Leaving New York

Chapter 13

I woke up, then focused on what had to be a copy of a famous painting. I'd taken a course one year at the "Whitney Museum" to understand art. I liked Georgia O'Keefe and especially the way she told the world to 'fuck themselves' when she took up with Juan Hamilton, her young companion in old age. I thought, 'how nice to have a beautiful young man around to keep you company—at any age.' The copy was, I believe, "Jimson Weed" over a big bureau. I got up and opened the double doors of a massive armoire filled with finely tailored men's clothes. There was a maroon bathrobe with an "M" monogram which fit me. I wandered downstairs, finding folks munching on breakfast.

Chloe said, "Morrell's robe—it looks wonderful."

"Was it your step-fathers?"

"Yes. Coffee?"

"Sure." I plopped down at the huge kitchen table.

Gar handed me a mug, "How'd you sleep?" "Great. You two?"

Gar said, "Good. How old are you, Jack?"

"Fifty-eight."

"No!"

"Yep."

Gardner said, "Forty-four."

"Forties are great."

Chloe said, "We're all getting up there."

The days ticked by as my visit passed the two-week mark. Every time I asked Gar if I was a bother, he'd say, "Noooo, we love having you." So, I didn't feel like a freeloader, I'd made myself Mimi's assistant. I did the marketing and cleaned rooms she said she couldn't do anymore. François seemed to do nothing except drive Gar to work. They were both seventy-ish.

One day, when Mimi and I were alone, she said, "Since Madam Ethel died, it is not the same. We used to have so much fun—I typed her books until I got arthritis." She then whispered to me, "I just want to live with my sister in England. My little flat here is lonely without my husband. Paris has changed so much—all the foreigners messed up the country. They're all dirty Muslims. I'm tired—so is François. He's got emphysema. He never was a good worker, but Monsieur Morell gave him a job after he got out of prison."

A week later, Mimi told Gar she was leaving. I took all of her work in exchange for free room and board.

Chloe started painting again while Gar slogged away at the job he hated. One night, he appeared in the kitchen, about to explode. I was making meatloaf, Chloe the salad.

"I'm letting Francois go. We had a big blowout about it on the way home from work. He'll get a full pension from the state. He's a damn racist."

Chloe said, "Well, we'll need a gardener/driver."

Gar said, "I can drive myself to work. He did no gardening; it was beautiful when Antonio was doing it, Fran does nothing back there. I hate this place--like I keep saying, we have to sell, Chloe."

"No. Never. I am never moving, Gardner."

"The place is falling apart, honey. I'm sick of it."

I said, "Maybe I could help. I mean, I'm doing Mimi's work. The cooking part is like I get to practice my hobby. I could do the garden—maybe even do some repairs."

"Thanks, Jack. I guess it's okay that you do Mimi's work, maybe do some work in the garden, but nothing else. The house needs a new roof, plaster repairs, the plumbing is fucked up. Too much for one guy to handle."

Chloe pulled out a Kleenex and left the room.