano she could not rid her mind of the unfortunate incident in Jayson’s. How could she possibly pay the penalty for her carelessness? To those in the Littlefield’s world $450 was pocket change. To her it was financial disaster.
If only Debby’s parents were more generous, nicer people, it might have been possible to ask for help from them. What to do? She hesitated to suggest to them that Debby’s talent deserved more lessons. It would take more than a few extra teaching hours to reach Anna’s $450 goal. At $30 for each half hour session it would mean 15 additional lessons at the Littlefields.
She could imagine Angela’s response. “Fifteen more lessons for Debby! I can’t see how we could possibly fit them in, what with ballet, swimming, soccer and homework. You really think the girl’s that talented? Frankly, I’ve only heard her play a couple of times. Music’s not my thing, or Harold’s.”
Come to think of it, Anna’s own after-school and weekend teaching schedule was over-crowded, but what else could she do? There must be some other way to make a living. Suddenly she remembered that some of her friends at Julliard had made pretty good money as entertainers at parties and weddings. It might be a lot more fun and obviously more lucrative, but how to get those jobs?
Perhaps Jerry Greene could help her. At Julliard he was one of the least talented of her classmates and not too attractive. Slow moving, and balding, he was on the cusp of obesity. He frequently fancied himself as a pianist-comedian, the next Victor Borge. Yes, he could be charming and often amusing, the class clown, but as a serious musician, he was literally a joke. Everyone marveled that he had gained entrance to as famous an institution as Julliard.
Occasionally he would appear on the daytime TV shows. The women loved him. His career had started as a player at weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. From there he had graduated to playing and singing risqué songs at Manhattan cafés. Anna had not seen him since her move to Connecticut, but they had kept in touch by phone.
She had rebuffed his clumsy groping on their last date in New York. Fat people of either sex repelled her. She knew it was silly to harbor such prejudices but at this hour of need, she could not afford to be picky, she thought, as she searched for his phone number.
When she called him she was surprised when he answered the phone.
“Hi, Jerry. This is Anna Gray. I’m going to be in town this weekend and I was hoping we could hook up for lunch.”
It gave her an uncomfortable feeling to be telling a lie and “hook up” had become a vulgar expression, but Anna wanted to grab his attention.
She had.
“Hey, Anna. Glad you’re surviving Connecticut’s Gold Coast. Is it as tight-assed as they say?”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t move with the glitzy crowd. Just soccer moms and their bratty kids.”
“Poor Anna! With your talent, you could do better. Look at me, fat Jerry, the clumsiest, least gifted kid in the class. Now I’m thinking about a couple of gigs in Vegas. Crazy, isn’t it?”
They chatted for few more minutes. Under pressure, Anna finally agreed to meet him for lunch at his apartment. She had hinted that she needed his advice on a career change.
“I promise you’ll be safe with me, sweetie. Did you know I’m a great cook? No kidding. How d’you suppose I got this chubby? Uncle Jerry’s home cookin’.”
The talk with Jerry had cheered her and eased the malaise in her stomach. As she set about gathering the fixings for a green salad and a mushroom omelet she began humming to herself. For four years she had plodded through her daily routine, never dreaming that a more exciting future might be possible. Jerry was right. She could do better, and damn it, she was going to try.
******
Ordinarily she would have driven into New York, but during the holiday season parking was even more challenging than usual, and Anna was not willing to spend a fortune in a parking garage. An outdoor lot would be cheaper and the open street even more so, but why risk a dented fender or an enormous parking fine when the railroads were offering special prices on weekends?
There were few men on the 10:15 train, but there were a number of women, most of them traveling in pairs, dressed in their special lunch-and-Saturday-matinee outfits. Many of them were wearing fashionably high-heeled, knee-high boots that nearly reached the hem of their short skirts. Others, like Anna, were covered from chin to ankle in coats. Hers could not compete with the minks, but she felt socially secure in her worn, but beautifully tailored, black coat. She had bought it on sale at Bendel’s to wear at her father’s funeral. Under the coat she was wearing a Bendel suit of black silk that she had also acquired at the time.
Some of the women wore berets or circles of faux fur. Anna rarely covered her auburn hair, which contrary to current fashion, was naturally wavy and was worn jaw length. “I don’t have a hat face,” she would say.
Anna was a realist about her looks. No saleswoman could ever con her into buying clothes that were unbecoming. Or too expensive. As she left the train and pushed through the crowds at Grand Central Station she felt confident about her appearance and had a growing sense of anticipation about her lunch with Jerry Greene.
Since she had last seen him, on an occasion which she now was trying to forget, he had become a minor celebrity of sorts. A kind of Jackie Gleason in build, but a far cry from Jerry’s idol, Borge. Must be making money, she mused, as she gave his Sutton Place address to the cab driver.
It was only a four-room apartment, but the rooms were elegant and were spacious enough for a man of Jerry’s size. Success had not altered his personality. Though he had made it in The Big Apple, he was still the homespun boy from Ohio, and he looked out of place in the over-decorated opulence of his apartment. Walls and carpeting were icy white, with oases of color, mostly green and blue, among the out-size chairs and sofas. The most prominent feature of the room was the baby grand Steinway in one corner.
Noticing Anna’s bug-eyed stare as she walked in, he grinned, “Well, how d’you like it? Billy Robertson did it for me. It’s a bit overwhelming, maybe too much, you think?”
For once Anna stifled her honesty. “It’s a fascinating place, Jerry, and what a river view.” Concentrate on the view, forget the vulgarity.
With his girth, even larger than she had remembered, a hug was difficult so he settled by kissing both her hands.
“Anna, you look wonderful,” he lied. “Must be that country air.” She seemed tired, though better dressed than usual, almost New York chic. Her life must be going better than she’d hinted. This was a relief. He was generous by nature and for him, things were going well, but he was wary of friends who might be hitting him up for a loan. Recently his agent had warned him, “Jerry, don’t be a sap and fall for every hard-luck story you hear. You’re doing great now, but you have to watch out for yourself.”
He led her into a vast kitchen. The cabinet doors had been papered in antique botanical prints. “Beautiful, but aren’t they hard to clean?” Anna had felt obliged to ask.
He laughed. “Smart of you to think of that. These door panels have got so much damned lacquer on them that no amount of scrubbing could harm ‘em. Check all the stainless steel appliances. Very practical. You couldn’t damage ‘em if you tried. The view, of course, is what sold me. Sit down here and enjoy it while I rustle up a bottle of wine. Wine’s okay for you, isn’t it? You came by train, no worry about driving home?”
This was no time for Anna to avoid lying. She rarely drank.
“A glass of wine sounds lovely.”
“I’ll be feeding you Jerry’s famous coq au vin, so let’s open up a bottle of Pinot Noir.”
She sipped her wine, watching him as he carefully set a large casserole on the table. They had now moved to a dining area off the living room.
Jerry was rightfully proud of his cooking, Anna thought.
“How did you make the chicken so tender and wonderful tasting?”
“Easy, honey. Any meal tastes special if you give it a French name and pour enough wine into it.”
His Ohio grandmother had actually made that remark when she visited him in New York, and Jerry had incorporated it into his repertoire. In time he came to believe that he had said it. The entire Greene persona was cobbled out of such material. No matter, it worked.
They chatted for a while as they ate and drank, both pretending that Anna’s was purely a social visit. Jerry waited for Anna to make the first move. Finally, after checking his watch, he said, “Dear, I’m due at Armando’s for the cocktail hour. You’re not here to sample my fancy cooking. Let’s get down to cases. How can I help you?” He prayed that she would not be asking for money.
Emboldened by two glasses of wine, Anna told him of the incident at the gift shop and of her dilemma about making restitution.
“This whole situation has made me realize how pathetic my so-called lifestyle is. No, Jerry,” she laughed, “you can stop holding your breath, I’m not asking for a loan. I’m not desperate. My father left me a little money and some stocks, which I’d rather not dip into. I figured though, since this happened, that I’d never survive as a music teacher. I can’t continue living on the edge. Concert playing is simply a daydream, but perhaps I could play the piano and make some decent money. Your kind of success would be too much to hope for, but maybe you could steer me in the right direction?”
As she spoke, Jerry had been studying her. She had the talent; there was no doubt of that. It was her looks, her personality that might hold her back. She had a great smile, great teeth. Just needed a little more confidence to use that smile more often. In school she had been like that, very quiet, even mousy, until she opened up and gave you that grin. Then wow! As for her features, a touch of blush would bring out those cheekbones. Her figure? Who could tell? She never wore the clingy things or the low-cut tops that drew attention to her curves.
On one humiliating evening he had tried to feel out her shape. Now, two years later, he could still remember the slap she gave him. Today she looked a little more slender than he recalled. OK, he mused, as long as there was no shrinkage in her top section.
He paused before answering. “You’re right, I’ve had success and sometimes I wondered how it happened. God knows it wasn’t my musical talent. Maybe it was my size. When you’re as fat as I am, you’d better learn to laugh at yourself first. For you, as a woman, it’s different. To be an entertainer you’ve got to feel sure of yourself, sure of your looks as well as your talent. Honey, I don’t want to hurt you, but to be successful, you’re going to have to put a little more pizzazz into your personality and looks. As that old ad saying goes, you’ve got to ‘sell the sizzle in the steak.’”
He looked at her stricken face and said, “Jeez, Anna, now I’ve thrown water on your sizzle.”
Quickly he added, “Honey, forgive my tough talk. I think you can make it in this business, but it’ll take work. My agent might be able to give you some tips to start with, but the hardest part, besides building a big repertoire of old and new tunes, is reinventing yourself. You have two things going for you: natural looks and natural talent. And you have something else that you can trade on, a great name. Anastasia! Exploit it! It has romance, star quality. Think about it.”
All the way home on the train, she thought about it. The more she pondered, the more her excitement grew. By the time she reached her destination she was walking a little taller.
******
For the time being she would have to continue the teaching. Meanwhile, she would start collecting sheet music, all kinds, from the classics to show tunes, from “golden oldies” to current hits. As a souvenir from her days at Julliard, she already had a small collection of sheet music stashed in her piano bench, the usual standards: Chopin’s Nocturnes, Claire de Lune and Moonlight Sonata, but she would need lots more variety in her coming career
This could cost some money, but now she felt more comfortable about using some of her legacy. It was a capital investment, after all. Her father surely would have approved.
As it turned out, the sheet music was surprisingly inexpensive. A few minutes at the computer yielded an astonishing variety of piano pieces, with and without fingering or lyrics and for varying piano skills.
She had Googled “Sheet music for Piano.” Bingo! A company called Sheet Music Plus offered half-a-million examples of “every type of printed music, for every type of instrument and voice.” For about fifty dollars she ordered Great Piano Solos, The Best of Cole Porter, the Big Book of Wedding Music and Popular Performer Holiday Hits. That should take care of most music requests. Fortunately, her training had made her an expert at reading music, but she still needed lots of practice. She hoped that after a while her musical memory would enable her to perform like the best players, without reading.
“What if you’ll be playing at an outdoor event, like a wedding or a big cocktail party and you’ll need a piano?” her friend Sylvia had asked when Anna phoned her about her new plans.
“These electric keyboards made by Yamaha are hardly concert grands, but their tone is surprisingly good. Really amazing for something so portable. Of course it would mean a long, long extension cord, the heavy kind. Jerry might be able to advise me on the type of keyboard to buy,” Anna replied.
“Who is this ‘Jerry’? A new boy friend?”
Anna laughed. “Jerry’s an old friend from music school days. He’s done very well on the minor entertainment circuit. You may have seen him on the daytime talk shows.
“You don’t mean Jerry Greene! He’s really amusing, and a pretty good pianist, too. I can’t quite picture that huge man squatting down to an electric keyboard. Is he the one who got you thinking in a new direction?”
“Absolutely! He’s made me look at myself in a different way, as somebody with possibilities.”
“For instance?”
“As a woman with good skin and teeth but with insufficient oomph in her silhouette. A person who’s not afraid to smile at strangers or to perform in the spotlight. Someone who can see the advantages in a name like Anastasia.”
“Frankly, are you ready for such a makeover?”
“That’s the problem. I guess you could say I’m afraid of failure. I can poke along, as usual, or I can risk it all with change.”
She decided to wait a while before investing in a keyboard. Updating her wardrobe and joining an exercise club seemed more urgent. Anna, aka Anastasia, was starting a new life.
******
Sylvia was puzzled as she put down the phone. She had known Anna for 14 years, ever since their student days in New York. Even as a teenager, Anna was an enigma, a reserved young girl whose shyness set her apart from the others. Only at parties, when she reluctantly sat down at the piano and astonished them all by her ad lib performance, did her charm appear. At those times, a new vitality in her posture, the heightened color of her cheeks and an excitement in her eyes transformed her. When she stopped playing, her old pale personality would return. In those days Anna had real talent, seemed destined to make it in the concert world. Why, Sylvia wondered, had her gifted friend wound up in a near servile role as a music teacher of pampered kids?
Since her father’s death and her move to Stanton, Anna had seemed adjusted to suburban life, though, as an unmarried woman, her presence at parties sometimes created awkwardness. If she had been more attractive looking she might have been less popular with her women friends, but Anna was never a threat, she was liked by all, men and women.
When she occasionally babysat for Sylvia and John’s two young children Anna always refused payment. “Send John to help me with my computer and we’ll call it even,” she’d say. Sometimes John would spend hours holed up in Anna’s apartment, but Sylvia never worried. He loved Anna, too, but as a brother.
Actually, Anna did have a brother, Alex, who was a gay artist. Years ago, in New York, when he had stepped out of the closet, he and his father had fought so bitterly that Alex had moved to San Francisco. He had once visited Anna in Connecticut, but two nights on a sofa bed had weakened his brotherly love.
John Ashford had recently left his job in New York and had joined a small, but flourishing new firm in Stanton. Sylvia had hesitated about telling Anna about it. Perhaps she should first discuss Anna’s situation with John.
“You’ve seen Anna perform at parties. Tell me honestly, do you think she could hack it at weddings, Bar Mitzvahs and such? She’s now so steamed up about leaving her teaching and making some real dough as a pianist at various events. As you know, her father left her a little money, but I suspect she’s under some financial pressure. What that is, I don’t know. Anna’s not one to cry about her troubles.”
Recalling Anna’s reluctance to enter Jayson’s, she added, “Anna’s a strange one. Her reserve is as hard to crack as the walls of San Quentin.”
John smiled. “Know what you mean. Anna’s very gifted, no doubt about that. There’s something missing there, however. She has no style, no fire in civilian life, yet when she plays the piano a sort of magic surrounds her. I really think she could make it as a performer, but it would take time.”
“In other words, she’s not quite ready to become your client at Metro Talent Bank?”
“Not quite, but I’m willing to wait. With a name like ‘Anastasia’ she has to be good!”
******
To achieve her new look as “Anastasia” Anna would need funds to acquire an expensive wardrobe and money to spend on hair, make-up and exercise classes. With money on her mind she sought the advice of an old family friend, but she wasn’t going to let him in on why she wanted a sudden infusion of cash. He might try to dissuade her.
Donald Franklin, of the firm of Franklin and Stoddard, was as conservative as he looked, with his gold-rimmed glasses and Brooks Brothers suits. He and Walter Gray had been college roommates, and at Walter’s death he had promised, as an investment counselor, to help guide Anastasia’s finances – without charge. His recent phone conversation with her had disturbed him. He had been very careful to educate Gray’s daughter in the pros and cons of investing wisely. Until recently she had dutifully obeyed Donald’s conservative precepts: conserve, conserve, conserve. Above all, do not dip into capital.
Now she was asking him to do just that. He was appalled.
“Anna, I can’t stop you from withdrawing that money, it is yours, after all. But can’t you see how risky it is, selling stocks in these uncertain times?”
To make things worse, she refused to tell him why she needed the money. He sighed as he said to his partner, Bill Stoddard. “Oh, well, that’s Anna. She always was a strange little girl. You don’t suppose she wants to get married, do you?”
******
A few days later when the check arrived Anna was a bit disappointed. It was about a hundred dollars short of the five thousand she had hoped for. Never mind, it would give her bank account a much-needed transfusion. On her way out of the bank she met Father O’Brien.
“Anna, you’re looking very chipper for so early in the morning.”
“I am, Father, and would you believe I’m on my way to Jayson’s this very minute to atone for my sin.” (Actually, she had not planned on doing that until the sight of the priest gave her the idea.)
“Good girl! I’m happy to hear it. Now you’ll sleep better.”
He wondered how she had managed to find the money so quickly and hoped she had not compounded her trouble by doing something foolish. Young people do such crazy things, but Anna was not like them, thank God. He trotted briskly down the street, smiling.
Meanwhile Anna had entered Jayson’s and made her way to the gift section on the second floor.
She waited a few moments at the cashier’s counter as customers tendered their credit cards. As she stood there she looked towards the display where she had seen the Madonna. It was no longer there. Had it been removed and stashed away as “damaged goods”?
Laura Rice, the heavy-set clerk who had been working on the first floor when Anna purchased the sweater, approached her. “I think I remember you . . . didn’t you leave a purchase in the store recently? A sweater I think. The way you left so quickly, we were worried. I hope you weren’t ill, or had some family emergency?”
To Laura’s disappointment, Anna answered only with a smile as she wandered about the floor looking for the Madonna. Laura followed her.
“Is there something you were looking for?”
Anna hesitated. “Well, someone told me about a special piece, a lovely Madonna and Child?”
Way out of your league, lady, Laura thought.
“A customer bought it just three days ago.”
She continued, “Would you believe that the same lady returned it a day later, making a terrible scene about finding a tiny chip and demanding a hundred dollars off the price? Probably chipped it herself, we all decided. Amazing how dishonest some folks could be.”
“Sold, you said? How disappointing.” Anna was turning into a first-class liar. “I’d heard that the expression on the Madonna’s face was unusually beautiful.”
“Yes, it was lovely, one of my favorite pieces. Is there anything else that might interest you, a Botticello wreath, perhaps?
“No, no, nothing else,” she said. She was trying to hide the elation in her voice when she added, “Unless you could find me something really nice for around a hundred dollars.”
A short time later Anna left the shop, carrying a striking pair of large crystal candlesticks. She made out a check for $150 and in her relief, almost danced out of the shop.
When she arrived home, however, the conversation with the sales clerk began to bother her. In her elation she had not worried about the feelings of the woman who had bought the Madonna. Why hadn’t she demanded all of her money back and simply returned the piece?
******
In her New York duplex Norah Craig was arguing with her husband. He was right, as usual, but she would not admit it.
“Damn it,” he snarled, “Why did you let Jayson’s get away with it? Pulling a fast one on you and then insinuating that you did the damage. You should have made them take it back, not settle for a lousy hundred bucks.”
She stammered, “I … I didn’t ask them if I could return it. Ordering another one would have taken weeks, and there wasn’t time for that. Besides, this Madonna had such an extraordinary, spiritual expression, on her face as she looked down at her child. I just had to have her.”
******
Three months later when he saw Anna after the Easter Mass, Father O’Brien was stunned at the change in her. She was slimmer, and she carried herself with more poise, more assurance. It was not just a matter of well-chosen clothes; the difference was more than physical. There was a subtle look in her eyes, a sort of happiness, a radiance.
“Anna, in all the time we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen you looking so well. There’s a certain air about you, a look of well being. I guess you really did square things with the people at the gift shop. You must have made some real sacrifices to save that money. I’m so proud of you, dear.” His eyes seemed bluer than ever as he smiled.
She did not have the heart to tell him the truth.
“Thanks, Father. I feel really well. I think both of us have shed a little weight. Are you still working on your racquetball? Let’s live dangerously, forget the calories, and go down to the basement and stoke up on some of the goodies that the Ladies Guild has been slaving over. Will you join me?”
Normally, Anna would have finessed such crowded affairs, but with the priest at her side, they made swift progress towards the buffet table as people stepped aside to let them pass.
Never underestimate the power of the church, she thought.
With both plates shamelessly filled, they seated themselves at a small table nearby. Anna was very much aware of the attention of the women, who looked at her resentfully. They had done all the work, and she had captured the prize. Father Barry O’Brien was adored by all. Who was this young woman beside him? They had noticed no wedding ring. Must be his niece, the ladies decided. “At least he could have been courteous enough to introduce her,” one of them said.
Anna ignored their baleful looks. She had been amused as she noticed their eyes scanning her ring finger. Poor Father Barry, how difficult it must be for him, the darling of the Ladies Guild, with his whole life under their scrutiny.
She took a bite of her pecan pie. As she ate it, the priest said, “That’s Helen Rocco’s famous pie. Wonderful, isn’t it? She’s watching you. Give her a smile. It’ll make her day.”
Dutifully, Anna smiled. Father should have been in the diplomatic corps, she decided. As the Irish might say, he was a “darlin’ man.” And far too handsome to be a priest.
“You look as if you had some good news to tell me,” he said leaning towards her. “Nothing for the confessional!” he laughed.
She told him of her recent plan to give up teaching, “except for one little girl, who’s so sweet and talented, I had to stay with her.” Since then, she had spent “hours at home, practicing at the piano for my new career.”
“And what career would that be?”
“Obviously, it isn’t as a concert pianist. That dream went up in smoke some years ago, when I measured myself against some real talent at Julliard. After the trouble at Jayson’s I realized I had to find some other way to make money, and a friend suggested that I might do well as a performer, in a modest way, of course.”
She told how she had collected sheet music, and had spent hours honing her skills at the piano. “ I think I’m just about ready to cope with any requests, from Ave Maria to Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. I’m only 28, but I’ve boned up on all the ‘Golden Oldies,’ as well the current hits and the standard classics. It’s been really hard work, but I’ve been having a ball!”
While she was speaking he seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere. “I hear you, but I’m trying to think how I could help you. I’ve never heard you play, but I’d be willing to hire you, talent unheard.”
Anna laughed. “You indeed are a man of faith. Actually I’m thinking of having a video made, and when it’s ready, I’ll send you a DVD.”
He looked pleased, but perplexed.
“This sounds like a great idea, but won’t it cost a lot of money? Have you just acquired a rich uncle?”
“Not quite, my father left me a few stocks, some of which I recently cashed in.”
She hesitated before adding, “Now you know how I wriggled out of the situation with the chipped Madonna. Sorry if I destroyed your faith in me as a true atoner,” she said, smiling.
“My dear, let’s forget it, and concentrate on your future. Yes, do send me the video. I think through my parish connections, we might do a little business together – weddings, funerals, church parties, that sort of thing.”
But for Bar Mitzvahs she’d have to look elsewhere.
She had fibbed when she said that practicing the sheet music tunes was fun. Actually it was irksome. In addition, she had to play softly, lest she disturb the neighbors. Her apartment was pleasant, but shoddily built. She missed the soundproof walls and floors of the New York apartment.
One morning, she was playing more loudly than usual. It was ten o’clock, a safe time to practice the triumphant tones of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Three sharp knocks on her door startled her. Who could be complaining at this hour? As she went to the door she drew her bathrobe more securely around her. Looking through the peephole she spotted part of a sallow, thick lipped, face. Could it be the new tenant who had moved in a few months before?
“Who is it?”
A surly voice answered. “This is no time for a wedding, for Christ sake. Knock it off. I’m trying to sleep.”
She looked through the peephole again. The face was gone.
Unfortunately, Anna had not appreciated the wrinkled old woman who had formerly occupied the apartment below. Her relatives had moved her to a home for the elderly, she heard. Perhaps if I had been kinder, more neighborly, the old lady would still be here, Anna thought.
The memory of the man’s nasty face stayed with her. As she often did when upset, Anna made herself a warm, soothing bath and poured in some bath oil. Today might be a good day, she mused as she lay full-length in the tub, to get on the Internet and shop around for a new or used Yamaha electric keyboard. On the other hand, it might be best to take a stroll through the park. This too, had been a comfort during times of stress.
As she got dressed and was putting on her running shoes she began remembering the man’s words.
“The hell with you, you creep,” she said aloud, as she stamped both feet on the floor. It made her feel so happy that she stamped three more times, even harder. She was laughing as she walked out the door.
Chapter Two
The early morning mist was beginning to clear as she entered the park. Compared with New York’s Central Park it was pathetically tiny and barren: no vast stretches of green, no century-old trees, no solemn statues of long-forgotten men. Set in the heart of Stanton, the park was simply a small stream, bordered by lawns and a new plantings of trees. Back in 1956, during an extraordinary three-day rainstorm, that section of town had been underwater as Connecticut was hit by the worst flooding in its history. Army amphibious vehicles sloshed through the water in the town square. But, in spite of that history of flooding an office tower was recently completed along one side of the square. Putting a structure – especially one that size – in a flood plain only meant one thing to a lot of people in town – someone was paid off to get the building permit. In spite of the public outcry the building went up.
She walked along the stream bank on the east side, with her back to the massive tower. The sight of it always made her angry. It would have looked fine in a real metropolis, but the arrogance of its height against the smaller buildings in town along with the arrogance of its developer in putting it there over the complaints of the Stanton citizens riled her.
At that time of day the park had few visitors so she had her pick of benches and found one that was clean and set apart from the others. She had always felt content with solitude. The quiet was soothing. Unfortunately, it looked as if a jogger was coming her way. He was about to block her view of the stream, where she was happily watching a mother duck and her trail of ducklings. The jogger kept drawing closer. Suddenly, with a groan, he plopped down on the bench beside her. His face was very flushed and he was breathing much too hard.
“Sorry, but I guess I over did it,” he gasped.
Even through his clothes she could smell the sweat. She smiled as she tactfully tried to edge over towards the far end of the bench. Disheveled and exhausted as he was, there was something attractive about him, she thought. Perhaps it was the contrast between his face with its clean-cut features and the memory of the gross, unshaven sight that she had recently seen through the peephole.
“Poor man, you look shot. Could you use some more water? I brought some with me.” She reached into her backpack and offered him her bottle. “I confess it’s just plain tap water, one of my many economies.”
“Lady, even if it came from the River Nile, it’ll taste good to me.”
In his haste to drink he began to choke and cough.
Quickly Anna whacked him smartly on the back and was relieved to see his cough subside. Both were silent. Gradually the redness faded from his face and his normal breathing resumed.
Anna laughed with relief. “Phew! You had me scared. Hope I didn’t break anything when I hit you.”
“No worry. I’m all of a piece, thanks to you.” His smile was brief, but brilliant. “By the way, you might like to know the name of the guy whose life you saved. My name’s Bruce. Bruce Browne. Browne with an ‘e.’” He did not mention his full name, Brewster, his mother’s maiden name.
She smiled as she looked him over. “‘Bruce’ – it’s a good manly name. I like it. My own name’s a bit more complicated – Anastasia. Anna for short. Anna Gray. Funny that we both have names of colors.”
She laughed before adding, “I’m a pianist, a teacher, working on a new career as a performer.”
As she talked, her voice and her face grew more animated. In Bruce Browne’s blue-green eyes she looked beautiful. “As an entertainer, you’d better stick with ‘Anastasia.’ I can visualize the sign: Anastasia at the Piano. The name has panache; it suits you. Let’s face it, the name ‘Anna Gray’ won’t sell tickets. Do you mind if I call you ‘Anastasia’?”
“Do I mind?” she thought to herself and tried to hide her exhilaration.
“Of course not! I’ve told you a little bit about me, what about you? You sound like a man with imagination, somebody creative. Am I right?”
For a few minutes they exchanged bios. Bruce was a thirty-year-old graphic designer, currently working freelance. Living, out of necessity, with his sixty-year-old widowed mother. He had been briefly married to a woman who had left him for another woman. “I was too naïve to sense what was going on, too dumb to notice her excitement whenever she was with the woman, too dumb to notice the hungry way they looked at each other.”
Anna told him about her glamorous young mother’s death. “Even as a small child I was in awe of her beauty. To me she was a fairy princess. My father tried his best, but he never could hide his disappointment in me. I was a nice little girl, but never could match up to my mother.”
She described her Julliard years, her present life as a teacher and of her goal of success as a performer. “Through a priest friend of mine, I have hopes that he may find me jobs playing at parties and weddings, but that will take time. I’ve bought the sheet music. Now I have to practice the tunes. It’s difficult at times. This morning, for instance I was giving my all to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March when my new neighbor downstairs barged up and gave me hell for disturbing his sleep. Got me so upset that I had to walk out here and simmer down.”
“Thank God I live in a house – at least in a garage on my mother’s place. That may change, as Mother’s talking about selling the place. She’s engaged to her boss at the investment firm where she works. Who knows, she might need your services to play at her wedding.”
“I’d love to. Do you like the man?”
“Can’t stand him. Slithery as an eel. Very high-powered. Fools enough people, though, to trust him with their finances, and obviously he’s conned my mother. What can I do, short of shooting the man?”
He looked at his watch. “If I wasn’t soaking wet and stinking like a bum, I’d ask you to lunch with me. Another time, maybe? Do you have something like a card with your phone number on it?”
She smiled at him.
“Strangely enough, I had some professional cards made three days ago. You’re the first to see one. And who knows, your mother might hire me to play at her wedding. As for lunch, I’ll give you a sweat check on that!”
Their unexpected and congenial encounter left them both with senses of elation as they returned to their respective homes. Bruce sang in the shower. Anna hummed as she sorted through her sheet music.
******
Three weeks later, Anna’s friends, Sylvia and John Ashford, were planning a party to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. They had a lot to celebrate: John’s new job with the talent agency was going well and Sylvia had just learned of her third pregnancy.
“Champagne’s a bit pricey, but let’s go for it.” John was reading a full-page ad from a local liquor store. “It doesn’t have to be French, of course.”
Sylvia laughed. “This is no time to be chintzy. Let’s have good champagne or forget the whole thing. I won’t be drinking anyway.” She had read that drinking while pregnant can do all sorts of damage to the unborn as well as making the child more likely to have problems with alcohol later in life.
“We already have Uncle Harry to contend with. I don’t want to be responsible for introducing another drunk in our family!”
“Honey, just a little sip won’t hurt,” he smiled. Sylvia had sometimes been too damned virtuous. “OK then, we’ll live it up with the real thing. French it is.”
Anna would be there to entertain as usual, they decided.
“This time she’ll be even more fun than ever. She’s been learning a lot of new tunes, you know. I haven’t seen as much of her lately, not even had a phone call, but I suspect there’s something different going on in her life. I fear we may be losing our good baby-sitter soon.”
Sylvia paused before adding, “Anna said she’d be happy to play at our party, then she asked if she could bring a friend, someone she’d met recently. Of course I said yes. Stupid me, I never asked the friend’s name. Don’t even know if it’s a he or she.”
“Anna’s definitely not the kind to bring a ‘she’,” he laughed, “but we’ve never known her to have a special male friend.”
Sylvia exclaimed, “Wouldn’t it be great if she brought that old pal of hers, the entertainer Jerry Greene! This one is a recent friend, though. Someone pretty special, I guess. There was a sort of lilt in her voice when we spoke. Take my word for it, our friend Anna’s going through a change, and I can’t wait to see it!”
******
As soon as she had asked Sylvia about bringing a friend, Anna regretted it. Sylvia was sweet, but a well-known gossip. By the time she and Bruce arrived at the party (bearing a special chocolate mousse cake), the other guests would have been privy to Anna’s “new interest.”
Bruce had laughed at her anxiety. “Sure, they’ll be looking me over, but remember I’ll be giving them the once-over, too. What should we be wearing to this special event? Jacket and tie, of course, for me. But you, Anastasia – he had begun called her that since their first date, lunch at Jimmy’s Steak House – what will you be wearing? Will you be arriving as your new personality, Anastasia, or will you come as plain Anna Gray?”
“Since you and I have been together I’m almost beginning to like myself as Anastasia. I can’t believe it’s only been three weeks since our meeting in the park.”
“Since my near-death experience,” he laughed. If you hadn’t given me such a violent whomp on the back, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Here in my bed,” she added, with a smile.
She had been leaning on one elbow, studying his face as he slept. He had opened his eyes. “Why are you staring at me?”
She smiled, “At last I’ve found that your face isn’t picture perfect. That little scar on the bridge of your nose – what’s the story on that?”
“Nothing exciting like a dueling souvenir. Actually, it came as a result of a misguided moment of chivalry when I tried to help an old lady on a train. I was attempting to hoist her luggage onto the overhead rack when her suitcase fell off and whacked me on the noggin. I still have the beautiful lacy handkerchief she gave me to mop up the blood.”
“And for this you earned another Boy Scout merit badge?”
“God, no! Scouting wasn’t for me – much too earnest and humorless.”
“What do you eat for breakfast? From the looks of you, all of you – not carrying an extra ounce – you’d skip the heavy stuff. Will coffee, juice and Raisin Bran do?”
“Anything, darling, unless you have some Champagne handy. I feel like celebrating!”
She ran her fingers through his curly, blond hair and kissed the tip of his nose.
“Wasn’t last night’s celebration enough?”
As she set the place mats on the table she was still bemused as she relived the events of the past weeks. So much had happened. She had never before gone to bed with a stranger, for in a sense Bruce was still unknown to her.
True, last week she had met his mother, Harriet. That might tell a little more about him, she hoped.
Harriet Browne was a medium sized woman, shorter than her son, but fair-skinned and blonde like him. Ever since his first unfortunate marriage, she had been wary of Bruce’s women friends. She watched Anna, who was walking up the drive. To think that this latest was simply some woman whom he’d picked up in a park. Saved his life, he’d said. A dubious story, she thought. Still, she looked better than some women whom he had brought home.
“Mother, this is Anastasia,” he’d said. “Remember how I told you about our adventure in the park?”
Adventure indeed, she thought. What a strange name, Anastasia. So affected a name for such an ordinary, but pleasant looking person.
“Bruce tells me you’re a musician, a pianist. I’m not very musical myself, but Bruce plays the guitar. In college he used to play with a trio in small cafés.”
He laughed nervously. “That may be one reason why I dropped out after two years.”
A strange expression came over his mother’s face. She said sharply, “Don’t believe him, he was brilliant in school and a good athlete, too. Unfortunately, his father died very suddenly and there was no more money. That’s why Bruce left college.”
There was a silence. Harriet looked on the point of crying. She told Anna how Bruce had gone to night school, studied graphic design and now made a decent living “designing beer bottle labels, mail order catalogs, all kinds of stuff.” In a subtle way, she seemed to belittle his “stuff.”
Watching them together, Anna wondered if Bruce were overly attached to his mother. That might explain his emotional reaction to his mother’s possible remarriage. No, she thought, I know him well enough to know he’s not a mama’s boy. But Mama – did she know it?
The visit to the Browne house had been thankfully short. Long enough for Anna to sense the jealousy and antagonism in the way Harriet moved and talked. There was anger in her stiff back and in the tight-lipped set of her mouth. There was in her a curious mixture of vulnerability – pity me, the poor widow – combined with pride, and bitterness.
As they left, after refusing a glass of wine, she was glad that Bruce had a refuge away from her, in the studio apartment over his mother’s garage. His upset about her wedding plans was hard to fathom. Couldn’t he see that her marriage might set him free?
“Well, what did you think?” he asked as they drove back to her place.
As usual, she found it hard to lie.
“She’s an attractive, intelligent woman. I can picture her holding a responsible job in an important company. She obviously adores you and is jealous of others who might adore you, too.”
She shuddered. “It was chilly in that house, I’m glad I brought a sweater.”
“That tough was it? Mother can do that to people. She’s had a hard time these past ten years. I’m trying to persuade myself that she’d be happy with that son-of-a-bitch, but it’s a hard sell. There’s a rumor going around that he’s been gypping his clients, and that he may be in deep trouble. Of course she’s loyal to him and to the firm. Oh, well, let’s cheer up and have a drink at Jimmy’s. You earned it.”
It was a Friday evening and the parking lot in front of Jimmy’s was crowded, as usual. Anna could never understand the restaurant’s popularity. The food was so-so, pseudo Italian, served in a casual, almost careless manner. It was informal to the extreme – noisy, badly decorated – yet always filled with young people having a good time. Nino’s, just a block away, had excellent food, and an attractive ambience, but was always starved for customers. Perhaps it was simply a matter of economics: Jimmy’s menu was unchanging, therefore predictable, and at a comfortable price.
As they neared the restaurant a car was pulling out of a parking space.
“How lucky can you get! With a little bit of skill, I think I can make it – even with this car.” Bruce laughed.
He was driving an old, but carefully maintained, classic Buick. His father had proudly owned it for years, and had driven it just weeks before his death. It was an Electra, a very long car, “top of the line” Bruce said, “but sometimes a bitch to park.”
Anna held her breath as he slowly backed the car.
“It would have taken me a week to shoe-horn into that small space” she was saying, when suddenly there was the dreaded sound of glass breaking and clashing metal. The Buick had backed into a motorcycle, a brand new Harley Davidson.
Their knees shaking they stepped out on the curb to check the damage. The noise had attracted some of the diners. They gathered around the fallen cycle. Nobody spoke, just stared at the shattered headlight and twisted handle bar of the vehicle.
Finally Bruce spoke, his voice shaky, “Anyone know the owner of this bike? I’ve called the police and they’re on the way.”
Actually Anna had immediately called 911 on her cell phone and reported the “accident.” She remembered that police should be called when the damage was more than minimal. From the noise of the impact this would cost a lot more than a minimal amount of money. She prayed that Bruce’s insurance would cover it.
By the time the police officer arrived they were both sitting again in the car, happy to ease the weakness in their legs. The shock of the incident had left them shaken, physically as well as emotionally.
“What’s the story here?” the officer asked, as he opened the driver’s side door and looked in. He was a big man, Tony Rizzo, a police veteran, whose belly strained against his shirt.
“My fault entirely,” Bruce confessed. “Just misjudged the space.” He tried to charm. “Wouldn’t you know I’d hit the crème de la crème of all bikes.” He gave a wan smile.
“You sure did. Have any idea who owns this thing?”
“Someone said it was Jimmy’s.”
“Jimmy who? The guy who owns this place? Never saw him on a bike. Musta just bought it. Wait till he sees what you done to it.”
He gave a nasty snort and thought to himself, the guy really did a number on that beautiful machine. Hope he has plenty of insurance. He was busy writing down Bruce’s license number and his insurance agent’s name, when the bartender at Jimmy’s, Len Higgins, pushed through the group of gapers. With him was a redheaded, cowering young teenager. The boy was so scared that his teeth were chattering.
“I’m J … Jimmy, Junior,” he stammered as he shambled over to the policeman.
Tony looked him over with disdain. “Ain’t you the kid who was in the station a coupla weeks ago? Nabbed you for reckless drivin’ without a license? Is this your dad’s new bike that you were ridin’? Boy, are you in deep shit. We had a call from your Dad an hour ago. Someone stole his brand new Harley he said. Never heard a man in such a rage.”
The boy was sniveling as the burly officer seized him by the collar and shoved him into the squad car.
“Follow me folks,” the policeman called out to Bruce and Anna. “We all have a date at the police station.”
As he watched the two cars driving off, the bartender was relieved that he had refused to serve the kid a beer. A cop could smell beer breath a block away.
******
Jim Murray, the Harley’s owner, had already arrived at the station by the time they got there. He had lost some of his rage by then though his red hair was still soaked with sweat and a pulse could be seen beating in his temple.
The sight of his son set him off again.
“Jesus!” he shouted. “Have you gone nuts sneaking off like that? I promised I’d give you a ride, but you can’t wait, can you? Now you’ll be booked for grand theft, along with everything else.”
In his fury at his son, he seemed to have overlooked the presence of Anna and Bruce. Then he noticed them.
“Oh, you’re the folks in the car that wrecked my brand new bike. Hope you’ve got a pile of insurance, cause you’re going to need it.”
“Sir, I appreciate your feelings. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Bruce mumbled.
“Sorry, hell. That’s not going to fix that beautiful Harley. For years I’ve wanted to own one and then some dummy like you plows into it.”
He paused and glared at them both, and then looking closely at Anna he said, “I’ve seen that face before. Weren’t you with Father O’Brien on Easter Sunday? The two of you having coffee together?”
Anna answered with relief, “Yes, Father and I are good friends. I’ve done volunteer work with him.” (This was a chance to make some brownie points.)
Suddenly he started to laugh. “You know I’m more upset about what my idiot son did, than I am about the damage you did. If you ever have kids you’ll know how they can break your heart.”
Looking at the officer, he said bitterly, “When I think how I stood up in court and pleaded – begged mind you – to win custody of this kid. What a laugh.”
He turned to Bruce and Anna. “That was twelve years ago. You wouldn’t believe what a beautiful child he was. Never could figure out why that bitch left us and shacked up with that lousy shoe salesman.”
There was a silence. All were embarrassed, even the officer, who said as he led the youth away, “Maybe a coupla days in the cooler would calm the situation. D’you still want to press charges against your own son?”
Jim Murray was too wrought-up to answer.
It was the signal for Anna and Bruce to leave the station. Without speaking, they climbed into Bruce’s treasured Buick.
“We never did get that drink, remember?” Bruce asked as they drove up to Anna’s apartment. “And I never checked to see if my own beautiful vehicle had been hurt. The end of a perfect evening.”
Both were relieved when Anna replied, “I’d ask you in for a drink, but I think we both need a little quiet time alone.”
******
Since the incident in the police station Anna’s reveries about marriage had shifted. After meeting Bruce the thoughts of sharing her life with someone had seemed possible, even inviting. The memory of Jim Murray’s bitter words now made her frightened and uncertain. Most of her friends had been happily married or were settled in contented relationships. They seemed in harmony with their partners and Anna enjoyed being with them. The happiness of others was contagious.
Murray’s rage against his wife and son had shocked her, however. It was hard to feel sympathy for as vile-spoken and hot-tempered a man as Jim Murray, but surely he had been cursed with incredibly bad luck. In most ways he had drawn a losing hand, except for his restaurant’s success. He was not bad looking and had plenty of money. What had driven his wife into the arms of another man? It was probably the usual reason: she felt neglected, could not compete against his excitement at building a flourishing business. He might have changed from a shy, diffident young man into a demanding, brassy, loudmouth. And their lovely little boy? He had turned into a miserable, snot-faced, would-be thief. Maybe their marriage had been doomed from the start.
Yes, she thought, Bruce was the most attractive, stimulating man she had ever met, but it was premature to fantasize about marriage. At this time in her life it was important, as Jerry Greene had said, for her to concentrate on re-fashioning herself for her future career.
She had already made a start by canceling her teaching jobs, all but the Littlefield child. Anna wondered if the little girl would turn into a loser, like the Murray kid. Not a prayer. The child had too much talent to be lured into misdeeds.
Sighing, she went into her tiny kitchen and made herself a small omelet. There was no cheese, so she settled for a raspberry jelly filling. At least it would help to sweeten the sour taste in her mouth.
By morning her mood had lightened. Bruce’s call at ten made her laugh.
“Thought you’d be relieved to learned that Bertha the Buick is as lovely as ever. Not a mark. How about celebrating over lunch today? Would you be interested in checking Nino’s?”
“Maybe we could fathom the secret of their un-success,” she answered.
Nino’s was far from being called “fashionable,” but she spent more than the usual time grooming her eyebrows and applying a touch of eye shadow. The eye makeup had been added to her new personality as “Anastasia.”
“It’s really easy,” the woman at the cosmetic counter had assured her.
Hardly “easy” Anna thought. For years her trademark had been the “natural look.” To be a true professional, a popular performer, she would have to remake her face, and her body too. She had learned over the weeks to apply a little blush on her cheeks, and with shaky hands, to outline her lips with lip paint. In the exercise class she’d been taught how to achieve better posture and to move with more flexibility and grace.
As to her new wardrobe, she would need Sylvia’s advice with that. Since their teenage years Sylvia had an inborn flair for style. Anna had never tried to emulate her, did not care to, but now she was eager to learn.
Day by day she was changing from plain Anna into the more interesting, sexy, Anastasia.
******
Ruefully, Anna realized as she and Bruce entered Nino’s at one o’clock, there had been no need to worry about her appearance. The place was pathetically empty of diners, and the few women present were not challenging. In her zeal to be properly dressed for the occasion, Anna had overdone it. She felt silly in her new black pants suit. The casually dressed diners looked at her with curiosity. Their looks seemed to say, “You poor thing. You’re trying too hard. You’ll never fit in with our group.”
Bruce had been smarter in his choice of clothes: an old, open necked Brooks Brothers checked shirt, worn over beautifully tailored grey wool slacks. He had never set foot in the place before, but he blended in with Nino’s look of “casual elegance” as a restaurant guide had once described its aura.
He glanced around the large, square room.
“Plenty of room for a baby grand in here,” he observed.
The tables in the room had been placed widely apart, as if to hide the unfortunate fact that there were so few customers. Sunshine through the tall windows and handsome urns filled with fresh flowers failed to brighten the atmosphere of failure that hung in the air.
Tactfully ignoring the pricey entrees on the right side of the menu, Anna ordered the Luncheon Special with Dover sole, and mushroom soup as an appetizer. Bruce chose French Onion Soup and Nino’s Chef Salad.
They spoke in low voices as they both wondered, “how long can Nino’s hang on? How long would it be before it would go belly-up? “
Anna said as they left the restaurant, “My sole was delicious and I’m glad we gave the dessert cart some attention, but I feel so sad for the owners. They must feel like parents of a beautiful daughter, a girl with brains and virtue, but not a suitor in sight.”
Laughing, Bruce replied. “You’re right. It was a wonderful meal, but oh, so depressing to see them trying so hard and failing. The restaurant business has always been risky, but someone like Jim Murray might snatch Nino’s up as it lay dying and bring it back to life.”
“I’ve been thinking about that wretched son of his. I wonder if his father actually charged him with theft. There was no news of it in the paper today,” said Anna.
She loosened her neck scarf and laid it on her lap. What a waste of a lovely Hermes creation, she thought. Not enough people to be impressed by it. A rich friend had given her the black and red printed scarf a few years ago and it had lain in Anna’s top drawer unused. She rarely wore black. The new pants suit was an exception, and she did not feel comfortable in it.
“Attempting to be chic is a real strain, and I can’t wait to change this outfit when I get home,” she laughed.
“Too bad! You look very Anastasia in it. I don’t suppose you feel like inviting me in?”
“Another time, dear. For some reason, I’m still feeling depressed. Let’s try again to have a really gala meal, say, at McDonalds. That’s more my style, I fear.”
******
It was three o’clock when she walked into the lobby of her apartment. Chuck Nolan, the mail carrier was at work. He always had plenty of time to chat with her as he filled the brass mailboxes. Round-faced and cheery looking, his white beard and ample belly earned him the name of Santa.
“Cripes! I bust my back carrying around this worthless crap. I bet you throw half of this junk away.”
“Wrong,” she said. “Make it seventy-five percent. I’ve been trying for months to get some organizations to give up on me. Send them five bucks and they’re on your trail forever.”
She glanced at the box name listed below hers.
“Ricardo. Isn’t that the name of the old lady who left some time ago?”
“Yeah. A relative – I think he’s a nephew – Frank Ricardo lives there now. The poor woman thinks she’s going to return, he told me. He says he’s watching the place for her. I wouldn’t want to bet on it. He gets his mail here, not much stuff, thank God, but the charities are still going after the old lady.”
“Have you ever seen this man? He works at night, he told me. I only talked with him through my peephole. I saw part of his face, and it wasn’t a treat. I tried to visualize what he must look like. He spoke in a kind of grunt, like a pig. He sounded like a very tall, fat man who had to bend over to talk through the opening.
Chuck Nolan laughed. “You got it right. The man’s not much shorter than a giant, and built like a brick you-know-what. Someone told me he worked for the state, the mental hospital up in Brookville, as a night guard in the men’s ward. He’s a big one, for sure. Looks like he could handle any situation.”
He glanced at Anna, one of his favorite customers.
“If I was you, I’d steer clear of him.”
“Don’t worry, Chuck,” she tried to laugh. “He’s not my type!”
As soon as she reached her living room she went to her piano and played a few bars of Claire de Lune, which she knew by heart. It was almost as soothing to her as a hot bath would have been.
By this time, Frank Ricardo would have slept and was getting ready to drive to his night shift, she figured. She hunted through her music collection and searched for the noisiest kind. Ah hah! The triumphant recessional of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto.
She played for a few minutes and felt invigorated. Now there’s a proper send-off for you, you ugly man! What a pity that she had no organ. Then she could have produced a real blast of sound.
******
Anna seldom dreamed, but, a night later, she was jolted awake by a curious, but not frightening, dream. She was at her piano, practicing one of the tunes from her Christmas collection, Irving Berlin’s White Christmas. There was a loud rap on her door. When she went to the peephole and saw Frank Ricardo’s face she was not frightened, and calmly invited him in. He immediately sat down at her piano stool and began playing the very same tune. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “Now, that’s more like it!” To her surprise, he played quite well. When he was finished, he left the room, blowing her a kiss as he went out the door.
The dream had left her with a strange sense of peace. She no longer feared the man. He was disagreeable, no question of that, and apparently odd looking, but she began feel pity for him. What a dreary life he must lead, silently patrolling the halls in a mental hospital. No wonder he was a grouch. She wondered if he ever visited his aunt, Rose Ricardo, now a patient at St. Benedict’s Hospital, a Catholic home for the elderly.
Anna remembered a time when Father O’Brien had asked her if she would be interested in volunteering at St. Benedicts, where he was chaplain. “Sorry, Father, I really don’t have the time,” she had answered. Untrue. In fact, like many young people, she felt repelled, physically as well as mentally, by old people. She was not used to them. Multi-generation families no longer existed. As a youngster Anna knew of only three schoolmates who had grandparents living with them.
The attitude of one of them shocked her.
“If my grandmother moved out I wouldn’t miss her. She was a real pain in the butt. Always yakking about the ‘old days,’ always saying lousy things to my mom. When I get married, I’d rather die than have my mother-in-law living with me.”
Anna never forgot her words. She had never known either of her grandmothers. One had died in Canada; the other lived in England. In one of her picture books, Nana Knows, the grandmother was shown as an all- knowing, sugar-sweet old thing. Moral of the story: Grandma knows what’s good for you. Always obey her. Her grandmother had sent the book to her from England. She must have had a highly developed sense of irony. Shortly before his death, Anna’s father had talked about the two of them making a visit to his mother, Eleanor Gray.
“You’d love her. Tough-minded, but good. Why she sent you that silly book, I don’t know.”
Neither Anna nor her father ever made the trip to England. After his death Anna had received a shakily written letter from her distant grandmother.
“We always promised to see each other again, and look what happened. Nothing is worse than out-living your children.”
Three years later Eleanor herself was gone.
To find out what happens in Dress Her in Red you may purchase the book from Amazon.com by clicking on this link:
http://www.amazon.com/Dress-Her-Tina-Appleton-Bishop/dp/1462070817
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