Read Online The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells by Andrew Sean Greer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Sean Greer
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pretty shopgirl looked their way, they seemed as scared as of a bank robber.
Felix’s house was in the East Eighties, in what they called Yorkville. I was surprised to learn it was a German neighborhood, and the street provided evidence: German bakeries and cafeterias, coffeehouses and men’s societies. We were Germans, of course, brought over by our father as children. Later, I would learn our nationality excused Felix from service, in both worlds, but not from complications in a nation at war with our country of birth. On a stoop two boys stood talking, one still straddling his bicycle (his pants leg bound by a gleaming bicycle clip), yelling, “ Tote mich! ” until the other pulled out a very realistic gun and said, “Bang!”—a little cork popped out of its mouth, then dangled from its invisible string as they both cracked up. Only in one bakery window did I see a notice about a meeting; my German was rusty, but still it was impossible to escape its message. At the top, printed in black, was a swastika. And next door was my brother’s house.
In the pink-toned parlor, sitting sideways in a slipper chair, I found a slight brown-haired woman in a frilled milkmaid dress holding a newborn child. The maid said my name, and the young woman looked up very peacefully—and then her face flickered, briefly, with the most astounding expression! I would say it was fear, almost as if she was doing something wrong, and I might punish her, but mixed in there was something complicated, subtle. In an instant it dropped below, and her surface was serene again, her smile very bright as she stood, holding the baby close in its swaddling clothes, and sweetly said, “Greta! Well, now I’m glad I stayed in town.” I walked forward to embrace her and she smelled of lilacs and powder.
“Oh, the baby’s so beautiful!” I exclaimed (not knowing the sex) and she smiled proudly and tucked the blanket under the creature’s chin. “Can I . . . ?” I said, holding out my hands. I saw her mouth purse in concern, looking down at my cast. I understood: We were not friends.
“Do you want some tea?” she offered, sitting down again with her baby and smiling at it. “Or something to eat? No, you’re going out to lunch with Felix.”
“That’s right,” I said carelessly. “He wanted me to meet a friend.”
“Oh? He didn’t mention it to me. What friend?”
Her face shifted to me, eyes sparkling, and a voice came from the hall: “Ingrid, you remember I told you my sister and I were lunching . . . Oh hi, Greta!”
Later, as we made our way to the restaurant in a cab, I told him I had misstepped slightly in my conversation with his wife, and Felix glared at me with his lower lip pressed out. He was thinking something through. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course that’s fine, I just forgot to tell her. She knows Alan, he did my will. Don’t make her think my life is so mysterious, bubs.” He laughed, then looked out the window the way you do in cabs, finger to his chin, and I understood how deep he must be in.
H OW STRANGE. To step into the Oak Room in my velvet dress and feathered explosion of a hat, purse under my arm like a baguette, chandelier glitter on everyone’s shoulders, and see Alan there!
Sitting at the table, waiter beside him, with his hands forming a tepee, his silver hair cut military-style, a wide-shouldered suit, but the same square, lined face as ever! Same cracked-green-glaze eyes! Big and broad and healthy, as he had been when I’d first met him, years before. I wanted to run up and tell some old Felix joke only we knew and see his midwestern countenance turn red with pleasure. Then he would pat my arm to comfort me. Over the beloved dead.
But I couldn’t. Because Felix was not dead. He was here beside me, talking to the maître d’. And I couldn’t run up to Alan because he didn’t know me. I was only now—as he stood up and visibly, nervously swallowed—meeting him for the first
Felix’s house was in the East Eighties, in what they called Yorkville. I was surprised to learn it was a German neighborhood, and the street provided evidence: German bakeries and cafeterias, coffeehouses and men’s societies. We were Germans, of course, brought over by our father as children. Later, I would learn our nationality excused Felix from service, in both worlds, but not from complications in a nation at war with our country of birth. On a stoop two boys stood talking, one still straddling his bicycle (his pants leg bound by a gleaming bicycle clip), yelling, “ Tote mich! ” until the other pulled out a very realistic gun and said, “Bang!”—a little cork popped out of its mouth, then dangled from its invisible string as they both cracked up. Only in one bakery window did I see a notice about a meeting; my German was rusty, but still it was impossible to escape its message. At the top, printed in black, was a swastika. And next door was my brother’s house.
In the pink-toned parlor, sitting sideways in a slipper chair, I found a slight brown-haired woman in a frilled milkmaid dress holding a newborn child. The maid said my name, and the young woman looked up very peacefully—and then her face flickered, briefly, with the most astounding expression! I would say it was fear, almost as if she was doing something wrong, and I might punish her, but mixed in there was something complicated, subtle. In an instant it dropped below, and her surface was serene again, her smile very bright as she stood, holding the baby close in its swaddling clothes, and sweetly said, “Greta! Well, now I’m glad I stayed in town.” I walked forward to embrace her and she smelled of lilacs and powder.
“Oh, the baby’s so beautiful!” I exclaimed (not knowing the sex) and she smiled proudly and tucked the blanket under the creature’s chin. “Can I . . . ?” I said, holding out my hands. I saw her mouth purse in concern, looking down at my cast. I understood: We were not friends.
“Do you want some tea?” she offered, sitting down again with her baby and smiling at it. “Or something to eat? No, you’re going out to lunch with Felix.”
“That’s right,” I said carelessly. “He wanted me to meet a friend.”
“Oh? He didn’t mention it to me. What friend?”
Her face shifted to me, eyes sparkling, and a voice came from the hall: “Ingrid, you remember I told you my sister and I were lunching . . . Oh hi, Greta!”
Later, as we made our way to the restaurant in a cab, I told him I had misstepped slightly in my conversation with his wife, and Felix glared at me with his lower lip pressed out. He was thinking something through. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course that’s fine, I just forgot to tell her. She knows Alan, he did my will. Don’t make her think my life is so mysterious, bubs.” He laughed, then looked out the window the way you do in cabs, finger to his chin, and I understood how deep he must be in.
H OW STRANGE. To step into the Oak Room in my velvet dress and feathered explosion of a hat, purse under my arm like a baguette, chandelier glitter on everyone’s shoulders, and see Alan there!
Sitting at the table, waiter beside him, with his hands forming a tepee, his silver hair cut military-style, a wide-shouldered suit, but the same square, lined face as ever! Same cracked-green-glaze eyes! Big and broad and healthy, as he had been when I’d first met him, years before. I wanted to run up and tell some old Felix joke only we knew and see his midwestern countenance turn red with pleasure. Then he would pat my arm to comfort me. Over the beloved dead.
But I couldn’t. Because Felix was not dead. He was here beside me, talking to the maître d’. And I couldn’t run up to Alan because he didn’t know me. I was only now—as he stood up and visibly, nervously swallowed—meeting him for the first
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