“Did it come from here after all, Frank? Why didn’t the monitor … oh my God.” Mom’s voice rose almost out of control before she caught it. Then, swallowing: “Ross, what have you done?”
Dad placed his ear near Anne’s mouth and nose and felt for a pulse in her upper arm.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. See to his chest, will you?”
“But—”
“Anne’ll be all right, she’s breathing on her own, and her heart’s still going. But Ross is bleeding. If there’s any splinters of wood in there, get them out. No, never mind; you take Anne, she’ll want you in a minute anyway. But call me right away if her breathing stops.” And to Ross as he carried him to the bathroom: “You’re a hero today, son. I won’t forget it, ever.”
Before going to bed, Dad let Ross tell him the whole story, and this time, Ross could tell, he listened. They went back to the nursery, and Dad examined the spots on the carpet where the crib’s spinning wheels had melted the fibers. He moved back to stare at the crib. In sudden anger, he kicked the overthrown crib, and all four wheels started to whirl.
He backed away and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
When they’d left the room, he closed and locked the door.
The next day, Dad took his tools to the nursery, along with a hatchet. And that evening, after the fire in the fireplace got good and hot, he and Ross threw bits of crib into the flames and listened to the faint whistles and screams of their burning.
The sign read:
Caution!
STAND BEHIND the yellow line
DO NOT throw garbage onto the tracks
DO NOT jump onto the tracks
More than one moron must have done it. Okay, a bunch of morons. Because it takes more than a single incident for actuaries to calculate the risk of danger versus the cost of production and labor to install the signs at every station. Percentage of population. Chances of fatality. Average payout of lawsuits. It’s all a numbers game, all about risk pools. And we’re all swimming in someone else’s piss-filled pond.
The day I met Mattie, the sign loomed behind her. She was leaning against a pillar across the platform waiting for a Queens-bound train while I hung around for one bearing uptown. She bobbed her head to whatever music played in her earbuds. Dressed in a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns, army jacket and boots, she embodied the quintessential quirky New Yorker. Cute didn’t begin to describe her.
It was the first time I’d been back to the Rockefeller Center subway station in four years. I’d changed careers since then and just started at a brokerage firm in Midtown. Day one on the job, I stayed until eleven o’clock to quell my nerves and prove myself. When it came to my work, I’d developed a necessity to conquer everything, dispel any unknown factors, mitigate the variables. What I craved was a lay of the land and solid footing.
I opened my book and pretended to read while I stole glances her way. Something about her looked familiar—the soft curve of her lips, the strong cut of her cheekbones, the mischievous arch of her brows. I just couldn’t place where I’d seen her before.
As the music strummed through her, the rest of her body followed suit. Her subtle curves swayed in sultry undulation, and this petite Asian girl came alive before me. Carefree, eyes closed in bliss, she danced and tuned out the world. My needle jumped to her frequency. I amended my original assessment. Screw cute. She was hot.
Clanking rang out from the black mouth of the tunnel and rumbling vibrated under my feet. It signaled the close of my window of opportunity. I’d been out of the dating game for so long, I needed a running start, time to build up my courage to approach her. After all, you can’t just go up to a girl and say, Hey, there. I feel like I’ve known you forever. By the way, what’s your name?
A disheveled drunk attempted to read the sign. “Do n-n-not …” He stumbled toward the edge to get a better glimpse, his steps as sloppy as his speech.
His proximity to her unnerved me. I closed my book and stepped closer. He tripped on the warning bumps embedded in the yellow strip. Arms flailing, he grabbed at her for balance as the train barreled into the station. Hurling the book aside, I bolted and wrenched them back from the brink just as the nose of the train whizzed by.
“Don’t t-touch me!” The drunk staggered away.
No apologies. No remorse. Ungrateful prick.
“Holy shit!” She clutched her chest and sank to the floor, her breaths erratic.
I knelt beside her. “You all right?”
“I think so.”
I rifled through my messenger-styled bag and held out a bottle of water. Understandably, she viewed it with caution.
“Brand new.” To prove it, I cracked it open and took a swig without touching the rim. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She gulped down half the bottle. Color returned to her cheeks. “For a second I saw myself in tomorrow’s paper. Girl Plunges to Death at Rockefeller Center.”
“It could have been worse.” Jesus. I wasn’t merely out of practice, I was clueless.
“Maybe you’re right.” In spite of everything, she smirked. “This could’ve happened at Queensboro Plaza. I hate heights.”
She had a sense of humor. Oh, I really liked her.
“Was that your train?”
She glanced up as the M train pulled out and shook her head. She must have been waiting for the F.
“Want to move to the middle? It’ll be safer.” I stretched out a hand, which she declined.
“I got it.” She crawled a few steps toward the center of the platform before hoisting herself up.
However strong she pretended to be, she was obviously still shaken. Her vulnerability endeared her to me even more.
I blathered to fill the silence with more of my winning charm. “You know, about fifty people are struck and die every year. Considering there are over eight million people in New York, I’d say it’s a pretty unique way to go. Anyone can get hit by a car.”
“Is that a twisted way of saying I’m special? Or that I’d be lucky to get hit by a train?” Rather than derision or annoyance, she displayed amusement.
Someone who wasn’t easily offended? A sharp wit? I was in serious trouble.
“Uh, no. Sorry. That’s just my inner geek talking. Don’t listen to him.”
“Aren’t you a fount of interesting facts? How do you know so much? You work for the MTA or something?”
I blanched. “God, no. Never. I’m a financial analyst. Numbers. That’s kind of my thing.”
“So you make money.”
“Mostly I make other people money. But I don’t work the front office. I work the backend, creating financial models. I design algorithms to predict which stocks will yield the highest dividends.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Her smile electrified with all the voltage of a third rail.
Damn. She was killing it, killing me. Love. Definitely.
Emboldened, I threw out a challenge. “I could talk dirty if you really want.”
She threw down a gauntlet of her own. “Well, don’t feel you have to hold back now.”
I tacked on spunky to her list of attributes. This night was getting better and better, as was my confidence and my game. “All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Go ahead. Hit me.”
I affected the deepest, sexiest voice I could muster. “Pivot tables. Macros. V-lookups—”
She laughed, held up her hands in surrender. “Stop, stop. I give. That’s way too kinky for me. Freak.”
“Hey, I was just getting warmed up.”
She noticed the book on the ground. “That yours?” She sauntered over and dusted the dirt off the cover. “The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. Very deep.”
“What? I’m not a Neanderthal.”
“I never said you were. Just figured you for a Clancy or Crichton fan. I didn’t expect a suit to be reading a self-help book.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
<
br /> Her voice unfurled like smoke in an old jazz bar. “And so you should.”
When she handed me the book, her skin was a feathery brush against mine. She shot another high-wattage smile, which sent me reeling. The hardcover weighed an astronomical hundred pounds, and I nearly dropped it. I was gone. So, so gone.
“Okay, your turn. What were you listening to when you did your little dance?”
“Little dance?” She cocked a brow. “You were watching me?”
“This is a public place. I’m a guy. What’d you expect?”
Her eyes shone with mischief. “I’d tell you but then I’d have to—”
“Kill me?”
“Hell, no. Nothing as clichéd as that. I’d have to straddle your face to shut you up.”
Heat shot through my body. Her slightest caress would have been a match setting me ablaze. I loosened my tie. The top button of my shirt popped off in my haste to unfasten it. Just when I thought I understood her, she launched a bomb and proved inscrutable. Pinning her down was going to be like grasping a missile. And just as dangerous.
She chuckled and passed back the bottle. “You look like you could use a drink. I was just kidding, you know.”
“I know. But you, uh…” I expelled a deep breath. “… do have a way with words.”
“So people tell me. I should really come with a warning label.”
“You should come with an instruction manual.”
“I’m not that bad. Usually. Every once in a while, I’ll do something outrageous. Makes me feel alive. Bet your book doesn’t cover that.”
“Uh, no. Not like that anyway.”
“Here.” She handed me an earbud and tapped on her phone.
We huddled close and our arms pressed together. My heat index spiked again. It was turning out to be the best night ever.
The song caught me off guard. It wasn’t at all what I expected. Of course, neither was she.
Linked together by a sliver of wire, we listened to Cypress Hill’s “Insane in the Brain.” Despite the crazy lyrics, the riff and beat were catchy. The feverish screeches punctuated the melody. Our bodies grooved in tandem.
She angled her face to mine, her breath a soft, warm graze across my jaw. “Good, right?”
The scent of pomegranate wafted up with her every movement. My mind whirled with visions of her writhing above me—hair tossed back, the surge of her hips, the thrust of her breasts, what my name sounded like in her mouth. Sweet mother of God, yes. So, so good.
She brought my fantasies to an abrupt halt when she killed the music. “I’m cutting the soundtrack for a short I’m working on. What do you think?”
I covered my groin with my bag and cleared my throat. “You produce music?”
“Films.”
“You’re a director?”
“Director, producer, writer, gaffer. And whatever else I need to be. I’m a film major at NYU.”
A light bulb clicked on. “That’s why you look familiar. You’re an actress.”
“Nope. Strictly behind the scenes. When it comes to my art, I’m too much of a control freak. I prefer calling the shots.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” And good to know we shared a common work ethic.
She poked me with an elbow, a positive sign. Playful contact ranked high in flirtation. That much I recalled from my previous life as a serial dater.
“So, can I get your autograph before you hit it big?”
Her eyes narrowed, clearly debating whether to entrust me inside her inner realm. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re fishing for information.”
“I’m only asking for your name. Not anything personal, like your social security number. Or, you know, your astrological sign. Think of it as a reward for saving your life.”
“Wow. Lay the guilt trip. If you wanted to see me again, you could have just asked.” If she only knew how much I wanted to see her again. And again and again.
“I thought I just did.”
A minute of exquisite silence passed between us where we simply grinned at each other like awkward, giddy teens. How was it possible that she could tether me to the ground and at the same time make me float?
A train sounded in the distance. We both knew what that meant.
“You might catch me this time tomorrow.”
Another good indication. I wiggled my brows. “I’ll bring two bottles of water.”
“O-o-oh. Big spender.”
The train drew closer. She still hadn’t divulged her name, and time was running out. Either she was forgetful or the mistress of deflection.
“I’m Miles. What’s your name?”
Her hesitation made my chest ache. Had I read the signs all wrong? Everything seemed to be going so well.
As the F train pulled in, her hair whorled around her, creating a wispy black halo, like the kind from static electricity. Her body hummed with life. Her radiant eyes emitted an energy that charged every molecule of my being. My skin crackled with excitement.
A variation of this image flashed before me. Her long strands of hair flying wildly around her, but this time, her head whips in my direction. Her catlike eyes widen in astonishment, in alarm. Her red mouth snaps open like an aperture.
Déjà vu, they call it. Some think it’s a sign of having been there before, perhaps in another life. I believe it’s the universe signaling your destiny or giving you a second chance.
“See you tomorrow.” A hint of a smile touched the corners of her lips. “Maybe.”
Without even so much as a backward glance, she boarded the train.
Dammit. Obviously, I was rusty.
Just as the doors slid shut, she shouted between the crack. “Mattie!”
The instant she left my sight, I did a post-goal happy dance. Yes! Mattie. Mattie the Luminous. Mattie the Hottie. Smart Mattie. Funny Mattie. The first girl to capture my interest in years.
The next day, I was a man on a mission. I scoured the aisles at the Fifth Avenue Barnes & Noble, searching for the perfect book; something unexpected, strange, or cerebral. Anything to amuse or impress her. I couldn’t decide between The Manly Art of Knitting, The Sex Lives of Cannibals, or The Odyssey. I bought them all.
Even before I saw her, I knew instinctively where she would be. Once again, her lithe body swiveled to music. The vision of her scrambled my brain and I blanked. All the clever lines I’d concocted and practiced at work vanished. I hid behind a column to enjoy the spectacle before I strolled over, toting bottles in hand and a big grin on my face.
“As promised. You have a choice of water. Or water.”
She gawked at me as if I were a weirdo.
“It’s me. Miles.”
“That’s nice.” She turned up the volume and turned her back to me.
I tugged her sleeve. “Mattie, what’s up?”
“What the hell?” She jerked away with such force, she lost her balance and tipped backward toward the tracks.
I yanked her back and caught her in my arms. “Looks like I saved you again.”
She shoved me away, stripping the earbuds off. Her eyes flared with disbelief. “It’s your fault I almost fell in!”
I wasn’t expecting us to elope and have kids, but I couldn’t comprehend her iciness.
“I’m just trying to talk to you. What’s wrong?”
A guy came up to us. “Hey, man, you okay?”
My tone teetered between irritation and hostility. “We’re just talking. Everything’s cool.”
What did he think I was doing to her?
He eyed me with skepticism. I glared back and he moved on.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just don’t get why you’re pissed at me. Last time we were talking and laughing and then today—”
“Last time?” She was incredulous. “I don’t even know you.”
Had the rules of engagement changed that much in four years?
“Are you serious?”
“I don’t know. Is pepper
spray serious? Leave or I’m calling the cops.”
After what we’d shared last night, was she just going to blow me off? Or was this part of her outrageous living? I pictured my own headline: Chump Pulverized by Stupidity.
“Suddenly you’ve developed amnesia? Neat trick. Does it come with a toy?”
“Are you still talking? What part of ‘I don’t know you’ don’t you get?”
“Fine. I can take a hint. I think Cypress Hill’s rubbed off on you.” I tapped my temple. “Insane in the brain. But you know what? Good luck making your movie. Hope you have a nice life, Mattie.”
“Wait. What did you say? How do you know about the movie? The song?”
Two could play that game. Still fuming, I ignored her.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. How do you know my name?”
“Oh, now you want to talk to me? How do you think I know? Because you told me.”
“Okay, you obviously know me. Then you should know I’m not, like, some stuck up bitch. I just …” She looked genuinely perplexed and as frustrated as me. “I don’t know why I can’t remember you. I usually have a good memory. Look, a girl can’t be too careful, you know?”
Even her non-apologies had the power to penetrate armor.
She gave me the once-over and her posture relaxed. “Just promise me you’re not a stalker.” She held up two fingers in the configuration of a peace sign. “Scout’s honor?”
I chuckled. Damn. Staying mad at her was like hating a kitten. “The scout’s honor is three fingers. Like this.” I gestured with my hand. “And we stalkers prefer the term enthusiasts.”
“Okay, do-over. I’m Mattie Kim. What’s your name again?”
“Miles Ferguson. I know we white guys all look alike but come on.”
“Yeah, sorry. I can’t tell you guys apart. It might help if you wore name tags.”
After a split second of silence, we both chortled.
Everything returned on track. Two hours flew by before we realized the time. When I offered to escort her safely to her stop, she adamantly refused. Stubborn, proud, my least favorite of her qualities, I accepted her boundaries nonetheless. But the thought of any harm befalling her made me ill.
The next night, I showed up with a name tag plastered to my jacket. Goofy, but I figured she’d get a kick out of it. Some people struggled with names. If Mattie was one of them, my gambit left no room for error.
A Haunting of Words Page 22
