“No one. Just a help on an off-Sunday. He is going to write an epic
poem, year after next, meanwhile he’s a ghost-writer for a couple of
movie stars and a prizefighter. I’ll meet him downstairs if you don’t
mind, because you’re his type and he would spend an hour talking to you,
and I’m awfully hungry.”
“Do you really want me to live with you, Lucia?”
“Yes. We’ll have fun. You’ll see.”
Ringing of the doorbell sent Lucia downstairs. I lighted a cigarette,
and began to read, “The Silver Spoon.”
* * * * *
Lucia arranged everything. She saw my landlord and got permission for me
to break my lease—chose what furniture I would take uptown, saw Nora,
and decided we could manage to support her as well as the rent, if she
would keep our clothes pressed and lingerie straps sewn on; bought me a
daybed.
The day the storage people came to pack was the only time, after that
Sunday, when I spent more than ten minutes in my old apartment.
Maple beds with pineapple posts, gold-framed mirror with the eagle on
it, that had been my great-grandmother’s, Peter’s cherished ship
bookends, the hangings we had bought at Liberty’s in London—all were
swiftly mummified in brown paper, and departed.