by Triss Stein
It didn’t have to be long. It didn’t have to—in fact shouldn’t be—scholarly. It merely had to be there, sent in by tomorrow morning.
I thought frantically about what I’d been doing. The architectural sculpture project could be written about eventually—even in my panic, I could see that—but it was too big for five hundred words. And we were still right in the middle of it. I would suggest it for a longer piece. Some other time.
“First impressions of a new employee?” Boring. And who would care? “Exploring Brooklyn Heights?” Certainly not. Not part of the Museum message, content, responsibilities. In fact the less I said about what I’d been doing lately, the better. “Observations of a working mother in the Museum.” Very boring, and surely been done before. I had nothing earthshaking to say, at least not yet. “Were they doing a good job of attracting teens?” I had the teen but I hadn’t been here long enough to know the answer. (I would look into it when I had time. Interview Chris and her friends? And how much would I embarrass my daughter if I did? And was that a plus or a minus?)
I needed to stop thinking so much.
There on my desk was the folder on the Whitman plaque. Hmm. A mystery, always intriguing. Relevant to the museum? Absolutely. Coverable in the space provided? Sure.
I could write it up in an hour, but it would still need some photos. I had the very old one of the plaque itself. Perfect. Research here might turn up one of the old building. I should add one of the modern location where it used to be. Show what replaced it? Maybe, as a classy touch, a Whitman quote from the engraved fence at Empire Fulton Ferry Park.
I was on a roll. A quick check of my calendar showed nothing for this afternoon. I could be there and back in a short time, if I could avoid being sidetracked. No dropping in on Louisa today. I was on a mission.
I wrote the blog first draft in record time. Instead of wasting time trying to figure out how to scan in the photos I had, I found a tech-savvy intern to do it. I was finally getting smarter about being a little further up the ladder.
Then, once again, I was on my way back to Brooklyn Heights.
I trudged down the hill from the subway to the Empire Fulton Ferry part of Brooklyn Bridge Park and used my phone to take some quick photos. They wouldn’t be good, but I was confident that the media team could use their magic to fix them up.
I trudged back up the hill to what is now Cadman Plaza, an enclave of middle-income apartment towers mixed with low-rise town houses, carved out of a high-traffic area. An interior path was quaintly called Pineapple Walk. Nicely planted too. It was attractive, I had to admit.
Cadman Plaza was a fancier name for what used to be Cranberry Street at the corner of Fulton; the lost plaque had hung there, on the actual building where the Rome Brothers Print Shop once occupied space.
My concentration on framing a photo that would be evocative was ripped apart by a siren. Police? Ambulance? It was always a threatening sound, but things happened here. This was adjacent to a busy street lined with courthouses and feeding into the Brooklyn Bridge. I ignored it.
Then a fire truck came screaming past me, and another was down the street. I looked up, looked around, and saw clouds of smoke coming from somewhere toward the river. Deep in the residential part of Brooklyn Heights.
This was not the ordinary sound of big-city traffic. I stashed my phone and walked toward the smoke at a smart pace, silently cursing the many streetlights that forced me to stop on the way.
By the time I was getting close enough to work out where the smoke was coming from, real fear was attacking, the kind that makes swallowing hard and rushing necessary. It was Louisa’s beautiful street. Another block and I turned a corner to see the street closed, fire trucks on the block, a scene of great confusion. Firefighters with huge hoses and scary-looking tools were moving with great purpose toward—yes. Louisa’s house and the building next door, the Witnesses’ dorm.
People were still pouring out of the dorm, with firefighters yelling into bullhorns, herding them across the street. There was an ambulance, too. Had anyone been hurt? Anyone I knew? Who could I ask?
Where was Louisa? She should be in the crowd crossing the street, with her neighbors, the Witnesses. I could see the firefighters circling her house, too, carrying equipment and gathering on the porch, but I could not get close. There were barriers blocking off the street. Large men, too.
Television news reporters, loaded with portable equipment, were roaming around, apparently getting in the way, but asking the questions I wanted to ask. I slithered as close as I could get, but I couldn’t get close enough, so I melted back into the crowds, keeping my eyes open for any familiar face.
An EMS worker walked by, and I jumped into her path to ask about the ambulance.
“No, no,” she answered, barely stopping. “We are only standing by now, just in case. We took two people to the ER to be checked out, but that’s all.”
And was Louisa, in front of her door, having a heated discussion with men who had axes? I pushed through to the barrier in time to catch the words “irreplaceable” and “treasured.” Finally she stepped back and allowed them in. One of them turned and escorted her across the street, where I lost sight of her in the crowd.
A suffocating, noxious smell filled the air. I felt myself choking, coughed, and scrabbled around in my purse for a candy. Someone stopped in front of me.
“Dr. Donato? Do you need help?”
It was Sierra, the hipster girl who worked for Louisa.
‘No, no,” I gasped. “But you? Do you know…?”
She handed me her water bottle, and a long swig helped me recover.
“Do you know what happened? Have you talked to Mrs. Gibbs?”
“Hell no. I was going to ask you. I’ve been so afraid of something like this. I remind her all the time to only smoke outside and with her ashtray in her hand, and she doesn’t like that, not one bit.”
The circling firemen had gone into Louisa’s house, but I couldn’t see what they were doing from the outside.
“Was it a cigarette? Does anyone know?”
“I don’t know. They’re telling us nothing. Jerks! When I got here, there were flames on both sides of her fence and in the garden. Oh, she will be so upset.”
Firefighters were spraying their giant python-like hoses on the fence between the two properties and in Louisa’s beloved garden. And smoke was still rising at the foundations of both buildings.
“I did see her talking to the firefighters, but then she disappeared in the crowd. She might need some help.”
“Yes, yes, I’m trying. This is so scary and she is, you know, not well.” She rubbed away the tears rolling down her face. “It’s the damn smoke fumes. But I am so worried. She’s not answering her cell phone. Probably left it in the house.”
And then, there she was, standing up with an impeccably camera-ready reporter, looking tousled and fragile herself, but sounding like, well, like Louisa. I grabbed Sierra and pointed.
Louisa looked exhausted but stood straight and spoke firmly. “My house will stand, as it has for a large part of Brooklyn’s life. There is smoke damage.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It can be repaired and cleaned.”
The reporter asked, “How do you think it got started? Electrical failure?”
She gave the interviewer a look that could have singed an oak tree. “I had all the wiring updated to code some years ago. And, yes, I do smoke, but I am careful. It did not start in my home, but outdoors. I am sure of it. Sure! The fencing right over there has the most damage. There is a crime here, and I have complete faith that our city’s investigators will figure it out. It’s sheer luck no one was killed. Whoever did this is a potential murderer.”
Her jaw set, as if she were stopping herself from saying any more, but her eyes flickered to the building next door. The reporter thanked her and went to break.
I could hardly believe it. A woman of her age, after a terrifying experience, and she was up and out and ready to get into another battle.
Sierra and I linked arms and pushed our way through, while Louisa didn’t notice us as she talked to another reporter. We waited, impatiently, until she was free.
“Erica! And Sierra! I’m so glad to see you. Isn’t this terrible?”
I was surprised at how enthusiastic she sounded.
“Did you hear me being interviewed? That’ll show them, won’t it?”
“What?” I was more than a bit confused. “What will it show them? And who will it show?”
“That I am not a confused old woman to be pushed around. There it is, right on television tape for the whole world to see, right? And that I know what they did.”
All right. She was thinking two moves ahead as always. Or so I’d been told about her in her glory days. I could see that asking how she was would be a waste of time.
“What is it you are thinking?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Someone set that fire! And I know who my enemy is these days. They wanted to scare me into becoming an old lady who will say yes to anything. “
I thought, “Fat chance,” but I said, “How is the house? Has anyone told you anything at all?”
“Not yet. They’re still checking for safety, but they sort of said unofficially, it seems like only smoke and some water damage outside. The building held. They knew how to build them in those days. I’ve already asked Nancy to take a look, as soon as the fire department will let her. I suppose there will be lots of delays with insurance and so on. On and on, I suspect, but she promised to do the work right away.
“Now, my dears, here is someone else to interview me. Sierra, I’ll call tonight to let you know about work.” She turned away, almost smiling. “I seem to be a public figure again.”
I went home laughing to myself. The crisis had done the exact opposite of what I expected. She was energized instead of crushed.
Joe’s reaction, when I told him about my day, was different. I’d intended to ask him what he knew about fires in old houses, but the conversation was sidetracked from the start.
“How deep are you getting pulled into this conflict? And into this woman’s life?”
“Exactly what do you mean by that?”
“You know you have a history of getting sucked into situations a long way from your work or life?”
I didn’t agree. He wasn’t exactly wrong, but damned if I was telling him he was right.
“So you have a new job to keep you busy and a family life, but I see you obsessing about a conflict that has nothing to do with either. You can write a different article! And if she is right, that this was deliberate, what are you walking into?”
Seeing my stubborn face, he unwisely added, “Come on! It’s already ugly. What if it gets dangerous?”
“I don’t believe this!” I jumped up and started clearing the table of the dishes still holding our dinner. “You sound like my father! And you know how I feel about him when he starts that!”
He looked at me quizzically, and his voice was so carefully reasonable, I was offended. “You know he isn’t wrong all the time. Maybe this would be one of them?”
I sat down again, arms folded, face grim. I could l feel it in the set of my jaw.
“At my age he does not get to tell me what to do or what not to do. And you are not even my father.”
“So what am I? I’m only trying to be the man taking care of you.” He smiled, and that was the last straw for me. I got up again, and walked out, throwing back over my shoulder, “Right now, you are the man who is annoying me beyond words. And I am not your rescue pet to take care of.”
I stamped upstairs, noisily, and it didn’t hit me until later that my pounding steps were just like Chris’s when she was having a hissy fit. And I knew I was too old for that, especially right after proclaiming I was too mature to be bossed around.
Those thoughts came later, after I had been lying on my bed, head under a pillow, for some time. I heard Joe leave. It’s a small house. The sound of the front door slamming traveled right up the stairs.
Later I heard Chris come home and knock on my door, and I called out, “Go away! I need alone time!”
She didn’t say a word.
I think I fell asleep, because in the next moment the room was dark and I knew I had to apologize. My least favorite interaction. Joe was not downstairs, and Chris had her door closed with music on, wisely distancing herself from adult emotion. It wouldn’t get easier if I waited, and now I wanted him to come home. Right now.
It was a while, long enough for me to imagine the worst. That he’d never come back? That my temper had ruined what we had? Which was pretty great, whatever it was. Had he called an ex-girlfriend? There was that tall redhead who’d never quite given up.
Chapter Nine
He walked in right after I poured a glass of wine. I didn’t say a word. I just poured one for him. He drank it while he paced my living room. My living room is too small for effective pacing. It would have been funny, in other circumstances. Not now.
When he finally stopped, he stood at the other side of the room, arms crossed, frowning, and said, “So I worry about you. How is that wrong?”
I whispered, “It isn’t.”
The frown smoothed out a little.
“Then what the hell was that all about?”
“Because…because…I still need to make my own decisions about what I do. You know? Mom and Dad got me through the worst time of my life, but then they didn’t know how to stop. Now I’m used to being on my own, and…” I stopped. I didn’t know where I wanted to go from there, but Joe almost smiled.
“Sounds like…” He paced some more. “Maybe we need to get used to being in a relationship? Both of us? How long has it been?”
I shook my head. “Since Jeff died?” I had tears in my eyes. “Maybe never. Not really. Just passing connections. Nothing real.”
By then he was on my side of the room, hands on my shoulders. “And you know my life. You were a friend for some of it. After getting divorced, I spent my time on fun and games. No regrets and no hard feelings.”
I started to smile myself. He pulled me close. Apparently we were done fighting, at least for now. Being in a relationship was turning out to be more complicated than I expected, but for now, this was enough.
The next morning, Saturday, I was humming in the kitchen as I started the coffee. It was so late, even teen vampire Chris sleepily wandered into the kitchen and cautiously eyed me up and down.
“I see the storm is over. You are humming. And playing homemaker.” She flashed me a smart-aleck grin, and I was happy enough to do no more than flick a dish towel at her.
I skipped the possible smart-aleck response.
“Any chance of pancakes, since you seem to be in the mood?”
“Already started. Get the syrup.”
Joe followed soon after, appallingly wide awake and ready to discuss the day. The maple syrup was almost gone, which suggested a visit to the vast local farmers’ market—we call them Greenmarkets in New York—for syrup, fall apples, and perhaps a pie. Chris put in a bid for apple-walnut pie and some of those tiny rolls from the baker. “Lots of tiny rolls. I like the ones with seeds. And the ones with cranberries.”
Now that we were friends again, I asked Joe what he knew about old houses and fire safety. His answer was that if it was Nancy who updated Louisa’s house, it was done right. He put his money on arson, and I didn’t even take the bet.
The market, right at the grand plaza in front of the park entrance, was crowded with dogs and their owners coming from walks, bikers coming from rides, and baby strollers. Many languages and many accents. City life at its best. And still it turned out to be surprising how romantic produce shopping on a bright fall day could be. We share
d a cherry pie for lunch and buried the evidence where Chris would not find it.
And when I could, I sneaked a peek at news sources, hoping to find an update about the fire, but there was nothing out there yet, only some stories saying there was no news but that the source was keeping an eye on it. Could they be any more unhelpful?
Next day, deep in my work, puzzling out the implications of a memo about the division of research responsibilities, I had an unexpected text. It was from Fitz. Fitz? Oh, Fitz. That book editor. He attached a newspaper article about the fire. Did he think I wouldn’t have heard about it? As if.
I’d had nagging advisers for my dissertation. I had spent a lot of years writing it. I was careful, scholarly, fact driven, and analytical. Fitz’s ideas about stories of living in changing Brooklyn were quite different.
Or alternately, he had no ideas at all, just a collection of glib phrases. “Très Brooklyn” was the most ridiculous, but he swore it meant a lot.
He asked when he could see those sample chapters. I wrote back, “When I can.” I stopped myself from writing “Maybe never.” Even more, I wanted to write, “Ha-ha.” I had no idea what I was going to do.
When I was back home that evening, my dad showed up to watch a game with Joe. No one had told me about this, but I decided to be mature and not object. They were absorbed, so I didn’t even bother arguing with my dad about anything. We were both trying, but we tended to rub each other the wrong way. And no one had better say in my hearing that it was because we were too similar.
Anyway, what I wanted was to explore fire investigation. How long would it take to have answers about the fire? Who was investigating, police or fire? Or maybe both? Sergeant Torres might know. Would know, probably. Geographically, her turf, I thought.
However, what I needed to do was work for my actual paying NYPD job. No research I had done earlier was useful at all, even though Brooklyn Heights was red-hot real estate, with every detail and rumor closely followed by local sources. Searching online, no matter how I did it, just produced too much to wade through, all well-known and none of it useful to me.
