once forgot her keys, had to come all the way back, it was fucking horrible. She does this now, throws everything into the bag, checks for the keys, opens her wallet and frowns into itâthirty-seven dollars, enough for a cab home, but not enough for a cab to. Sheâll walk. Abrupt wave to Dallie (Dallie, yes, thatâs her name), a nod to Hannah, a âGood-bye!â from Antonia across the office, and sheâs out into the lobby, then scanning her ID card on the little white pad to get in the door on the other side, which opens to the offices of the imprint they share the floor with (serious nonfiction about wars and maritime disasters) and the ladiesâ room. Ladiesâ room, what an idiotic phrase. When she and Sarah lived together, that first terrible apartment in the East Village, the summer after graduation, she tried for a time referring to the bathroom as the Shit House, which Sarah did not care for.
The lighting is not good. There are no windows. Lauren washes her face, but maddeningly the faucet is the kind that you press and water comes out for about twelve seconds then shuts off so you have to keep pressing it again and again. She brushes her teeth, checks her armpits, which are fine; she hasnât sweat since her walk from the subway to the office. She pulls her hair away from her face; it still gets a little wet but it doesnât matter. Her hair looks great, it always does: Itâs thick, falls in this subtle wave thatâs natural and not studied, and that some girl in college once told her she was lucky to have and ever since then sheâs been proud of it. She doesnât wear jewelry, not even a watch. Sheâs got on a sort of hippie dress that she found somewhere, vaguely Mexican. Itâsprettier than she normally wears to the office, and under the belted sweater she keeps stashed on the back of her chair, and with the heels sheâs just slipped on, it looks like a real Iâm-going-to-a-party outfit. A bit of color on the lips, something on the lashes. She hurries, she doesnât want anyone to see her in the bathroom and think sheâs primping for a date like some kind of loser.
She takes the bus east on Fifty-Seventh Street and waits eight minutes for another going down Second Avenue, but grows impatient and decides to just walk. Even when she sweats sheâs not very smelly. It should be fine. She takes her place among confused tourists, the occasional jogger, dog walker, little old lady, coworkers and friends drinking cold wine at sidewalk cafés; al fresco dining in Manhattan, sheâs never understood that, the whole thing smells like exhaust and urine.
Huck and Luluâs house is covered in ivy. The window boxesâLuluâs handiworkâlook bountiful. The parlor windows are open, and Lauren can hear those party sounds drifting out: polite chatter, the occasional decorous laugh, ahems and footfalls on parquet, the cell phones of rude guests. Though itâs still light out, in her mind she sees the house theatrically illuminated, light spilling onto the stoop, onto the sidewalk, the windows offering a glimpse of something, another way of life, like the dioramas at a museum, the vignettes in a department store. The house was always lit up as though for a party, life with Huck and Lulu and Sarah is always a party.
You donât ring the doorbell at this sort of party, and anyway, itâs been years since she used this particular doorbell. She comes and goes with impunity, or she did, once upon a time. She walks in, and there are people in the parlor, attended by a pretty girlin a black polo shirt and black pants, cherry red apron around her waist, passing a tray of something that looks tasty even from far away. The men are wearing jackets and ties; these parties are attended exclusively by the kinds of men who wear jackets and ties everywhere, possibly even to bed. There are women, too, of course, and somewhere in the distance she can
F. Paul Wilson, Alan M. Clark