Authors: John Saul
Lindsay shoved her elbow into his side. “You think
you're
outnumbered? How do you think I felt when I was listening to you two fighting about what we should do?”
Kara gave her daughter’s shoulders a squeeze, and for the first time in months felt that just maybe things would turn out all right. With a silent prayer of thanks, she smiled at her husband.
He smiled back.
Chapter Four
I
think perhaps I’ve found her at last!
I can’t be sure, of course—not yet.
But when I first got the alert on my computer this morning, I felt a tingling in my belly.
The same kind of tingling I used to feel whenever she was near: a tightening in my groin, and cold fear in my belly.
Though it wasn’t strong, it was enough to make my fingers almost vibrate as I typed the keystrokes that took me to the listing.
But not just one listing! No! This morning there were two! My heart beat faster as I went to the first listing, but as the image of the house came onto the screen, the tingling began to fade. It was an ugly house—a kind of squat, shapeless bungalow. Not at all the kind of home I like.
But then I saw the other house, and my heart started to pound, and when I took the virtual tour, my excitement only grew. It may be the house.
I am almost sure it
is
the house!
A teenage girl lives there, and something inside me tells me she is perfect for me.
I know it. I know it!
I could tell from the first moment I saw the pictures of her room, but I had to be sure. But now I am sure, because I’ve gone over the photographs so many times that I have every detail memorized. Even as I write these words, I can see the room—her room—as clearly in my mind as if I were standing in it.
Touching it.
Smelling it.
Oh, yes—she is the one.
But I mustn’t be hasty, mustn’t let my hopes get too high. After all, I’ve had these thoughts before, and been so often disappointed.
This time, I won’t get ahead of myself.
No, this time I’ll hold some part of myself aloof, and force myself to wait. After all, the address won’t be posted until the house goes into the Multiple Listing Service, and I’ll just have to contain my excitement until then. But it’s so hard—I am so tempted to get into the car and drive around, and keep driving until I find the house.
The perfect house.
Her
house.
I know the idea is ridiculous. I could drive for weeks and never run across it—never find her—yet the feeling is almost overwhelming.
It is as if the house itself—and the girl who lives in it—are drawing me like filings to a magnet.
Yet I have to be patient. After all, it will only be a few days.
In a few days, I shall get the address.
And in a few days, she will still be there. . . .
Still, I’m not used to being patient.
I hate being patient.
But soon . . . soon I shall see her, and touch her, and smell her.
And she will know all the feelings I knew so long ago.
But this time it will be different.
This time all the feelings will go on forever.
Chapter Five
M
anhattan is impossible,
Kara thought. Traffic was unaccountably snarled, there were no places to park, and if there was a parking lot anywhere in this part of town, neither she nor Steve had seen it.
“Is something going on?” Lindsay asked from the backseat. “Why is everything so messed up?”
Kara could feel Steve’s nerves starting to fray as everywhere he turned the streets were barricaded and traffic hopelessly snarled. She turned on the radio, and Lindsay’s question was instantly answered.
“The vice president’s motorcade has the entire West Side gridlocked from Forty-second Street north to 125th,” a soothing voice intoned. “Motorists are advised to—”
Steve snapped it off. “Who asked the vice president to come to town today?” he grumbled. “I don’t recall his office calling to see if it was convenient for me.” He scowled, funneling his frayed nerves into a comically exaggerated mask of anger. “And if they had, I’d have told them to keep him in Washington! Who needs him? Especially on Sunday in Manhattan?”
“Bad luck,” Kara sighed. If the motorcade didn’t hurry up and get where it was going, they were never going to make their appointment with the agent who claimed she had the perfect apartment.
“We should have taken the train,” Steve said through clenched teeth, and Kara sighed again, knowing he was right.
And knowing it was her fault they hadn’t done it. After all, she was the one who’d thought a drive in the family car would be a better idea.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sighing again.
Steve’s thin-lipped expression didn’t change.
“This sucks,” Lindsay muttered from the backseat.
Kara sighed a third time, silently agreeing with her daughter, and checked her watch. Their appointment was in five minutes. The agent wouldn’t wait around for long if they were late.
Miraculously, a car pulled out of a parking space just in front of them, and Steve quickly slid their Toyota SUV into it, ignoring the blare of the horn from a Ford Focus whose driver seemed to think he was the rightful heir to the slot. “There is a God,” Steve muttered. “C'mon, we’ve got to hurry.”
Just in the nick of time, Kara thought, certain that if the parking space hadn’t seemingly dropped from heaven, Steve’s temper would have given way.
He locked the car and they hustled along the sidewalk, threading through the pedestrian traffic far faster than they’d been able to maneuver through the car-jammed streets. In less than five minutes they made the three short blocks uptown and the two long ones over and found themselves in front of a tall brownstone. Steve checked the address. “This is it,” he said, pressing the bell.
Kara eyed the building and decided it looked presentable, if not perfect. She checked her watch again when there was no response to Steve’s buzz. “We’re not late. She couldn’t have left, could she?”
Steve took a deep breath but said nothing, and Lindsay dropped onto the front step and put her chin in her hands.
“Ring again,” Kara said.
Silently, Steve pressed the buzzer a second time.
Still nothing.
Then Kara saw a tall, thin woman in a long black coat striding around the corner, a folio clutched tightly in one hand, a set of keys in the other. “Mr. and Mrs. Marshall?” she asked as she came abreast of the building.
Thank God,
Kara thought. She smiled and nodded in response. “This is our daughter, Lindsay,” she said as Lindsay stood up.
“I’m Rita Goldman,” the agent said, her hand coming out to grasp first Kara's, then Lindsay's, and finally Steve’s hand. “I’m so sorry to be late. The traffic—”
“We know,” Steve said, his mood lightening as finally something seemed to be going right. “It almost made us late, too. In fact, we were afraid we might have missed you.”
The woman opened the front door and held it for them. The building seemed well-maintained, with a clean marble floor in the foyer and contemporary art on the walls. But the dark mahogany moldings and vaguely Victorian light fixtures made it seem older than it was. Still, the elevator moved smoothly and looked modern, with mirrors on the walls.
Kara began ticking items off her mental checklist. So far, so good.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, decided her makeup had survived the drive into the city, then noticed Lindsay’s unhappy face. Leaning over, she whispered, “Thai salad,” which made Lindsay smile.
The fourth floor hall was carpeted and nicely lit.
Two more check marks on her mental list.
The agent, chatting with Steve, walked them down to 409 and used three keys to open the door.
A black mark on the checklist.
Then the door opened, and suddenly Kara felt better. Light. Lots of light, let in by lots of windows.
And hardwood floors and nine-foot ceilings.
Things were looking up.
The living room windows looked down over Amsterdam Avenue, which was okay. Not Central Park, but there was no way they could afford that.
“There’s a rooftop garden,” she heard the agent tell Steve. “I won’t pretend it has the best view, but it’s quite charming.”
Kara caught Steve’s eye, and they nodded at each other. So far, so good.
Then they came to the kitchen. It was barely big enough for one person to maneuver in, the stove had only two burners, and the tiny countertops were covered with Formica in a particularly ugly shade of brown. It was nothing like the enormous, custom-designed kitchen with granite countertops that Kara had lived with so long that she’d almost forgotten there was anything else. Now the ugly truth hit her.
You can get used to it,
she told herself. But even if she could adapt to the size, she knew the kitchen would still need a complete remodeling.
A remodeling they’d never be able to afford if they bought the place.
So she’d just have to get used to it, she decided, hustling Lindsay down the hall, hoping her daughter hadn’t noticed quite how bad the kitchen was. “Let’s take a look at the bedrooms.”
The master bedroom seemed almost as small as the kitchen, but at least it had windows. On the other hand, the windows faced another building, which was barely ten feet away. If the neighbors hadn’t had their shades drawn, Kara realized, she would be looking directly at them and see whatever they were doing.
And they could look back, which meant she’d have to keep her shades drawn, too.
The master bath looked like it belonged in an old motel.
A
cheap
old motel.
It’s the city,
she reminded herself.
This is how people live here. Modern plumbing is not an option.
“Two blocks to Central Park,” the agent was saying as she and Steve followed Kara and Lindsay into the bedroom end of the apartment.
“Hear that?” Steve said to Lindsay. He turned back to Rita Goldman. “What about the schools?”
Lindsay, obviously uninterested, wandered away, and Kara followed her into the other bedroom.
Small.
Tiny closet.
Saying nothing, Lindsay turned, walked out of the bedroom and headed for the front door. Kara, Steve, and Rita Goldman followed. As they left the apartment and moved toward the elevator, no one said anything at all. The silence stretched until the elevator arrived, its door slid open, and they all entered.
As the elevator started down, Kara finally spoke. “Nice light in the living room. I love those big windows.”
“Maybe we should have gone up to see the rooftop garden,” Rita Goldman suggested. “Shall we do that?”
Kara glanced at Lindsay and read her daughter’s feelings. “I don’t think we need to,” she said. “I don’t really think this is what we’re looking for.”
The Realtor nodded, her lips pursed, and no one spoke until they were back on the sidewalk. “I’m sure you’ll all love the next one,” she said, smiling just a little too reassuringly.
But even before she’d finished speaking, Kara saw the expression on Lindsay’s face and knew that one of them, at least, would not love anything that Rita Goldman had to show.
And Kara knew there would be nothing she could do about it. Suddenly she felt like crying.
Chapter Six
S
unday morning is when the big edition of the
New York Times
comes out.
Which is why Sunday morning is my favorite time to wake up.
I know Sunday is a lot of people’s favorite day, and I know that for a lot of them, it is also because of the paper. But for most of the others, the paper is loved because of the Arts section, or the book reviews or the sports or the editorials.
I love it because it lists the addresses of open houses.
And every open house presents me with a possibility.
An exciting possibility.
Today there were two new listings in the real estate section. I circled each of them with my red felt pen, then located them on my map.
Finding them on the map is especially exciting, because it gives me clues as to the kind of people who live in the houses. Today, both the houses seemed to give promise of the kind of girl I’m looking for, and since they are both convenient, I was at first tempted to visit both of them.
I began my very meticulous routine.
First, I plot my route. In the event I decide to actually go visiting today, I shall rent a car from an agency in Port Jefferson. Perhaps some kind of Chevrolet—the sort of car one sees by the dozens every day but never notices.
Exactly the sort of car I like best for my outings.
Then I plan the route I shall take from the car rental agency to the first house, then to the other, and then back to the agency, always using the busiest—and the most anonymous—roads. Most of the looky-loos (a term I deeply despise) show up in the middle of open house hours, so I shall time my trip to slip in when the houses will be at their fullest.
After all, it doesn’t take me long to find out whether I’ve found the home of the girl for whom I search. . . .
And no one will notice me at all.
I reread the ads, studying them carefully. The first house had four bedrooms. That’s a good sign, but its listing agent turns out to be one of those vile, pushy women who darts from room to room keeping track of everyone, babbling inanely, and insisting that everybody sign her book. The last time I saw her, she talked about interest rates and market conditions until I wished I’d never awakened that morning. Now I try to avoid her, but I’m not sure I can today.
After all, the house has four bedrooms, and chances are strong that one of those bedrooms belongs to a girl, although there is no virtual tour of that house on the Internet.
The other house is smaller, but is listed by an agent who is lazy and invariably spends most of his workday smoking on the front porch or the back steps, or the terrace if the house has one, smoking cigarettes and letting the prospective purchasers wander through by themselves.
I shall certainly go see this one.
After all, one never knows what surprises await just around a blind corner.
Still, neither of these listings gave me a shiver of anticipation like the one I saw on the Internet a few days ago.
I just have a feeling about that one.
After plotting my route and planning my day, I doodled on the newspaper with my red felt-tip pen, circling the two ads over and over again. Oddly, the circles around the open houses seemed to turn into eyes.
Two big red eyes that reminded me of something, but I couldn’t remember what.
Underneath the eyes, I drew a mouth.
A big, red, smiling mouth under the big, red eyes.
It was absurd, I know, but for some reason, I couldn’t stop. The larger and more grotesque they got, the more they made me smile.
Perhaps I won’t go out at all today.
Perhaps I’ll just spend the day dreaming.
Still, the open houses call me. Oh, I do love Sundays!