Short Fiction - Piglet out of Water, or Friday at The Chelsea Arts Club

 I was standing in a phone booth in the lobby of the Dukes Hotel in St. James’s Place, London.  I was a twenty-one-year old, shiny new, NYU liberal arts graduate and I was scared.  I had been scared for quite a while, at least since bumping my wheelie suitcase down the stairs to the E train at 57^th Street Station more than a week earlier.

           I'd never been in London alone before – except for college I’d never really gone anywhere by myself and even then I only went a few stops downtown on the B train - so when my mom mentioned to her poet friend Bonnie that she had finally convinced me to leave New York to study for an advanced degree at Trinity College, Oxford for a year, Bonnie thought it would help me to know someone, and she told my mom to tell me to look up her dearest friend, Leah, who had moved to London in the wake of a collapsed marriage.  All this arranged friendship intimidated me even more than knowing no one, so I avoided calling; rather I wandered throughout the city alone, growing acclimated to being on my own. It was now my final day in London, and my apprehension about coming here was roiling, like one of those constantly-on-the-boil teakettles in Dickensian cafes.  I know it sounds like I am overly timid – my older sisters call me Piglet after Winnie the Pooh’s pink and quaking friend and wonder, often and loudly, how anyone raised in New York City could possibly be so fainthearted – but I prefer to think of myself as cautious.

Regardless, since I was leaving London for Oxford early the next morning to begin the Michaelmas term, it was my last chance to contact Leah, so I entered the phone booth next to the night porter’s chair and, chewing my left thumbnail, inserted my BT calling card.

Leah sounded pleased to hear from me.  She said that Bonnie had told her to expect my call and when she offered to take me to dinner at her club, I accepted.  I was aware that both Bonnie and my mother believed that new experiences were crucial for personal growth, a philosophy I was not entirely sure I shared.  But, like Bonnie, Leah was a published writer - a poet and a playwright - and since I wanted to be a writer, maybe she would offer me advice.  If not,  . . . well, I wasn’t thinking that far in advance.  And I’d never been to a private London club and had no idea what to expect; it sounded more exotic than the University Club where my parents took us for holiday lunches and it was bound to be better than another boxed sandwich from the Mark & Spencer food hall.

Pushing apart the split-panel glass and mahogany door of the old-fashioned telephone booth I headed for the birdcage elevator to return to my room to shower and change.  One sure thing was that dinner with Leah would force me to stop dwelling upon my own fear of change for a few hours.  And maybe Leah’s club was a famous one like the Groucho - supposedly Mick Jagger belonged there - or the renowned Chelsea Arts Club, which was reputed to be Eric Clapton’s club, and if I saw him there my sister-in-law Kelly would be really jealous.

Two pm found me standing in front of my hotel, shifting my weight in the late September sunshine.  Unsure what to wear, I had opted for a short-sleeved blue cotton dress and matching espadrilles. I didn’t think I’d need a sweater because I had read in the Times that this had been the hottest summer since WW II, and in the short time I’d been there, I had learned that London wasn’t air-conditioned. A tall, slim woman with curly brown hair and baggy linen pants approached me tentatively.

“Lucy?  Hi, I’m Leah, Bonnie’s friend.  How are you?”  She had a slight English accent, like she had adopted, rather than given birth to it.  She stretched out her hands to grasp mine and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Oh, hi.  I’m fine,” I waved a hand in front of my face nervously.  “A little hot.  I always thought it rained all the time in England and that would make it cool.”

“It does usually, but we’ve been having a record summer. And rain doesn’t always make it cool here, just wet. Wait’ll autumn strikes Oxford.  I hope you packed a mac because you are really going to need it.” She cocked her head and studied me. “You know, Bonnie never told me how cute you are.”

I didn’t know how to answer that so I didn't and we stared at each other for a moment.  Then, “Bonnie says you’re a writer.”

“Um, yeah, well . . . um, I’m trying to be. . . I’m not a real writer like Bonnie or you. . . I have published a few things.  I won a haiku contest. . . I, uh . . . I’m just starting.  I think they call it ‘emerging’ but I hate that term; it makes me sound like a caterpillar breaking out of a cocoon about to be a . . . a moth or . . .or something . . . ” my voice trailed off.  Blushing, I turned to admire the lush floral baskets clustered within wrought iron trim of the hotel.

I felt a tug at my arm.  “Come on, caterpillar.  Let’s go for a walk and you can see London.”  Leah turned her face toward the sun.  “It’s such a beautiful day I want to enjoy it.  I must pop into Boots, and then we can go to my flat in Morpeth Terrace for a bit. It’s in Westminster so it’s not far, right near Victoria Station; do you know where that is?  It’s the closest stop to Buckingham Palace, in case you ever want to go there. Oh, it’s such lovely day to walk; we rarely get weather like this.”  She almost skipped.  She must really like the sunshine.  “I want you to see where I live so you can tell Bonnie.  Do you know she has never visited me?  It’s a lower ground floor flat – what we’d call the basement in America - so you can only see people's feet and there’s a long wall with a gate that goes across the building's entire ground floor, but it looks across to Westminster Cathedral.  Do you know it?  It’s the one John Betjeman wrote about.”

I would have said I had heard of the historic cathedral, but I couldn’t slip a word in.

”Then after our visit we’ll go to the Club for an early dinner.” She began striding toward St. James’s Street, leaving me bobbing in her wake.  “On the way, we’ll call for my friend Graham at his flat.  He lives near me in a lovely neighborhood, right between the Station and the Cathedral. He leases a room in a massive and very elegant mansion flat in Carlisle Mansions.  Wait until you see it. It’s astounding - an entire floor!  The London Arts Council used to meet there.  Jessica . . . she owns the leasehold . . . has a dining table with 60 chairs; can you believe it?  And an amazing antique chandelier is suspended above it; it has these very grand angels hanging from it.  We’ll meet him then go for a meal.  Is there a Boots in Piccadilly, do you know?  I need to pop in for a few things.”

There was a Boots the Chemist in Piccadilly; I had noticed it on my way to the Green Park tube stop and had picked up a few useful items there myself over the past few days, however it was in the opposite direction of where Leah was pointed and she was chattering so quickly that it was hard to find an opening. “Yes, yes, there is a Boots, but it’s opposite the Ritz.  Isn’t that the other way?”  I gestured over my shoulder feebly.  Leah stared wide-eyed. “You have learned some things about London since you’ve been here, haven’t you, caterpillar?”

“Well, I learned where to buy toothpaste.”

Leah threw her head back and laughted. I blushed again. We set off toward the Ritz Hotel.

Over the next fifteen or so minutes, I trailed Leah through Boots as she collected her toiletries in a metal basket, then I sat and waited with her while the pharmacist filled a prescription for her second husband. 

“How do you like London?” she asked once we were back outside, waiting to cross Piccadilly to cut through Green Park.

“Well . . . I like it more than I thought I would.”  I replied.

“More than you thought you would? Did you expect to not like it?”

I twisted a lock of hair around my right index finger.  “Oh, I don’t know.  I mean, I grew up in New York - my family has been there for generations - so New York is my template. Especially our neighborhood.  My grandparents - my mom’s parents - live really close to us and my dad’s parents live a couple of blocks away.” 

Leah nodded. “So, like the slogan, you love New York.”

“Yeah, I guess.  My only criticism of Manhattan is that it is constantly destroying its past by knocking down beautiful old buildings and putting up steel and glass monstrosities.  It’s never the same from year to year. I hate that.”

Leah smiled. “You’re right about New York.  I think it purges itself every ten years of its people and its way of life and just starts over like a snake sloughing off its skin.”

“But London has . . . continuity; gorgeous old buildings are everywhere, and more survived the Blitz than I had thought. I love that . . . that constancy.”

“Developers knock down buildings here, too, you know.”

“Oh, I know, but there are so many great buildings and they transcend eras. The old Roman wall is still there in the City; I saw it when I visited the Tower, which is also still there.  And the V & A has one façade that shows bomb damage from WW II; no one has plastered over it.  And there is that Congregational church in Stepney that was bombed during the War that has only one wall remaining but that wall is still up.”

Leah stared. “You went all the way to Stepney?” she asked.

“Lord, no. I don’t even know where Stepney is, except in it’s in a Rolling Stones song.  My dad is a WW II historian and he talks a lot about the Blitz.”

We’d reached Leah’s building so conversation ceased as she began fussing with keys for gate locks, door locks, and mailbox locks.  Westminster was like New York in that respect, at least. As we entered, I gazed around at the building’s façade and hallways and mentally compared it to my family’s apartment building on the Upper West Side.  Morpeth Mansions was a big building but the halls seemed narrower and the windows, although larger, were fewer. When we entered Leah’s apartment, I realized that it was much smaller than my family’s on 86^th Street.  Despite the front-facing windows it was dimmer, and even though she had less furniture, the space felt crowded.  The kitchen withits mismatched cabinets wasn’t separate, either; it took up more than half of the main room.  A small washing machine was located under the kitchen counter where I had expected a dishwasher to be, although I didn’t see a matching dryer.

I pulled out one of the two chairs tucked under the small, wooden dining table and sat and stared at the passing parade of shoes out the window, only half listening to Leah chatter as she pulled her damp sheets from the teeny washer while waiting for the electric kettle to boil for tea. I couldn’t imagine having such a small and inconveniently placed machine; it would take forever to complete a family’s weekly wash. I thought of the well-lighted and airy laundry room in our building at home containing nine regular-sized washers, three double-sized washers, and twelve enormous dryers. 

Just after Leah had placed a glass pint bottle of milk on the table, she pulled open a narrow door to what I presumed was a pantry.  Inside was a series of pipes.  She began laying her laundry over them. 

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s an airing cupboard,” Leah replied as she slipped the sheets over the metal rails.

 “What do you mean by ‘airing’?”

Leah stood on tiptoes and continued stretching and smoothing.  “This flat is too small for a tumble dryer so we lay the washing across these rails to dry.  They are heated by sourcing directly to the water heater. Over there, see?”  She pointed to a large, wall-mounted, metal cylinder. “Lots of older flats have them. It’s very energy-efficient.”

And peculiar, I thought, remembering how when I was little my mother would pull her sheets from the giant dryer, toss them in her wheeled basket, plop me on top, and push everything upstairs.  I mentally crossed my fingers that Trinity was in the current century laundry-wise. 

I chewed my thumbnail again.  “Uh, Leah?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you find it weird when you first came here?”

Leah looked over her shoulder from the airing cupboard.  “Weird how?”

I considered.  “Well, weird in that it’s different from New York.”

“It’s not that different; they speak English.”

“No, that’s not it.  I mean . . . like moving from your old apartment to here.”

Leah laughed.  “After Harry and I divorced, I moved into an unrestored five-storey walkup in the Village. There was no shower, no laundry facilities, and precious little heat, plus the only view was of an airshaft. Comparatively, this is a palace.”

“But weren’t you born in New York?  Hadn’t you first been published in New York?  Wasn’t your . . . life . . . in New York?”

“Yes to all three but there are publishers here.  New York isn’t the center of the artistic world, Lucy; it just thinks it is. And my parents are dead and I have no siblings, so after my divorce I had no real reason to stay.  And besides,” Leah closed the airing cupboard door and turned her attention to the kettle.  “There is a vibrant artistic community here, a real value of the written and spoken word that I never felt in New York, even when I did readings or met with my publisher.  It’s why I joined the Club.  Everyone just gets together and sustains one another in their latest endeavors.” She poured tea into porcelain mugs then placed the traditional English Brown Betty teapot on the table.

“You mean like a writers’ support group,” I ventured spooning sugar into my mug.

“Yes, and no.  A support group says ‘yeah, yeah, that’s great, it reminds me of . . . ‘ blah blah blah.  I mean a place where all artists, not just writers, express and stretch and celebrate just being artists together.  Not valuing who just got accepted by Granta more than who is still scribbling away in a Shakespearean garret, but appreciating all. Just a great love for art itself.”

I thought about those concepts - camaraderie and acceptance.  My experience had been that writing was hard, solitary work and fraught with rejection of one kind or another, from professors, from classmates, from editors. Leah’s artistic London sounded as unreal as Oz.

Leah’s telephone rang, breaking the silence with that sharp European brrrring-brrrrring sound.

“Three one double six four.  Graham, darling!  Hello!  How funny that you are ringing now . . . we are actually about to head out.  Are you ready?  We’ll be . . . What?  Now? Ohhhh, I am so disappointed!  You won’t get to meet Lucy, then, because she’s leaving in the morning . . . No, no apology!  I understand.  No, no, you absolutely need to do this.  You have worked too hard for too long.  Well, ring me tomorrow then, darling, and we’ll catch up.”  Leah replaced the receiver.  “Graham can’t join us, after all.  He has had a play in workshop for the longest time and the artistic director of the Donmar Warehouse wants to discuss the possibility of staging it. He is thrilled because although he has been writing for years, he has never had a production.  This is a brilliant opportunity for him.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”  I didn’t know much about the Donmar except it was a respected professional theatre created out of old warehouse space in Covent Garden, the former fruit and vegetable market on the fringes of the West End.  I felt a pang of envy; imagine having a play you wrote be performed. 

“Well, caterpillar, I think it’s just you and me for dinner then. Let me tidy up a bit and we’ll be off. ”

Once Leah had brushed her hair and written a note telling her husband the approximate time she would return, she was ready to leave and we began the walk to her club.  She chatted the entire time but, immersed in my own thoughts, I barely heard her.  I was considering what she’d implied about New York’s being artistically inhospitable.  I could see how it might be true, although I still thought it was mostly representative of a writer’s friendless existence, not necessarily something exclusive to New York; that said, there must be some kind of artistic community in London if a friend of hers could workshop a play into the Donmar.  He didn’t workshop alone; there had to be other playwrights and actors to workshop with.

After about twenty minutes we reached Chelsea and I guessed our destination - One Hundred Forty-three Old Church Street, the Chelsea Arts Club. You could see it from two blocks away; it was a Victorian terrace with each section painted alternately prune-whip purple, Mediterranean coral, and Creamsicle orange, with unfinished-looking blotches of lemon yellow and cobalt blue.  On top of the colors were representations of all kinds of people, including a fat lady in a polka-dot bikini; a tall, thin toff wearing tails and a top hat; a tennis player with four legs; and an approximation of King Kong, a hairy brown ape balancing a recumbent woman on his right front paw like a cocktail tray.

“Here we are,” Leah said brightly a minute later.  “It’s not always painted like this.  We change it pretty often to suit the mood of the city.”  She extended a hand and fondly patted an outer wall, firm and solid, its regularity broken only by the somewhat uneven placement of large-paned windows covered with old-fashioned lace curtains somewhat at odds with the design of the mural.  My gaze drifted upward to the slate roof dotted with chimney pots. I wondered what mood the city had been in when they painted this. 

It was a pretty audacious structure, miles away from the Italianate, palazzo-like University Club, although, architecturally-speaking - without the mural - the building itself was typical Victorian working class construction, stucco over brick and wavy glass panes in wooden frames.  It boasted no elaborately carved lintels or outré bas-relief patterns – but it didn’t need to; the paint job said it all, telling the world that this club, the urban home of London’s most talented and Bohemian artists, had stood fast since the reign of England’s longest-serving monarch and didn’t care what anyone thought. 

We reached the door and Leah grasped the brass knob.  Inside, the light was dim and, despite the early hour, the bar was packed with people, their voices reverberating off walls covered with colorful Modern paintings so closely hung that I couldn’t discern the wallpaper pattern beneath. Strings of twinkling fairy lights entwined the upper reaches of gleaming bottles, casting dainty shadows on the bartenders’ faces.  There was no fire but people clustered around the stone fireplace, anyway, sprawled on well-stuffed furniture, talking, laughing, and clinking glasses. French doors were open to catch a hoped-for evening breeze and I could see lots of people gathered under market umbrellas, lazing in wicker chairs, or stretched on steamer lounges on the stone patio, talking animatedly.  Further away, on the exhausted-looking patch of lawn, striped canvas sling chairs were scattered.  There were no clubby leather armchairs here, no Persian rugs, and certainly no ambiently lit paintings of bewhiskered founders hanging above the bar.  Its very eccentricity delighted me.

Leah grabbed my arm and steered me from group to group to spread the news about Graham’s good fortune.  She seemed to know everyone in the room and all of them, from a BAFTA-winning playwright to an unemployed fabric painter, raised a glass in Graham’s honor and insisted that Leah convey their congratulations to him.  Eventually she got around to introducing me as an emerging writer and the response was pretty much the same, albeit more muted.  People asked about my writing: some offered suggestions for classes I might take or publishers I might approach while others merely smiled and wished me good luck.  A fat, balding man with glittering eyes and weaselly teeth professed especial interest in my professional progress.  Sidling next to me, he slid his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me under his sweaty armpit; he whispered drunkenly that I should feel free to call on him any time for anything.  He would make a valuable ally, he confided, as he had twice been long-listed for the Booker Prize. He reminded me of the Monk from The Canterbury Tales.  Nodding, I rotated my shoulder muscles and popped from his grasp. Leah caught my right wrist and we pushed into the crowd toward another cluster of friends.  Everyone we spoke to was warm and approachable and nearly everyone got in a round.

After about two hours, I pulled myself away from the cacophony and flomped unsteadily on an old brocade sofa alone.  I gazed happily around me at the affable chaos of the room, tipsy from too many Buck’s Fizzes and no food.  Maybe Leah had been right about New York’s not being the center of the creative universe; she had certainly been right about the coziness and vitality of this place, created by artists for artists. 

Slouching there, I wondered how I could join.  After all, Leah had said that there was no distinction drawn between those who published in Granta and those who scribbled away in attics.  I had no idea what the requirements were for membership and suddenly I needed to know.  It probably cost a lot; certainly my dad said that the University Club did. But, it was worth it; I could take the train down from Oxford on weekends.  Coming here would further my education; the rooms were full of painters, sculptors, poets, lyricists.  Hoisting myself up and out of the enormous cushions somewhat queasily, I looked around for Leah but didn’t see her.  I remembered vaguely that we had passed a Club Secretary’s office on the way in so I pushed through the crowd to the tiny room immediately to the left of the front door.  It was empty. Damn.  I felt a little dizzy and leaned against the cool plaster wall.

Hearing Leah’s laugh from somewhere near the French windows I turned my head back toward the bar to see whether I could find her in the scrum. The room really was stuffed with people and she was easier heard than seen, so I pointed myself in her general direction and began creeping, crablike, through the Friday night revelers. Eventually I made my way to where Leah stood surrounded by friends, her chestnut curls dancing in the approaching evening breeze.  I leaned toward her.  “Leah!”  She couldn’t hear me over the group’s laughing at the BAFTA winner’s joke. 

“Leah!”  I jiggled her arm.

She turned her head and bent toward me.  “What is it, caterpillar?”

“You were right.  It’s amazing here.  How can I join?”

“Through committee acceptance of your body of work.”

I blinked.  “That’s not what you said!” 

“I can hardly hear you; let’s go out into the garden.”  She handed her glass to the BAFTA winner’s staring girlfriend with a muttered excuse and led me into the evening air.  It was a little cooler now and the last vestiges of sunlight shone through the leafy trees.  We found two empty sling chairs, scruffy and nearly threadbare, and sat.

“What’s the matter, Lucy?” Leah asked.

“What do you mean by ‘committee acceptance of body of work?’ “ I asked. 

She shrugged.  “After you apply for membership you need to be vetted by the professionals in your field who sit on the Board.  For a writer, it means gaining their favorable impressions on what you have published in your career, so favorable that they think you will make a good addition to the Club.”

“But what if you haven’t published much?”

“You can’t become a member.”

“Not at all?”

“No, not at all.”

“What about expressing and stretching and celebrating?  What about not caring who gets accepted by Granta and who . . . writes on tube station walls?”

Leah cocked her head. “Perhaps I was a little cavalier.  What I meant was that England is a very class-conscious country and there is no status line drawn at the Club due to one’s background.  Everyone is welcome.  The only thing that matters is talent.”

“Published talent.”

Leah raised one eyebrow and answered she in a slightly defensive tone.  “All right, yes; published talent.  To be nominated for membership you must be a professional in your artistic field, and for a writer that means publication in reputable places.” 

Minutes passed.

“So, I can’t come here,” I said finally.

“Well . . . no, not yet; at least, not as a member.  But you can come with me, Lucy.  And once you have published enough, I‘ll be happy to nominate you. Graham will second you.  I’m sure you’ll be accepted.”  She hesitated.  “Although there is a three-year waiting list.” 

A three-year wait after I have been determined acceptable? I sighed and gazed into the weedy garden. 

After another few minutes, Leah reached across the patch of tired grass and patted my knee, then rose and walked slowly toward the French doors.

I remained in that sling chair for a long time.  Well, that was that, at least for today, but like my mother always said, tomorrow is another day, Scarlett, and early tomorrow morning I would board the train for Trinity. 

I stared at the dirt, wondering what time it was and whether I should try to find Leah so we could eat. Lacking a tissue, I wiped my nose across the back of my hand. Feeling a mosquito tickle the back of my neck. I reached over my head and slapped it, surprised to find that it was sturdy and hairy.  My head shot up. The lecherous two-time Booker long-lister’s hand was resting on the back of my head.

“Oh! Sorry. I thought it was a mosquito.”

Undiscouraged, he continued to caress me. I jerked my neck hoping to dislodge him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just keeping you company.  You were sitting her all alone like an abandoned pussycat.” He began to entwine his fingers in my hair. “Is there anything I can do for you, pussycat?” he cooed.

             I stumbled up and of the chair, knocking his hand and causing him to sway backward, spilling some single malt on his pale blue cotton shirt.  Lucky the glass was so full.  “No, not a thing. I’m fine. Really” 

            “Not even help you join the Club?  I could have sworn I heard you and Leah discussing it.” His eyes glittered.

            “Well . . . sure I would like to, but I realize that it isn’t an option for me right now. After all, I am leaving for Oxford tomorrow morning and . . . ” I could hear myself beginning to babble as I backed away.

            “We could get you an Overseas Associate membership.”

            “What’s that?” I asked suspiciously.

            “It’s a lesser membership for artists living abroad.”

            “Why didn’t Leah mention it?”

            He shrugged and took a step behind me.  “Perhaps she was merely forgetful.  She has been quite . . . merry tonight.”

            Taking my skepticism for an invitation, he continued working his way around me and said, “It’s true that there are comparatively few memberships of that type but I have been a member here for over a quarter of a century and if anyone could be said to have influence over the selection of candidates eligible for such things, I must be among the first to spring to mind.”

            I didn’t know what to say.  I really wanted this opportunity but if it were truly a viable option, wouldn’t Leah have mentioned it, regardless of her level of . . . merriment?

            With my peripheral vision I could see him lean down and gently place his glass on a tile mosaic table. Bending close to my neck he whispered in my ear, “Let’s get out of here.  We can stop at the Membership Office for an application on our way back to my flat.”

            “Your flat?  Why do we need to go there?  We can complete the paperwork here, right now, can’t we?”

            He chuckled drunkenly.  “There is a certain level of quid pro quo in most negotiations, my dear.” His eyes wandered downward toward my breasts.

            I understood.  No wonder my sisters thought I was naïve; they would have seen this coming long ago.  Taking a step backward, I dipped and lifted his glass from the little table, 

            “Thanks, anyway.  I think I will just wait for Leah to propose me for membership.” 

            His eyes glittered lasciviously in the dim light as he shrugged slightly.  “Your choice, my dear, and your loss.”

            “Yes, my choice and my loss.”  With a sharp upward thrust I tossed the dregs of the Scotch in his face.

After a quick glance over my shoulder to assure myself that he wasn’t following, I threaded my way through the milling throng toward the bar.  I really needed a glass of ice water - my mouth tasted like a small animal had crawled in it and died – and I desperately wanted something to eat to absorb all the alcohol threatening to impair my judgment even further than it had already.

Leah was nowhere to be seen, but directly in front of me Eric Clapton stood, glass in hand, lounging against the bar’s scarred teak surface, surveying the room. 

I wondered fleetingly what time it was, but that early morning train to Oxford had already chugged away in my mind. I continued walking toward the bar even though it no longer mattered whether my sister-in-law ever knew.

April's Not the Cruelest Month

                     It’s the time of year again when I am reminded anew that Shakespeare was right when he wrote that the evil men do lives after them.  Evil’s residue has certainly lived long for me; in June 2015, it will be eighteen years since I began the process of surviving the murder of my friend Jonathan Levin. Although at the time, I recognized the horror of this day, I didn’t realize the ancillary ramifications of it.  The gunshot killed Jon but also much more.  The first casualty was privacy; the second was the truth; the third was justice.

My friend became public property, like the celebrity he was not.  People who had never met him, never worked on a project with him, never had dinner or walked through the city at night with him, were soon telephoning The New York Times or People magazine to say that he was a sinner or a saint, but, somehow, never the ordinary human combination of both.  The June 6, 1997 edition of The Washington Post iterated the “life of privilege” that he left behind to slog through the socioeconomic mire that was William Howard Taft High School in the Bronx.  Had the story’s author, Laurie Goodstein, ever met Jon or had she just run a quick Dun & Bradstreet on his dad and allowed her imagination to percolate?  If Jon lived a life of privilege, I missed it completely. 

I remember the first time I saw Jon, dressed in jeans and a corduroy blazer, sitting in Gordon Pradl’s class at New York University; I thought briefly that he sort of resembled that guy who ran Time Warner - I’d seen that man’s photograph in a Vanity Fair article about a media moguls’ annual retreat to Sun Valley, Idaho - but I didn’t consider it deeply or for very long.    Then, months later, when another classmate told me that the man in the magazine photo was indeed Jon’s father, I wrote in my journal how surprised I was because, physical similarities aside, Jon had always been “sweet . . . and not . . . egotistical” - qualities I have rarely heard applied to media titans.  Also, the trappings of Jon’s life didn’t speak of wealth: he didn’t overdress or flash expensive belongings, and I knew he lived a few subway stops downtown from my former Upper West Side apartment, hardly a Sutton Place triplex.

When a group of us travelled to study abroad at Trinity College, Oxford University, we flew coach.  During our time there, we rarely ate out and attended the famous West End theatre only occasonally.  Those times when we did plan an excursion to London by bus or train, we haunted travel agents for weekend break rates at tourist hotels where we could share rooms.  Mostly, after classes, we wandered downstairs for a cheap pint at the college pub, then drifted back to our residence hall rooms to research and write.  Once a week - on karaoke night at the Bulldog Pub on Cornmarket Street (which a publication of Oxford pub crawls describes as a haven for a “mad and chavvy clientele”) - we sang and danced wildly.  Having been raised by his mother, not his father, Jon seemed to me to treat money with a level of respect rarely displayed by Upper East Side rich kids. 

While the trust-fund-baby gone a-slumming tales that appeared in the press were lies, they made interesting copy, although not nearly as fascinating as the self-serving statements put forth by the accused and the lawyers energetically defending them.  One such remark, attributed to Corey Arthur (at that point only the accused - not the convicted - murderer he would later become), as he relayed to the NYPD the aftermath of his blood-soaked encounter with Jon. “This was a traumatic experience and I went shopping for some new clothes."  I wasn't the only one dazzled by his comment; the editors of The Chicago Tribune chose it for the July 8, 1997 edition's Quote of the Day.  There was also the hypothesis floated before - then repeated at - trial by defense lawyer Anthony Ricco; namely, that Jon purchased crack from and smoked crack with his client.  Proof?  Oh, no he possessed no proof.

In July I attended some pretrial meetings at the Manhattan District Attorney’s office with Jon’s mother, Carol.  At one point, after Carol had gone to the ladies room, I naively asked the ADA whether she believed that they would secure a conviction because I would hate for my friend to have died for nothing.  “I have news for you,” she replied curtly, gathering her papers, “your friend died for nothing, anyway.” 

Her observation shocked me at the time, although later I realized that it was true.  I couldn’t have believed her on that sweaty July afternoon, though, because then I wouldn’t have been able to attend the trial that fall.

I remember entering Manhattan Criminal Court uncomfortably, scanning the public gallery for empty seats, then pulling a little notebook from my handbag to scribble quick impressions so I could remember later what my senses were too overloaded to process.

We watched jury selection – twelve regulars and eight alternates (I wrote in my journal “are they expecting a high drop-out rate?”) and wondered what might really be learned about people from voir dire.  I remember hearing the judge advise the jury to “use the same methods you use in your everyday life to determine if someone is telling the truth” and wondering what exactly those methods might be.  The character analysis skills learned in English class didn't seem to work in this room, especially since some in the jury pool (“Juror number 6 is trying to get off; says he’ll only be paid at work for 2 weeks so he can’t stay for 6”) didn’t care to determine anything at all. 

Among the worst moments of the trial were hearing from the Medical Examiner (“one puncture in the back of the neck – three shallow cuts across the throat – one right side stab wound which hit the liver – one gunshot wound directly into the brain”) and seeing the autopsy photos passed around (according to my journal, “one of the jurors has her head between her knees . . . Carol’s face is red, now white. I think she’s about to pass out . . . Jamie’s left the room . . . ME doesn’t recognize the photo of Jon because by the time he saw him the body was so badly decomposed.”)

After this, the misery of jurisprudence, the moment I had previously thought was the nadir of it all - the second I learned of Jon’s murder - faded nearly to nothingness when a jury of my peers found Corey Arthur - the assailant who was arrested wearing clothes smeared with Jon’s blood - guilty of only second degree murder which earned him a sentence of twenty-five years to life.  That day paled, too, later, when Corey’s accomplice, Montoun Hart, was acquitted.

Then it was over.  Except it wasn’t over.  It isn’t over.  Every May 6 is Jon’s birthday and every May 30 is the anniversary of his murder.  Every June 2 is a recreation of the day his decomposed body was found.  Evil’s residue continues to blow over everyone involved like ash from an incinerator.  There is no escaping it.

Roses in the Snow

     It was my twentieth wedding anniversary a few weeks ago and my husband, Jamie, and I 

went out to dinner.  I went with two of his sisters to a restaurant in Manhattan and he joined 

his cousin and her husband at their house in Santa Monica.  He flies home every Friday 

night and, like a 36 hour clock precisely wound, returns to Los Angeles on Sunday evening.

Sometimes I wonder if the ceramic bride and groom on our wedding cake were accidentally 

placed facing opposite directions. While living in the same place at the same time has 

sometimes proved difficult, our marriage only became a cross-country relay event five years 

ago when he became the President and CEO of a production facility in Hollywood.

While living simultaneous lives on opposite coasts can be Hell, it also comes with 

unexpected moments of incomparable sweetness that I don’t think would be there if we were 

together all the time.  Sometimes these moments are simultaneous. Sometimes they involve 

snow.

     I really only like snow from a distance, like when Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney are 

singing as they walk through it, arm in arm.  When I am faced with the reality of it, I hate it; therefore it was on my mind from the moment Jamie accepted the job on the West Coast.

     “What’ll I do when it snows?”  I had asked in October as he packed linen shirts for 

sunny LA.

     “We have that huge new snow blower. “

      “I don’t know how to use it.”

      “I’ll write it out.  You’ll be fine.”

One day last February, snow was forecast, a lot of snow, the kind of snowfall that made my students noses quiver with delight, as though, like rabbits they could feel it coming.  They were right because at five a. m. announced its arrival by a ringing phone. 

“Laura, it’s Pam from the snow chain.  We have a snow day today.”

I awakened a couple of hours later to a world smothered in snow. Enough snow for a day off is good, but what was piled outside my bedroom window was overkill.  And it was still coming, tiny, crispy, little crystalline flakes floating happily to the ground covering trees, bushes, and trellises.   It looked like some giant incarnation of Martha Stewart had gotten carried away with a sugar shaker.

Since staring at it dolefully wasn't making it disappear, I decided to blow it.  I didn’t want to spend the entire day and night marooned.  How hard could it be?  All manner of confidence-boosting mantras burbled in my brain as I dressed in multiple layers of sweatpants.  Then I dialed Jamie at our house in Santa Monica, the house near the beach where it doesn’t snow. I woke him. 

“It’s snowing.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to snow blow so I don’t have to stay here all day.”

“Oh.”

“Is it hard?”

“No, it’s pretty easy.  It’s self-propelled, after all.” 

Outside, actually standing next to it, the snow blower looked a lot bigger than it had when that nice man had delivered it from the local power equipment dealer.  I pulled off the note Jamie had taped to it.  “Plug it in.  Push the orange lever forward.  Press the black button.  It’s electric start so you’ll be fine.” 

Like the diligent student I’ve always been, I followed the directions to the letter.  Vrooooom!  It roared to life.  I had planned to aim the Zamboni-sized monstrosity up the hill toward the road, but I couldn’t move it.  It weighed two tons. Thinking the self-propulsion would help, I squeezed the handle and gave it gas.  Pow!  It jumped and dragged me into the garage wall.  This was harder than I thought.  Inch by inch I turned the snow blower until it pointed mostly uphill toward the road, definitely away from the garage.  Squeezing the gas handle again and holding on tight simultaneously proved to be the key.  It chugged up the hill projectile-vomiting all the snow in its path.  It was huge, though, and heavy and despite the self-propulsion or maybe because of it, I ended up with a really crooked furrow.  Regardless of what propelled it, it still had to be pushed low to the ground and guided.  It looked like a nearsighted groundhog with faulty GPS had tried to burrow uphill in the dark.  My confidence ebbed.    One badly plowed trough in the snow wasn’t going to solve the driveway problem.  At the top of the hill, I let off the gas and, again, inched it into the correct position.  By now I was sweating profusely in my down jacket so I ripped it off and tossed it over the stone pillar that frames my driveway and continued in my sweats.  Downhill was easier (the self-propulsion, again) but since it was downhill and I am just over 100 pounds, I lost control of the machine and it thumped along with me clinging to it.  Nearing the end of the hill, and trying to hold onto it, I forgot to stop squeezing the gas lever and crashed into the garage wall again.

My spirit of adventure left as I landed on my butt in the cold, rapidly deepening snow.  My ego was completely deflated.  Obviously, I couldn’t do this.  There was too much snow, it was snowing too hard still, and I was just not big or strong enough to handle the machine.  I began to feel sorry for myself.  My rotten husband went to Los Angeles and left me here in the Arctic.  My nose started to dribble and fat, hot tears welled in my eyes.  Too stubborn to surrender, I tugged on the giant machine until it faced uphill again.  I began a new channel next to the previous one.  Suddenly it got harder to push the machine and it looked like less snow was being churned up and spewed out.  I released the gas and shoved the lever into Park.  Crouching in front of the behemoth I saw that one of the churning blades, the far left one, was spinning lazily.  I touched it.  It twirled like a Texas cheerleader’s baton.  Something had broken it.  Pushing away the caked snow I saw that a twig stuck out at a weird angle, like a dislocated arm.  I realized exactly what was wrong because it had happened before.  The rigid twig had jammed the blades causing the shear bolt to snap.

Fury crashed over me like a tidal wave.  I stumbled through the slippery mess into the garage and grabbed the extension phone.  Wiping my nose with my left sweatshirt sleeve, I dialed LA with my right hand.  Jamie answered sleepily.

“It’s broken!” I sobbed.

“What?”

“It’s broken.  The damn snow blower is broken.  The snow is so heavy it snapped a little branch from the maple tree near the well house and it’s still snowing so it got buried by the snow and I didn’t see it so I ran over it and it wedged in the blade and broke the shear bolt again and now the stupid thing’s broken and I’m stuck here in 10 inches of snow all by myself and it’s 75 degrees where you are and you left me here all alone and I want a divorce.”

Silence.  Then “I’ll call you back.”

Heaving with sobs at life’s unfairness and the relentless snow and my husband’s selfishness and, truth be told, my own incompetence, I stomped into the house, kicked off my boots and threw myself onto the kitchen window seat to cry.  After about twenty minutes I felt a bit better and decided to make a cup of tea.  I unfolded my legs to rise from the seat, and a red SUV appeared at the top of my driveway.  “Oh, great.  He’s broken down right there so even if I could get someone to plow he’d be blocking the driveway,” I mumbled.   Just as I was about to pull on my boots to go back outside I realized whose car it was.  It was Jamie’s friend Kurt.  He strode down the driveway.  The snow seemed to part in front of his 6’4’ frame. 

I opened the back door.

                  “Hey, Jamie called me from California and said you needed help with the snow blower so I brought an extra bolt from my house.  Those darn things break so easily, don’t they?”

                  Kurt fixed the snow blower and cleaned the entire driveway.  Then he had a cup of hot tea with me in the warm kitchen and drove to his own house.  I had a clean driveway and didn’t have to stay home all day if I didn’t want to.  I didn’t go anywhere, though, once the driveway was plowed.  I snuggled on the couch with the dog and watched Turner Classic Movies.  And it’s a good thing because if I had, I might not have been there to open the door when the truck arrived from The Little Flower Shoppe in Ridgewood bringing a dozen snow colored roses.  The card read “Happy Snow Day.  Your worthless husband.”

[This story appeared in a slightly different form on Narrative.com]