Read Online The Museum of Modern Love by Heather Rose - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Rose
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Levin thought, as he helped Jane into her coat and they stepped out onto the cobblestones. It had ultimately been unimportant. An attempt, he thought, at normality.
The rain had stopped and he walked her back to the Greenwich Hotel. The evening had the balmy texture of early summer. They stood on the pavement for a moment before she reached out and shook hands with him. He thought to kiss her cheek but the moment passed. She smiled, thanked him again, and the doorman opened the door.
Levin walked the few blocks across to Washington Square. Night had softened the streets and darkened the doorways. Abovehim the sky was umber-glazed and all about him were streetlights, headlights, tail-lights, lit windows, neon and illuminated signs. The stars were defeated. A ruckus of electricity and engineering had beaten them back. By the fountain people lingered, laughing and talking. Children ran about despite the lateness of the hour. Two men played guitars and sang ‘Hey Jude’. Several bystanders joined in. The pavement smelled of steam, rubber and oil. Levin continued on across the street.
He wondered if Jane would have had sex with him, if he had suggested it. It had been a long time since he had suggested it to anyone but Lydia. The idea of getting naked with a stranger was somewhat alarming. But he’d been giving it some thought of late. He thought of Healayas and how he had always wanted to have sex with her. He imagined every man who met her thought the same thing. He would never ask her, but that didn’t stop him thinking of it. Tom had been dead wrong not to follow her to New York.
He wasn’t sure Jane would be good in bed. She had very plain hands. He wondered what Jane would have said if he had told her his wife was Lydia Fiorentino, the architect. Perhaps Jane had stood in one of Lydia’s buildings. Perhaps she had read about Lydia in a magazine.
My wife is in a nursing home , he imagined saying. She’s been in a coma but now she’s not. She’ll never walk again. Or talk again. She was the most energetic person when she was well. We knew it was coming. It’s genetic. No, I don’t see her regularly. I don’t see her at all. She wants it that way. She took out a court order. We were happily married. I think so. Our daughter, Alice, is twenty-two. I never got to know her when it was the right time. When was the right time? When she was little? When she was a teenager? It always seemed difficult to know what to talk about with her. She talked to Lydia and then Lydia talked to me. That’s how it worked. I didn’t like the music she liked. She went through a whole heavy metal phase I didn’t understand. I was busy. I worked. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? Didn’t that count for something as a father? No, I don’t think about challenging the court order. Do I want to see Lydia? Yes and no. Do I miss Alice? I think of her.
He knew if he was a potential client calling Lydia’s practice, the receptionist would tell him Ms Fiorentino was on extended leave. She would not tell him that Ms Fiorentino was currently residing at an address in the Hamptons. She would tell him that Lydia’s business partner, Selma Hernandez, was taking care of everything. Was he able to make an appointment for when Ms Fiorentino returned? No, the receptionist would reply, not at this time. Because—although she would not say this—Ms Fiorentino’s absence would be permanent.
ALICE HAD CALLED TWO DAYS before Christmas. ‘Dad, I think you’d better come to the hospital. Mom’s not so good.’
He’d been watching snow falling over Washington Square and feeling as if life was suddenly new and full of possibility with the new year almost upon them, a new album taking shape in his head, a new apartment. He needed Lydia to reassure him this was really theirs, all three thousand square feet of it. The removalists had finally left. He’d been trying to get the television sorted so he could watch the game at 8.30. It was a critical
The rain had stopped and he walked her back to the Greenwich Hotel. The evening had the balmy texture of early summer. They stood on the pavement for a moment before she reached out and shook hands with him. He thought to kiss her cheek but the moment passed. She smiled, thanked him again, and the doorman opened the door.
Levin walked the few blocks across to Washington Square. Night had softened the streets and darkened the doorways. Abovehim the sky was umber-glazed and all about him were streetlights, headlights, tail-lights, lit windows, neon and illuminated signs. The stars were defeated. A ruckus of electricity and engineering had beaten them back. By the fountain people lingered, laughing and talking. Children ran about despite the lateness of the hour. Two men played guitars and sang ‘Hey Jude’. Several bystanders joined in. The pavement smelled of steam, rubber and oil. Levin continued on across the street.
He wondered if Jane would have had sex with him, if he had suggested it. It had been a long time since he had suggested it to anyone but Lydia. The idea of getting naked with a stranger was somewhat alarming. But he’d been giving it some thought of late. He thought of Healayas and how he had always wanted to have sex with her. He imagined every man who met her thought the same thing. He would never ask her, but that didn’t stop him thinking of it. Tom had been dead wrong not to follow her to New York.
He wasn’t sure Jane would be good in bed. She had very plain hands. He wondered what Jane would have said if he had told her his wife was Lydia Fiorentino, the architect. Perhaps Jane had stood in one of Lydia’s buildings. Perhaps she had read about Lydia in a magazine.
My wife is in a nursing home , he imagined saying. She’s been in a coma but now she’s not. She’ll never walk again. Or talk again. She was the most energetic person when she was well. We knew it was coming. It’s genetic. No, I don’t see her regularly. I don’t see her at all. She wants it that way. She took out a court order. We were happily married. I think so. Our daughter, Alice, is twenty-two. I never got to know her when it was the right time. When was the right time? When she was little? When she was a teenager? It always seemed difficult to know what to talk about with her. She talked to Lydia and then Lydia talked to me. That’s how it worked. I didn’t like the music she liked. She went through a whole heavy metal phase I didn’t understand. I was busy. I worked. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? Didn’t that count for something as a father? No, I don’t think about challenging the court order. Do I want to see Lydia? Yes and no. Do I miss Alice? I think of her.
He knew if he was a potential client calling Lydia’s practice, the receptionist would tell him Ms Fiorentino was on extended leave. She would not tell him that Ms Fiorentino was currently residing at an address in the Hamptons. She would tell him that Lydia’s business partner, Selma Hernandez, was taking care of everything. Was he able to make an appointment for when Ms Fiorentino returned? No, the receptionist would reply, not at this time. Because—although she would not say this—Ms Fiorentino’s absence would be permanent.
ALICE HAD CALLED TWO DAYS before Christmas. ‘Dad, I think you’d better come to the hospital. Mom’s not so good.’
He’d been watching snow falling over Washington Square and feeling as if life was suddenly new and full of possibility with the new year almost upon them, a new album taking shape in his head, a new apartment. He needed Lydia to reassure him this was really theirs, all three thousand square feet of it. The removalists had finally left. He’d been trying to get the television sorted so he could watch the game at 8.30. It was a critical
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