Summer and the City Read online

  “I think it’s a plus,” Samantha says. “It made him work harder as a lover.”

  I feel around in the box for another cracker. It’s empty. “We need supplies.”

  “I’m not moving.” Samantha yawns luxuriously. “No power, no work. No Harry Mills trying to look up my skirt.”

  I sigh and change into my last clean pair of scrubs.

  “Have you decided to become a doctor now?” Samantha asks.

  “Where’s your stethoscope?” Miranda hoots.

  “They’re very chic,” I insist.

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.” Hrmph. Apparently neither my sexual experiences nor my sartorial choices are much appreciated around here.

  Miranda leans toward Samantha, and with an excited squeal demands, “Okay, what’s the worst sex you’ve ever had?”

  I throw up my hands. When I slip out of the apartment, the two of them are howling with laughter about something they’ve dubbed “The Pencil Problem.”

  I wander aimlessly around the Village, and when I spot the open door of the White Horse Tavern, I go inside.

  In the dim light, I discover a few people sitting at the bar. My first reaction is one of relief that I’ve found someplace that’s open. My second is dismay when I realize who’s sitting there: Capote and Ryan.

  I blink. It can’t be. But it is. Capote’s head is thrown back and he’s laughing loudly. Ryan is hanging on to his bar stool. Clearly, they’re both severely inebriated.

  What the hell are they doing here? Capote’s apartment is only a couple of blocks away, and it’s possible he and Ryan got stuck at Capote’s place when the power went out. But I’m surprised to see them, considering Capote’s extensive alcohol collection. Judging from the looks of them, I guess they ran out.

  I shake my head in disapproval, gearing up for the inevitable encounter. But secretly, I’m awfully glad to see them.

  “Is this bar stool taken?” I ask, sliding in next to Ryan.

  “Huh?” His eyes uncross as he stares at me in surprise. Then he falls upon me, embracing me in a bear hug. “Carrie Bradshaw!” He looks to Capote. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you.”

  “You were?”

  “Weren’t we?” Ryan asks, confused.

  “I think that was about twelve hours ago,” Capote says. He’s soused, but not nearly as plastered as Ryan. Probably because he thinks it’s “ungentlemanly” to appear drunk. “We’ve moved on from there.”

  “Hemingway?” Ryan asks.

  “Dostoyevsky,” Capote replies.

  “I can never keep those damn Russians straight, can you?” Ryan asks me.

  “Only when I’m sober,” I quip.

  “Are you sober? Oh no.” Ryan takes a step backward and nearly lands in Capote’s lap. He slaps his hand on the bar. “Can’t be sober in a blackout. Not allowed. Barkeep, get this lady a drink!” he demands.

  “Why are you here?” Capote asks.

  “I’m foraging for supplies.” I look at the two of them doubtfully.

  “We were too.” Ryan slaps his forehead. “And then something happened and we got trapped here. We tried to leave, but the cops kept accusing Capote of being a looter, so we were driven back to this lair.” He breaks up with laughter, and suddenly, I do too. Apparently, we’ve got a serious case of cabin fever because we fall all over each other, holding our stomachs and pointing at Capote and laughing even harder. Capote shakes his head, as if he can’t understand how he ended up with the two of us.

  “Seriously, though,” I hiccup. “I need supplies. My two girlfriends—”

  “You’re with women?” Ryan asks eagerly. “Well, let’s go.” He stumbles out of the bar with Capote and me running after him.

  I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but an hour later, Capote, Ryan, and I are bumbling up the stairs to Samantha’s apartment. Ryan is clutching the handrail while Capote encourages him forward. I look at the two of them and sigh. Samantha is going to kill me. Or not. Maybe nothing really matters after twenty-four hours without electricity.

  In any case, I’m not returning empty-handed. Besides Ryan and Capote, I have a bottle of vodka and two six-packs of beer, which Capote managed to cadge from the bartender. Then I found a church basement where they were handing out jugs of water and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Then Ryan decided to take a leak in an empty doorway. Then we got chased by a cop on a motorcycle, who yelled at us and told us to go home.

  This, too, was extremely funny, although I suspect it shouldn’t have been.

  Inside the apartment, we discover Samantha bent over the coffee table, writing out a list. Miranda is next to her, battling several expressions, from consternation to admiration to out-and-out horror. Finally, admiration wins. “That’s twenty-two,” she exclaims. “And who’s Ethan? I hate that name.”

  “He had orange hair. That’s basically all I can remember.”

  Oh dear. It seems they’ve resorted to the vodka bottle as well.

  “We’re home,” I call out.

  “We?” Samantha’s head snaps around.

  “I brought my friend Ryan. And his friend Capote.”

  “Well,” Samantha purrs, rising to her feet as she takes in my stray cats with approval. “Are you here to rescue us?”

  “More like we’re rescuing them,” I say belligerently.

  “Welcome.” Miranda waves from the couch.

  I look at her in despair, wondering what I’ve done. Maybe what they say about danger is true. It heightens the senses. And apparently makes everyone seem much more attractive than they are under normal circumstances. Probably has something to do with the survival of the species. But if that’s true, Mother Nature couldn’t have chosen a more unreliable bunch.

  I head into the kitchen with my sack of supplies and start unwrapping the sandwiches.

  “I’ll help you,” Capote says.

  “There’s nothing to do,” I say sharply, cutting the sandwiches in half to save the rest for later.

  “You shouldn’t be so rigid, you know?” Capote flips open a can of beer and pushes it toward me.

  “I’m not. But someone needs to keep a level head.”

  “You worry too much. You always act like you’re going to get into trouble.”

  I’m flabbergasted. “Me?”

  “You get this sour, disapproving look on your face.” He opens a can of beer for himself.

  “And what about the arrogant, disapproving look on yours?”

  “I’m not arrogant, Carrie.”

  “And I’m Marilyn Monroe.”

  “What do you have to worry about, anyway?” he asks. “Aren’t you going to Brown in the fall?”

  Brown. I’m paralyzed. Despite the blackout and our paltry supplies and the presence of Capote Duncan, it’s the last place I think I’ll ever want to be. The whole idea of college suddenly feels irrelevant. “Why?” I ask, defensively. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  He shrugs and takes a sip of beer. “Nah. I’d probably miss you.”

  He goes back to join the others while I stand there in shock, holding the plate of sandwiches in my hands.

  7:00 p.m.

  Strip poker.

  9:00 p.m.

  More strip poker.

  10:30 p.m.

  Wearing Samantha’s bra on my head.

  2:00 a.m.

  Have constructed tent from old blanket and chairs. Capote and I under tent.

  Discussing Emma Bovary.

  Discussing L’il and Viktor Greene.

  Discussing Capote’s views on women: “I want a woman who has the same goals as I do. Who wants to do something with her life.”

  I’m suddenly shy.

  Capote and I lie down under the tent. It’s nice but tense. What would it be like to do it with him, I wonder. I shouldn’t even think about it though, not with Miranda and Samantha and Ryan out there, still playing cards.

  I stare up at the blanket. “Why did you kiss me that night?” I whi
sper.

  He reaches out, finds my hand, and curls his fingers around mine. We stay like that, silently holding hands for what feels like an eternity.

  “I’m not a good boyfriend, Carrie,” he says finally.

  “I know.” I untangle my hand from his. “We should try to get some sleep.”

  I close my eyes, knowing sleep is impossible. Not when every nerve ending is jumping with electricity, like my electrons are determined to communicate with Capote’s across the barren space between us.

  Too bad we can’t use it to turn on the lights.

  Then I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, we’re being woken by a terrific jangling, which turns out to be the phone.

  I climb out of the tent as Samantha runs out of her bedroom with a sleeping mask on her head.

  “What the—” Ryan sits up and bangs his head on the coffee table.

  “Could someone please answer that phone,” Miranda shrieks.

  Samantha makes a frantic slicing motion across her neck.

  “If no one’s going to answer it, I will,” Ryan says, crawling toward the offending instrument.

  “No!” Samantha and I shout at once.

  I rip the receiver from Ryan’s hand. “Hello?” I ask cautiously, expecting Charlie.

  “Carrie?” asks a concerned male voice.

  It’s Bernard. The blackout’s over.

  Part Three

  Departures and Arrivals

  Chapter Thirty

  My birthday’s coming!

  It’s nearly here. I can’t stop reminding everyone. My birthday! In less than two weeks, I’ll be eighteen.

  I’m one of those people who loves her birthday. I don’t know why, but I do. I love the date: August 13. I was actually born on Friday the thirteenth, so even though it’s bad luck for everyone else, it’s good luck for me.

  And this year, it’s going to be huge. I’m turning eighteen, I’m going to lose my virginity, and I’m having my reading at Bobby’s that night. I keep reminding Miranda that it’s going to be a doubleheader: my first play and my first lay.

  “Play and lay—get it?” I say, tickled by the rhyme. Miranda is, understandably, quite sick of my little joke, and every time I say it, she puts her hands over her ears and claims she wishes she’d never met me.

  I’ve also become incredibly neurotic about my birth control pills. I keep looking into the little plastic container, checking to make sure I’ve taken the pill and haven’t accidentally lost any. When I went to the clinic, I considered getting a diaphragm, too, but after the doctor showed it to me, I decided it was too complicated. I kept thinking about cutting two holes in the top and making it into a hat for a cat. I wonder if anyone’s done that yet.

  Naturally, the clinic reminded me of L’il. I still feel guilty about what happened to her. I sometimes wonder if I feel bad because it didn’t happen to me, and I’m still in New York and have a play reading and a smart, successful boyfriend who hasn’t ruined my life—yet. If it weren’t for Viktor Greene, L’il would still be here, strolling the gritty streets in her Laura Ashley dresses and finding flowers in the asphalt. But then I wonder if it’s all Viktor’s fault. Perhaps L’il was right: New York simply isn’t for her. And if Viktor hadn’t driven her out, maybe something else would have.

  Which reminds me of what Capote said to me during the blackout. About not having to worry because I was going to Brown in the fall. That makes me nervous as well, because with each passing day, I want to go to Brown less and less. I’d miss all my friends here. Besides, I already know what I want to do with my life. Why can’t I just continue?

  Plus, if I go to Brown, I won’t, for instance, get free clothes.

  A couple of days ago a little voice in the back of my head told me to look up that designer, Jinx, at her shop on Eighth Street. The store was empty when I walked in, so I figured Jinx was in the back, polishing her brass knuckles. Sure enough, when she heard the sound of moving hangers, she emerged from behind a curtain, looked me up and down, and said, “Oh. You. From Bobby’s.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Bobby? I’m doing a play reading in his space.” I said it casually, like I was having play readings all the time.

  “Bobby is weird,” she said, twisting her mouth. “He is really one effed up mother-effer.”

  “Mmm,” I agreed. “He certainly does seem a little . . . randy.”

  This cracked her up. “Harharhar. That’s a good word for him. Randy. That’s exactly what he is. Randy with no candy.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what she was talking about, but I went along with it.

  In the light of day, Jinx looked less sinister and more, dare I say, normal. I could see she was one of those women who wore lots of makeup not because she was trying to frighten anyone, but because she had bad skin. And her hair was very dry, due to the black henna. And I imagined she didn’t come from a very nice home and maybe had a father who was a drunk and a mother who yelled all the time. I knew Jinx had talent though, and I suddenly appreciated the efforts it must have taken her to get here.

  “So you need something to wear. For Bobby’s,” she said.

  “Yes.” I hadn’t actually gotten around to thinking about what to wear to the reading, but once she said it, I realized it was all I should have been worrying about.

  “I’ve got just the thing.” She went into the back and came out holding a white vinyl jumpsuit with black piping along the sleeves. “I didn’t have enough money for fabric, so I had to make it really small. If it fits, it’s yours.”

  I wasn’t expecting such generosity. Especially when I ended up walking out with an armload of clothes. Apparently I’m one of the few people in New York who is actually willing to wear a white vinyl jumpsuit or a plastic dress or red rubber pants.

  It was like Cinderella and that damn slipper.

  And just in time, too. I’ve gotten awfully sick of my ratty blue silk robe and my hostess dress and my surgical scrubs. It’s like Samantha always says: If people keep seeing you in the same old outfits, they start to think you haven’t any prospects.

  Samantha, meanwhile, has gone back to chez Charlie. She says they’re bickering about china patterns and crystal decanters and the pluses and minuses of a raw bar at their reception. She can’t believe her life has been reduced to this, but I keep reminding her that come October, the wedding will be over and she won’t have to worry about her life ever again. This caused her to make one of her notorious deals with me: She would help with the guest list for the play reading if I agreed to go shopping with her for a wedding dress.

  That’s the problem with weddings. They’re contagious.

  In fact, they’re so contagious Donna LaDonna and her mother are coming to New York to participate in the ritual. When Samantha mentioned they were coming, I realized I’d become so caught up in my New York life, I’d actually forgotten that Donna is Samantha’s cousin.

  The idea of seeing Donna again made me a little uneasy, but not as jumpy as giving Bernard my play.

  Last night I screwed up my courage and finally presented Bernard with the manuscript. I literally delivered it to him on a silver platter. We were in his apartment and I found a silver platter that Margie had overlooked, and I tied a big red ribbon around it, and I served it to him while he was watching MTV. All the while, of course, thinking I should have been on that silver platter myself.

  Now I wish I hadn’t given it to him at all. The thought of Bernard reading my play and not liking it has made me frantic with worry. I’ve been pacing the apartment all morning, waiting for him to call, praying he will call before I have to meet Samantha and Donna LaDonna at Kleinfeld.

  I haven’t heard from Bernard, but I’ve had plenty of contact with Samantha. She keeps calling to remind me of the appointment. “It’s at noon sharp. If we’re not there on the dot of twelve, we lose the room.”

  “What are you? Cinderella? Will your taxi turn into a pumpkin as
well?”

  “Don’t be funny, Carrie. This is my wedding.”

  And now it’s almost time to meet Samantha, and Bernard still hasn’t called to tell me whether he likes my play or not.

  My whole life is hanging by one tulle thread.

  The phone rings. Must be Bernard. Samantha has to have run out of dimes by now.

  “Carrie?” Samantha practically shrieks into the phone. “Why are you still at home? You should be on your way to Kleinfeld.”

  “I’m just leaving.” I glare at the phone, jump into my new jumpsuit, and careen down the stairs.

  Kleinfeld is miles away, in Brooklyn. It takes about five subways to get there, and when I change trains, I give in to my trembling paranoia and call Bernard. He’s not home. He’s not at the theater. At the next station, I try him again. Where the hell is he? When I get off the train in Brooklyn, I rush right to a phone booth on the corner. The phone rings and rings. I hang up, destroyed. I’m sure Bernard is avoiding my calls on purpose. He must have read my play and hated it and he doesn’t want to tell me.

  I arrive at the temple of holy matrimony disheveled and disturbingly sweaty. Vinyl is not the thing to wear on a humid August day in New York, even if it is white.

  Kleinfeld is nothing to look at from the outside, being one of those enormous soot-stained buildings with windows like sad, streaky eyes, but inside, it’s another story. The decor is pink, plush, and hushed like the petals of a flower. Ageless saleswomen with put-on faces and soft demeanors glide through the waiting room. The Jones party has its own suite, complete with dressing room, raised platform, and 360-degree mirrors. It also contains a pitcher of water, a pot of tea, and a plate of cookies. And, thank heavens, a phone.

  Samantha isn’t there, though. Instead, I find a pretty, middle-aged woman sitting stiffly on a velvet settee, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, hair smoothed into a perfect helmet. This must be Charlie’s mother, Glenn.

  Seated next to her is another woman, who could be Glenn’s polar opposite. She’s in her midtwenties, dressed in a lumpy navy suit without a lick of makeup. She’s not inherently unattractive, but given her messy hair and an expression that indicates she’s used to making the best of things, I suspect she tries to deliberately make herself homely.