Aftermath of Dreaming(24)

“Oh, my God.” Carrie was staring at me so oddly that I wondered if my hair had taken on some strange shape during my walk and bus ride home, but I decided to ignore it because I was finally with someone I could tell.

“I know, it’s pretty wild, but he’s really sweet, and he wants me to call him tomorrow at his hotel, and oh, my God, he’s so incredibly gorgeous, and I’ve only seen one of his films, but it was like I’ve known him my whole life, and he said he wants to help me, though God knows what that means, and he had asked the ma?tre d’ about me, then came down—”

“This is going to change your life,” Carrie said in a low serious tone, her blue eyes searching mine to see if I understood.

“Well, I don’t know about that.” The color on my face deepened. “I mean, okay, he said he wanted to help me, which is really sweet, but what can he do? Pay for some classes? Which would be great actually, but I mean, you know, he’s just some Hollywood actor movie star person.”

“Just some movie star person,” Carrie yelled, making the cat run under the couch. “Honey, Andrew Madden is also a producer and a director; he’s won Academy Awards; runs a studio; and here’s where you come in, he’s also a renowned collector of contemporary art.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, yes.” Carrie stood up and seemed to tower over me even from her shorter height. “Andrew Madden is not just some stupid movie star, honey; he’s practically his own industry.”

“Oh.” I had to look away from her, as if the key to my understanding all this was on the other side of the room, but Carrie kept staring at me so I met her eyes again. “Wow.”

“Exactly. Here.” Carrie picked up the bottle of wine and handed it me. I looked at it for a moment before realizing I needed a glass. I went to the kitchen for the one I had moved with, had packed among my socks and underwear. I had also brought a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of Kahlúa that my cousin Renée and I made one afternoon from vodka and coffee. It was weeks after I unpacked that it struck me I must have thought it would be hard to find liquor stores, but in the neighborhood I had moved into, there was one practically on every corner.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me. I want to hear everything,” Carrie said as I came back in the living room and sank onto the couch. She had refilled her glass and lit a fresh cigarette from an almost empty pack.

“Well, I was standing in the coat-check room and suddenly he was just there, saying my name, asking what I’m doing, and telling me to call him tomorrow at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.” Telling Carrie, finally saying it out loud, made it real. Real in my apartment and in my life, and not just in my head.

“You’ve been discovered,” Carrie squealed, and her cat ran out from under the couch and flew out of the room.

Like America. I just hoped with the same lasting results.





9




The next day Carrie was meeting friends at the Cloisters, thank God, because the last thing I wanted was her on the other side of the curtain that I used as a bedroom door, listening to my conversation with Andrew so she and I could talk about it more easily afterward—her suggestion. I assured her I could never make the call that way but promised I’d remember every detail. Ruth was at a rehearsal for a showcase she was doing in Queens. Whenever I imagined her singing, it was always with an immobile smile on her face and her arms high in a triumphant V before she moved into the next lyrically specific choreography.

I sat down in my tiny room on the twin bed, the only size that would fit in the space, with the telephone book on my lap. I had decided to call Andrew at two. It definitely felt like an afternoon thing to do. One o’clock seemed desperate and three, lazy; so I picked two. Or ten after. On the hour would appear too obvious. It was almost ten after, so I decided to give it just a few more minutes. And hopefully breathe for a bit, too.

I tried to think about how he had looked standing in front of me at the coat-check counter, to see if that would make calling him easier, make it feel like a normal thing to do, but that only made my heart beat faster.

Okay, it was time. As I looked up the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in the phone book, my hands like a stranger’s doing a task of their own, I thought of my walk home from work the night before when I passed Andrew’s hotel on Central Park South as I did every time I walked home, the large red square carpet that took up most of the sidewalk, the two epauletted, gold-buttoned doormen in front. Now it all meant something different. It was where Andrew was. And had been for how long? How many nights had I passed that building never knowing it housed him? Walking past his hotel last night and peering in, I had thought how simple it would be to go in and ask for the phone number, or at least nab a packet of matches that surely would have it. I imagined going up to the front desk and saying, “I need to call Andrew Madden here tomorrow, what’s the phone number?” As if by connecting to his hotel early, I was connecting to him.

“Good afternoon, the Ritz-Carlton, how may I direct your call?” The voice was elderly in a formidable way, not weak and kick over-able.

“Mr. Madden’s room, please.” I tried to say it like I said it a lot, said it so much that I could do something else while I said it, said it and barely knew I was saying it. I tried to say it like that.

“Who may I say is calling?”