Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel - By Hilary Thayer Hamann Page 0,162

think so too.” This is a lie. To me September is watermelon rinds with panes of ants, monarch butterflies migrating to Mexico, chestnut leaves like shriveled stars fallen to the ground, luminescent dragonflies catching the sun off the cliffs in Montauk, cranberries on the bogs out in Napeague, sweet autumn clematis hanging over fences in Sag Harbor.

Brett snaps a match and lights a clove cigarette. Brett is Mark’s best friend. They met in kindergarten at Collegiate. Brett is sort of a 50-percent man—not 50-percent like left or right, but 50-percent like partial or deformed. Brett is into bonds; he says bonds are the thing. Naomi is Brett’s date. Brett dates only models. The men are talking, cataloging the ravages of nature—earthquakes, fires, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes, mud slides, plagues, killer bees. I wonder, why do they expect the earth to remain passive as we pave it?

“Let’s head to Xenon after chow,” Brett brays like an old quarter horse.

A few tables down, a girl cries into her drink. I feel bad about that. I think I know how she feels.

——

At the curb I announce that I am not going. The curb is the place for such announcements, especially when everyone is half in a waiting cab. That way it’s too late for objections.

Mark’s grip on my elbow tightens. He turns to me; his brows are furrowed. “What is it?”

“I have some reading to do, you know, for school.” I wave lightly into the taxi, into the frosty aggregate of heads. “Good night.” They do not wave back.

Mark has Brett and Naomi hold the first cab, then hails me a second one. He pays in advance. It’s not that he doesn’t trust me with cash; it’s his way of controlling outcomes. If ever there are ways to control outcomes, Mark discovers them. “Things tend to happen to you,” he always says. “You’re like a magnet that way.”

“Drive safely,” Mark tells the driver. “Very safely. Keep the change.”

He adjusts the collar on his cashmere overcoat and kisses me, lingeringly. He wants to come, but it would not look right. It would seem like something it should not. You can always count on Mark to conform, which is good. A girl has to be able to count on something.

The cab pulls out, and I submerge myself into the duct-taped vinyl seat. It feels good to sink into a taxi seat after you’ve been drinking. It’s like settling into a steamy bath or removing tight shoes. I’m happy to be relieved of having to socialize, or more accurately, to appear, somewhat like a logo. There is that flowery smell in the cab, that peculiar taxi smell, lazy and reliable and without obvious origin—not aerosol, not incense, not those little hanging pine trees. Denny says the glass crowns on dashboards contain magic tinctures and essences—vanilla and vetiver and frankincense—but tonight there is no crown. I remind myself to call Denny. Tonight, I’ll call. Possibly tonight. Or maybe tomorrow.

The city snakes past—very safely past, and I pretend to fly. Sometimes in a taxi you can pretend you are flying. I blur my eyesight like I am swooping, skimming the surface of the planet.

When we turn off Tenth Avenue onto West Sixtieth Street, Carlo jogs out to the curb and waits. It’s like a relay race, and I am the baton passed palm to palm, Mark to Carlo. Carlo is the night doorman. I wonder what he does with his days. His children are at school and his wife is at work at a blood lab on Lexington Avenue. Does he sleep past noon, eat cold pork chops, go to the barber or the bank? Sometimes I see him walking to work from the subway in a dress shirt and jacket. The toes of his good shoes are woven like kitchen chair caning. Invariably there is a storm of aftershave.

He grips the handle and assists me, steering me clear of the vehicle while closing the door and nodding professionally to the driver.

“Thank you, Carlo,” I say. The alcohol on my breath vines up about us. I wonder if he pities me. Sometimes you can’t help but pity the people you meet.

He whisks me through the entry and gestures to a hideaway by the mailboxes. “There’s cleaning.” He looks me over and reconsiders. “No problem. I wait for Mr. Ross.”

“It’s okay, Carlo. I’ll take it.” He hands it over, and I topple. “Wow,” I smile. “Heavy!” Mark sends everything out; even jeans get cleaned and pressed. Carlo tries to get