Nesting Failure

Leda is getting ready, brushing her hair, fretting over which shoes she’ll wear. The green dress will bring out the color of her eyes – and would look best in the photos that will undoubtedly be taken – but she doesn’t have a nice pair of pumps to match. A black dress seems too somber for such a festive occasion. She imagines Brant will be wearing plaid, the Cobham family tartan, so her floral dress would clash.

She smiles, thinking of Brant. Tonight will be the night, she thinks, it has to be. She’d thought it might happen on her birthday – after all, they’d walked past Tiffany’s after lunch the week before, and Brant had seemed interested when she’d pointed out her favorites in the display window. So many rings to choose from! Diamond solitaires, delicate bands encrusted with dozens of tiny pavé sparkles, nontraditional alternatives, deep blue sapphire with a smaller diamond on each side. And then the marriage bands, the wide golden rings. Leda imagines Brant will favor something simple, elegant, classic for his own hand. Her birthday has come and gone – in fact, Brant had canceled their birthday dinner, leaving on a last minute business trip to London – but Leda has a good feeling about tonight. What better time to propose than on Christmas Eve?

Her thoughts are interrupted by the phone. Leda peeks at the caller ID and pauses for a moment, wondering if she really wants to talk with Johnny, after all this time. She laughs to herself, thinking of the long-ago months she’d waited, desperately willing him to call, and now, how things are so different – she hasn’t even thought of him in forever. Just like Johnny, she thinks, to call on Christmas Eve. Now that she’s sure tonight will be the night, something in her turns and she answers.

“Leda…” Johnny’s voice is deep, resonant, yet Leda can hear a little waver in it. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

Yes, almost certainly, Johnny has been drinking. She sighs. “Merry to you, too. I only have a minute…”

She can hear Johnny breathing on the other end of the line. Is he…crying?

“I was wrong, Leda. I miss you. I still love you. I want to marry you.” 

She considers simply hanging up the phone, but tonight, this magical night, Leda is ready to seize her upper hand. “Oh, Johnny,” Leda laughs lowly. “It’s too late. I’m getting married to someone else. You lost your chance.” She doesn’t wait for a reply, her smile widening as she drops the phone in the receiver.

Sometimes, Leda believes, a clean break is for the best – although this particular clean break has been well over a year in the coming. She’s never been especially good at hedging her bets. So many years wasted, years spent dancing, years with Johnny, years in this apartment where every night she’s still awakened by the screaming of police sirens, years of failure to thrive. There aren’t a lot of sirens in Brant’s neighborhood, and she’s never heard a single one in the few evenings she’s spent at the Cobhams'.

She’d first met Brant in the park, jogging. The good park, the one far from her place, the one where nannies pushed fancy strollers, and women sat on park benches eating takeout sushi lunches. Leda always stopped to take a break by the children’s playground, watching the children spinning on the roundabouts, laughing and shoving on the slides. It was unusual to see men at the playground, which was why she’d immediately noticed Brant and Bernard.

She’d watched them for a good 10 minutes: a man in a carefully cut Armani suit, and another man in a sweatsuit, rocking on opposite sides of a see-saw. The man in sweats was facing Leda, giggling each time he bounced gently to the ground. And then, suddenly, she’d felt the eyes of the man in sweats catch hers, and had watched as he dismounted at ground position, leaving Armani suit man a victim of gravity, yelping when his end of the see-saw hit the ground hard, as sweatsuit man ran toward her.

“HI!” shouted the man in sweats, close to Leda’s face. “I’m Bernard, what’s your name?” Closer now, Leda could see that Bernard was what her mother had called “different” - off-cadence, wide-eyed, lurchy speech. Behind Bernard, she saw Armani man ambling over slowly in a different lurch, the distinctive gait of a man who’d just been racked in the balls, the unfortunate see-saw slam.

“I’m so sorry,” said Armani suit as he reached Leda. “My brother doesn’t have very good boundaries. His nurse usually takes him to the park, but it’s her day off. He tends to elope…That’s what you call it when people like him just run off.” He’d extended his hand toward hers. “Brant. Brant Cobham.” He’d stared at Leda for a minute, clearly taking in her jogging suit, her ponytail, her sweatbands, the expensive running shoes she’d saved for, forever. A dancer needs to protect her feet. Leda knew that look of appraisal; she was a pretty girl. “Can I buy you a coffee?” His voice was still a little pitchy from the see-saw incident. She’d smiled as she nodded yes; it seemed rare that someone like her had met Armani man’s approval.

And on it had gone, from there. Months of dates, at first mostly meetups in the park with Bernard along, eventually progressing to dinners at the finest restaurants, with Bernard left home.

In her reverie of remembrance, Leda smiles again as she thinks how naturally it all developed, this odd New York fairytale. She’d realized quickly that she’d have to buy a new wardrobe to fit into Brant’s world, so she’d spent much of her time – and most of her dancing savings – finding discounted DKNY dresses, a carefully chosen pair of Manolo heels. The white lie that she was a dance teacher in a public school had seemed safe – after all, Diana was a teacher before she became a princess! – and Brant never questioned it. Brant is reserved, genteel, slow to reveal his feelings, but Leda figures that time will change this. In their more intimate moments, he calls her his little birdie, his dove. Surely Brant has grown attached. She thinks of the children they will have: Odille for a girl, Brant Jr. for a boy. Brant hasn’t ever mentioned wanting children, but Leda is sure he will want to carry on the fine Cobham line.

She glances at the clock, realizing it’s almost time to leave. The Cobhams are very particular about punctuality, and it’s a good long walk to a spot where a cab will be likely to stop. She carefully places the little parchment-wrapped bundle into her bag – a gingerbread man for Bernard, from Let Them Eat Cake in Soho. It’s a work of art, really, with a lemon, pear, and raspberry glaze. She puts on the green dress, knowing that Mrs. Cobham will frown at the brown suede pumps that don’t quite match her bag, and rushes out to the chill of December air.

The streets are buzzing with the singular anticipation of a holiday night. In an alley a block up, a group of bagpipers is playing an off-key rendition of “O Holy Night,” accompanied by a ragged collection of drummers. Only in New York, Leda smiles, as she drops a dollar in their bucket. It’s a magical night.

On the next block, passing a shuttered bodega, she spots a group of young men, nudging one another as she approaches. Living in this neighborhood, Leda has grown accustomed to the catcalls.

Baby! Looking good tonight!

Will you marry me?

You’re all I want for Christmas!

A sigh of relief as she spots a cab, waves madly, and feels her chest loosen as the driver pulls over. It’s sweetly warm inside the cab, and Leda catches a faint scent of smoky oudh attar. The cab driver is young and handsome, dark eyes and a thick, neatly trimmed mustache. The ID tag hanging from the sun visor reads Vivek Ahuja.

“On your way to a Christmas party, miss? That address would be a nice place for a party, I bet.” He gives a low whistle under his breath.

“Yes,” Leda answers, “And I hope you don’t have to work all night, and will get to spend some time with your family?”

The driver’s eyes darken, and thin webs of worry lines appear around them. “No family, miss. Maybe someday I will give a ride to a pretty young lady who wants to marry and make me a real American. What do you say, miss? Merry Christmas, you marry me? Take me with you to that fancy party?” He winks at her through the rearview mirror, and forces a smile, but the sadness still shows around his eyes.

Leda watches through the window, as they drive along the district where she’d once worked. Sapphire Times, Cheetah’s, Platinum Dolls. A glowing sign flashes “Ladies Dancing!” A line of men waiting outside, seeking comfort in strangers on Christmas Eve. And then the passage through neighborhoods, progressively more stately, less neon, until finally they arrive at the Cobhams’ building.

Mrs. Partridge greets Leda at the door, black and white uniform carefully pressed, and leads her into the drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Cobham don’t rise as she enters, just nodding in Leda’s direction before turning their attention back to whatever story Brant’s sister’s husband is telling. Brant is pacing back and forth at the far end of the room, phone pressed to his ear, and he waves his hand at Leda, somewhere between a greeting and the universal sign for “don’t interrupt me.” Leda, overcome by a sudden urge to check her makeup, heads for the bathroom.

As she passes the kitchen, the smell of the roasting feast is sublime: Cornish game hens Coq au Vin style, a tang of garlic, something dark and velvety simmering on a burner. A maid – one of many – scurries past Leda toward the drawing room, carrying a tray of toast points and pate de foie gras, smiling stiffly.

“Maids,” Mrs. Partridge mutters under her breath. “Always milking Mister and Missus for a holiday bonus. Once they’ve been here a while, they learn it’s always just $100, doesn’t matter what they do extra. Always like that for people like us.” She nods toward Leda, a conspiratorial grin. Leda is simultaneously comforted and revolted by the thought that even Mrs. Partridge can see she doesn’t fit here, not yet. Once she has her ring though, that will surely change.

As Leda walks down the long hallway to the bathroom, past rows of Cobham family portraits, she can hear the voiceover of a nature documentary – Bernard’s favorite – coming from his room. Bernard is sitting on the floor, his nurse next to him, hunched over an elaborate toy set: horses, oxen, ducks, geese, a plastic castle with a hydraulic moat. A noble looking doll figurine – assumedly the Lord of the castle – fairly leaps from Bernard’s hands when he spots Leda, bouncing to the floor with a plastic thump.

“Leda!” Bernard rushes toward her, all wide grin, spittle-drool, a sweet child in a man’s body, and wraps her in a bear hug. “Brant said you were coming to see me!”

Bernard grabs Leda’s hand and draws her to the floor, handing her a doll, the Lady of the castle, long blond hair and a princess gown. “That’s you, Leda,” he says. “And this is me.” He picks up his little man-doll. “Lady Leda,” he bobs his doll up and down toward the doll in Leda’s hands, “Will you marry me?” On Bernard’s television, a British accented voiceover drones, “Swans usually mate for life, although divorce sometimes occurs, particularly following nesting failure…”

Leda doesn’t notice Brant entering the room until she feels his hand on her shoulder. She rises; they embrace. “Come, let’s talk,” he whispers in her ear, and leads her toward his childhood bedroom. Now? she wonders, is he going to ask me now? She’d thought it would happen after dinner, in front of the drawing room fireplace, dark paneling backdrop for photos, the family watching. But maybe it was better this way, in private, just the two of them, so they can announce their engagement at the dinner table. She imagines herself demurely displaying her ringed hand over the Coq au Vin.

Brant’s former bedroom has been made over into a guest room, but a few relics of his childhood years still remain: a framed graduation photo, a tennis trophy, a Yale pennant. This is where it will happen! He sits on the bed and motions for Leda to sit on the dark leather wingchair he’s turned to face it.

“Leda, I’m sorry,” Brant begins, avoiding her eyes. A deep sigh. “I don’t know how to say this other than to just say it: I’ve met someone else.”

The room begins to spin, reeling, whirring. The sick queasy feeling of a playground roundabout, the crash of a see-saw when one of two abruptly dismounts without warning.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Leda struggles to find her voice; everything is still spinning, whirring. “Why did you make me come here?”

“I had to tell you in person,” Brant says, sighing again. “And Bernard. He wouldn’t have understood if you didn’t come. I thought you could tell him goodbye before leaving…”

Leda rises through the spinning, stumbles down the long hallway, past Bernard’s room, past the bustling kitchen, the drawing room, almost running by the time she reaches the front door. She waits for the elevator, thinking Brant will follow, will tell me it’s all some kind of mistake but of course he does not, and the elevator brings her down, and she fumbles into the cold night air.

The doorman hails a cab and Leda is watching through the window, how different a ride than earlier, when everything seemed so certain. She’s dizzy, still spinning, whirring, gasping, “Pull over!” though blocks away from her apartment. This street is vaguely familiar to her, and she thinks there is a bar nearby that might still be open. She reaches in her bag for the fare, and feels something damp in her hand, sticky as she exits. The glazed gingerbread man for Bernard, crumbling as it falls to the sidewalk.

The sound of pigeons, calling. A lone panhandler in an alley. And then, finally, the light of a neon sign, yes, it’s the Irish bar she’d remembered. Some of the lights are burned out and so the sign reads “Tw- D-ves” and she thinks he used to call me his dove.

Inside, warm, low buzz, still spinning, still reeling. No one else in the bar, except an old drunk, sitting a few stools down. She orders a whisky, then another, a third. She laughs at the thought that she never did make it to the bathroom at the Cobhams' to check her makeup. A fourth, a fifth. She wonders if the pigeons have found the gingerbread crumbles. Six, seven. The Pogues are playing over the tinny speakers, It’s Christmas eve, babe/In the drunk tank/An old man said to me/Won’t see another one.

“It’s a magical night,” says the old drunk, who has moved silently to the stool next to Leda’s. She can smell something under the alcohol on his breath, something faintly rotting. She can hear a new song coming through the tinny speakers, an Irish ballad. The old drunk’s eyes gleam as he sings along, and slurring at the chorus, he drops on one knee, “Love will you marry me, marry me, marry me,

love will you marry me, and take me out of danger?”

He takes Leda’s hand and leads her, still whirring, still spinning, into the night air and down into the alley.