4 DEFICIT
CASEY WALKED WEST TOWARD MADISON AVENUE—a street she loved for its polished glass storefronts and impossibly choice wares. It was past midnight, but safer on Madison than many streets in the world, because here the shop owners had secured their costly inventory, and by default, Casey was protected, too.
Virginia Craft lived one avenue over, on Park, but no one was home for the summer, and even if Virginia’s elderly parents were in, Casey wouldn’t have shown up at this hour. The elder Crafts were kind people, and they would have asked her to stay, but Casey couldn’t imagine what they’d say seeing her in this condition—or, worse, what they would never say. They didn’t have outward conflicts with their only child—adopted from a dark-haired Mexican seventeen-year-old who’d had an affair with a gringo ne’er-do-well who’d refused to marry her. The Crafts had gone to collect Virginia in Texas when she was two days old. Virginia once said about her adoptive parents: “I feel neutral to positive about Jane and Fritzy, who saved me from poverty and obscurity. But I sense that I’ve let them down.” Virginia’s long-limbed parents with coin-worthy profiles had a detached manner of speaking that trained you to follow them accordingly. Their mode of conversation encouraged restraint. To them, her father would be criminal. Her boss, Sabine, who lived less than five blocks away from the Crafts, would’ve called the police on Joseph.
Casey stopped at the Carlyle Hotel. There was no doorman in front of the revolving door. Virginia’s grandmother Eugenie Vita Craft stayed here whenever she came to town. Old Mrs. Craft was a pleasure. She wore her white hair short and wild like a tropical bird. On her flat waist and narrow hips, she wound multiple scarves, and wherever she was, men sought her glance. Venetian rings with colored stones glistened on her freckled fingers. She was thrilling, but her only son, Virginia’s father, was a disappointment. After years of therapy, Virginia analyzed him: “Grandmother’s irrepressible nature blocked Fritzy from being a grander person. There isn’t enough room for him in the world. Poor baby.” Virginia speculated that to avoid repeating the mother-son dynamic, Fritzy picked Jane for his wife—a woman who disliked books, sports, art, drama, fashion, sex, and politics. Naturally, Virginia and Casey discounted Virginia’s parents and worshipped the grandmother.
Casey pushed her way into the Carlyle, and at the front desk, she called on her best imitation of the old Mrs. Craft. “I find myself in New York for the night. Could you possibly spare a quiet room?”
The man tried not to stare at her face. He was originally from Glasgow, and long ago when he first came to New York, he’d tried to pick up a straight man in the Lower East Side and had gotten badly beaten up. That she was wearing a ridiculous hat and ski glasses and trying to sound posh made him feel more sorry for her. He considered asking if she needed medical assistance but instead offered her an excellent room at a corporate rate.
The next morning, Casey woke up enveloped in crisp white bedding. Her hotel room was large, with lovely striped wallpaper, a green wool mohair armchair, and, beside it, an inviting reading lamp. Beneath the Roman-shaded window, there was a lady’s writing desk and, in the drawer, embossed stationery. She dashed a quick note to Virginia: “Thrown out of my parents’ casa. I am pretending to be Lady Eugenie for a night at the Carlyle until Fate determines my course. Explanation（s） to follow. Will send return address.” She’d post it later when she found a stamp.
Afterward, Casey realized that she hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. From the In-Room-Dining menu, she ordered Irish oatmeal, lemon ricotta pancakes, and bacon. Fresh-squeezed orange juice and a large carafe of black coffee. When the food arrived, she tipped the waiter on top of all the additional in-room charges. She told herself to disregard the cost. Casey sat down and ate with gusto. Everything tasted so wonderful.
In the bathroom mirror, she saw that the swelling in her face had worsened in spots, and the colors of the bruises had deepened. It would’ve been better if she’d iced it last night. Not much could be done now. It would heal, she told herself. She steeped in the deep white tub, sampling every bottle of bath gel, shampoo, and conditioner. To dry off, she went through four fat bath towels just because she could and used up all the lotion. This was her first time in such a place, and she decided she never wanted to stay anywhere else. Yet in her head, Casey envisioned a meter, like a taxi meter—clicking, clicking, clicking speedily ahead.
She dressed herself in a pair of faded linen slacks, a worn white polo shirt, and white tennis sneakers with no socks. This was what she wore when she was a guest at a summer house. Over the years, through Virginia’s family and Jay’s wealthy friends from Lawrence-ville and his eating club, Casey had been invited to Newport, South Hampton, Nantucket, Palm Beach, Block Island, Bar Harbor, Martha’s Vineyard, and Cape Cod. The visits had taught her a great deal about manners and dress.