Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Last week I shared a column with pictures of the unusual stuff in every room of my house and how each thing tells another story about the quirky side of my personality. If you missed the photos, click here.

Reader Emails:

"Hi Suzanne, Thanks for your message today! It gave me a warm feeling inside. I also have things around my house that matter only to me. My husband always wonders why I will not get rid of some of them. My answer is always the same, they bring a pleasant memory back to me. Thanks for the book club, and please keep it going!" – Lolita M.

"Suzanne, I SO enjoyed looking at the photographs of your treasures. I did not want it to end! They are all displayed so nicely too, just like in a history or public museum. Thank you for sharing such an interesting part of your life and the story behind each item." – Judy

"What a delightful tour down Memory Lane. I was picturing little Suzanne exploring that big old house. You've obviously cared for your own treasures; they're displayed beautifully. Maybe an inspiration for those of us (me!) with similar exotic collections." – Mary N. K.

"Suzanne, this is the first time that I have commented about anything. I loved your photos of antique things you have around your house. My house is actually full of antique furniture that has been inherited from the ancestors. Never thought I should spend money on furniture when there was already furniture available. Anyway I too played a flute in high school and a Glockenspiel in 8th grade. And I was very bad at playing the flute, but pretty good at the Glockenspiel. The real reason that I played the flute and stayed in the band during high school was because if you stayed in the band for 4 years, you could be excused from one year of Gym class, and yes, I hated Gym class that much…. Hope you like my little story. As I said, this is the first time that I have felt drawn to write any comments. – Dawn C.

"Thank you, Suzanne, for sharing your wonderful photos!!!! I so enjoyed looking through them (I'm a 'picture' person–always willing to look through anyone's photos of vacations, new babies, home remodeling, etc.). I even recognized something that I own–the little piano music box near 'The Elites' sign! My granddaughter loves watching it play. Thank you for the trip down memory lane! Stay warm" – Mary N.

"Dear Suzanne, I just want to tell you how much I enjoyed your blog today! I loved the stories of your grandparents’ home and all the things in it that gave you wonderful memories and helped shape your quirky personality (your words not mine!). The pictures you posted of all the 'stuff' in your home added to your story, made me smile and sometimes laugh! I love being surrounded every day with things in my home that are reminders of people we love, things we’ve done together, and things that just add a touch of 'whimsy'. Thank you, Suzanne, I love your blog!" 
- Karen S.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book To Kill A Cook: A Novel by W. M Akers. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

1

Tuesday

So it started with a severed head.

Well, not really—nothing ever starts with a severed head. It started at seven a.m., I guess, when the kids woke up screaming like they were being stabbed in the spine. I'd been living with my fiancé and his boys for about a year but I hadn't acclimated to the furious inefficiency of a morning with children, so even before I got out of the house I was running late. I skipped breakfast because I was headed for Laurent's, on Fifty-fourth and Madison, only half a block from a nasty little deli that does the most exquisitely greasy pastrami, egg, and cheese, so I stomped through Central Park toward my destiny or, at the very least, something to eat.

It was a bright blue morning in early April and the sun was shining like a freshly unwrapped toy. It should have been beautiful, yeah, but this was New York in 1972, so getting out of the park meant navigating a four-foot smear of human waste. Shit doesn't bother me— you step around it, it's not a hassle—but being late makes my jaw ache. Toru had the kids, which meant it was my turn to work. I had a column to write and nothing to say, so I needed to do some eating and some thinking, and unless I stuck to my schedule, there was no way I'd have time for both. By the time I hit Mad the coffee had turned to bile and I was dying for a cigarette and it would have been fine if I'd gotten that sandwich, but when I neared the deli there was smoke on the wind. Somebody had smashed a wood-paneled Torino wagon through the front window, and I definitely wasn't getting anything to eat.

Still, I felt better when I got to Laurent's because I always do. I turned at the faded green awning, took four steps down from the sidewalk, and pulled the handle of the famous rust-red door. It was locked, which was annoying because Laurent had promised to leave it open, but you don't get to be a genius by remembering to unlock doors. I thumped a few times and I guess I looked unhinged because a family of tourists outside the hotel next door stared at me like I was a rabid dog. I peeked through the window.

"If he's not here I'm gonna kill him," I said.

Two huge ferns flanked the front door, older than the dinosaurs. I played a quick game of eenie, meenie, miney, moe, chose the left one, buried my hand in damp dirt, and felt around for the spare key. The tourists continued to gawk. They were refugees from the Sears catalog. The mom looked like a Creamsicle—orange minidress over orange slacks, all dripping white fringe—and the boys had matching bowl cuts, green polos, plaid pants, and expressions of stupor. The only thing spoiling the picture was the dad, who was wearing a puffy winter coat even though it was, I don't know, sixty-five degrees? He had one of those three-martini faces, twisted into sweaty fear.

"The concierge said it isn't safe," he said.

"Bert," sighed the woman, "he said it was safe after eight."

"It's 7:54," said one of the kids, staring intently at his Mickey Mouse watch. "No. 7:55."

"We're going back inside," said Dad.

"I did not cross half the country to sit in the hotel," answered Mom.

"And I didn't come here to get stabbed."

Tourists really do get worse every year. Sure, plenty of people get killed in this town, but the odds are decent that on any given day it won't be you. So I pulled my arm out of the planter and yelled something encouraging: "Get breakfast!"

They froze. Which I guess is understandable because I was a stranger with a dirty arm but they were gonna benefit from my expertise whether they liked it or not.

"You're three blocks from Cohen's, they do amazing potato pancakes. On Madison and Fifty-Second there's this pastry shop called Antoine's, I think, and they've got éclairs and croissants that ooze butter, or if you want something good for kids, go left on Lex and walk until you see this big chrome clock—that's Shepherd's Diner, which is cheap and the food comes fast and the waiters flirt but not too much."

As far as I was concerned this was all very helpful—free advice from a professional eater—but I guess I was kind of shrieking because with each word they inched closer toward the door. The man tried to answer.

"The concierge said—"

"The concierge wants you inside all week eating room service. Where you from?"

His mouth flapped. No words came out.

I yelled louder: "I said where are you from?"

"New Harmony," said one boy.

"Indiana," clarified the other. The parents hugged them closer, afraid that any more information would be enough for me to murder them in their beds. I plunged my arm into the second planter and dug for the key that, damn it, just had to be there. I kept my eyes on the family, though—I'm coordinated enough that I can shout and rummage at the same time.

"And you didn't haul yourselves all the way from Indiana to sit on a hotel bedspread eating rubber eggs and watching Captain Kangaroo. Don't be a coward. Eat!"

Y'know when Daffy Duck runs away so fast that he leaves behind a little cloud of duck-shaped dust? That's how they bolted back into the hotel.

"Their loss."

My hand closed on the chill metal key. I put New Harmony out of mind, brushed off the dirt, and opened the door.

It was dark in there. That was part of the charm. At night it was a place of shadows and golden light where everyone looked a little bit beautiful. In the morning, it was a big room with the lights off. I waited for my eyes to adjust. When they didn't, I felt for the switch and tried to ignore how threadbare everything looked under the glare.

"Laurent?" I called. "César?"

My voice crashed into the soft beige tablecloths and died. I passed the maître d's stand and climbed to the bar, jaw-clenchingly aware that I had roughly fifteen minutes before I had to head downtown. I filled a rocks glass with something called "pub mix." Once Laurent's bar snacks had been toasted almonds and cured olives, but the belt had been tightened until only canned mix was left. It was stale, yeah, but salty too and exactly what my body required. I bit through the pale brown crunch and eyed the old pictures of Laurent posing with all the favorite post-war celebrities: Lee Dixon and Walter Pidgeon, Tommy Dorsey and this blonde whose name I couldn't remember but whom I considered deeply glamorous when I was a child. They looked bleached and tanned and sweaty with gin, smiling like the party was never gonna end. I found it terribly unfair that they were allowed to smoke while I was not.

Time passed, like it usually does. After thirteen minutes, I grabbed the bar phone and dialed. Judy Grich, my editor, answered mid- inhale. I could smell her from here.

"Yeah?" she said.

"It's Bernice."

"Not like you to be running late."

My back got hot. The only thing worse than being late is being called out. I twisted the phone's pale blue exoskeleton in my fist.

"It's Toru's birthday party Friday. We're having it at Laurent's."

"Sure is nice to have fancy friends."

"Except he called with the menu and it was, I don't know. Bland."

"Like what?" She sounded hungry. I flipped open my notepad and read what Laurent gave me on Sunday night.

"Cruise ship food. Chilled hearts of celery. Something called 'petite Alaska shrimp cocktail gourmet.' Yorkshire pudding, garden peas, Carolina rice, all wrapped up with fruit compote and lychee nut ice cream."

"Not very French."

"That's what I said! I told him to serve the fucking classics, right? Caviar and champagne and orange duck and chocolate mousse."

"And what'd he say?"

"He said come by before they open and he'd show me something special. So I figured I'd squeeze it in before our meeting but he's running late so maybe I come by next week instead?"

"Yeah . . ." Her lighter flicked. Another long drag. "Nah, sorry, I gotta see you today."

"What about?"

"Nothing really. Just gotta see you."

"Can we do it on the phone?"

"I'd rather not."

Shit, I thought. Shit shit shit. It's lovely having a sociable editor—it's a good way to get lunch on the magazine's tab—but when she insists on meeting, well, either it's because my cover story on "The New Spaghetti" won a Pulitzer or something's wrong.

"How about ten-thirty?" I said, with an irritating note of fear.

"That's just fine."

She hung up. I popped another piece of pub mix and found I had no spit. I hung my elbows on the bar and scowled at the room. I don't like being in restaurants when they're empty. It's improper, like catching Helen Hayes in her curlers. The chairs were upside down and the air was crisp with Pine-Sol. The mirrored columns looked foggy; the banquettes sagged; the seaside murals of Calais looked cheap. And the clock was still ticking. Soon I'd be late again.

(continued on Tuesday)

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