“At your age? How’d you escape it? But I just don’t like those big catered and structured affairs like that and this one seems especially unnecessary, since they were married last summer and have already gone on two honeymoons. I was the matron of honor or as close to that title as a woman with my marital history can get, and the whole dopey idea of it makes me question my friendship with her somewhat and just a little sick. But she wants me there tonight and so I have to be going. It’s only right. There’s a special seat for me.”
“May I speak to you another time?”
“If you want to phone me you can. I’m in the Manhattan book. My name’s Helene Winiker with an i-k-e-r. I’m the only Helene in it, and my service will be home if I’m not. Your name is what?”
“Daniel Krin.”
“Okay, Mr. Krin — pleased to meet you.” She takes a glove off and shakes my hand. “Now I have to scoot,” and she goes downstairs.
I go back in, squeeze past some people by the door, push my way past some people a little ways past the door, try to squeeze and push my way across the room to get to one of the two windows overlooking the street, someone says “Excuse me” as if I should have been the one to say excuse me to her, and she’s right, someone says “Excuse me” as if it’s his fault the room’s this crowded and he’s in my way when I push past him, I say “Excuse me” to several people including the few who for various reasons said excuse me to me, one man says “I’ll say,” another says “Have a heart, commander, that’s my only back,” a woman says “Louis, you made me spill my drink,” and he says “No, it was he,” till I reach the freest window.
It’s snowing, though lightly, not sticking except on the grass and a little on the tops of parked cars and trees, actually looking more like sleet. I want to open the window and look down to see Helene leaving the building and walking down the stoop or already heading some way along the street, but I know it’ll be too cold. I could make up excuses to whoever’s near me. “It’s very stuffy in here,” “So much cigarette smoke I can hardly breathe,” “Maybe some people would appreciate a little cool air in the room because of the congestion and heat,” and I say to the three people talking together next to me “Mind if I open the window?”
“Might be a bit drafty,” a man says.
“The temperature’s supposed to be dropping rapidly tonight,” the woman says to him.
“If you do open it,” another man says, “what do you say to only a tinkle?”
“No really, it’s very stuffy in here, I can hardly breathe because of the congestion and heat. I’m serious. Too many cigarettes going. You can barely see the food on the food table being contaminated by the smoke. And I’m allergic to cigarettes that are lit. Not only my respiratory track but for some organismic reason or another, they also in heavy doses make me irritable. I’m sure some other guests must be suffering the same discomfort and so won’t mind a momentary jolt of fresh air.”
“I’m really not sure,” the woman says. “But if you are going to, give me a chance to get to the other side of the room?”
She pardons her way past several people with one of the men behind her holding her hand the European way while I pull the bottom part of the window all the way up and stick my head and chest out and look down, feeling that by now Helene will be at either end of the block. She’s standing on the top step having trouble opening her contractible umbrella. She gives up trying to open it by hand and bangs the handle end against the iron railing a few times and the umbrella pops open. She walks downstairs with the umbrella over her head. I want to call her name. She reaches the sidewalk and goes right. I think don’t, it’s stupid, but yell “Helene.” She stops, looks around at eye level: stoops, first stories of buildings, both ends of her side of the street.
“Helene Winiker — up here.”
She looks across the street as if I’m in one of the taller park trees.
“You’re getting warmer, but wrong direction. Turn around a hundred eighty degrees to your left or right and look — no, now about ninety degrees to your left or two-hundred seventy to your right and look at the wet snow snowing or sleet sleeting past the red brick building you came out of and then at the middle window of the apartment you were in three flights up, which is the only top floor apartment of that building facing the street, and if your eyesight’s all right and you can also see past the snow or sleet and remember who I am, you’ll come to recognize me. Mr. Krin.”
“It’s very cold,” a man says.
“Freezing,” a woman says. “Could you lower the window, sir?”
“Yes, that’s a terrific idea,” another woman says. “Don’t you think you should listen to it?”
“Hey, what’s going on there, shut that window,” a man says. “My wife just got over a bad cold.”
“Who opened the window?” Diana says from across the room. “Even if no one did, could someone please close it?”
