Riverside Drive

“Very good,” Rosanne said, curtsying. She raised herself onto her tiptoes and teetered over to Amanda, waving her imaginary wand once in her face. “And you, Empress?” she asked.

“No, thank you, Rosanne,” Amanda said, laughing, covering her mouth with her napkin.

“Very good, ladies,” Rosanne said, curtsying. Once she was safely behind Mrs. Goldblum, she raised her wings and glided back into the kitchen.

Mrs. Goldblum turned to make sure that Rosanne had left the room, looked back to Amanda and said, softly, “There is a lesson to be learned, Amanda dear. She married the man she thought she wanted—and she will waste her life waiting for him to be the man she wants him to be.”

Something crashed in the kitchen.

“I realize it is difficult to understand, Mrs. Goldblum,” Amanda said, “but I never wanted him—” Her eyes settled on a silver napkin ring. “I was not, am not, in love with him.”

Mrs. Goldblum apparently did not hear the crash or Amanda. “To love and be loved in return is the greatest gift life has to offer. To love those who don’t love themselves is—” Mrs. Goldblum refolded her napkin in her lap and then smoothed it with the palm of her hand, over and over. “I was very fortunate,” she finally said. “Mr. Goldblum and I had a wonderful marriage.”

“Why?”

Mrs. Goldblum looked surprised. “Why, compromise. Every good marriage is one of compromise. Of acceptance. The pleasure and satisfaction of knowing that you both are willing to give up certain things in exchange for receiving much more than you could have alone.”

Amanda touched at her pearls. “What kind of compromises did you make?”

“Oh, gracious,” Mrs. Goldblum said, looking past Amanda to the window. Her voice grew faint. “It’s been so many years, I can hardly remember what I cared about before Mr. Goldblum. Dances, friends, pretty ribbons, I suppose. Isn’t it odd,” she said, bringing her eyes back to Amanda, “I can’t seem to remember anything of importance before I was married.”

Or afterward, Amanda thought.

“And once the children arrived”—she chuckled to herself, shaking her head— “there was no time to miss anything.”

Mrs. Goldblum’s attention seemed to have drifted to her charm bracelet. Amanda patiently waited for her to continue.

“And, of course, there was Mr. Goldblum to look after. He worked so very hard.” She looked up, smiling. “I used to bathe the children at five. With the children’s nanny, Muerta—a Swiss girl. We had help in those days. And when Mr. Goldblum came home, the children and I would be lined up at the door, as neat as tacks, waiting to welcome him home.”

“And after the children grew up?”

“Oh, gracious,” Mrs. Goldblum laughed, “I missed them terribly. So did Mr. Goldblum. We always believed Sarah would be with us for a few years longer, but then, Ben was such a catch!” A long pause. “Can it be twelve years?” she wondered aloud. “It must be. She died in 1974.”

After a moment, Amanda said, “When the children left home…”

Mrs. Goldblum smiled again. She drew out a white hankie that was discreetly tucked in the underside of one sleeve, patted her nose with it and replaced it. “Mr. Goldblum and I didn’t know quite what to do with each other.” She laughed quietly. “Sometimes,” she said, leaning forward, “I would look at him across the dinner table and think, Who is this man? It was as if I had never seen him before. The man I married had black hair. The man sitting across from me had gray hair.” She eased back in her chair. “But then,” she sighed, “there were still those moments when I felt as though he and I shared the same body, the same life, the very same thoughts. And in those moments I was the happiest woman on earth.”

The clock on the mantel struck the half hour.

“Dear me, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Mrs. Goldblum said.

“Nonsense,” Amanda said, rising from the table. “I would be deeply offended if you left so soon.” She lifted the teapot. “We will have some freshly made tea, perhaps by the fire.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you, right where I am,” Mrs. Goldblum said. She looked at the teapot. “I do so love a cup of good hot tea.”

“And good and hot it shall be,” Amanda said. “Excuse me.” She carried the teapot out to the kitchen. Rosanne was banging candlesticks in the sink, apparently in some effort meant to clean them. “Rosanne,” Amanda began.

“It’s not fair,” Rosanne said, throwing down the sponge.

“What’s not fair?”

Rosanne rested the back of one rubber glove against her forehead for a moment and then whipped around to face Amanda. “She shouldn’t talk about Frank behind my back,” she said, clearly upset.

“Oh, Rosanne,” Amanda said softly, putting the teapot down on the counter. “Rosanne, no, no. It was not meant as a criticism—”

“I heard what she said.” Rosanne’s eyes fell, and she swallowed. “She just shouldn’t talk about him, that’s all.”

Amanda considered this, absently toying with her pearls. “No,” she finally said, “you’re right. But you know, Rosanne, Mrs. Goldblum is getting on in years…She would never intentionally say or do anything to hurt you. She was only trying to comfort me.”

Rosanne sighed, pulling off the rubber gloves. “Yeah, I know,” she muttered, reaching for the teapot. “You want another?”

“I’ll make it,” Amanda offered.

Rosanne looked at her. “Ah, geez, don’t start playin’ Mother of Mercy on me. Go back and play the-good-ol’-days with Mrs. G.”

“All right,” Amanda said, walking to the door. She turned around then, hand resting on the doorway. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rosanne said, moving to the stove.

When Amanda returned to the living room, Mrs. Goldblum asked if she had told her that Daniel called.

“Oh?” Amanda walked over to take a small log out of the woodbox and place it on the fire.

“Yes. He said he’ll be coming for a visit soon.”

“That’s nice.” Poke, poke, sparks fly.

Pause. “He has suffered a minor reversal in business recently,” Mrs. Goldblum said slowly.

Amanda remained silent. Her frank opinion of Mrs. Goldblum’s only living child was less than complimentary; she thought he was a self-centered, worthless rogue. For the life of her, Amanda could not understand how Daniel could shut his mother out of his life—that is, when Daniel did not require money. Mrs. Goldblum was a fine, amazing lady. How could he ignore her? She was loving, warm, cheerful…and very, very lonely.

The first time Amanda ever laid eyes on Mrs. Goldblum was in line at the Food Emporium in 1983. Amanda had sailed up behind her with a shopping cart of liquid staples: a case of seltzer, coffee, milk, tea, Tab, and cranberry, apple, orange, grape and grapefruit juice. After loading them on the counter, Amanda had reached ahead for the delivery pad. Mrs. Goldblum had smiled at her; Amanda had smiled back; and then Amanda noticed Mrs. Goldblum’s purchases: two potatoes in a plastic bag, one orange, a can of tuna fish, a pint of milk, a box of butter biscuits and six cans of cat food. For some reason the nice old lady’s purchases hurt Amanda. (For some reason, all nice old ladies’ purchases hurt Amanda.)

After filling out the delivery slip, Amanda had yanked a copy of the Enquirer out of the rack to look at it. Over the top of the page—over a picture of Hepburn caught walking on the streets of New York—Amanda watched Mrs. Goldblum’s change purse come out. Inwardly, Amanda had drawn a sigh of relief at the sight of two twenties in it. Good, she had thought at the time, I don’t have to worry about her.

The older women on the West Side of New York always unnerved Amanda. There they were—when the sun came out—strolling, sometimes inching their way, on the sidewalk, sometimes arm in arm, sometimes on a walker, almost always with a fiercely determined expression that said to the world, “Nope! I’m not dead yet!” It made Amanda want to scream, “Please! Why can’t we give them whatever they want?”

When Amanda left the store, she had found Mrs. Goldblum sitting on the fire hydrant that came out of the side of the building. Her pocketbook and precious purchases were lying on the ground at her feet. She was a little dizzy, she said. It would pass in a minute. Wasn’t Amanda kind to pick up her belongings?

Amanda had ended up walking Mrs. Goldblum back to her apartment on Riverside Drive at the south corner of 91st Street. Mrs. Goldblum described to her how all the doormen up and down the Drive, in the old days, had polished the brass buttons on their uniforms and had taken pride in the white gloves they had worn.

Mrs. Goldblum’s apartment was enormous but vacuous. And rather dusty. Amanda had stayed for tea and a tour of the apartment, receiving a history of the remaining furniture and a description of all the pieces that had since been shipped to her son in Chicago. Amanda learned that Mrs. Goldblum had been a widow for sixteen years, that her daughter had died of leukemia. That Mrs. Goldblum used the one bedroom, that the other two were empty. That she didn’t live alone—she had her cat, Missy, whom she had recently adopted from the ASPCA. And that, before Missy, her cat’s name had been Abigail.

Amanda had learned that Mrs. Goldblum was one wonderful older lady whose friendship meant the world to her. While Amanda fought the urge to shower money on her—an urge that, if Mrs. Goldblum ever suspected, would undoubtedly raise her wrath—she did manage to hatch two plots that did much to cheer her older friend’s life: a cleaning woman (Rosanne) who would come once a week for twenty-five dollars (supplemented in secret by a twenty-five-dollar increase on Amanda’s tab); and a formal tea served at Amanda’s every Tuesday afternoon.

“Don’t drop it, Rosanne,” Mrs. Goldblum was saying, “place it on the table.”

Rosanne was looking dangerous. She yanked on the hem of her uniform but said nothing.

“I’m sure the tea is lovely,” Mrs. Goldblum added. “You always make it perfectly.”

Rosanne’s mouth twitched. “Thanks,” she finally said.

Amanda walked back to the table from the fireplace. “I quite agree with Mrs. Goldblum,” she said, smiling. “You know, Rosanne, we are very, very fortunate to have you.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Goldblum said, taking Rosanne’s hand. “You know, dear,” she said, “I often wish you could have been with us when the children were small.”

Rosanne squinted at this declaration.

Mrs. Goldblum looked at Amanda. “I’m quite sure Mr. Goldblum would have been every bit as fond of her as I am. And,” she said, eyes turning up toward Rosanne, “we had all of our lovely things then, things I would have liked very much for you to see.”

“What, like the bone china?” Rosanne asked her.

A small, wistful sigh. “Yes,” she said, eyes moving down to her bracelet, “my lovely china.”

“Well, you still got that plate,” Rosanne said. To Amanda: “You should see it. It’s really nice. Sort of pink, with flowers.”

“Painted by hand,” Mrs. Goldblum said.

Rosanne gave Mrs. Goldblum’s hand a little shake. “I can just see how it looked at Sunday dinner, Mrs. G. All I have to do is look at that plate and I can see the whole thing.”

Mrs. Goldblum smiled.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Rosanne said, gently disengaging her hand from Mrs. Goldblum’s and heading for the double doors that opened on to the hall.

“Thank you, Rosanne,” Amanda said. “I can’t imagine who that might be,” she added, frowning slightly.

“Perhaps it is a neighbor,” Mrs. Goldblum suggested.

But Amanda didn’t have any neighbors on this floor of the building. That is, unless Mrs. Goldblum was taking into consideration the ghost who was said to be living in the south tower.

“No!” they heard from the foyer. “You wait right there. Don’t move an inch until I find out what Ms. Miller has to say—if she’s at home.” Silence. “Hey! I told you not to move and I mean, don’t move.”

Amanda and Mrs. Goldblum looked at each other.

Rosanne came in and closed the double doors behind her. “Oh, boy,” she sighed, slumping against the doors, “it’s Mr. Computer Head and he’s got flowers.”

Amanda’s back went ramrod straight.

“Yeah,” Rosanne confirmed, “and I don’t think they’re for your word processor.”

“Is it your young man?” Mrs. Goldblum asked Amanda.

“Yeah,” Rosanne said, “the guy we just finished trashin’.” Amanda seemed disoriented. Mrs. Goldblum didn’t say a word; she merely looked down at her napkin.

“I—” Amanda started, and then stopped.

Mrs. Goldblum placed her napkin on the table. “Of course you must see him, dear,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “It’s time for me to leave on any account.”

“Take him into the writing room and tell him I’ll be with him momentarily,” Amanda told Rosanne.

Rosanne sighed and did as she was told, closing the doors behind her. “Ms. Miller has guests,” they heard her say, “but she’ll see ya for a minute. Follow me.”

Amanda saw Mrs. Goldblum to the front door, where she assisted her with the pinning of her hat in place, with her coat and with her walking stick. “It was lovely, darling Amanda, and I so enjoyed myself,” Mrs. Goldblum said. She turned her face to allow Amanda to kiss her cheek, adding, “Just remember, dear, if you feel pain, it’s because you’ve left the road for a thicket.”

Amanda smiled and kissed her again. Closing the door, she paused there a moment. Straighten UP; shoulders

BACK; WALK.

Roger was sifting through a pile of discs by her word processor when she walked in. He looked up and smiled. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Amanda said, standing there.

Rosanne pushed past Amanda in the doorway to plunk down a vase of white roses on the table. On her way out, she said loudly, “I’ll offer Mr. Smith some more tea.”

“The flowers are lovely, thank you,” Amanda said, closing the door.

Roger sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He was a good-looking man in his early forties. Well, Amanda reconsidered, pleasant-looking, but it was never for his looks that she had got involved with him.

He gestured to the word processor. “I see you’ve been working on Catherine.” He laughed to himself, hitting one of the keys. “If nothing else, at least you can run this baby by yourself now.”

“Yes,” Amanda said.

That was how Amanda had met Roger. He had sold her the machine and delivered it himself. And then he had tried to teach her how to work it. And then he had tried to teach her how to work him. Amanda had been eminently more successful at her first attempt at one than the other.

Grinning at her, he plunged his hand in his pants pocket and furiously jingled the change in it.

“Roger,” Amanda said, moving to sit in the easy chair, “what do you want?”

He cocked his head. “I’m not sure, exactly.” His eyes trailed down, to there. To Amanda’s breasts.

She must be flat-chested, Amanda thought, crossing her legs.

He moved closer to her, coins still jingling. “Maybe I thought I was making a mistake,” he said. Amanda didn’t say anything. “Maybe I thought I had to be sure.”

Amanda sighed, looking down at the armrest. “I don’t think so,” she said finally, looking up. “There was never any pretense between us. That there was any more to it than…”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes narrowing. Jingle. Jingle. Jingle.

“Good grief,” Amanda said, shaking her head. She was surprised—was she really?—at the erection apparent in his pants. It was coming closer into view. Jingle. Jingle. Jingle. Amanda lunged out of the chair. “Roger—” she said again, whirling around, “what on earth do you think you’re doing?” She walked to the window, held onto the cross pane, and looked out at the river. “What about your girl? The one who adores you?”

“Cooking dinner, probably,” came the answer.

Amanda turned around and leaned back against the sill. “But she’s not enough for you, I presume.”

Jingle, jingle, jingle. He was on the move again.

“I was under the impression that you were going to marry this girl.”

“I might,” he said, smiling, moving toward her.

“This is a marvelous start for a marriage,” Amanda observed, folding her arms across her chest.

“Hmmm,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. Amanda dropped her head. He kissed the top of it. “What do you care?” he murmured. “You never pretended to care for me.” He lifted the hair away and pressed his lips against her neck.

Amanda’s mind raced. It was undeniable, what she felt. What she felt like doing. What she always felt like doing with Roger, and it wasn’t conversing. This unbearable, insufferable computer salesman also possessed an unbearable, insufferable member that was, at this moment, pressing against her. Only the words weren’t really “unbearable” and “insufferable”; they were “unbelievable” and “insatiable.” Like the compatible parts of her own body.

He had his hand on her breast and in a few moments Amanda was reaching down to feel the length and breadth of his excitement. He moaned into her neck, dropping his hand to press between her legs. “I am aching to get inside you,” he whispered in her ear.

The phone started ringing. Both of them froze. It rang and rang and rang. “Rosanne will get it,” Amanda whispered, their palms still pressed against each other.

But she didn’t. On the eighth ring, Amanda sighed, pulled away from Roger and smoothed her hair. “Hello?”

“I just wanted to remind you that Mr. Smith’s out here,” Rosanne’s voice said.

Amanda closed her eyes.

“You know, like he’s out here if you need him,” Rosanne was saying. Amanda also heard the sound of a zipper. She opened her eyes to see Roger lifting himself out of his pants. “I can knock on the door—” Roger moved in close and pulled Amanda’s hand down to hold him. She did. “Or maybe Mr. Smith could even yell for ya, ya never know. Or maybe he could break somethin’ in the kitchen ’cause he’s jealous or somethin’.” Roger slid Amanda’s dress up to her waist and managed to work her panty hose down. And her underwear. “Too bad there’s no gun around. A couple shots would do the trick.” Roger parted her legs with one hand, eased himself out of Amanda’s hand, and moved behind her. “How ’bout a light bulb? Sounds just like a gun sometimes.” He pushed her forward over the desk. “Amanda,” she finally said, “if you need some help you’re gonna have to say somethin’.” Roger felt for, and found, the right place and brought himself up into position.

And then Amanda cried, “No!” and tried to twist away.

And then Rosanne started pounding on the door.

She had been divorced for six years. Six years. Could it be? Six years since she had been Mrs. Christopher Gain? It was hard to believe.

If it had been six years since her marriage, then Catherine the Great had been living in her head for ten years, and existing on paper for—let’s see…five years. Could that be right?

That was right.

Amanda Miller was thirty-two years old. Thirty-two? That would make her mother—fifty-eight, her father…seventy?

Yes.

Yes, that was right.

In 1946 a WASP-y rich girl from Baltimore entered Syracuse University as a freshman. Tinker Fowles was her name. Tinker Fowles fell head over heels with her dreamy-eyed English teacher, and scandal ensued. Not only was this Associate Professor Reuben Miller twelve years older, but he was Jewish as well. (“His mother does not even speak English!” Nana Fowles had shrieked in Baltimore, pulling her hair out.) The Fowleses filed an official protest with the university, but to no avail. Tinker went ahead and married Reuben and, to her parents’ fury, Tinker transferred the million-dollar trust fund left to her from her grandmother to a Syracuse bank.

The year 1950 brought Tinker a degree in English; 1952 brought a master’s degree; 1954 brought baby Amanda; 1955 brought a doctorate in English literature; and 1957 found Professor and Associate Professor Miller both working in the English department. They were, as everyone on campus noted, the most ridiculously romantic couple ever seen in this century. The Professors Miller left poetry in each other’s office mailboxes; La Professora (as Reuben often called his wife) received flowers often; My Darling Own (as Tinker often called her husband) found silk ties and handkerchiefs hidden in his office; and every evening at six the two could be seen strolling out of the Hall of Languages, crossing the lawn, listening to the music students play the bells of Crouse Tower. They would stand there, hand in hand, smiling at each other. My Darling Own would, as he would describe, “dare to slip his hand around his dearest’s waist.”

Amanda, everyone agreed, was adorable, but certainly the oddest child around. To begin with, she was forever floating about in costume. One afternoon it would be as a princess, the next as a prince. Fridays usually found her streaking around the campus, laughing to herself, trailing multicolored layers of capes and scarves. She was reading by four and, by special arrangement, received her education at the hands of the students in the School of Education.

The Millers lived in a hundred-year-old Victorian house in Jamesville. Amanda had the entire third floor as her own. She spent hours up there by herself, reading and writing, playing music on her record player, and acting out plays that had no beginnings and no endings. She sang too (though terribly off key), and had a passion for what she considered dramatic dance (anything between ballet and the twist, or combinations thereof).

Adults were fascinated (and ultimately won over) by Amanda; children were decidedly leery of her. Upon introduction, Amanda was prone to break into merry song of her own composition and do a little dance—taking little leaps this way and that—to the usual response of her new acquaintances skedaddling but quick. But Amanda did not seem to mind; it was the attention of adults that made her happiest.

By age fifteen Amanda—strange as ever—took her SATs. And there was a bit of a problem. She scored a perfect 800 on the English part and 200 in the math (the 200 one receives for merely signing one’s name). Nana Fowles (now the widow dowager of Baltimore) pleaded with Tinker to give Amanda to her for a year—to get Amanda “stabilized,” to get this math problem straightened away and to prepare Amanda for something other than reciting poetry at the top of her lungs in the stairwells of the Hall of Languages.

Amanda begged to go. By this time Nana had made her year-round residence the Fowles Farm, a source of wonder and enchantment to Amanda all of her young life. And so Amanda traveled to Baltimore in Nana’s limousine to get stabilized.

While Nana was otherwise rather forbidding in nature, she was helpless against the charms of her granddaughter. For the next fourteen months Amanda could be seen daily riding across the expanse of Fowles Farm, scarves trailing in the wind behind her. It had not been Nana’s intention to put Amanda’s fantasy world on four legs, but the girl was growing so quickly, so alarmingly, that even Nana had to admit that adulthood and labors of the heart would be arriving soon enough.

However, every afternoon at four, Monday through Friday, poor old Mr. Hammer would arrive, shouldering the burden of trying to teach Amanda mathematics. Amanda was cheerful, amiable, and even stopped touching Mr. Hammer’s ears when he asked her to (“They are ever so remarkably red,” Amanda would say), but she seemed to go into some kind of autistic trance when his lesson began. She watched as hard as she could but heard nothing. It was a language that her brain did not understand.

“Amanda,” Mr. Hammer would say, marking a big red X by every question on the test sheet, “you have outdone yourself. Now, not only can you not do algebra, but you appear to have lost the ability to add.”

Amanda would slide down in her chair and examine her hair at close range. “Nana will be most grievously vexed,” she would sigh.

Poor Nana was also suffering grievous vexation over the bodily changes that had descended on her granddaughter. The slight girl who had arrived was blossoming in ways that Fowles women did not. “You must do something,” Nana would direct the seamstress, “about that—about her—” The movement of her hand would indicate that the seamstress was to do something about concealing Amanda’s ever expanding chest.