Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk(30)

Whenever I eat my lunch there these days, I always think of and hope to see Wendy. About half the time I do. She and I met last summer, mid-July, hot and hazy, the air like a gauze bandage, tight and stifling.

Until that humid afternoon when Wendy spotted me, no one had told me I was beautiful for a long, long while. I noticed her first, actually, though I hadn’t planned to say anything to her; rather, I meant simply to sit on my bench and watch her.

Even in a city populated by outsiders with bizarre magnetism, she felt extra compelling, stalking the edges of the park in a feline fashion that made me think of Phoebe, of the way a house cat hunts, so that one can’t tell whether it’s serious or only playing, or if it’s sure itself.

Wendy was obviously a woman, but had a lean androgynous look, flat-chested in a white tank top and torn-up jeans. Her thick black hair, choppy and cropped at the nape, looked less styled than chewed on. She wore a huge Nikon camera on a strap around her neck, and she held it to her right eye with veiny hands, their fingernails painted a chipped black, taking picture after picture. But she was no tourist.

She saw me seeing her, and I, never one to feign shame in my interest in others, waved to her with my own hand: well-manicured in classic red, gold watch on my wrist. A summer linen suit encased the rest of me—because no one wants to see these arms and legs uncovered, least of all me. I wore sunglasses, Dior, from the 1960s, because by then I had come to prefer my face half-obscured.

Wendy strode over and introduced herself, shaking my hand, very direct. When she spoke, her demeanor—forthright, Midwestern—contrasted with her feral appearance, and made me laugh.

“You’re beautiful, Lillian,” she said. “Especially when you smile like that. May I take your photograph?”

“Maybe,” I said. “First, have a seat. Tell me, why would you want to do a thing like that?”

“Well,” she said, perching on the edge of the bench, almost as a prelude to a pounce, “I’m a photographer. Professionally. I work in a studio, as an assistant, just south of here. But I’m also an artist. Trying to be, you know? I’m working on my portfolio. And to do that, I’m operating under the motto, ‘I’m seeing beauty in less-obvious places, and that makes me a more interesting person.’”

“Ambitious,” I said. “But your motto also damns me with faint praise, doesn’t it?”

“Oh my goodness,” she said. “No! I just mean, like, society’s idea of beauty is really warped and limited, and you—”

“I’m joking,” I said. “I’d be honored. Where are you from, Wendy?”

“Garrettsville, Ohio,” she said, shrugging in apology. “But I live in Chelsea.”

“You’re looking at a long-term resident of Murray Hill,” I said. “I haven’t been to Chelsea in ages. And I’ve never been to Garrettsville, Ohio, but I’ve heard of it. Hart Crane was from there. Do you know him? His work? He was a poet. Killed himself in the 1930s by swan diving off an ocean liner.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never read his poems,” she said. Then her eyes got wide and she asked, “Lillian, are you a poet?”

I liked the way she asked that—not “Do you write poetry?” or even “Do you like poetry?” but “Are you a poet?” For Wendy, one’s art was one’s identity, and everything else one did simply amounted to getting by. She was still quite young, I realized, and she hadn’t been in the city very long.

“I am,” I said. “But not a poet like Crane. Though I do admire his work. You should read his first book, White Buildings—although The Bridge seems more the fashion these days. I only understand every third word of his, but it doesn’t matter. Me—my verses are less opaque.”

“I’d love to read your poems sometime,” said Wendy.

“That won’t be so easy, I’m afraid, as all my books are out of print.”

“Books?” Wendy put her hand—pale and sturdy—on my linen sleeve. “Lillian, you write books?”

“I did,” I said. “In my prime I was even a bit of a celebrity. Everyone read me. But in the latter-day world of poetry it seems that nobody wants to read somebody everybody reads, as Yogi Berra might put it. So I’m quite forgotten now.”

I was pleased with that bon mot, but Wendy sped past without sparing it a second look. “Well, you must have copies,” she said. “You could loan them to me, couldn’t you?”

“I could, yes. If I ever see you again. But what would a young go-getter like you want with an old lady like me?”

As it turned out, she’d want plenty—and I can’t say I’m displeased. Wendy is now one of my best, if most improbable, friends.

I round the corner of Madison Avenue to East Twenty-Third Street, skirting the south edge of the park, taking the long way to connect to Broadway. As I do, I can’t help looking over my shoulder to see if Wendy might be in the park. She’s not, of course; she has enough sense not to go there after dark.

And tonight, I remember—I know because she invited me—she and her husband are hosting a New Year’s Eve bash for all their artist friends at their apartment in Chelsea.

Wendy is like that, now that she knows me. She treats me as if I’m not actually sixty years older than she. Her insistence on including me—her idea that an odd old woman might have any business ringing in 1985 amid her chic bohemian demimonde—is sweet and silly and fantastic. I’m quite touched.