I shook my head to try and clear it. This was a man I hardly knew, I reminded myself. This was my roommate.
It didn’t work.
“I . . . can try and explain my art to you,” I offered, just for something to say. In my head, Sam’s voice shouted, Bad idea, bad idea, like a warning klaxon. I ignored it. Quite frankly, in that moment I didn’t care if it was a bad idea. My heart was racing, blood pumping hot inside my veins. “If you want.”
He hesitated, still not looking at me. He shook his head.
“That is probably not a good idea,” he said, echoing the voice in my head. “I suspect I am a rather hopeless case when it comes to modern art.”
I could sense that he was trying to put some distance between us after . . . well, after whatever it was that had just happened. I didn’t want him to.
“I’ve never met anyone who’s a hopeless case.”
His eyes fluttered closed.
“You have never met anyone like me, Miss Greenberg,” he said, sounding almost sad about it, before turning and walking out of my bedroom.
It was another few minutes before I was able to collect myself enough to think straight. When I did, I sank to my bed, burying my face in my hands.
Sam’s words of warning from the other day suddenly came back to me: Living with someone you think is hot never ends well. You either end up sleeping with them—which is a huge mistake, nine times out of ten—or else you drive yourself nuts because you want to sleep with them.
I groaned.
Well, it looked like Sam had been right.
What the hell was I going to do?
SIX
Letter from Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam to Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam, dated October 26
My Dearest Mrs. Fitzwilliam,
I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits.
A lot has changed in the fortnight since I last wrote. I now live with a young woman by the name of Miss Cassie Greenberg. I am learning a tremendous amount about art, twenty-first-century popular culture, profanity, and attire simply by observing her and being in her very occasional presence. Every day I feel more myself again, and more at ease in this strange modern world.
And so again I ask: please stop worrying so much over me. There is no need for you to write so often, nor for you to repeatedly inquire after my health with Reginald. (Yes, he has told me everything.) I am as sound in mind, body, and spirit as I have ever been.
Furthermore, I must insist you end the arrangement you have made with Miss Jameson on my behalf. I hardly know this woman, and, as you well know, Paris was over a century ago. I would end the arrangement myself, but I think that would not only be unwise, but also unfair to both me and Miss Jameson. Please also ask Miss Jameson to stop sending me gifts. She has ignored my entreaties even though I have sent each gift back to her, unopened as they arrive.
I will write more soon. Give my regards to everyone on the estate. I hope the weather in New York has been very fine.
Love,
Frederick
Hey Frederick,
Would it be okay if I turned the temperature in the apartment up a few degrees? I haven’t wanted to say anything about it since you pay for utilities, but it’s a little colder in here than I’m used to. Even three blankets isn’t cutting it at nighttime.
Cassie
Dear Cassie,
Please accept my apology. Cold temperatures do not bother me the way they do other people, and I should have anticipated you would prefer a warmer place to live. Let me know the temperature I should set the thermostat to for you to be more comfortable and I will take care of it.
I wish you had said something about this to me earlier. I hate the idea that you’ve been uncomfortable since moving in.
FJF
ps: That picture you drew of yourself wearing a parka and mittens is adorable, though it does make me feel like even more of a heel for keeping you in the cold for so long.
Frederick,
Thank you!!!!! I didn’t like the idea of you having higher utility bills because of me, though (which is why I didn’t say something earlier). Can I pay the difference?
(Also, I’m glad you like the picture. Adorable, though?! I spent like 5 minutes on it. The mittens are totally lopsided.)
Cassie
Cassie,
Do not worry about the difference in the utility bill. I will cover it.
And if you drew something that precious in only five minutes I daresay you are very talented indeed. I find the lopsided mittens especially charming.
FJF
I was halfway down the block towards the el, on my way to my library shift, when I realized I’d forgotten my sketchpad.
I glanced at my phone. It was Night at the Museum night at the library, and the children would start showing up in forty-five minutes. I couldn’t draw at work with a library full of kids armed with paintbrushes, but at that hour there were usually some open seats on the train so I could sketch en route. I was in the beginning stages of thinking through what my piece would be for the art exhibition. My conversation with Frederick the other night about my art had provided a little inkling of a submission idea: I’d create a traditionally painted pastoral scene—a field of daisies, possibly a pond—and then subvert it with something decidedly unpastoral, like plastic wrap or soda straws worked into the canvas.
It was still early days, and I had more thinking to do before I was ready to put paint to canvas. But I’d been taking my sketchpad with me everywhere I went in case inspiration and a few minutes’ free time happened to coincide.
It was just after six. I had just enough time to run back home, get my sketchpad, and then get to the library in time for art night. It would be tight, and Marcie would likely be a little irritated with me—but I’d make it.
I took the stairs up to our apartment two at a time, not worrying about how much noise I made. I didn’t know if Frederick was home, but at this hour he’d either be already awake or out. Either way, I didn’t have to worry about waking him up.
My sketchpad was where I’d left it on the kitchen table, beside the note I’d left for Frederick earlier that morning:
Hey Frederick—I won’t be home much the next few days. I have a late shift tonight and I’m having dinner at Sam’s tomorrow. So could you take out the trash this week? Thanks! I promise I’ll do it next week.
Cassie
At the bottom of the note, I’d sketched a little smiling cartoon guy holding a trash can above his head. Frederick claimed to like my little drawings, and his compliments—always worded in such formal language, but seemingly genuine all the same—always made my stomach do a funny little swoop.