Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [26]
I took the developments as a sign it was time to strike out on my own—especially since Mrs. Martingale had already warned me twice that if I didn’t get all those boxes out of her basement, she was going to throw me out. So I used half of Mr. Ross’s money to front six months’ rent on a five-hundred-square-foot studio. The other half I stowed in the bottom of my uncle Roscoe’s footlocker.
Eve intended to go straight from the hospital to Tinker’s apartment, so it was my job to move her things. I packed them as best I could, folding the shirts and sweaters into perfect squares the way that she would. At Tinker’s direction, I unpacked her bags in the master bedroom where I found the drawers and closets empty. Tinker had already moved his clothes to the maid’s room at the other end of the hall.
The first week that Eve was in residence at the Beresford, I joined the two of them for dinner every night. We would sit in the little dining room off the kitchen and eat three-course meals that were prepared in the building’s basement and served by jacketed staff. Seafood bisque followed by tenderloin and Brussels sprouts capped off with coffee and chocolate mousse.
When dinner was over, Eve was usually exhausted and I would help her to her room.
She would sit at the end of the bed and I would undress her. I would take off her right shoe and stocking. I would unzip her dress and pull it over her head being careful not to graze the little black stitches that tracked the side of her face. She would stare straight ahead, submissively. It took me three nights to realize that what she was staring at was the large mirror over the vanity. It was a stupid oversight. I apologized and said that I’d have Tinker remove the mirror. But she wouldn’t let us touch it.
Once I had tucked her in, given her a kiss, and turned out the light, I would quietly close the door and return to the living room where Tinker anxiously awaited. We didn’t have a drink. We didn’t even sit down. In the few minutes before I went home, the two of us would whisper like parents about her progress: She seems to be regaining her appetite. . . . Her color’s coming back. . . . Her leg doesn’t seem to be giving her so much discomfort.... Self-soothing phrases pattering like raindrops on a tent.
But on the seventh night after Eve’s release, when I tucked her in and gave her a kiss, she stopped me.
—Katey, she said. You know I’ll love you till doomsday.
I sat on the bed beside her.
—The feeling’s mutual.
—I know, she said.
I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back.
—I think it would be better if you didn’t come for a while.
—All right.
—You understand, don’t you?
—Sure, I said.
Because I did understand. At least, I understood enough.
It wasn’t about who had dibs now or who was sitting next to whom in the cinema. The game had changed; or rather, it wasn’t a game at all anymore. It was a matter of making it through the night, which is often harder than it sounds, and always a very individual business.
By the time the cab came to a stop on Central Park West, the sleet had turned to freezing rain. Pete, the night doorman, was there at the curb to meet me with an umbrella. He paid the cabbie two dollars for a onedollar fare and gave me cover for the five feet between the cab and the canopy. Hamilton, the youngest of the elevator attendants, was on duty. From ’Lanta, Georgia, he brought a taste of plantation civility to New York that was either going to carry him far or get him in a world of trouble.
—Have you been travelin, Miss Katherin? he asked as we began our ascent.
—Only to the grocery store, Hamilton.
He gave a sweet little laugh to show that he knew better.
I liked his