Hot Desk: A Novel - 15

The local radio and TV stations had been blaring about the freak spring blizzard all morning. As far as Jane could tell, the snow was steady and, yes, surprising, but not what she would call a blizzard. Nevertheless, the city was in turmoil. Schools were closed, trains were late, and Rose’s father called from the airport to say he was headed to the apartment, since his flight was canceled. Rose had left for Paris a few days earlier for a fashion shoot. The last place Jane wanted to be was alone with Anders Bergesen, so she decided to walk to work and then stay the night at her own apartment in the East Village. Drew had called to say he couldn’t get to the subway station, and anyway, snow day! Jane stepped out onto the street clutching a small bag of overnight things and wearing her Russian hat. The wind almost knocked her over, and she was blinded by a swirl of snow. Traffic had come to a complete stop. Fine, Jane conceded, blizzard!

The ten-block walk was exhilarating. With the traffic stilled, Jane tromped in the muted city past a woman doing battle with an inside-out umbrella, a man unearthing his car with a broom, and a few gleeful children in puffy snowsuits hurling fistfuls of snow at each other. White heaps piled on each branch of the trees lining the streets, and Jane could make out the pink blossoms of spring, bright and surprised under a skin of snow. The air was cold, and she felt the clarifying sting of it in her nose and lungs. Just last week she and Rose had been sitting on the bench in front of the iron railing overlooking the river outside the town house. There were daffodils! They had been up late the night before having drinks with the East River Review staff, Teddy presiding over the table, ordering martinis and regaling them with stories. As it was anytime they were in his presence, the interns were rapt, Drew downing inadvisable amaretto sours, Rose catching Teddy’s eye, and Jane trying to keep track of all the new names she was learning: which artist had a sold-out show, which writer had become a social pariah, which actor had a new mistress. After a spirited group discussion of John Irving’s latest novel, Deedle got up to demonstrate an exercise from Jane Fonda’s workout tape. This involved him flat on his back like a plump beetle, legs churning, a harried waiter sidestepping to avoid him. Jane had laughed so hard that she started coughing; everyone was howling; even Ellen, close at Teddy’s elbow, had smiled indulgently. In the incandescence of candlelight, Jane thought everyone looked beautiful. She urged herself to remember the choice phrases she would scribble into her notebook later: “the plump beetle,” “the incandescence of candlelight.”

When she got to the town house, Parker was out front holding a shovel. “Oh, Jane!” he called, his words snatched by the wind. “Everyone left or didn’t come in. I was going to do the steps, but it’s useless.” Jane didn’t imagine that he’d tried very hard, but it was true that the snow was already drifting up against the blue door in the clearing he had made. He was wearing a thick woolen hat with braided strings that looked fairly ridiculous. “I know they have salt somewhere, but…” He trailed off, shrugging helplessly. “I’m going home before it gets worse.”

“I have some things to do,” Jane shouted over the roar. “If that’s all right?”

“Just lock up when you leave! You know where Ellen keeps the key? And if you want to come to York Tavern, Deedle is seeking shelter there. I might stop by.”

Jane lifted a mittened hand and skidded down the stairs. She had never been alone in the office before. There was a cigarette butt in Ellen’s cactus, an open book on Jonathan’s desk. Paco, who hadn’t been there in weeks, had left a cashmere sweater draped over his chair. Jane shed her outerwear and sat down at Parker’s desk. She depressed the typewriter keys and opened his top drawer. A roll of chalky Smarties, one brown leather glove, a stash of striped canvas watch bands in different colors, a copy of Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style . It was so cold that Jane wondered if the heat had ever even come on. The radiator was ominously silent.

Teddy had gone to London to “sort things out” with Clara—though, as everyone had heard from his booming voice on Jonathan’s phone, he was retaining a lawyer. The interns had seen Clara exactly once, when she and Paco arrived at a book party late and overdressed. Clara was an abstraction to them, and after she took up residence in the London flat, Teddy was visibly more relaxed and his visits to the office picked up. Every time he barreled through, the air was charged with his energy. Jane loved it when Teddy ran the editorial meetings that were usually handled by Jonathan: they all trooped up to the living room with their coffees, the discussions were free-flowing, and everyone vied for Teddy’s attention. No matter who spoke—Jonathan, who had been at the magazine forever, or Jane, whose cheeks flamed when she opened her mouth—Teddy gave them his absolute attention, shaggy head cocked, his eyes aglow with interest.

Jane blew on her hands to warm them. She had pulled an amazing story from the slush pile about an English Pentecostal community and was determined to convince Ellen to take a chance on the writer, who was about the same age as Jane. She rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. Maybe she should call her mom, who was probably watching the news and worrying. Although a blizzard in April would certainly be a sign from her mother’s merciless god, who often, it seemed, signaled his disapproval of sin with bad weather. Jane knew how the conversation would go: Was Jane safe? Were there crackheads on the streets? Had Jane been to Mass? Would Jane please consider coming home and helping out at the store? Did Jane know that there was a crime epidemic raging in New York City? When would Jane get “all this” out of her system? Jane decided not to call her mother. Her hands were still too cold to type. If the door was unlocked at the top of the back stairs, it would be a sign that she should read on the window seat.

The window’s thick glass swallowed a crack of thunder, and Jane tucked her stocking feet under a cushion. Snow dropped furiously onto the river, disappearing into the dark water. It was much warmer upstairs, cozy even. She opened a cover letter. “Dear Edward David Adams, I guess you could say I am a Renaissance Man much like yourself…” Jane laughed out loud. This was one to save for Rose and Drew. She skimmed the predictably awful poetry and tucked it back into the envelope with a form rejection letter. “We regret that we are unable to publish it” always struck Jane as untrue: certainly they were able to; they just chose not to. The interns spent quite a bit of time regretting to inform each other that they were unable to find a subway token, that they were unable to sanction Rose’s desire to watch The Love Boat , or that they were unable to meet Deedle for a nightcap.

There was a sudden thump. Jane leaped up from the window seat, her heart galloping. “Hello? Is someone there?” It was Teddy’s deep voice calling down the spiral stairs.

“Yes! I’m so sorry! It’s Jane!” she called back.

Teddy strolled into the living room barefoot, his thick hair tousled. “What a delightful surprise,” he said amiably. “Good heavens! Has the world ended?” He gazed out the windows. “How very Joycean.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jane repeated herself. “I thought you were in London, and I had some work to do. Parker told me it was fine to go upstairs.” Parker had not told her it was fine to go upstairs, but Parker was most likely on his third hot toddy with Deedle.

“They canceled my flight last night,” Teddy told her, stretching. He was wearing an untucked blue button-down shirt and chinos.

“I can leave.” Jane started gathering her things. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

“Nonsense! Where would you go in this tempest? I’ll do some work, you carry on, then we’ll reconvene for sustenance.” He wandered off toward his office, where Jane had once been sent to consult the enormous Oxford English Dictionary , perched on its own pulpit.

It was hard to concentrate at first, but Jane found she had read through a large pile of submissions by the time Teddy came back, singing in a rich baritone, “ Oh, the weather outside is frightful… ” He motioned to Jane. “You stay right there and I’ll see what sort of provisions Lorraine has left us.” He disappeared and Jane could hear him singing. Should she leave? Should she stay and eat with him? Rose and Drew would be jealous. But it was sure to make a good story, right? She had never been alone with Teddy. Since their intern lunch, he had given Rose some of his work with the instruction to “do what she could with it.” He had taken Rose out, just the two of them, and listened with great openness, Rose explained excitedly, to her praise and suggestions. He had arranged for the interns to visit Keith Haring’s studio, and Ellen had asked Jane what she thought about staying on at the magazine. Jane had been too enthusiastic, perhaps, and scared Ellen off; she hadn’t mentioned it again, although Rose and Drew assured her it would happen. But there had been no sign from Teddy that he had read the story she had given him after their intern lunch.

Teddy came back from the kitchen with a baguette, a knife balanced on a plate of cheese, and a bottle tucked under his arm. “Spread that out and we’ll have a feast!” He nodded toward a blanket on one of the armchairs, and Jane hastily set up a picnic on the floor. She was nervous but he put her at ease, telling a funny anecdote about expats in Tangiers, detailing the provenance of the wine, noting again her keen eye regarding the Cisneros story. The snow continued to fall, so thick and fast that it obscured the view and gave the illusion, Jane thought, of their being alone in the world, everything else muffled, the movement outside merely white noise. Teddy’s tan feet made her think of a beach; she found them endearing, intimate. Jane was careful to take her time with one glass of wine; she wanted to stay alert in this fairy tale.

She told him about the Renaissance Man cover letter, how she hadn’t gone swimming since seeing Jaws , how she stayed up all night to finish Middlemarch , how she and Rose won tickets to see Grandmaster Flash by calling a radio station. Teddy recited a poem by Kenneth Patchen (Jane admitted she had never heard of him), his voice shifting to a deeper register:

The snow is deep on the ground.

Always the light falls

Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

This is a good world.

The war has failed.

God shall not forget us.

Who made the snow waits where love is.

Only a few go mad.

The sky moves in its whiteness

Like the withered hand of an old king.

God shall not forget us.

Who made the sky knows of our love.

The snow is beautiful on the ground.

And always the lights of heaven glow

Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.

Jane, who might have been embarrassed, was instead moved by the theatrics of his performance, shivering a little when Teddy fell silent and the poem still resonated. This was the life she had scarcely dared to imagine when she first moved to New York: poetry and bread and cheese and real friends who spent hours browsing books with her at the Strand or drinking cheap wine at art gallery openings. Who would believe that she was sitting on the floor with Edward David Adams, whose books she had studied, whose striking face she had admired in magazines?

“ ‘The sky moves in its whiteness’ indeed.” Teddy clapped his hands. Jane started gathering the empty plates. “No, no, leave it,” he commanded. “Enough poetry! Shall we exercise our bodies as well as our minds?”

Jane laid the knife down carefully and said nothing. “I speak of course of billiards,” Teddy continued, in a gently teasing way. “Have you played?”

“I have.” Jane’s pulse quickened. In all the time she had been at the East River Review , she still hadn’t dared to disturb the table.

“Perhaps a small wager, then?” Teddy rose to his commanding height and offered Jane his hand. It was warm and dry, and he pulled her easily to her feet. “Two out of three. Winner of each game gets one thing he or she wants. Grand winner gets bragging rights.”

Jane’s confidence surged. She knew what she wanted. “I accept your terms,” she said formally, turning their hands, still clasped, into an official shake.

“Shall I break?” Teddy was already racking the balls, the noise familiar and exciting. It reminded her of her uncle’s bar and the times she had felt most powerful, most in control. Jane knew that they should have flipped a coin to determine who broke first. Breaking gave you an advantage, but Jane didn’t say anything. She watched as Teddy made a hard, clean break, then sunk three stripes. “I’ll take high balls,” he instructed her as he handed over the cue. Jane resisted lifting all the cues in the holder to find her fit. Instead, buoyed by skill and luck, she ran the table, winning on a decisive smack of the eight ball into the corner left pocket. Teddy laughed in delight. “Why, Jane Kinloch!” he roared. “You surprising little thing!”

In the glow of victory, Jane realized that up until that moment she had been unsure if Teddy even knew her full name.

“And now I must pay up!” He looked down at her, eyes twinkling. “Tell me your heart’s desire, Jane Kinloch.”

Jane began racking the balls so she wouldn’t have to look directly at him, his dark, shining eyes. “I want you to read my story. The one I gave you. ‘Tomboy.’ And tell me what you think. And be honest.”

“Agreed! I would be delighted!” Teddy stepped back to give Jane space. She broke with easy force, sinking three solids, but leaving her path forward blocked. Handing the stick to Teddy, she said breezily, “I’ll take low.”

Teddy laughed again, then switched to deadly serious, stalking around the table, his big body agile and his span allowing him to make seemingly impossible shots. The game was over quickly. “Shirt off, my dear,” he announced casually as he chalked the cue tip.

For a minute, Jane’s brain lagged. Shirt off? She worked hard to make sense of it. Was it a kind of dare? Okay, this would be the story for Rose. Playing pool in her white cotton bra! With Teddy! Everyone knew Teddy sometimes ambled downstairs in his boxers and challenged whoever was around to a game. Jane had been secretly waiting for her chance. They even had a drinks fund made up of his winnings: a coffee can that Ellen kept in the galley kitchen. Jane knew that Teddy was interested in Rose. Obviously in a different way than he was interested in her. There was no comparison. Everyone was interested in Rose. Rose was Rose! Anyway, Rose and Teddy were just circling, flirting. There was the matter of nineteen years. Also, Jane was sure she could win. She was too flushed with competitive spirit and the indignity of being hustled to fully think through the implications of continued stripping. Anyway, they only had one more game. She tossed her shirt on a chair and tried to be as nonchalant as possible. The next game lasted much longer, both of them playing defensively, thinking ahead, planning angles and blocks. Eventually, Teddy executed a trick shot that sank the eight ball over her one remaining ball. “Pants,” he ordered.

Jane unzipped her jeans, folded them carefully, and stood, arms crossed, in her white cotton boy shorts. “Splendid!” Teddy made a show of taking off his watch and belt, placing them on the pool table, and unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a wide expanse of tan chest with a dark strip of hair below his navel. “Now we’re both more relaxed. Shall we?”

Jane didn’t move. There was still time to stop this. Whatever “this” was. It wasn’t really anything, was it? Jane didn’t have to move forward. She didn’t have to move at all. It would be beyond humiliating, but she could gather her things and walk downstairs . It’s not too late , she told herself. It’s not too late! Her heart was pulsing in her throat. “Come, now,” Teddy rumbled. “I must make good on my bet, mustn’t I? I’d never leave you, fetching as you are, only fulfilling your word. I’m no welsher, Jane. I believe your story is in my den.” He walked out without looking back to make sure she was behind him.

Jane wavered. Should she put her shirt back on? But if she didn’t stick to the bet, would he not stick to the bet? Should she grab everything and slip quickly downstairs, out into the snowy street, down to her tiny apartment? How could she ever come back if she did? Agonized, Jane thought of Rose. What would Rose do? Jane conveniently blocked the fact that she was half-naked. She didn’t think of Rose’s crush on Teddy that kept them up many nights spinning elaborate fantasies. She didn’t think of Teddy’s solicitousness with Rose, his hand on her lower back when they all left the restaurant the other night, or his reportedly gushing appreciation of her edits. She didn’t want to think of anything except her story and the chance she had now. “Don’t chicken out,” she remembered Rose saying the night after the intern lunch. She followed him into the office.

Teddy was rummaging in a pile of papers. The air smelled of pipe smoke and leather. “Aha!” He pulled a few typewritten pages that Jane recognized and waved them triumphantly. He brushed past her and lowered himself onto the couch. “You stay over there; you’re far too distracting,” he directed. Jane leaned against the heavy desk, watching him read. It was unbearable. It was intoxicating. She followed his eyes scanning her words and it was as if they were moving over her exposed skin. Although she knew in the back of her mind that she should be nervous, she wasn’t. All she could think about was his validation. She wanted him to keep reading her work forever and she couldn’t wait another minute to hear what he thought.

It wasn’t a long story, and when he finished reading it, he started back at the top and read it again. Jane stayed absolutely still, as if any movement might diminish his focus. Finally, Teddy placed the papers down beside him. He gave her a long, unreadable look. Jane held her breath. It seemed that he hadn’t seen her before this moment. His eyes narrowed a little, and when he spoke, his voice had lost all its flirtatiousness, its seductive teasing. “You’re a real writer, Jane Kinloch,” he said.

Relief and pride coursed through her. Because he was still sitting and she was standing, she could meet his eyes frankly. “I am,” she said.

“Raw,” he continued. “Untutored. But you have it.” There was something almost grudging in his tone. He tapped his head. “A bit here”—he tapped the left side of his chest—“a bit here,” and then he spread his hand across his stomach. “Here is where you have it, Jane. You have the guts for it. Can’t be taught.”

Jane’s first thought was that she couldn’t wait to tell Rose. In fact, maybe she could call her in Paris from the downstairs office phone? She was chilly but elated. Why was she undressed? All of a sudden, Jane became keenly aware of the fact she was half-naked and alone with Teddy. For the first time since she had met him, Jane had the realization that he was a man. Not a monument, not untouchable. A minute ago he had looked at her with respect, writer to writer. She knew it. Now he was looking at her with darkening eyes, and she felt a prickle of fear. It wasn’t far to the door. Teddy rose to standing and in one step was in front of her. “Jane,” he said huskily. “You know I can’t control myself. Not when you’re wearing those white cotton underwear. My Achilles’ heel. You little gamine. Hoyden.” He was working himself up, Jane thought. If she could just get him calmed down, if she could just get to the door, get her clothes on.

Teddy slid his big hands over Jane’s bra and tugged the hair off her neck. Despite herself, Jane’s body responded and she softened. Maybe a few kisses , she thought desperately. It wasn’t too late. Just a few kisses, then she would leave. He was so handsome. Teddy was grappling with his pants and moving her against the desk, its edge pressing into her back. He pushed her underwear aside and ordered her to lift up, to move her leg, to get ready for him. “Wait,” Jane whispered, then louder, “Wait a minute,” but he must not have heard her because she felt him probing, fumbling. But still it wasn’t too late! She twisted a little, but he gripped her firmly.

Then it was too late. She held on to the bulk of his back, her eyes focused on the painting of a ship tossing at sea. “Oh, you little tomboy,” he groaned into her hair. It was over quickly. He stayed inside of her. “You naughty girl,” he murmured. “Now look what you’ve done. You are positively irresistible, my dear.”

Her back was going to be bruised from the desk. Teddy was still close against her. It was too late. It was too late. She could never take it back. Jane tried to breathe, but panic swelled in her chest. What had she done? She scrambled backward in her mind to all the places she could have—should have—stopped it. She had to show off playing pool. She had to take off her clothes. She had to follow him into his den, so desperate she had been to have him read her story. Suffocating, she still couldn’t bring herself to move him off her, to give him the slightest hint that he was crushing her. Why? She didn’t want to upset him or let him know that she was upset. She waited numbly until he sighed deeply and pulled out. It was wet and painful between her legs.

Teddy zipped up his pants and smiled at her. He is so handsome , Jane thought again. She looked around the room, anywhere but at him. There was a pile of hardcover books stacked on the floor, and Teddy noticed her seeing them. As he reached toward her, she flinched, but he was only getting a heavy gold pen from his desk. “Allow me,” he said, and picked up a copy of The Coldest War . “Hot off the press!” He opened the book and wrote something quickly inside, then handed it to Jane.

“Thank you,” she said, clutching it in front of her chest.

“If you don’t mind, I will hold on to your story,” he said, collecting it from the couch and slipping it back among the pile of papers. “Perhaps one day you’ll do me the honor of signing your book for me!”

Jane stood stupidly, she knew, unable to move. Her thoughts stuttered like an old black-and-white movie, the frames jerking along: her back against the desk, the ship over his shoulder. It had happened so quickly. She was freezing.

“Well, my dear,” Teddy said. “I do have more work to do. You are of course welcome to stay as long as you like. Perhaps it’s clearing up?”

“Oh, no, I have… I have plans,” Jane blurted. Still holding the book, she almost ran out of the room, dressed hastily, and picked up the manuscripts. There was a little puddle of water where her boots had been. Teddy followed her leisurely.

“Yes, it’s really slowed down.” He gestured out the windows. “I’m sure they’ve been salting and plowing all day. And nothing stops the subway.”

“I’ll lock up downstairs,” Jane promised. She couldn’t wait to get out of the town house.

“Then you’ll return the key to Ellen?” Teddy asked. He was buttoning his shirt and buckling his heavy watch.

“Of course.” Jane’s lips trembled.

“Now, now.” Teddy came over and pulled her into a warm embrace. “None of that. You keep your chin up. ‘Best words in the best order’ and all that.”

“I know,” Jane whispered into his chest. Then she was flying down the stairs, pulling on her coat and hat, finding the key, and heading out the blue door. She had to tug the mitten off her shaking hand to lock it behind her. There were only a few flakes in the cold air.

One of the doormen from a neighboring building was scraping a shovel against the sidewalk, his coat open. “Can you believe it?” he asked her in a friendly way. “Not two days ago it was seventy degrees! What does it mean? What could it mean?”

Jane didn’t trust herself to speak but instead shrugged and moved her mouth in an approximation of a smile. Above him, the lights in the town house came on, illuminating the big windows. She looked up, but there was nothing to see.