The Catsitters by James Wolcott

Author:James Wolcott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

26

AMANDA MET ME UNDER THE AWNING of her building. As my cab pulled up to the curb, she was inspecting the tips of her shoes. She had wheeled out the full artillery, this time without a scarf to serve as curtain and veil. The straps of her dress were thin as shoelaces, the entire dress a marvel of engineering. After a cheek kiss and a mutual look-over, I held the cab door open for Amanda as she squeezed in. I climbed in after, and, as usual, there was so little sardine room in the back seat our knees were practically propping up our chins. The taxi took off, veering in and out of traffic like a stunt car and trying to beat the lights. I was about to tap on the plastic divider and ask the driver to cool it when I caught a glimpse of Amanda in his rear-view mirror. Her eyes looked amused, slightly wowed. She was enjoying this thrill ride. We arrived intact at a new downtown restaurant located in a converted firehouse adjacent to a warehouse that had been converted into luxury lofts. The block, once a sore tooth in the area, was now lit at night like a movie set. Money seemed to be flying out of everyone’s mouth. As we waited in line for the frantic host to lead us to our table, Amanda kept up a steady streak of nervous banter. “I wonder if they’ll slide down the pole to take our orders. Does my dress look okay in the back? The springs in that cab were so busted that—”

“It looks fine. But it looks even better from the front.”

“Oh, stop.”

“If you insist. But my eyes have their own ideas.”

I placed my hand near the small of her back as we maneuvered through the madness of the main dining room to a table at the quieter rear. Men glanced at Amanda as she passed, the women with them glancing even harder, running various calculations through their heads. The host seated us at a cozy table where our knees couldn’t help but meet. Upstairs, where the firefighters used to bunk, a finicky jazz trio provided their idea of “atmosphere.” The waitress who brought our drinks complimented me on my tie clasp before launching into a recital of the specials that night, half-closing her eyes to remember all of the entrees. Amanda asked how one of the dishes was prepared and the waitress said she would have to consult the kitchen. While we awaited her report on the pork-chop filling, I fiddled with the napkin on my lap and Amanda, her eyes bright, made a conscious effort to relax. The band upstairs, invisibly raising their instruments, segued into a jaunty Dixieland number, which sounded a little anemic without a horn section.

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?” Amanda asked.

“Once.”

“You don’t sound too enthused.”

“It was like being in a malaria ward.”

“Really? It’s one of the few cities in America with any personality. I have to swing by there soon on one of my antiquing trips, and can’t wait to hit my favorite spots.

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