‘MALORY, TWO BLOCKS AWAY’
Joy Curtis
MALORY, TWO BLOCKS AWAY
Walking like a crippled ghost, I only saw her from behind. I wanted to write “angel,” not
“ghost,” because it sounds prettier. But this was not pretty.
Her dyed blond hair was in a short, disheveled pony tail, tied by a colorless twine. Her dress, if you can call it that, I think may have been a hospital gown. And she was wearing slippers meant for walking on carpets. Thank heavens it wasn’t cold outside. I couldn’t see her face, but she behaved lost as she passed the multi-storied buildings. Peeking into entrances — including mine — at each apartment house. It seemed like she was trying to find something she recognized.
I pulled my keys out from my jean’s pocket, turned into my building’s lobby at an automatic
pace, as I’ve done for decades now. Once inside I climbed the marble stairs to my one bedroom home on the second floor.
I don’t think that this walking invalid was my good friend Malory. Mae was now confined to a convalescent home on a busy corner two blocks from my house. My broken heart was for a memory awakened by this wandering stranger, seemingly lost and searching the city streets.
Malory has four sons. I am more than casually acquainted with two of them. If I lived in Los
Angeles, I’d call them friends, since it seems that anyone you have an actual conversation with is labeled, friend. Maybe it’s just semantics. But here in New York City, unless I’ve shared a few meals with someone, by my definition, they are an acquaintance. One of Malory’s sons, her youngest, is a writer and someone I would spend more time with, if our worlds were aligned differently. The second son who knows me, is a “celebrity.” He would hate my using that word.
Mostly known as a movie star, he also directs, writes and is a film maker. Being five years
younger than I, I’m not sure that my mother would recognize his name, but all of my
contemporaries know who he is, whether they’ve seen his work or not.
Malory grew up in Brooklyn, though I don’t remember which section of the borough. She was the daughter to cold, unkind parents, and heir to a family company that built pianos. She married a wealthy and successful man. They raised their four sons in an affluent town in New Jersey.
Later in time, her husband absconded with the majority of their funds, relocating to the
Hamptons on Long Island, in a midlife attempt to find himself. She managed to keep the house by selling real estate, before eventually leaving the suburbs and moving to a small apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, once her children were grown. Sometime after that, she and I met. She interviewed with the owner of the gallery for whom I
was employed. Pretending my opinion had any weight in his decision making, at a Soho
restaurant, he introduced Malory to me before he hired her. She and I immediately hit it off.
I have never known her age, though I would guess Malory is closer in years to my parents’ than to mine. Though politically and socially conservative, she had an unorthodox style all her own.
Including her lipstick and liner, applied to create a pronounced upper lip. She was elegant to the point of being arrogant, yet nurturing and hilarious. And she loved me. Though I wouldn’t say she was the most talented art sales person I’ve ever worked with, Malory
was almost always at the top of the numbers board each month. I have many theories but one I stand by was her stage in life. She’d be angry at that but I defiantly believe it to be true. Most of us who worked at the gallery were in our 20s and 30s. Being older — or let’s say more mature — gave her the ambiance of honestly. Especially to younger, professional men whom I think may have unconsciously seen a trusting mother figure in her. My boss at the New York space (a woman, by the way) couldn’t understand her method of presentation and I believe didn’t like her very much. And though I didn’t necessarily understand her sales style either, I didn’t really care as long as Mae brought in the bucks each month. Utterly adoring her, I asked that she be scheduled on my shifts. Until I left the company, she and I worked together five days a week.
In disagreements, Malory displayed a great deal of stubbornness. I think it may be how she
survived relatively well, from her affectionless childhood to her success in real estate, art sales and the unwavering parental armor she wore as a struggling single mother. After I left the art business, Malory and I saw each other about twice a year, usually sharing a meal and catching up. Eventually, even that ritual faded. She moved to a small studio apartment
near the United Nations. She had a grand piano in her limited space, taking up what seemed to be half the room. I don’t remember if it was a family labeled instrument or not. I don’t believe so. One time while visiting her, she cooked dinner for me in her tiny kitchen. Salmon and rice.
As always, our conversation was easy and affectionate. I sincerely intended to stay in her life. But like many things affected by time and excuses, we no longer stayed in touch. Her youngest son contacts me every once in a while. Odd as this may sound, he feels like a
family member to me, though we know very little about each other.
He recently texted to let me know that his mom was in a retirement home, close to where I live. He would walk by my apartment when he’d visit with Malory. If I wanted, he could pick me up one day and we could see her together. I told him I’d love that, but I never arranged for it to happen. I wanted to see her, but I was unforgivingly frightened, particularly after learning that she may not have her memories in tact. Without specific explanations, her son told me that Mae’s mind was fractured. I didn’t know if that meant she was suffering from severe dementia or facing the predictable loss of pieces from her past, due to the aging process.
I’d like to paint this as romantic and say it’s because I want to remember Malory as she was, in her full capacity. And that may be part of the reason. I spent over a decade visiting my aging and infirm parents once a week in West Orange, New Jersey, until their respective deaths. It’s more multifaceted than having to witness Mae’s fragility and impending passing. I defensively compare my reaction to PTSD. It’s the uncomfortable event of revisiting the medicinal smells and fluorescent ceilings and rooms filled with humans who once had lives filled with hopes and expectations. It is a glaring reminder that in the not too distant future, this could be me.
Andrew Sarewitz has published several short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.
