They decided to stay and watch the next several groups of riders. It was just as fun—and dizzying—as riding the carousel themselves.
“What a wonderful day,” Dodo said. “Just wonderful.”
“I’m glad you’re happy, Dodo.”
“I am, I really am.”
By now they were more than halfway across the park. Cricket was trying to decide if they should go north and look at something, such as the statues of the poets by the Mall. No doubt a destination, but Dodo probably wouldn’t want to walk that far and they happened to be right near one of Cricket’s other favorite geological wonders.
“Dodo, look.”
“I’m looking. What am I looking at?” Cricket pointed to a little grassy hill just west of the carousel. There was a boulder resting right on top. It looked like a prop from a Flintstones episode. Around it were a few rods of twisted metal, like an afterthought, to prevent the boulder from sliding and flattening someone or something underneath it into a pancake.
“A glacial erratic,” Cricket proudly announced.
“Very nice. It’s like a sculpture garden. Who thought to import it?”
“Um, God? Glacial erratics got here before there were trucks and cars. The Wisconsin Ice Sheet pushed a bunch of boulders from the Palisades on the other side of the Hudson River to this area. That’s why they’re called erratics. From the Latin word errare, which means to wander and a couple of other things.”
“What an adventure,” Dodo said. “I’m glad we wandered into it.”
“See how there’s all that pink in there? It isn’t the same color as the bedrock. Or as Umpire Rock. That’s a clue that it came from another place.”
Cricket didn’t understand why everyone in the world wasn’t in awe of these giant, hard things like she was. Bedrock, for example, was so strong, buildings all around the city were literally anchored to it. And yet as solid as it was, it was a responsive being. With enough heat and pressure, any rock bent, folded, stretched, buckled. Rocks literally changed chemical composition. Rocks changed all the time. So in this way, rocks were very much alive.
Some people wore their hearts on their sleeves. So did rocks. Bands of colors, patches of crystals, and grooves, for example, all relayed the experiences and the stories of a rock’s life. After learning so much about the Matisse cutouts, Cricket was happy to teach Dodo a thing or two about erosion.
“These large mineral crystals here? See? It means that this rock cooled underground—the ground was like a thermal blanket and the magma cooled very slowly. When magma cools very quickly, aboveground, you get tinier crystals.”
“I wish your grandfather was here for this. He loved crystals. Have you ever seen a crystal under a microphone? He’d look at anything under a microphone. He found the patterns endlessly fascinating.”
“You mean a microscope?”
“Yes, of course, a microscope. What did I say?”
“Microphone.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Does that ever happen to you? My ideas spread out until the thoughts get so far apart the letters fall away. I can’t see what I’m thinking about. I lose the words. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. That sounds annoying.”
“It’s frustrating. What was I saying?”
“Dodie, looking at things under a microscope.”
“That’s right. The cells and the patterns. It was like art to him. Did I take you to see the cutouts exhibit?”
“You didn’t,” Cricket said. “But you’ve shown me books.”
“Do you love them as much as I do?”
“Yes, because they remind me of you.”
“Well, that Matisse was really something. He got old but he kept living. Everyone is so excited about how long people stay alive, but I’m not so convinced.”
Cricket was officially tired of the suitcase. They sat on a bench for a minute.
“But didn’t people use to die in their fifties? Dodie did, right?” Cricket asked. She knew Bunny was fifty years old. Dodo was seventy-five.
“Yes,” Dodo said. “But dying over a longer period of time isn’t really the same as living longer, is it? Matisse, though, what a story. He reinvented himself at the age of seventy. He had an affair with one of his studio assistants, he created some of his best work. I couldn’t even get Abby to make a decent cup of coffee or have an interesting conversation. Imagine if I had an affair … Oh, what’s the point? Nobody likes old people. Not even me. Cricket,” she said, “I don’t want another one of those companions.”
Poor Dodo, she looked like all the spunk had been squeezed out of her. They were separated by more than six decades, but Cricket and Dodo were very much in the same boat. Bunny was in charge of both of them and Bunny was relentless.
They were pretty close to the east side of the park now, but Dodo wasn’t complaining. Maybe they could hit Sheep Meadow and look at even more erratics. Maybe it was time to get a hot dog and have a picnic. They went under Playmates Arch even though it led them farther from the meadow because the name Playmates Arch was so silly and it was fun to imagine an adult Victorian man creating such a place. They were now under another spot in the looping road with all the runners and cyclists. The arched space was lined with long, beautiful stripes of yellow and red brick.
When they got out of the tunnel, their eyes were drawn up the path to a shirtless man on roller skates. He looked like he was dancing through space. His whole body was enjoying a kind of kinetic bliss.
“Look at him go,” Dodo said. “He’s in this world and some other world. He’s somewhere else.”
Cricket couldn’t take her eyes off him either. He was ecstatic, flying down the hill toward the tunnel. The skater was listening to music and gaining speed down the small hill. He was dancing and Cricket wasn’t sure she’d witnessed such private joy in public before. He was having an out-of-body experience, an exultation.
Cricket was, too, until she realized that he was going to crash right into them. She placed herself in front of Dodo like a human shield. The man’s eyes opened. His eyes met Cricket’s. They shared a split second of panic, trying to figure out how he would slow down and how she would get out of the way. Without knowing what she was doing she moved the suitcase out in front of herself. She didn’t mean to, but she tripped him with it. He went flying. So did the suitcase. It skittered across the path into a tree, coming open as it flew. Cricket waited to fall, but she and Dodo were still standing. They’d held each other up.
When the man got to his feet he was mortified. What a rude awakening from his private dance trance. “I’m so sorry,” he said. His headphones were tangled around his neck.
“Me, too,” Cricket said to him. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to do that. Dodo, are you okay? Should we sit down? Let me look at you.”
“I’m so sorry,” the man said again. “I wasn’t paying attention.” He tried to wipe the sweat off himself and make himself seem more presentable. “Can I get you some water? Can I do something? Are you okay? I’m really sorry. I’m going to get you some water.”
“Dodo,” Cricket asked, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little stunned.”
“Me, too. I think. But maybe we should sit down. Let’s sit down for a minute.” Cricket deposited her grandmother on a bench in the shade. She could have prevented what had happened by just moving to the left or the right. She’d seen it all about to happen. But she’d frozen and hidden behind the suitcase. She looked at Dodo’s pants lying on the path, imagining they were her and Dodo sprawled out instead. They could have broken some bones. Gotten concussions.
“Here you go,” the man said, returning with bottles of cold water and napkins from the Dairy shop up the path. “I feel awful. Please, is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Dodo said. “You go off and enjoy yourself. It’s a beautiful day.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. We will take care of each other,” Dodo said
. “Right, Poopsie?”
The man looked at Cricket. She had nothing better to offer, so he skated away. But he was no longer a proud peacock. He was a shrunken pigeon. Cricket felt sort of guilty.
Cricket and Dodo sat on the bench near the Dairy. They drank some water and Cricket gathered Dodo’s pants. She repacked the bag only to discover that the zipper wouldn’t close anymore and one of the wheels was broken. Everything fit in her duffel since Dodo hadn’t gotten around to packing much. The days of rolling a bag around were over. Cricket threw Dodo’s suitcase in a garbage can.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked to see what time it was. Her phone battery was draining fast. Her charger! Where was her charger? Was it on the grass? Had it fallen out of the bag? She must have left the house without it. Yes, she had. She’d run inside, dressed, and taken her bag and hadn’t bothered with her charger. It was still sitting on her desk in her bedroom.
She and Dodo had survived a near-death experience but when her parents got ahold of her they were going to kill her. How could she run away without a phone charger? She was so dumb.
Quirky, mournful music played nearby. It was a saxophone, and the tune was so familiar. She definitely knew the song, but the name of it kept slipping right through her brain. It was driving her crazy.
Dodo met the news about her suitcase with her usual easygoing attitude.
“You win some, you lose some. I lost that bag.”
They walked toward the saxophonist. He was standing right outside another pedestrian tunnel, and his case was open with a few dollars in it. Cricket didn’t have any money with her or she’d have thrown it in. The theme song from The Pink Panther. That’s what he was playing. The music echoed ever so slightly in the tunnel. She and Dodo walked through.
18
THE PIERRE
Home was getting farther and farther away. Cricket knew that much. She also knew that home was where she was supposed to be. Home had telephone chargers. Home had the memoir she hadn’t written. Home was the responsible direction to go in. But Cricket didn’t like the idea of going backward.
Cricket and Dodo continued forward. Past the children’s zoo they came upon a crowd gathered in front of the Delacorte Clock.
“Look,” Dodo said, “we must be right on time.” Given the number of people, Cricket guessed the bronze animals would begin their turn around the tower any minute now. She loved the distinct personalities each of the animals had. The hippo was so large and yet so sprightly on his feet while playing the violin. The kangaroo and the baby kangaroo were very serious. The goat with the pipes was pretty intense, too. The bear was fat and frolicky, and his whole body appeared to shake along with his tambourine. And the penguin marching with a drum was incredibly adorable. They all seemed alive even before they started marching around on the hour and half hour every day of the week. Dodo was the first person who had showed Cricket this clock, on a visit from California. She hadn’t told her that all the animals would start moving. It was like magic when they’d all begun marching. Cricket had never been able to settle on a favorite animal.
She and Dodo waited with all the others and watched as all the animals made their way around the tower. The show was over when the monkeys rang the bell. People clapped and the crowds started to irritate Cricket. There were even more people at the entrance to the main zoo. An entourage of tourists pushed past them to get on line for tickets and Cricket decided she didn’t like the east side of the park anyway. It seemed more fake. The zoo, the café, all the portrait painters waiting by the gate to the zoo—these were not the things that Cricket liked about the park, and she doubted Olmsted and Vaux would have liked them either. Cricket veered toward the exit onto Fifth Avenue. Dodo gripped the handrail of the stairway that led out and Cricket was right behind. When they emerged onto Fifth Avenue, she felt like an astronaut who’d successfully landed on the moon. If she’d had a flag, she’d have planted it to mark her arrival.
They may as well have been on the moon, that’s how much the Upper East Side felt like another planet to Cricket. The only thing connecting her neighborhood and this one was that the Upper East Side was filled with the people who wrote large checks to her parents’ Upper West Side Enrichment for the Public Fund.
Cricket wondered how many people passing her on Fifth Avenue had either bought a table for this summer’s gala or knew someone who had.
“Did I ever tell you that I lived there?” Dodo said. She and Cricket were standing on Sixty-Fourth Street and she pointed down a few blocks to the Pierre Hotel. “I had an apartment on the seventh floor. It belonged to a client. But she let me stay anytime I came on art-buying trips or when I visited you. What a hotel. Those were the days when you actually had a room key. My key, I remember, weighed about five pounds. Every morning the person at the desk would say, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Fabricant. Did you sleep well?’ Talk about service. I remember it vividly.”
They crossed Fifth Avenue and Cricket caught Dodo as she almost lost her footing at the curb.
“I always have to tell your mother, ‘If I fall, I fall.’ She thinks she can protect me. Cricket, do not ever take me to the hospital if I fall. Just leave me. Do you promise? I don’t ever want to go to the hospital.”
“Leave you on the ground? What if you’re bleeding?” Cricket asked. If Dodo were on the street bleeding she would never just walk away.
“I don’t want to discuss it,” Dodo said. “I don’t want to go to the hospital. I want to go to the Pierre.”
Dodo took the lead at that point and the next thing Cricket knew she was walking past a very attentive uniformed man standing on a circular version of the hotel’s logo embedded in the sidewalk. He wore a black top hat and white gloves.
“Welcome to the Pierre,” he said, and he opened the door for them.
They entered an unassuming vestibule with some steps up ahead. Cricket couldn’t understand how this could be the reception area of a famous hotel. There was no lobby that Cricket could see. But Dodo kept going, leading the way to a flight of stairs. She seemed much more limber now, and more confident.
At the top of the stairs, another man with white gloves and a long black coat greeted them with such a big smile, Cricket thought he might actually be a long-lost dear friend. The floor was black-and-white marble, with an even larger version of the Pierre logo emblazoned in the center. Now this was a lobby! The floor was so shiny it must have been polished every three minutes. Cricket could practically see her reflection in it, and she felt underdressed in shorts. There was a long desk and flowers everywhere and the two men behind the desk wore uniforms to match the black-and-white floor.
“I’m Dodo Fabricant,” Dodo said. “I’m checking in.” Cricket joined Dodo at the desk, flabbergasted.
“How long will you be with us?” a desk clerk with a name tag spelling Casper said.
“I don’t know. We’ve run away,” Dodo said. She handed him a credit card from her purse.
“Well, you’ve run to the right place,” Casper said.
Cricket was standing next to a round table covered by multiple glass vases filled with coral tulips. All the colors around her were so elegant and so understated. It was as if the whole experience was supposed to be a secret. Even the way you had to almost already know the location of the lobby. If Dodo hadn’t known where to go, Cricket wouldn’t have found the place where they stood now.
After tying a bunch of sheets together and climbing out the window in her mind, the Pierre Hotel was, well, a better place to land. This was the way to run away. Not even Claudia Kincaid, who hid in the Met with her little brother, had had it this good. As usual, Dodo had just taken everything to a new level.
The desk clerk gave them a large key, with an even larger fob. Just like Dodo had said. Another man in a uniform and white gloves appeared and removed the duffel bag from Cricket’s grasp. He led them to the elevator. Another man in a uniform and wearing white gloves took them up in the elevator. They were really on vacatio
n now—they didn’t even have to push elevator buttons.
“I do so adore a man in uniform,” Dodo whispered. At that moment Cricket did, too.
“Is this your daughter?” the bellhop asked.
“You are adorable, by the way,” Dodo said. “This is my granddaughter; I could never have this much fun with my daughter.”
On the fifth floor, the bellhop led them out of the elevator. The carpeting was so thick Cricket couldn’t hear the sound of her own feet. The walls were papered in the palest apricot color. All the colors were so soft and subtle it was as if the hotel decorator didn’t want the guests to be shocked by anything. Even the air smelled subtly like flowers and something green. The man opened a room and gestured for Dodo and Cricket to enter. It was pale blue with a view of the park. It was stunning.
“May I put your baggage on the stand?” he asked.
“You may,” Dodo said.
Dodo surveyed two queen-size beds with silk bedding. She opened the drawers, the closets. She assessed the view. Cricket wondered if she’d be able to see Umpire Rock.
“The room is lovely, thank you. But we will need more bathrobes.”
Dodo gave the man five dollars.
“My pleasure,” the bellhop said, and left.
The second the door closed, Cricket’s phone rang. It was as if Bunny knew her mother and her daughter were up to something.
Cricket looked at Dodo and said, “Bunny.” She answered the phone and said, “Hello.”
“We’ve arrived,” Bunny said.
“Us, too,” Cricket said.
“I beg your pardon?” Bunny said. “You’ve arrived where?”
“Just kidding,” Cricket said, panicking. “How was the traffic?” Her parents loved talking about traffic.
“Oh, Cricket, it was murder. They have got to build more roadways out here. It was like being strapped to the back of a snail, at the end of the world, in a fire. How’s your memoir?”
The Half-True Lies of Cricket Cohen Page 8
