The Schuyler House

by Cade Haddock Strong

  Suddenly, Plan B becomes crystal clear to me. I’m going to leave the stolen truck parked behind the hotel and join the Jewish skiers aboard the buses bound for New York. I cannot think of a better place in the world to hide out than New York, and it just so happens that the Hatshepsut Consulting safe deposit box is located at a bank in the middle of the city. That means I’ll have access to more cash. Plus, I’m dressed the part in my ski pants and ski jacket. The fact that there are two motor coaches means the ski group is fairly big so hopefully I can easily blend in, especially if everyone is bundled up in winter clothes.

  As I watch the drivers start up the buses and then come around to open up the cavernous luggage compartments, I consider moving the Ford to a lot across the street from the hotel just in case the police discover the stolen truck before the bus of skiers reaches New York. The cops could put two and two together and speculate that I ditched the truck and hopped on one of the ski buses, but I figure it’s not worth it. The likelihood of them finding the truck and identifying it as stolen in the next four hours is extremely slim especially because the truck is parked behind the hotel and the license plate is nearly covered in snow.

  I walk back into the hotel, buy a bottle of water and a package of cheese crackers from the vending machine in the laundry room, and then head back out to the buses. I do my best to blend in with the skiers starting to filter out of the hotel and toward the waiting coaches. I figure walking out with them will make it less obvious that I don’t have any luggage; most notably, I don’t have a ski bag. I climb up into the first bus and sit down in a window seat about halfway back. The bus fills up quickly, and eventually a young woman plunks down into the aisle seat next to me. She doesn’t seem to be with anyone else and doesn’t so much as glance at me before slipping on her Beats headphones and pulling a book out of her bag. Perfect, I think to myself. Doesn’t look like she will be a talker. Everyone on the bus seems pretty groggy given the early hour; half the bus’s riders are dozing off before we even leave the hotel parking lot.

  I’m suddenly and completely overwhelmed with exhaustion. I close my eyes, and warm tears wander down my face as I think about Sarah and Kat.

  Eventually, I must doze off because when I open my eyes again, we’re pulling off Rte. 87 south of Albany. That means we’ve probably been on the road for more than two hours. The bus makes its way to a McDonald’s not far from the highway, and people file off to grab breakfast and use the restroom.

  After the pit stop, where I grab some food for myself, I just stare out the window and sip my coffee as we continue to roll south on I-87 toward the Big Apple. My mind is totally numb. I know I need to figure out what I’m going to do when we actually arrive in New York, but I’m having a really hard time thinking about anything except for the events of the previous evening. I truly cannot believe that two of my very best friends and long-time partners in crime are dead. Dead. I repeat the word, letting it sink in.

  For so many years, the four of us treated our escapades like a game. We never really acknowledged or admitted, at least I didn’t, that what we were doing was seriously dangerous. In retrospect, I cannot help but think what idiots we were. At least, I wish we’d had the sense to stop doing it after the first few times. Our luck was bound to run out at some time…

  Finally, we make our way across the famous George Washington Bridge, and it occurs to me that I have no idea where the bus will eventually stop to drop us all off. The Manhattan skyline comes into view, and I feel the bus start to slow down. Even under the circumstances, I can’t help but admire the sea of the towering skyscrapers. Their massive glass and metal facades shimmer in the morning sunlight and its beautiful. The bus turns off onto Route 278 which means we must be headed to Brooklyn. No surprise there.

  The bus pulls to a stop about twenty minutes later in front of the Park Slope Jewish Center, an imposing yellow brick building right near Prospect Park. Everyone files off the bus slowly and gathers around as the drivers open the luggage holds and start to pull out suitcases and ski bags. I stand with all of the other passengers and pretend to wait for my nonexistent luggage while assessing my surroundings. I check my watch, and it is almost ten o’clock. The sky is a crisp blue and it’s very cold. Luckily, there is virtually no wind so the cold is not as biting as it could be. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around my body and bounce from foot-to-foot to keep warm. Most of the skiers appear to grab their luggage and then head into the Jewish Center, so casually I follow a group inside in hopes of finding a ladies’ room and possibly a computer I can use for a few minutes.

  The Center is massive. After I use the bathroom, I wander down a long hallway lined with doorways leading to what look like classrooms. I try a few of the knobs, but all of the doors appear to be locked until I reach one near the end of the hall that’s ajar. I poke my head in the open door and see what must be some sort of children’s library room. There are rows of shelves packed with books and small tables and chairs scattered around the room. I step in and peek around a few of the bookshelves and find what I am looking for—a row of computers. The computers sit on desks made for someone half my size, but I pull out a pint-size chair and sit down at one of them. I’m sure someone is going to come in and kick me out any minute so I work quickly. First, I log on to my Gmail account and go straight to my contacts to find Ellen’s cell number. Next, I log on to my Skype account and dial her number. My heart is racing as her phone starts to ring, and I’m crestfallen when it goes to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message, log out of Gmail and Skype, climb out of the miniature chair and head back out into the long hallway to find the nearest exit.

  Since the Center is located in the heart of Brooklyn, there should be a plethora of subway stations close by so I just begin to walk, figuring I’ll bump into a subway station pretty quickly. Before too long, I find myself outside the Grand Army Plaza Station. When I step inside, I’m happy to find that it is a good bit warmer inside the station than it was outside. I lower the hood of my coat and look around for a MetroCard kiosk. Once I find the kiosks, I dig a twenty-dollar bill out of Sarah’s fanny pack, feed it into the kiosk and wait for the machine to spit out my MetroCard. I grab my card and walk toward the entry gates, happy to see that the Four Train runs through this station. I’ve been to New York enough times to know this train heads straight into the heart of Manhattan and up the Eastside.

  I walk down to the tracks for the Four Train, and while I’m waiting decide to head to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The train will stop nearby since it’s on the Eastside, and it will be a good, warm place to wander while I figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I laugh to myself as I consider the fact that going to an art museum is a tiny bit ironic given my current circumstances, but somehow, this plan calms me.

  That is, until I realize a few minutes later that it’s Christmas Day and the Met will most certainly be closed. Shit. I need somewhere to sit and think—ideally, somewhere warm.

  Chapter Eight

  The Four Train heads north soon after it crosses the East River. I ride it for a few stops and decide to jump off near City Hall and catch an uptown Two Train. I hop on the Two and take it up along the west side of Central Park before getting off at 96th Street to transfer and take the One Train up to 116th Street near Columbia University.

  As soon as I exit the station, the cold air slams me, so I pull the hood of my coat up over my head and set off down the street. I spent a lot of time in this area of the city when I was in college and dated a woman who attended Columbia. I wander along the once-familiar streets until I come across the old Newton Hotel and the neighboring Gaslight Diner. The old Newton Hotel looks just as seedy as it did ten plus years ago, and my guess is it still primarily accommodates hourly cash-paying guests as long as the proper deposit is made.

  It’s not quite noon at this point so it’s probably still too early to try to check into the hotel. The Gaslight Diner appears to be open even though it’s Christmas; I figure I will go in there
and have some more coffee and maybe order a small nibble. I make a beeline for the long lunch counter that lines the back of the restaurant. The place is nearly empty, and I climb up on one of the stools, take off my ski parka and rest it on the stool beside me. I feel a little out of place in ski pants in the middle of Manhattan especially because there is absolutely no snow on the ground, but I don’t have a lot of options at this point, and honestly, I’m way too exhausted to really care.

  The waitress working the counter scurries over and slaps a multipage plastic menu down on the counter in front of me. She’s in her early twenties with bleach-blond frizzy hair and is wearing a nametag that reads “Irene.”

  “Mornin’. Coffee?” she mumbles.

  “Sure, black,” I croak.

  She grabs my coffee cup and, in one smooth motion, flips it over and fills it. I smile a thank-you, and she wanders off to leave me to flip through the vast menu dotted with pictures of moist omelets, frothy milkshakes, and juicy hamburgers. I am surprised that the pictures make me hungry even though I had an Egg McMuffin just a few hours ago. I decide on a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup—comfort food seems fitting.

  The waitress places a big glass of ice water in front of me. “Ready to order?”

  I nod and give her my order, and she shuffles off to the next customer.

  I take a long drink of water and then sip on my coffee like a zombie while I wait for my food. It occurs to me again that it’s Christmas Day and two of my closest friends are spending Christmas morning in the morgue. I remember that Sarah’s two boys are spending Christmas with their father in Maine, and I wonder if they’ve heard the news about their mother. Those poor boys, I think to myself just as the waitress places my grilled cheese and soup down in front of me. The soup is piping hot, and I dunk my sandwich into it like a little kid. I wish the diner had a TV so I could see if the news is reporting anything new on the events at Schuyler House.

  I finish my meal and drain my coffee cup. I leave money on the counter, including a generous tip, pull on my coat and head toward the back of the diner in search of a ladies’ room.

  The door to the restroom opens just as I turn to grab some paper towels to dry my hands, and Irene walks in and gives me a faint nod of recognition. She’s carrying a coat over her arm and has a cloth bag over her shoulder.

  “Shift over?” I ask.

  “Yeah, finally. Some way to spend Christmas, huh?” she says as she enters a stall.

  I head out of the restroom and walk back across the diner toward the hostess stand, and suddenly I get an idea. I reach into Sarah’s fanny pack, pull out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and tuck it into my hand as I head back outside. The cold air slams me in the face again, and I duck into a nearby doorway to wait for Irene to follow me outside. About three minutes later, she exits the diner and I approach her quickly.

  “Hey,” I yell, and she looks up. “Hold on, I have a question to ask you…”

  She looks up at me curiously. “Oh, hi! What’s up?”

  I’m not exactly sure how to explain what I need. “Uhmm, I have a favor to ask you, no obligation.”

  “Okay,” she says guardedly while looking me up and down.

  “Will you check me into the hotel next door if I give you a hundred bucks?” She looks at me quizzically but doesn’t say anything so I continue. “I need a safe place to sleep and I don’t want my husband to find me. He’s a cop and he is crazy.”

  I feel bad for lying, but she looks at me understandingly and nods. “Sure.”

  A smile of relief crosses my face, and I explain my game plan to her. “If it’s okay, I will just follow you to the check-in desk and I’ll hand you whatever cash you need to pay for the room and the deposit. They will probably ask to see your ID…You have one, right?”

  She nods, and I continue. “Once they give you a room key, we can head up the elevator together, but as soon as we get upstairs, you can turn right around and leave. You don’t have to come into the room or anything…I mean…”

  She interrupts my rambling. “It’s okay, you don’t seem like a crazy person. I’m happy to help.”

  Yeah, I’m just wanted, I think to myself as we turn to enter the hotel.

  The Newton is a serious dump. The lobby is brightly lit and adorned with only a ratty sofa, a few chairs and a few randomly placed fake plants. Irene and I make our way to the check-in desk, and the clerk grunts some sort of greeting.

  “We need a room for the night,” Irene says matter-of-factly.

  “I need to see some ID,” the clerk barks, and Irene hands over her driver’s license.

  The clerk pokes his computer for a bit and eventually looks up. “It’ll be seventy-nine dollars plus tax, and I need a seventy-five-dollar deposit, cash only.”

  I hand Irene some cash, and she pays for the room and the deposit.

  “Room 713,” the clerk growls as he reaches his meaty hand over the counter to give Irene one of those plastic key cards. “Checkout is eleven o’clock, no exceptions,” he says as he points us toward the elevator at the far side of the lobby.

  We walk over to the elevators, and I hit the “Up” button. The ancient elevator takes forever to arrive, and I feel myself sweating under my ski clothes both because I am hot and because I am nervous as shit. When the elevator doors finally creak open, Irene and I both step into the elevator. I repeatedly push the button for the seventh floor, but it doesn’t light up. Irene points to a sign that a room key is required to operate the elevator. She swipes the key card over a little sensor, and this time the number seven lights up when I press it. While the elevator creeps up toward the seventh floor I hand Irene a hundred-dollar bill, and she gives me the room key in exchange.

  “Thanks for helping me out. You are free to leave now,” I assure as the elevator stops at my floor.

  “You’re welcome,” she says as I step off and the elevator doors close between us.

  I slide the key in the lock for Room 713, push the door open and flip on a light. The room has hospital-green walls and shabby brown carpet and consists of a queen bed, a dresser with an old TV on top, and a wooden chair and desk. I poke my head into the bathroom; the fixtures and tile are dated, but it seems relatively clean. The room feels cold so I look around for the thermostat and crank up the heat before heading into the bathroom to take a quick shower. I’m ready for a nap; I barely slept on the bus and I’m totally beat.

  Chapter Nine

  I sleep hard for about two hours until an incredibly full bladder wakes me up. I’m still completely exhausted, but it’s only late afternoon and I want to head back out to buy some supplies before I turn in for the night. I’m pretty confident that at least some stores in the neighborhood will be open even though it’s Christmas Day. I’m in New York, after all—the city that never sleeps, not even on Christmas Day. I count the remaining cash in the fanny pack, bundle up in my ski clothes and head back out to the street.

  First, I go to Duane Reade and buy a toothbrush and toothpaste, a sample size of shampoo (since the hotel is too cheap to provide it), some deodorant, a six-pack of Fruit of the Loom underwear with little flowers on them, a pack of ballpoint pens, and a notebook. Then I wander another block or so until I come across an electronics store with lots of flashing strobe lights in the front windows. It looks like the kind of place that sells cell phones, so I go inside.

  Every inch of the walls in the store is covered with those pegboard displays. The store seems to carry about one hundred different makes and models of cell phone, and I nearly trip over a pile of boxes as I try to reach the area of the store where most of the cell phones are located. After scanning the incredible selection, I yank a mid-priced Motorola phone off the wall and go in search of the cashier. The store is totally empty, and the cashier is sitting on a stool watching a movie on his iPad. He stands up when I approach the counter, and I hand him the Motorola phone to ring up.

  He takes a look at the phone. “Do you need a SIM card?” he asks. I stare back
at him blankly, and he points to a wall of SIM cards next to his booth. “Cell phones don’t work unless you have a SIM card,” he explains patiently. “SIM cards hold information like the phone number and cell provider. Most people who come in here buy prepaid SIM cards. They can be topped up as needed. Basically, you just pay in advance for service so you don’t have to mess with a plan from one of the big carriers.”

  “Oh.” I try to digest all of this. “You said that each SIM card has its own phone number?” I ask, and he nods.

  I walk over and scan the SIM card wall and grab two SIM cards off one of the pegs—one for me to use temporarily until I can get to the Apple store in the morning and the other one to use as a “clean” phone number I can give to Ellen. My goal is to visit the Hatshepsut safe deposit box in the morning to get some more money. I’m hopeful that Ellen will eventually make her way to New York and that she’ll visit the safe deposit box too. After all, we set up the safe deposit box just for this type of emergency. Anyway, my plan is to leave Ellen a phone number in the safe deposit box so she knows how to reach me.

  I pay for my new electronics and head back out to the street. I start to walk back toward the hotel, but on my way, I pass a small Chinese grocery store that appears to be open. I head in and am psyched to see a giant buffet bar steaming at the back of the store. I load up a take-away container with food, grab some plastic silverware and a six-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, pay the cashier and then continue toward the hotel.

  When I get back to my palatial room at the Newton, I flip on the TV and surf the channels until I come across Anderson Cooper 360 on CNN. I’ve always liked Anderson Cooper. I pull my new cell phone and SIM cards out of the bag and set them out on the desk. I rip open the package of the cell phone, extract the phone and plug it into the wall so that it can charge. Then I sit down at the well-worn desk and pick up one of the SIM card packages to read the instructions. I open one of the cards and insert it into my new cell phone as it charges. Then I open the second SIM card package and jot down the phone number associated with it. I label the card with the words “Ellen phone number” before slipping it into the inside pocket of my ski coat.