knew they had taste in their ass.
He had looked around at their old place and looked as if he needed CPR.
He gulped and asked, “And what do chou do, Mrs. Cushman?” in his charming accent.
“About what?” she asked. Actually, he was a great guy, if you ignored his society-faggot routine. When the two of them were alone, they’d dish a little, and eventually they’d become great friends. He was relieved to learn that Brenda wasn’t interested in taking credit for the job (“Dey always try to, chou know. Dey say dey deed eet with some help, as eef dey could select a goddamn trim color by demselves.
Puhleeze!”) nor did she expect him to provide her with social introductions. (”Somehow I don’t see chou and Anne Bass ever getteen really close.”) He had made her laugh, and she had made him laugh, and he’d gouged wads out of Morty, as he did with all his clients.
He was actually just a poor Cuban kid who made good originally by sleeping with his boss, but he had put out the story that he was Spanish, from Barcelona, and a cousin of Gaudi, and Brenda promised she’d never tell. “Dey don’t know that ees where we get de word gaudy from,” he said, laughing in his charming accent. Of course, Duarto was very, very big time now. His style-what Brenda called wretched excess—was the hot look. He draped thousands of yards of flowing fabric over everything, creating a sort of updated Arabian nights feeling, and the chic shelter magazines were calling him the Sultan of Silk.
But she and he had become really close only in the last six months.
Duarto’s lover, Richard, had gotten sick. Duarto had broken down, cried in her arms like one of her kids when he told her. So, every day, Brenda made the pilgrimage to Lenox Hill Hospital, sometimes bringing something she had cooked but more usually takeout, and sat for a while with Richard. They’d play gin, or she’d read him the gossip columns from the papers, or feed him. She watched him waste away, until he couldn’t speak, or even follow her with his eyes, and she watched Duarto’s agony and helplessness.
She wished he were here now to cheer her up. The funeral had been terrible. It isn’t like I give a shit about Cynthia one way or the other, she told herself fiercely. Our husbands did business together once upon a time. We had them on the boat. She invited us to Greenwich because Gil made her do it. She thought I was vulgar and I thought she was boring and repressed. And we were both right.
Brenda focused on the menu. The waiter approached with a basket that Brenda knew held the tiny hot biscuits and strawberry butter the place was famous for. She opened the napkin folded in the basket. Two lonely biscuits, each the size of a shot glass, rolled about in the otherwise empty basket. “Hey, where is the rest of the litter?” she asked him. “Bring out the whole family of these puppies. And I’ll have the curried-chicken salad, a side order of the carrot and raisin slaw, plus creme brale’e for dessert.”
”Wouldn’t you like to hear the specials?”
“Thanks but no thanks.” He looked at her, annoyed that he had missed his chance to perform. Just one more out-of-work actor in a bad mood.
Well, she wasn’t in a bad mood. She wouldn’t let herself be. The funeral was okay with her. Everything was okay with her. She’d eat lunch and then she’d walk up past Sweets for the Sweet, pick up a few eclairs, and then be home in time for Angela, who was coming to dinner.
They’d have a salad tonight and she’d watch her6elf tomorrow. She knew she shouldn’t do this. She knew she’d be sorry later. But right now Brenda was hungry. In fact, Brenda was starving. But Brenda was not upset.
As Brenda stepped out of the elevator to her apartment, juggling the bakery box and fumbling for the keys in her bag, she almost tripped over her neighbor’s copy of the imes, inadvertently left in front of Brenda’s door. She looked down at it as she swung in her
He had looked around at their old place and looked as if he needed CPR.
He gulped and asked, “And what do chou do, Mrs. Cushman?” in his charming accent.
“About what?” she asked. Actually, he was a great guy, if you ignored his society-faggot routine. When the two of them were alone, they’d dish a little, and eventually they’d become great friends. He was relieved to learn that Brenda wasn’t interested in taking credit for the job (“Dey always try to, chou know. Dey say dey deed eet with some help, as eef dey could select a goddamn trim color by demselves.
Puhleeze!”) nor did she expect him to provide her with social introductions. (”Somehow I don’t see chou and Anne Bass ever getteen really close.”) He had made her laugh, and she had made him laugh, and he’d gouged wads out of Morty, as he did with all his clients.
He was actually just a poor Cuban kid who made good originally by sleeping with his boss, but he had put out the story that he was Spanish, from Barcelona, and a cousin of Gaudi, and Brenda promised she’d never tell. “Dey don’t know that ees where we get de word gaudy from,” he said, laughing in his charming accent. Of course, Duarto was very, very big time now. His style-what Brenda called wretched excess—was the hot look. He draped thousands of yards of flowing fabric over everything, creating a sort of updated Arabian nights feeling, and the chic shelter magazines were calling him the Sultan of Silk.
But she and he had become really close only in the last six months.
Duarto’s lover, Richard, had gotten sick. Duarto had broken down, cried in her arms like one of her kids when he told her. So, every day, Brenda made the pilgrimage to Lenox Hill Hospital, sometimes bringing something she had cooked but more usually takeout, and sat for a while with Richard. They’d play gin, or she’d read him the gossip columns from the papers, or feed him. She watched him waste away, until he couldn’t speak, or even follow her with his eyes, and she watched Duarto’s agony and helplessness.
She wished he were here now to cheer her up. The funeral had been terrible. It isn’t like I give a shit about Cynthia one way or the other, she told herself fiercely. Our husbands did business together once upon a time. We had them on the boat. She invited us to Greenwich because Gil made her do it. She thought I was vulgar and I thought she was boring and repressed. And we were both right.
Brenda focused on the menu. The waiter approached with a basket that Brenda knew held the tiny hot biscuits and strawberry butter the place was famous for. She opened the napkin folded in the basket. Two lonely biscuits, each the size of a shot glass, rolled about in the otherwise empty basket. “Hey, where is the rest of the litter?” she asked him. “Bring out the whole family of these puppies. And I’ll have the curried-chicken salad, a side order of the carrot and raisin slaw, plus creme brale’e for dessert.”
”Wouldn’t you like to hear the specials?”
“Thanks but no thanks.” He looked at her, annoyed that he had missed his chance to perform. Just one more out-of-work actor in a bad mood.
Well, she wasn’t in a bad mood. She wouldn’t let herself be. The funeral was okay with her. Everything was okay with her. She’d eat lunch and then she’d walk up past Sweets for the Sweet, pick up a few eclairs, and then be home in time for Angela, who was coming to dinner.
They’d have a salad tonight and she’d watch her6elf tomorrow. She knew she shouldn’t do this. She knew she’d be sorry later. But right now Brenda was hungry. In fact, Brenda was starving. But Brenda was not upset.
As Brenda stepped out of the elevator to her apartment, juggling the bakery box and fumbling for the keys in her bag, she almost tripped over her neighbor’s copy of the imes, inadvertently left in front of Brenda’s door. She looked down at it as she swung in her
Similar Books
