different way than either becoming the anarchical member of a family who is forced to the enactment of violent insurrection, or someone like Edith Wharton who turns to writing but never abandons the manners of her culture, however much it made her suffer. Me, I just didn’t belong, I knew it, and now I know why.”
“As I keep saying, you might have turned out very much the same as a real Fansler.”
“No, Reed, I’ve decided. Jay made the difference. I can’t think why, if he had never appeared, I wouldn’t have realized that. I guess it’s because the question never came up; because I never really thought about it.”
CHAPTER TEN
. . . he is arrived, here where his daughter dwells.
During the next week nothing whatever happened. Reed and Kate promised each other to resist any temptation to do anything about Jay. As they recognized, the temptation was great to make something happen: perhaps to call Laurence, urging him on; perhaps to try to probe further into Jay’s life. They yearned to set some action, any action, into motion, but bound by their mutual agreement, they abstained. By well into the following week, as a result of this forbearance, they found it increasingly easier to let hours pass without thinking of Kate’s father and his putative criminal career. Kate even stopped obsessing about what such a father meant to her sense of herself. They had even begun to wonder if they might not stagger through the rest of their lives without ever encountering Jay again.
And then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, he reappeared. One morning, when Kate was home alone with Banny, the back doorbell rang. Supposing it to be a delivery or Con Edison to read a meter, Kate opened the door to confront a painter. The back-elevator man explained that this man was working with the company painting the lobby and some of the halls, and he wanted to come in to examine the front hall outside of Kate’s apartment. The painter was slumped against the elevator wall, his body language indicating annoyance at having to examine the hall, at permission having to be asked. Upon Kate’s nodding agreement with this plan, the painter slouched into the apartment.
“Shall I wait?” the elevator man asked.
“Don’t bother,” the painter said. “I’ll walk down. I have to get some measurements.” And with that, the elevator closed.
“This way,” Kate said.
“It’s me,” the painter said. And the slouching painter took off his cap, straightened up, his whole demeanor changed, and Kate recognized Jay.
“It’s an old trick,” he said, “but still a good one. You kind of join up with some outfit that’s doing some work in the house, and try to get past the staff; this fellow is so lazy he couldn’t bother to check me out. And why should he? I’m with the outfit that’s doing the painting. They send different painters around each day—the boss comes to check them and their work out at the end of the afternoon. As long as I avoid him, I’m okay. It has to be supposed that he knows what painters he’s hired, but the painters don’t always know each other.”
Kate stared at him. So many questions crowded into her mind that she was beyond expressing any of them; her astonishment was palpable.
“It’s all right,” Jay said. “Have you a room you don’t use much; one with the shades drawn, or able to be drawn?”
Kate took a moment to register the question. “Well,” she said, “there’s a maid’s room. We don’t use it, except as a sort of attic. In here.” The “maid’s room” opened out of the kitchen. It contained a cot, a bureau, some shelves bulging with unassorted items, and a number of boxes from computers, printers, and VCRs stacked around. There was not much room to move.
“We could throw out most of this,” Kate said. “We also have a bin in the basement where we could put what we want to keep. We just never get around to it. If we got rid of some of these boxes . . .”
“Don’t
“As I keep saying, you might have turned out very much the same as a real Fansler.”
“No, Reed, I’ve decided. Jay made the difference. I can’t think why, if he had never appeared, I wouldn’t have realized that. I guess it’s because the question never came up; because I never really thought about it.”
CHAPTER TEN
. . . he is arrived, here where his daughter dwells.
During the next week nothing whatever happened. Reed and Kate promised each other to resist any temptation to do anything about Jay. As they recognized, the temptation was great to make something happen: perhaps to call Laurence, urging him on; perhaps to try to probe further into Jay’s life. They yearned to set some action, any action, into motion, but bound by their mutual agreement, they abstained. By well into the following week, as a result of this forbearance, they found it increasingly easier to let hours pass without thinking of Kate’s father and his putative criminal career. Kate even stopped obsessing about what such a father meant to her sense of herself. They had even begun to wonder if they might not stagger through the rest of their lives without ever encountering Jay again.
And then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, he reappeared. One morning, when Kate was home alone with Banny, the back doorbell rang. Supposing it to be a delivery or Con Edison to read a meter, Kate opened the door to confront a painter. The back-elevator man explained that this man was working with the company painting the lobby and some of the halls, and he wanted to come in to examine the front hall outside of Kate’s apartment. The painter was slumped against the elevator wall, his body language indicating annoyance at having to examine the hall, at permission having to be asked. Upon Kate’s nodding agreement with this plan, the painter slouched into the apartment.
“Shall I wait?” the elevator man asked.
“Don’t bother,” the painter said. “I’ll walk down. I have to get some measurements.” And with that, the elevator closed.
“This way,” Kate said.
“It’s me,” the painter said. And the slouching painter took off his cap, straightened up, his whole demeanor changed, and Kate recognized Jay.
“It’s an old trick,” he said, “but still a good one. You kind of join up with some outfit that’s doing some work in the house, and try to get past the staff; this fellow is so lazy he couldn’t bother to check me out. And why should he? I’m with the outfit that’s doing the painting. They send different painters around each day—the boss comes to check them and their work out at the end of the afternoon. As long as I avoid him, I’m okay. It has to be supposed that he knows what painters he’s hired, but the painters don’t always know each other.”
Kate stared at him. So many questions crowded into her mind that she was beyond expressing any of them; her astonishment was palpable.
“It’s all right,” Jay said. “Have you a room you don’t use much; one with the shades drawn, or able to be drawn?”
Kate took a moment to register the question. “Well,” she said, “there’s a maid’s room. We don’t use it, except as a sort of attic. In here.” The “maid’s room” opened out of the kitchen. It contained a cot, a bureau, some shelves bulging with unassorted items, and a number of boxes from computers, printers, and VCRs stacked around. There was not much room to move.
“We could throw out most of this,” Kate said. “We also have a bin in the basement where we could put what we want to keep. We just never get around to it. If we got rid of some of these boxes . . .”
“Don’t
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