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