Living Together
By Harry Buschman
Stephen thought he found the perfect apartment. “Lincoln House” was two blocks from his office in Lincoln Square and regardless of the weather or the day of the week, he could sleep late, if Barbara let him, that is.
Best of all they would be living together. ‘Living together!’ It sounded great to an out-of-towner like Stephen. He was sick and tired of rolling out of Barbara’s apartment at three in the morning, saying goodnight to her doorman and finding his way home. Living together was what New York was all about, all the advantages of married life without the commitments and chains of matrimony. Wedded bliss might be okay for some folks, but not for Steve and Barbara. Not right now. Bliss was all they needed. Bliss was all they wanted.
It was a little pricey, but looking ahead and counting on a raise or two -- and a little financial help from Barbara he was sure he could swing it. Murray Hill was nice enough in the beginning but the cross-town commute was murder. Manhattan is a north south town, and if you have to get from east to west it’s bad news.
The apartment overlooked the north plaza of
Lincoln Center and by stretching
his neck a little at the living room window he could see a corner of Central
Park. Living room, bedroom, kitchen and bath -- almost more room than they needed.
He’d have to get a chair for the living room and a kitchen table ... but
not right away. Barbara had a few pieces, she would probably want to bring them.
All in good time, “Don’t sweat the details,” he reminded himself.
Most impressive of all, he would have a doorman now. Only four people on his
floor, all of them singles -- paired off and living together but single. La
Dolce Vita! The only downside to the new apartment was the previous tenant committed
suicide there.
At least the rental agent was up front about it from the first ... right from the beginning Javits said, “You’ll find out for yourself sooner or later so I better tell you now ....” Instead of continuing, Javits, held the lease and a pen in his hand and looked at Stephen for a sign of encouragement.
“What’s the problem?” Stephen asked.
“Well .... no problem really. The previous tenant .... man by the name of Lennie Baker committed suicide in here, that’s all.” Javits dismissed the information with a wave of his hand. “That doesn’t trouble you, Mr. Whitman, does it?” He asked the question somewhat plaintively.
The apartment was still too attractive a deal to pass up --
“We’ve repainted,” Javits went on.
“The whole place?”
“Well no, not exactly. Just the room -- you know? The room he did it in.”
He just about decided he was going to take
the place in spite of Lennie Baker and his suicide. For his own peace of mind
he didn’t want to know any more
details. Javits, mistaking a reluctant decision for indecision, handed the lease
and the pen to Stephen and rubbed his hands together. Then, almost as though
he were confiding a secret, said he would sweeten the deal. He offered to cut
the rent twenty dollars -- not a big deal, Stephen thought, when you’re
paying $1300 a month, but it was a gentle and effective nudge. He went for it.
“You’ll like the place, Mr. Whitman. Nice people on this floor -- singles you know? He gave Stephen a half a wink as he pulled two brass keys out of his side pocket and told him to stay as long as he liked.
“You probably have to make plans, you
know -- where to put the furniture and
all that. Let me know soon’s y’can when you think you’ll be moving
in, okay?
We’ll give the place a final dusting down.” They walked to the door
and Javits touched two fingers to his forehead in an informal salute, then smiled
and was gone.
Stephen closed the door softly behind him and
looked across the small foyer
and into the living room. There’s something tragic about an empty house,
he
thought. It’s cold and it’s hollow. It isn’t only because of
the emptiness -- the emptiness is no surprise. Indeed, it would be strange to
find someone living in an empty house. But it’s discouraging and tragic
all the same. Someone once lived here and there’s a hollowness where that
someone was.
He walked into the living room and noticed an oval of lighter wallpaper at eye level where Lennie Baker’s sofa might have been. A picture? Of what -- of whom? In the kitchenette a calendar still hung crookedly on the wall by the phone, Two months old -- April, with the days “exed” out up to the 27th. Was that the day? What brought things to a head on April 27th? What made life such an insurmountable burden on just that one particular day?
Was this the room he killed himself in? Probably
not -- “People don’t kill
themselves in kitchens,” Stephen said to himself. He found himself wishing
he’d asked Javits more about it.
With a start he looked at his watch. Nearly six. Barbara would be home by now. He absent-mindedly picked up the phone to dial her number. It was disconnected -- of course it would be, he reminded himself. “What’s the matter with me,” he asked himself? He normally didn’t make mistakes like that. The smart thing to do would be to get over to Barbara’s apartment and give her the good news, call the phone company from there, take her to dinner and come back here. She couldn’t help falling in love with the place and the idea of living together.
He tried the keys in the door before leaving.
Then he turned and looked into
the empty room again with an unsettled feeling, as though he was leaving something
or someone behind. There was a strong presence of mortality in the
room, and he almost felt compelled to say goodbye. “I’m sure,”
he thought,“it won’t be like this after we furnish it. It’s because
of the emptiness.” But he still wished he asked Javits where Lennie did
it and how -- maybe there was a question of why, too. But maybe it was best
not to know why.
***
Barbara, a Pennsylvania girl, had only lived in New York a year. Life on the East Side was exciting in the beginning, but her relationship with Stephen had changed all that. The idea of living together in Lincoln Square was irresistible and she fell in love with the view; she even liked the doorman -- she never liked the doorman in her apartment on the West Side. She could feel his eyes watching her as she walked through the lobby. While her enthusiasm was at its peak, Stephen mentioned Lennie Baker.
It was as though someone had turned a switch.
“You mean he killed himself?
Right here? Really Stephen -- you don’t expect me ...”
“It’s nothing, really Barbara. It doesn’t make any difference.“ He put his arm around her and walked her to the window again to look at the corner of Central Park. “Every apartment has a secret or two, it’s nothing ... really.”
“I don’t know, Stephen ... it’s funky, you know?”
“They repainted.” He reminded her.
“They probably had too. Oh, Stephen, please don’t tell me any more.”
But in the end, the view, the apartment and
even the prospect of living with
Stephen won out. Both of them made plans, much the way newlyweds do. They
enjoyed that. My sofa. Your lounge chair. My silverware. Both our dishes.
***
Stephen held the bottle up to the light. “Look how clear it is. It’s almost like water isn’t it?”
“Maybe it is.”
“Oh no it isn’t,” he bristled, then he turned the bottle over and read the back label. “From the vineyards of Maurice Plaisir, Montrechat.” He opened the door of the refrigerator and laid the bottle down reverently. “$28.50 Barbara. It should make the chicken go down very easily.”
Barbara riffled through the mail on the small
end table. “What chicken,” she
asked. Then before he could answer she said, “Damn! The minute you move
you’re on everyone’s list. There’s even fourth class mail for
Lennie Baker.” She shivered a bit and dropped the mail into a wastebasket
under the table. “It looks like we’re eating in tonight -- I mean,
with the wine and all.”
“I thought it might be nice. We hardly ever eat here -- don’t you get tired of eating out?”
They stood close together below the low arch that separated the foyer from the living room. Barbara shivered as Stephen’s arm slipped around her waist. They looked into each other’s eyes for a brief second, then broke apart -- Barbara turned her back, and said in a small voice, “It isn’t as good as we thought it would be, is it Steve?”
“It’s very good. I’m sure it’s as good as it gets - it’s just that there’s something ...”
“What did you get besides the wine, Stephen?”
Stephen roused himself and walked quickly into the tiny kitchen ... “Oh, I got a roasted chicken, some asparagus and a container of homemade sorbet.” He rattled around in the packages. “Glad you reminded me. I forgot to put the sorbet in the freezer.”
Barbara followed him to the kitchen and stood in the doorway. “Just the two of us, right?”
“Yes. Just the two of us. Why?”
“Why did we have to rent this place, Stephen? Of all the apartments in the City of New York -- why this one?”
Stephen slid the freezer door shut and sighed. “Come on Barbara, you know why.” He stepped on the flip-open garbage can harder than he should and it fell over.
“He’ll be eating with us, won’t he ... I swear Stephen sometimes I feel he’s sleeping with us too. I want him out of here Stephen -- can’t you get him out of here?” She began to sob convulsively.
Stephen hurried over to her and rocked her
like a child. They looked at each other helplessly, and the uncertainty that
only needled them in the beginning
was at at last full blown. The ghost of Lennie Baker was a physical presence,
stronger than both of them. The doorbell rang ...
“I’ll get it Barbara -- be right back.”
It was an overweight man of middle age. He
was coatless, wore suspenders and
strangest of all, wore pink bunny slippers. “Hi,” he said apologetically,
“I’m Shawn from down the hall, do you know anything about canaries?”
Stephen stared at him blankly and Shawn smiled
understandingly. He turned and pointed down the hall. “The end apartment.”
He said. He extended a long
delicate finger. “Shawn Taylor ... Desmond and I have this canary ... “
He ran his fingers through his hair as though to straighten it. “I must
look a mess, musn’t I? But you see I’m at my wits end. Desmond will
be home any minute and if he sees I’ve done nothing about the canary he’ll
be furious.”
Barbara came to his rescue ... “Oh, Mr.
Taylor.” She stepped between them and turned to Stephen. “Stephen,
you haven’t met Mr. Taylor yet, have you?”
Without waiting for him to answer she swung the door wide and Shawn Taylor
walked in.
Taylor made a pirouette in the middle of the living room. “Oh, I love what you’ve done with this place -- did you have a decorator dear?”
Barbara, flushed with pleasure, said, “You like it then? No, I did it myself ...” she turned reluctantly to Stephen. “With a little help from Stephen,” she added.
“Oh, I should explain I guess. I’m thinking of how it looked just before Lennie ...” He stopped and looked nervously at Barbara and Stephen. “You DO know about dear Lennie, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Stephen said bluntly.
“So sad,” Shawn sighed. “A slave to love I’d say. What some people will do for love.” He lowered his voice an octave . “You know how he did it, don’t you?”
Stephen shook his head and Barbara looked away.
“You should know -- really
you should. It helps to understand.”
“Understand? Understand what?’ Stephen asked.
Shawn glanced momentarily at his watch. “I
should really be getting back --
Desmond will be home any minute.” As though making up his mind to stay
a
moment longer, he sat down. “Desmond’s reading his poetry at B&N
down in the village. I suppose he’ll be late.” He giggled and added,
“He’ll be so full
of himself when he gets home. Riding on a crest of adulation, you know how
poets are.”
Stephen and Barbara sat on the sofa across
from him. “What is it we should
understand, Mr. Taylor?”
“Please, please, for Heaven’s sake -- call me Shawn. I haven’t been called Taylor since law school. ...I’m waffling I guess, trying to find a way to tell you about dear Lennie.”
“Would you like a drink, Shawn?” Barbara asked.
“Oh no. No, I never drink unless Desmond’s
with me. Lennie drowned himself
... in your bathtub by the way. I mean, isn’t that the most bizarre way
to go? How do you drown yourself ? How do you hold your head underwater? ...
I’d
bob up like a cork.” He looked at Stephen and Barbara with a half smile,
then
grew serious again. “It was a girl, a very special girl. To him anyway.
She called herself Emerald, Emerald LaMarr. She had a part in the Broadway revival
of “The Pajama Game.”
“Isn’t that sad,” Barbara said.
“A man eater. An eight cylinder bitch,” he added.
Stephen couldn’t resist a grin. He was
beginning to like Shawn, he might have
been off the wall but there was something that rang true with the man.
“First she made a slave of him, then she
turned him into a fool. There are women like that, you know.” Shawn looked
down at the floor and quietly said,
“My mother was like that.” He paused and looked at Barbara. “Where
was I? Oh
yes -- Emerald. She would have Johns up here in the afternoon, producers,
publicity people. Then, at night, the two of them would party. I can only imagine
what went on in poor Lennie’s head ... he was whipped -- truly whipped.”
“Then, finally, when the show folded,
Emerald went off to tinsel town with
the producer. You can’t imagine how Lennie carried on ... it wouldn’t
surprise me if ...”
“If what? Stephen asked.
“Well, what I mean is ... that kind of
passion can go on and on. I mean even
after death.”
Stephen and Barbara moved a little closer on the sofa. “You don’t believe ....?” Barbara asked.
“I’ll tell you a little story,”
Shawn began. “Do you know who had our apartment before Desmond and I moved
in?” They shook their heads. “His name was Roland Petit. He was head
chef at Marquisette. Desmond and I used to eat
there a lot -- finest French chef in New York. Well, don’t go there now,
he’s dead. Died of food poisoning by the way --poetic isn’t it? Anyway
we’re living in Roland’s old apartment, right here in Lincon Square.”
Sensing he hadn’t explained the connection, Shawn stood up and pointed
to the door. “Right down the hall -- he died by his own hand too -- in
a way. The minute we heard the news, Desmond and I got the rental agent out
of bed and signed up.”
“The thing is ... we can’t get rid of him.”
No, Shawn and Desmond were condemned to share
their apartment with the former chef of the Marquisette. “We would come
home late,” Shawn said, “and catch the aroma of cooking.” They
would find leftovers in the refrigerator they
hadn’t put there, or things put back in places they hadn’t been left
in. The
presence of Henri Petit was as constant and persistent as the presence of Lennie
Baker. “Passionate people.” Shawn remarked ruefully, “never die.”
He related the case of Lisa Shottenheimer, the piano tuner, who lived in the apartment facing the court. For 15 years she tuned all 28 pianos in Lincoln Center -- “a momentary lapse of attention.” Shawn called it, “She stepped in front of the downtown bus on Amsterdam Avenue.” He made a thumbs down signal. “You can hear a piano in that apartment even though it was removed before the new tenants arrived.”
He stood up and looked at his watch again. “I have to go. There’s so much to do. Desmond must be wondering where I am -- then there’s the damn canary. God knows what we’ll do with it ... life gets more complicated every day. I just thought I’d tell you. We all have our problems you see. We live with ghosts.” He shook his head resignedly and moved towards the door. Stephen jumped up and opened it for him.
“Goodnight Mr. Whitman ... you’re a lovely couple, by the way,” he said wistfully. “You’ll be fine here. Just leave a little room for Lennie.” Just outside the door, he turned, shrugged his shoulders and said, “.... life is so short, isn’t it? Love should be more important than it is.”
“It’s been nice meeting you,” Stephen said. “We’ll set a place for him.”
© Harry Buschman 2002
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