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EIGHT

A fter his shower, Eddie takes a seat in the chair next to Cookie’s bed. A lazy record is playing a soft song and she’s humming along as she draws her finger across the pages of the book in her lap, across the photographs, line drawings, text. The Face of the World , says the title on the spine. By Cecil Beaton. Eddie wonders who that is (add it to the list) but before he can ask, she closes the book and points to a cuckoo clock on the wall.

“It’s four o’clock,” she declares. “Sherry hour. Time for an afternoon tipple. It’s been a tradition in this apartment since the day I moved in. June sixth, 1941. I was nearly eighteen. Everyone was shocked, appalled even, at the idea of such a young woman living alone. But I was a bohemian, and I knew who I was.”

“June sixth,” Eddie repeats. “Today is June sixth.”

“That’s right, Lollipop. So let’s celebrate. You’ll find the sherry on the bar cart in the salon. And as Greta Garbo said, don’t be stingy, baby.”

“What’s Greta Garbo?” Eddie asks.

“Bite your tongue. Garbo’s not a what. She’s a who.” She points to a photograph on the wall, a black-and-white picture of a beautiful woman in profile, looking up and off to one side with heavy eyes and an impossibly long, smooth neck. “Greta Garbo, the most famous actress in the world. And the most beautiful woman of all time. Are you sure you don’t know her?”

“I don’t,” Eddie says apologetically.

“Oh, dear. We do have work to do. Lots of work. We’ll start tonight. But first, sherry. Just two glasses today. No one else is coming. That’s the worst part about being stuck in bed, you know. You can’t have people over for sherry hour. I’ve tried, of course, but this bedroom just isn’t right for entertaining. But never mind. Once I get my legs back underneath me I’ll introduce you to everyone. Oh, that will be a wonderful party. How we will dance!”

“Yes,” Eddie says, and a vision speeds through his mind. Cookie is not in bed but in a nightclub, dancing energetically in the center of a crowd, kicking up heels and swirling her skirt through the air, a massive smile on her face as a jazz quartet behind her bounds through a lively ragtime tune. She exudes frenetic joy as her curls bounce against her forehead. He blinks, and returns to the moment, where Cookie is still in bed.

“Sherry!” she reminds him. “And after we finish, you can go fetch supper at Grand Sichuan, which we will eat on trays while watching Anna Christie on my video tape machine.”

The end credits of Anna Christie starring Greta Garbo are flickering on the tiny bedroom television set, just as Cookie slurps the last of her soup straight from the bowl and Eddie inhales the last of his noodles straight from the container. The noodles are spicy, numbing his lips and the tip of his tongue, and he’s still hungry after he finishes. He could easily eat another order.

“So,” Cookie says as she dabs the corners of her mouth. “What did you think?”

Honestly, Eddie was perplexed by the movie. The picture seemed fuzzy and the sound seemed muffled and he couldn’t understand most of what the characters were saying or doing. It’s like they were standing around in rooms being sad and talking. Not a lot of action.

But all he says is, “It was interesting.”

“Interesting?” Cookie repeats, a tinge of scorn in her voice that stiffens Eddie’s spine. “That’s faint praise if I ever heard it.”

“I thought Greta Garbo was pretty,” Eddie says quickly, trying to recover a positive mood. “She seems interesting, too.”

“Interesting, interesting,” she mutters. “I think you need to learn more about Garbo. Why don’t you look her up on your little googler doodad?”

“My little what?”

“You know, that phone-a-ma-jig thing you kids all carry around and look things up on. I’d tell you about her now, but it’s time for my beauty sleep. You may take these dishes away. If I need you, I’ll ring.” She points at a little decorative bell on her nightstand, a pink thing shaped like a flamingo. “It’s louder than it looks.”

“All right,” he says, gathering the dishes.

“Good night, then.” She pulls an emerald-green satin sleep mask over her eyes, exhales dramatically, and draws the covers up to her chin.

“Good night, Cookie.”

“Ahem?” She taps her cheek.

He leans down to kiss it, and then, for luck, he kisses the other one.

“Now, away,” she says, and waves him off.

In the kitchen, Eddie taps Greta Garbo into his notes app to remind himself to look her up later. He’s too tired now. He washes and dries the dishes then moves into his bedroom. Er, the closet.

To get to the fainting couch, he steps around a side table with carved cat’s-paw feet, threads himself between two standing Tiffany lamps, skirts a dresser painted with an elaborate circus scene featuring monkeys in silly hats riding elephants, and nearly trips over a ceramic bulldog sitting in the middle of the floor, wearing a porkpie hat and a monocle. He spots an old gilded-plaster Cupid clock on the wall. It says 9:15, but it’s 11:11. He makes a wish.

He changes into his sweatpants and an old How’s Your Aspen? T-shirt and looks at himself in the mirror hanging behind the door. Dark circles under his eyes. Messy hair. A blossoming pimple on his chin.

As he turns from the mirror his eye is caught by a moody black-and-white portrait of a young man, a boy, not much older than Eddie, with dark hair and long black eyelashes posing against a gray background. He’s wearing a white shirt with a crisp, creased, old-fashioned collar and looking off to the side with a sluggish, world-weary expression. He’s beautiful, in that way that makes him seem almost familiar. But it’s an old photograph.

Eddie lies back onto the fainting couch, plush and, as promised, zebra-printed. It has an armrest only on one side, letting him stretch out. Even if his feet hang off the end, it’s better than being scrunched. And much better than a bus seat.

He wedges a check-marked accent pillow under his neck and reaches up to switch off the Tiffany lamp next to the couch. That’s when he notices, for the first time, the mirrored disco ball hanging from the ceiling. It spins, slowly, reflecting the lights from the city outside the window, faint flashes casting lazily around the room. As they sweep across the boy in the portrait they seem to animate him, transforming his face into something like life. His jawline sharpens and so does his gaze. His eyes flash, as if he’s just noticed something. Something surprising.

But Eddie knows it’s just a picture, a moment captured a long time ago, and imprinted on photographic paper. Anything else is just an illusion. But it’s amazing, isn’t it? You’d almost believe it.

Eddie watches the portrait, transfixed by the young man’s beauty, as his heavy eyelids fall. It’s been such a long journey. But he’s here, now, and he’ll sleep, now, under this spinning disco ball in the middle of New York City, two thousand miles from home.