The Paper Palace(70)

“It’s New Year’s. Perfect time for an olive branch,” he says as we head down Mott Street in the biting wind.

“Shit. I left one of my gloves in the restaurant.”

“They’re probably feeding it to some poor sucker,” Peter says.

“Don’t be an ass.”



* * *



—

Twenty minutes later, we’re squeezed inside a telephone booth a few blocks from my father’s apartment. I feel like kicking Peter. I cover the receiver with my hand. “This was a terrible idea,” I hiss.

“This is between you and Mary,” my father is saying.

“How can it be between me and Mary?” I snap.

“You two need to work this out.”

“There’s nothing between me and Mary. I’ve met her once.”

“I know,” my father says. “I want that to change. She’s important to me.”

“And I’m what?”

“Elle—”

“She convinced you your daughters were drug-addict thieves.”

He’s quiet on the other end of the phone. “Look, Mary made a mistake. I know. I made a mistake. And I am very sorry. Can we please move past this?”

“Fine. But if you think there is a world in which I will ever set foot in a room with that chicken-lipped woman, you’re insane.”

“Please don’t make this any worse.”

“Do not try to make this my fault.”

He sighs. “Mary and I are engaged. We’re getting married in March.”

“You just met her.”

“I know it’s soon, but Mary says there’s no reason to wait. We love each other.”

“Wow.” A piece of greasy dumpling rises in my throat.

“I need you to tell me it’s okay.”

“You’re pathetic.” I slam down the phone.

“That went well,” Peter says.

I stare at the receiver in my hand. Someone has scratched the word cunt on the back of it. And a smiley face.

“They’re getting married.”

“Ah.”

“Why did I listen to you? I should’ve hung up the second he mentioned her name.”

“Do not try to make this my fault,” Peter says.

“Mocking me? That’s your choice? My father just told me he’s marrying a woman Anna and I have met once. Who’s awful. And obvious. And fake.”

My steam-breath covers the glass in front of me. I rub a small window in it with the back of my glove, stare out at the street. “And, yet again, he doesn’t choose us.” I know I’m about to cry, which infuriates me even more. Weakness is the only thing I’ve inherited from my father. The afternoon sky is turning to flint. An angry gust of wind pushes a Happy New Year bugle down the sidewalk. I watch until it rolls off the curb and disappears.

“Elle, you’re the one turning this into an either/or.”

“What does that even mean?”

“She made the accusation, not him. He’s in a tough spot. He loves you. And apparently he loves her, too.”

“You don’t even know him,” I snap. “I need an ally, Pete, not some impartial witness.”

“I know it feels like treachery now, but once you calm down, you’ll realize this isn’t about you.”

“Calm down? Very useful.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but reconsiders. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Now can we please get out of this phone booth? As much as I enjoy being sweaty and pressed up against you, it’s starting to smell like a whorehouse in here.”

“How would you know?” I push open the accordion door and walk away.

Peter follows me out into the bitter cold. It’s starting to snow. “Elle. Stop.” He catches my sleeve. “Please. I love you. This isn’t our fight.” He pulls me into a doorway, out of the wind. “I’m defending your father because I want you two to make up. So I can meet him before I go back to London. That’s all. It’s entirely selfish. But there it is. I don’t want to have to come back to this hellishly freezing city.”

Up the block, a Checker cab appears. Peter steps out into the street and hails it. “Let’s go home. We can tuck up in that miserable little bed of yours and make our New Year’s resolutions.” The cab pulls over. “Mine is to stop trying to win an argument with you.”

“You go. I’ll meet you back there.”

“Elle—”

“It’s okay. We’re okay. But you’re right: I need to calm down. I need to walk this off.”

“And just like that, I win my first fight.” Peter takes both ends of my scarf, wraps them around my neck, pulls my hat down farther on my head. “Don’t be long.”

I watch the taxi’s taillights round the corner away from me into a halo of snow. The street is deserted. No sane person wants to be out in weather like this. Tears have dried in piss-thin icicles on my cheeks. I put my head down and start walking up Bank Street to my father’s building.

All the lights in his second-floor apartment are on. I ring the buzzer and wait. Through the etched-glass windows of the brownstone’s heavy mahogany front doors I can see a stroller parked in the stairwell, my father’s bicycle locked up behind it, leaning against a peeling radiator. It looks warm and clanky inside. I buzz again. My toes are beginning to feel like ice cubes inside my boots. I stomp my feet to get the blood moving, buzz one more time, lean on the bell. Nothing. I know he’s there, but he can’t hear the buzzer if his bedroom door is closed. There’s a pay phone in the Greek coffee shop around the corner I’ve had to use before.