Authors: Keir Alexander
But then all is saved when the bus squeals in, silver and hissing, from nowhere. The door flies open and passengers hop down, and the inattentive mom, suddenly a she-tiger in her instincts, sees her daughter with her hand practically in the mouth of a wolf and comes rushing over. She shouts furiously at the fat man, who has emerged from his paper sanctuary. He is none the wiser about what he is supposed to have done, but is left in no doubt as to his guilt in the matter.
‘Asshole!’ adds the mother as she scoops up her daughter, snatches the lollipop from her fist and throws it under the wheels of the bus. The man, indignant now that he comes to think about it, discards his
National Enquirer
, hauls himself to his feet and stands to meet the mother’s accusing stare. Siobhan is riveted by the heat that’s building up, but then the driver appears in the bus doorway, demanding tickets, and a line forms instantly. The fat man and the tiger-mother turn their heads in the same moment, like characters in some hammy musical, taking their cue for the next chorus. The mother plants the little girl down neatly on her feet, the fat man calls his dog to heel, and they both scurry obediently to their places in the queue, the whole angry thing evaporated.
Siobhan snorts, half in relief, half in amazement: people are so strange – shocking and funny at the same time. Then she stands, hitches up her bag and strides over to take her place, just behind the woman who has landed the contract to play the part of her real-life mom.
■ ♦ ■
Michael turns in at the door, all breezy and putting on a good face, but one blistering look from Grace at the counter wipes the shine right off. Well and truly in the dog house, he hangs his coat, ties his apron and slouches towards the haven of the cold-meat counter. But he cannot resist making a throwaway remark: ‘A harmless old lady, Grace.’
‘Harmless? You fool, Michael. You were dying, all of you, and she stood by and did nothing.’
‘But she was so young then; she didn’t understand.’
‘That’s nonsense. She could have saved you and she did nothing.’
‘I survived. Here I am, fat and happy.’
‘It was worse than murder.’
Even as he shakes his head and smiles, tolerating her funny ways, Michael knows in his heart that this is not just the fretfulness of a stubborn woman. What Rosa did all those years ago was in some ways worse than murder, and it has always plagued him that, having made it to America before the war, Rosa could have helped him and his family to follow her, but she did nothing. His mother, Magda, had written to her sister, begging her many times over, but she made no reply. Of course she didn’t know then that the Russians and the Nazis would come, one after the other, with such bloody vengeance, and none of them could have foreseen that it would lead to his father being taken away like that. But they were in hell, whichever way you looked at it; the whole world knew it, and any decent person would have reached out their hand.
An uneasy silence reigns for a full two hours between Michael the grocer and Grace his wife, as they carry out their daily chores, serving customers and filling shelves. For the first time in years, the two of them exchange not a word, not even through lunch, which is snatched in between orders anyway, and it is only when Michael hears the dog whimpering outside that any kind of get-out offers itself from the stalemate. Michael risks a glance in Grace’s direction, hurries down to the cellar and comes up with a sponge, a bucket and a bottle of shampoo, which he holds up by way of explanation. He strides outside, unties Barrell from the downpipe and drags him to the side alleyway, where there is a faucet. The dog is all for escaping, but Michael, strong in his indignation against Grace, holds onto Barrell’s collar, twisting it tight to the jaw and forcing the old beast to accept its fate under a gush of water and swathes of foam. Then Michael brings him round and ties him again to the downpipe, where he quivers and quakes like a cartoon animal, water flying everywhere, and whining like a baby. It is during this that Michael hears Grace’s voice, sharp and rebuking as ever, but reassuring just to hear her return to her old habitual manner. ‘Michael, it’s not warm – you’re going to kill the damn dog!’
‘Nonsense, it’s spring, pretty much. Five minutes and he’ll be dry.’
So the hatchet is buried and soon they are on speaking terms again, with no more mention of age-old wrongs. He finds it in himself to tell her how the hospital provided him with Rosa’s things, like her tattered old purse containing a pathetic sum of money. ‘What about the cart?’ she asks and, receiving no more than a shrug in reply, grows dismissive: ‘Yeah, well, good riddance. Anything else?’
‘Her keys.’
‘Oh my goodness. Why give them to us?’
‘We are her next of kin. Someone has to look after her stuff.’
‘Does that mean we have to go there?’
‘Just to keep an eye maybe, while she’s in the hospital.’
‘My God.’
‘Yeah, well maybe we’ll find Rosa’s secret treasure.’
‘Yeah, right.’
■ ♦ ■
The moment the bus is sucked into the gaping mouth of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, Siobhan is desperate to get away. The wait is agony. Why can’t the people in front get their things and their kids together quicker? She would gladly have pushed them all aside if it didn’t get her yelled at or slapped.
Jumping down at last into the great dead space, everything seems tainted – the walls, the pillars and the cracked plastic canopies. The buses themselves, which seem so sleek and gleaming in the daylight, look bloated and grime-ridden in here. And the people, too – penned like animals, restless to be led or fed.
She walks along a gangway, allowing herself to be shuffled in a wedge of bodies towards the far-off exit. The noise of engines, babbling voices and scrambled announcements is oppressive – one moment all muffled and underwater, the next wild and violent. In yet more waves, human beings seethe in and out of her vision. Suits, casuals and rags: people on their way to do business, people getting away to the country; people just going where they go. And more than a fair share of crazies, dancing to music only they can hear, or arguing with enemies only they can see. And in amongst it all, the lost, the lonely and, like her, the downright bewildered. Her grip is tight on her bag strap as the human tide swells finally through the exit, spewing her out into plain day.
■ ♦ ■
It’s a relief to be on a street of any kind, but as Siobhan’s eyes adjust to the light and her bones to the morning chill, she finds this one to be wide, busy and bound on both sides by imposing buildings with glass frontages and half-glimpsed, stylish interiors. High on a plaque she reads, ‘42
nd
Street’, and immediately associates it with the movie, the musical and a generally cool place to be. In a store window, she catches her own reflection: her beloved yellow jacket – how childish it looks, how out of place in such a grand setting. A signpost points to more wonders: a quarter of a mile on, Times Square awaits, and she glides in a dream into the famous precinct, the rumble of traffic falling away and the whispering brilliance of the place enfolding her. On the buildings are constellations of lights, with magical images shimmering, and news ticker-tapes flowing around the edges. Lining the walkways, so many people of every kind, with faces raised and fingers pointing. Siobhan greedily devours the sights – cafés and camera stores, sushi bars and souvenir shops, brimming with Big Apples and Statues of Liberty in every material from china to chocolate. She stumbles into a crowd gathered around an old black man on a box, with a banner proclaiming him as the prophet of the Church of the Divine Diocese of New Jerusalem. He rants that Manhattan is Sodom and Brooklyn Gomorrah, and some in the crowd shout and jeer, playing the part of heathen and disbeliever. All the while, Siobhan wonders why her mother has never brought her here. Why has she been starved of the crazy, dizzy rush of it? How has she simply accepted that the Gateway Theatre, Bellport, was just about as good as it gets in the way of entertainment? And to think that she had intended simply to jump off the bus, dive down in the subway and go to her destination! No, she will walk every inch, make her way north and take this in, drink this in, bring this whole great city into herself. She came from it, after all, and if she gets half a chance, to it she will return.
T
HE
afternoon goes off without incident and all is sweetness and light between Michael and Grace. She agrees to go with him to Rosa’s after hours, trading it against a night off the following day to go and see their eldest, Jenny, in Brooklyn.
Around about three-fifteen, a young girl comes in, fresh and bright and looking not at all like a neighbourhood kid. An out-of-towner, he thinks right away, with the pack on her back and, what, fourteen, fifteen at most? Strange that she should be out of school and hanging around here on her own. He’s even more intrigued when the girl drops her pack to the floor and goes and stands on the old weighing machine, watching the pointer climb up the scale. This is strange; he can’t remember the last time anyone actually stood on it. He has himself, once or twice, but only in private defiance of Grace’s stated intention to have the thing removed. He watches closely as she hops off the machine and drifts down the rows, stopping at the deli counter, her eyes wide and roving. For all of ten minutes she keeps it up, studying the unusual ingredients and exotic arrangements. He slides behind the counter, supposedly to set out rollmop herrings but really to watch her sidelong. She looks like she’s never seen anything like this before and then, out of the blue, she pops a question that certifies that she really never has. She goes back to the end, where she started, and points: ‘What is this, please?’
‘Uh, that is moussaka. A Greek dish; very nice. Lamb and eggplant cooked in a béchamel sauce.’
‘I had moussaka but never like that.’
‘It’s the real thing. Would you like to try some?’
‘Uh uh. No thanks. And this one?’
‘Moutabel. That also is made from eggplant, with tahini and other things. It’s Lebanese.’
‘Vegetarian?’
‘Are you vegetarian?’
‘I’m trying to be.’
‘Is that for reasons of health or for the animals?’
‘Both,’ she says. He spoons some of the moutabel into a tiny paper dish. ‘Try some.’
‘Oh . . . oh, I was just looking . . .’
‘Here.’
She doesn’t mention that she is only there to kill another fifteen minutes, because it’s colder outside than in and it looked such a nice inviting place to wander into. But she takes the offering anyway, nibbles it and likes it. ‘Go on, have some more.’
‘That’s very nice. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. Now, do you see anything you would like?’
‘Um . . . Do you have any, um . . . Chinese oranges?’
‘Chinese oranges? Sorry, no.’
‘How about . . . chewing gum?’
‘We don’t sell chewing gum,’ he says without any kind of expression.
‘Ah well, never mind. Which way is Lennox?’ she asks, hoisting up her bag again and heading for the door.
‘That way.’
‘Really? Oh I had it totally the opposite direction. Just as well I asked.’
‘Just as well.’
‘Thank you. I like your deli, by the way. It’s cool.’
‘Well, thank you. See you again some time.’
‘Who knows . . . Bye.’
And so Siobhan goes, another quarter-hour successfully consigned. She can see the grocer, watching her as she moves off along the street, but it doesn’t bother her. He seemed like a nice enough old guy and she’s feeling pretty much at peace with the world right now.
Back in the Sunrise, Michael shakes his head, vaguely puzzled as Grace comes up carrying a mop and bucket: ‘I’ve seen that face somewhere before,’ he says.
‘What face?’
‘The girl; the girl that was in here.’
‘I didn’t see no girl.’
‘No? Where was you?’
Grace sighs with the exasperation of one forced to spell out the obvious to one who ought to know, but doesn’t: ‘Well, first I went upstairs, then I went downstairs, then I came up again. Then I went upstairs again, then here I am. What about the girl?’
‘Ah, nothing. I just know the face . . . Listen, don’t forget to shut up early tonight to go to Rosa’s . . .’ This is quite enough to make Grace shudder to the core.
‘Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten. Yeuch – it makes me sick to the stomach just thinking about it. And while we’re on the subject, what are you gonna do about the damn dog? It’s starting to rain in case you haven’t noticed. He could die out there. I’m sorry, but he has to go.’
‘No worry. I’m onto it,’ says Michael, but he isn’t onto it at all; he doesn’t have a clue what to do about the dog. And of course it continues to rain, so he begins to imagine what it will be like to go round the next morning and find him dead. When Benjy turns up at five, therefore, it’s out of genuine exasperation that Michael says, ‘What am I gonna do about this darn dog?’
At seven o’clock, when it’s almost time for Benjy to knock off, Michael receives his answer, for when he accompanies Benjy into the side alley to check that the cartons have been correctly folded – a fundamental part of the routine – there at the side is an edifice made of cardboard, a kennel, looking very much as a kennel should, with a pitched roof and a cut-out oval-shaped door. And Benjy has done all of this: fashioned it, folded it, cut and glued it into shape.
‘Look what I did,’ he says, proud of himself. ‘He can live in it. Whaddya say?’
Michael is dumbstruck, not only by Benjy’s extraordinary resourcefulness, but by the fact that the dog already seems to have taken up residence in it. He can see Barrell sitting inside, his head at the door, lord and master of all he surveys. ‘Good God,’ Michael says finally, and then, allowing a moment for sentiment to gather: ‘That is wonderful.’ Then, just as quickly nipping it in the bud: ‘Now tell me, young man, if you had time to do all of this, what’ve I been paying you to do today?’
■ ♦ ■
Harrison strides, glides, flies along, his body supple and strong. The mile across the Park seemed like twenty skips, and he didn’t even break a sweat. He feels in every part of him tight, light and alert. Under his loose clothes, he can feel the beanie folded in his inside pocket, the knife shining and sheathed down the outside of his thigh and, in his sleeve, the heavy little slug of the tyre-iron. There isn’t an ounce of fear in him; he has no need of it; he will not have it.