Diane Hoover Bechtler Diane Hoover Bechtler lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband, Michael Gross, who is a poet with a day job, and with their cat, Call Me IshMeow. As well as writing short work, she is looking for an agent for her memoir, which is about learning to live with brain disease. She has an undergraduate degree in English from Queens University where she graduated summa cum laude and subsequently earned her MFA. She has had short work published in journals such as The Gettysburg Review, Thema, Literary Journal, Pangolin Press, Bewildering Stories, Everyday Fiction and The Dead Mule, School of Southern Literature.
Grounded
T
he Helmsley Park Lane at Central Park South is around the corner from Bergdorf ’s, a store I came to know well in time. But then, it was only a possibility to me. It was frequented by manicured ladies dropped off from limousines after they powdered their faces using Pomeranian puppies. We stayed at the Park Lane Helmsley when we were in New York. I was new to money but I recognized luxury. I smelled both Chanel Number 5 and hundred dollar bills when I passed them wearing scuffed, white athletic shoes. It was as though I had never been to New York before. Being there in wealth, seeing New York through rich eyes was a shock after staying at Times Square. I had never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I had never been to the Guggenheim. My then husband wanted a New York Pied-à-terre, and whatever Gerhardt wanted, he bought, be it a Ferrari, a wife, or a divorce. On that New York trip, I saw through the eyes of the real estate lady. When I thought about it later, which was often, I was not sure that seeing New York through rich eyes was a good thing. The real estate lady marched us through many places on the Upper East Side where maids dusted perfectly clean tables and chandeliers split sunlight into a thousand rainbows. My husband checked views. I looked at closets. One occupant owned at least 50 identical black Chanel handbags, at attention on a shelf. The closet was larger than my first house. The real estate lady offhandedly asked if we wanted to see Nureyev’s apartment at the Dakota. My husband said “yes.” The famed ballet dancer was two years dead. The world still mourned. Never had anyone jumped so high from a standing position — six feet straight up. My girlfriend saw him do that. So we trotted down the avenue. I don’t know New York very well. So I don’t know which avenue it was. Later, I researched the price of the sale of Nureyev’s apartment and found that it went for $7 million. Nureyev was barely cold in his Paris grave when the fight among lovers and
friends over his property broke out. He died of AIDS. His apartment at the Dakota was on the street level. I recognized the gothic structure from a distance. I walked in the same area John Lennon had walked alongside Yoko Ono. Staff members from Christie’s sat inside cataloging Nureyev’s estate. That was creepy. The kitchen had silk wallpaper. The real estate woman told us it was from China, that Nureyev had it imported. A chandelier the size of a Volkswagen hung over the dining table. We were informed if we bought the apartment the chandelier was extra. I walked through the apartment with my mouth hanging open. My husband was talking about money to the real estate woman, and I realized he had intentions of buying the place. It faced the busy street. That’s what stopped him. He wanted a view of Central Park. While they talked about money, I sneaked into the closet. There sat dozens of ballet slippers. I picked up a pair and I seriously considered stealing them. There was nowhere to put them. I had no bag big enough to hold a pair of men’s ballet slippers. On the trip, we visited the Guggenheim, but it was in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I saw a Lucie Rei exhibition. I leaned over one of the works to see inside and set off the alarm. A guard warned me to stand back. We visited Bergdorf ’s and admired a jewelry exhibition by Angela Pintaldi. My husband bought me shoes from Bergdorf ’s and a necklace by Angela Pintaldi. That began my huge shoe collection. Gerhardt continued purchasing me. We ate at a restaurant on the upper West side and Gene Wilder walked in with a woman. This was a few years after Gilda had died. I had rack of lamb and my husband had seafood. We also ate at Café des Artistes on 67th Street, in Des Artistes Hotel where we eventually bought an apartment. My shoes from that trip are years ago at Goodwill. My Angela Pintaldi is around another woman’s neck. My husband is married to another woman and I to another man. The Piedà-terre is occupied by strangers, as is Nureyev’s apartment. But, I alone possess that moment of holding ballet slippers still warm from a six-foot jump. Winter 2010 ▪ The Battered Suitcase ▪ 83