Time After Time

by Lisa Grunwald

  “Hey,” Joe said after him.

  “What.”

  “Don’t be rude to your ma.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Have you been helping her around the house?”

  Mike shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “I take out the garbage. I make Alice’s lunch.”

  “What about the marketing?” Joe asked.

  “Ma does the marketing,” Mike said.

  Joe reached into his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. He handed it to Mike.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Groceries,” Joe said. “So you can help. Think you can hold on to that and not spend it on a girl?”

  Mike, disbelieving, looked toward Faye.

  “Can you?” she asked Mike.

  “I guess,” Mike said. He stuffed the bill into his pants pocket, clearly trying as hard as he could not to look pleased.

  “Go check the cupboards,” Faye said, “and see what we need.”

  The screen door bounced shut behind him.

  As he started to follow Mike, Joe suddenly felt Faye’s hand clasping his upper arm. He stopped and turned to look back at her. She had always been a lively tease, but it seemed to Joe that today there was more need than playfulness in her eyes.

  “And you, Joey,” Faye said. “I wouldn’t know how to get by without you either.”

  8

  REAL STARS

  1942

  “Will you pose for me?” the soldier asked. “I could carry your portrait with me overseas.” He said portrait like “portrate.” This was not an uncommon kind of request in the servicemen’s lounge; asking for things to take with them was just one of the many ways the boys flirted. Nora was almost always too busy to oblige, but the lounge wasn’t very crowded on this early November evening, and the soldier added: “You’re probably the last woman I’m going to see before I ship out.”

  His face was the shape of a lightbulb—a pointed chin, a broad forehead that was covered with acne scars. He was wearing a Timex watch that was too big for his wrist. There was something particularly endearing about him, and after Nora made certain that the other men had what they needed, she sat for him while he sketched.

  “Just for a few minutes,” he said.

  It wound up taking longer, and yet his drawing bore absolutely no resemblance to Nora—and barely to any human. She was lavish in her praise. With delicate care, the soldier tore the page from the sketchpad. “I’m taking this with me,” he said. He folded it into a perfect half, halved it twice more, and tucked it into his breast pocket. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “You’re going to bring me luck.”

  Naturally, Nora would never know what became of him. But it was an unexpected pleasure to think that some part of her could exist—if only on paper—in the outside world.

  As the soldier left, Nora ducked a questioning glance from Hattie Pope, whose many rules for the volunteers included a phrase she repeated almost weekly: “No favorites.” A longtime veteran of the Travelers Aid Society, Mrs. Pope had previously overseen a rotating team of at most forty women. Now, with the war on and the lounge open, she’d been given hundreds to command and had in effect become a general, issuing orders and deploying her troops as she saw fit.

  It was not a small challenge. The men came in at all hours, in all numbers and states of mind. Some of them used the pool tables or the art supplies. A lot of them just sacked out as soon as they arrived, able neither to be greeted nor fed. They would settle into the armchairs or couches or even, when the place was full, the folding beach chairs. Books, magazines, or newspapers would be draped unread across their chests, as effective as DO NOT DISTURB signs. No one was allowed to miss a train, however, which is why Mrs. Pope instructed the girls to hand a “WAKE ME AT ____” card to every man who looked sleepy.

  The servicemen rarely stayed longer than six hours and sometimes as few as two, but they brought all kinds of things to check at the baggage counter. Nora hadn’t been on duty the legendary day when one soldier’s pet monkey and another’s dozen chicks provided most of the concourse with an hour’s worth of unintended entertainment. Occasionally a sailor would bring a white mouse or two in a shoebox—mice were said to be good luck on shipboard—and a few times Nora had found herself trying in vain to chase one down.

  But once a day, no matter how busy things got, Nora slipped out of the lounge and wove her way across the concourse and up the stairs to the Vanderbilt Avenue doors. There, she would stand for a while, pretending to be waiting for someone. It was easy to go unnoticed. Nora had long ago realized that people in Grand Central Terminal were far more focused on signs, clocks, and bags than they were on other people. Every time one of the terminal doors swung open, the inrushing air seemed like an invitation—the wide world reaching out its arms and asking Nora to come away with it. However brief, the breeze carried with it the outdoor smells that to Nora were by now exotic: gasoline from a passing taxi, chestnuts from a nearby vendor, beer spilled on the pavement. Nora knew that to step outside would be to tempt fate—or physics—or whatever had kept her here since she had arrived on the Manhattanhenge morning that was almost a year ago now. She still didn’t know what had made her disappear when she left the realm of the terminal. Was it the time she spent outside? Or was it the distance she walked? If it was time, then how long could she stay safe? If it was distance, how far could she go? How many blocks had she run that day back in the Depression when she’d chased after Mrs. Ingram? With Joe on that first frosty night, how long had they been walking before the kid with the knife had shown up? Had it been five minutes? Ten? How far had they gotten? A block, for sure. Maybe two? Three? What was it about the terminal that kept her alive? What was it about the world outside that made her flicker out—that threatened to send her not only into that dreadful in-between, but now, just as important, away from Joe?

  She’d not once felt tired of being with him, had never been unmoved by making love with him. All the things she might once have thought would trouble her in a man—lack of sophistication, education, worldly experience—not only didn’t bother her, but were part of what she loved in Joe. She loved his strength and stillness, and the honest way he wanted her: the innocent side of this regular guy with a prized skill that moved machinery that moved whole parts of the world.

  And yet, standing near the terminal’s exit, watching the women walk by wearing their autumn coats and hats, she kept thinking about how close she was to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Bryant Park, the Morgan Library. She wanted to reclaim the city, the whole city that had once been hers. She wanted to go uptown to Barnard, where her girlfriends and she had run to classes through a fresh snow; staged a scandalous dance in bare feet and scarves; holed up in the library, waiting—she had to laugh now—for the ghost everyone said haunted the stacks. If she couldn’t walk by the Seine again, perhaps she could walk by the East River. If she couldn’t stroll through the Tuileries, perhaps she could stroll through Central Park.

  Without exactly realizing it, Nora inched a little bit closer to the street each day.

  * * *

  —

  It was a Sunday afternoon in mid-November when Nora decided to bring it up with Joe. They were sitting in the deep leather shoeshine chairs where Joe had gotten a brush-up from the kid, Butch Becker. The smell of the polish was crisp and warm at the same time, and there was something comforting about it.

  “We should, don’t you think?” Nora asked.

  “Should?”

  “Should try to figure it out.”

  “You mean about you.”

  “Is there anyone we can ask?”

  Joe looked over his shoulder to make sure Butch wasn’t within earshot. “You mean, ask ‘What is it about this place that keeps my dead girlfriend alive?’ ”

  “Well, maybe not when you put it that way.”

  “There’s no o
ne.”

  “What about Madame Rosalita?” Nora asked, gesturing toward the fortune-teller’s FUTURE sign.

  Joe laughed. “Hate to break it to you, but Madame Rosalita is really Esther Tettleman,” he said. “I did ask her about ghosts once, though. Before I understood Manhattanhenge.”

  “And?”

  “And, trust me, her answers did not help explain you.”

  A man with an accordion started playing nearby. It took a moment for Nora to realize he was playing “Over There,” which seemed the wrong choice for the instrument. But oddly, the music made the moment seem more pressing.

  “We have to do some experiments,” Nora said. “We have to find out what my limits are.”

  Joe stared down at his newly buffed shoes.

  “Don’t look so grim,” Nora said.

  “I can’t afford to lose you again,” he whispered.

  * * *

  —

  That night she and Joe lay in bed, so tired from their workdays that they were speaking with their eyes closed. Nora started to talk about the girls she’d known at Barnard and, later, in Paris. About the parts of England she’d seen on the way to Stonehenge, and the cities she’d planned to visit: Rome, Athens, Vienna. “It was going to be such a big life,” she said.

  “I went to Italy once,” Joe said. “And Belgium and Russia too.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no. They were just pavilions at the World’s Fair. But they were swell.”

  In the dark, Nora reached out her left palm to find his right one. Her hand was so small against his that the tips of her fingers barely reached the top joints of his.

  “You should go to those places for real, Joe,” she said. “You should see the world.”

  “Someday.”

  For a moment, they seesawed their hands back and forth.

  “If you could go anywhere,” she said, “where would it be?”

  In an instant, Joe traveled in his own mind from place to place: all the countries represented by the pavilions at the World’s Fair, the newsreel pictures of the Atlantic City boardwalk, the bustle of Chicago, the wheat fields of the Midwest, the Rocky Mountains, the Pacific Coast. He had never been to an ocean, a mountain, or a desert. Images rushed through his head along with the train routes he’d travel to get to them, the routes he knew by heart, even though he had never taken them. What he said was: “If I could go anywhere, I’d stay right here with you.”

  He held his palm still and flat against hers, as if joining her in a prayer.

  In the darkness, tears slipped from Nora’s eyes and made their way down her cheeks to her ears.

  * * *

  —

  It was Nora who devised their first experiment, a nighttime trip to the eighth-floor roof, the one that connected the two matching towers of the Biltmore Hotel. Nora hadn’t been outside for ages. The icy air, which would have driven most women back indoors amid white puffs of protest, seemed to elate her.

  In the summers this roof was planted with greenery in formal patterns, lined by benches, and strolled by well-dressed tourists. In the winters it was transformed into a small but festive ice-skating rink. Since the war had started, however, there had been no time for that kind of thing. For Nora and Joe, that was all the better. On this bitterly cold November night, they had the rooftop entirely to themselves. Being alone together was hardly new, but being alone together in the open air was exceptional. For months, their only shared sky had been the blue-green ceiling of the Main Concourse.

  For a long time, Nora and Joe just stood, holding hands on the threshold of the terrace, as if they were waiting to dive into a pool. They had agreed that, given Nora’s previous disappearances—on foot and in a taxi—somewhere between five and ten minutes was the most time she had spent outside the terminal before flickering out. So when they stepped gingerly onto the roof, they stayed close to the door.

  Joe checked his watch. It was 9:15 exactly. He cupped his hands and blew into them. Nora took his hands in hers and warmed them. Together, and tunelessly, they sang three choruses of “Over There.” It wasn’t a patriotic moment, just a way to make the time pass. At 9:20, Nora said, “Come on, let’s go out farther.”

  They took a dozen steps, and nothing happened.

  “A little farther,” Nora said.

  They settled onto one of the stone benches, which felt as cold as steel, even through their wool coats. An airplane flew by, close and noisy, its wings tipped at an angle. Nora jumped up.

  “It’s just an air patrol,” Joe said, standing up beside her.

  “Does that happen a lot?” Nora asked.

  “Every night,” Joe said. “I guess you’ve never seen an airplane.”

  “Just in pictures,” she said. She stared after the twin white taillights until they were out of sight.

  Joe circled her with his arms from behind, kissing the part of her cheek he could reach, reveling in the strong, powdery smell of her neck. They looked out over the Manhattan skyline, so many of its lights dimmed because of the war. Perhaps that was why the stars seemed so bright.

  “Real sky!” Nora said. “Real stars!”

  Joe hugged her tighter.

  “Which one’s the one to wish on?” Nora asked.

  “Wish on any one you want,” Joe said. “Wish on them all.”

  “No, I mean, do you know—what is it? The morning star? The evening star?”

  Joe laughed. “I could tell you I knew, but if I did, I’d be lying,” he said.

  Nora turned, like a gear, still inside his arms. She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. They kissed, the city before them and the unpainted sky above. And then, to be safe, they hurried back inside.

  * * *

  —

  The next test came a week later—twenty minutes on the terrace, in daylight this time, and on a warmer day. Joe and Nora walked hand in hand to the edge of the roof.

  “So it isn’t time,” Nora said. “I’m sure we’ve been out here longer than I’ve ever been.”

  “I really don’t think we were out more than ten minutes before you disappeared that night with me.”

  “So it has to be distance, not time,” Nora said.

  “A bigger distance from the terminal than we are right now.”

  Together they stared down from the roof, mesmerized by the everyday things: the arguments, the embraces, the cab rides, the skyscrapers, the man selling hot chestnuts—all the big, small, and tempting freedoms of the streets.

  9

  THE CASCADES

  1942

  Before the war, the Grand Central Palace, just blocks from the terminal, had been a famous exhibition hall, hosting car and boat shows, fashion and flower shows, even the Westminster Dog Show. In mid-November, it was turned into the largest army induction center in the United States. So now, in addition to the clusters of men who were already set to ship out, there was a river of potential recruits flowing through the terminal, following the signs to the center or wandering back from it, heartsick that they’d been rejected for one reason or another.

  At the end of the month, the terminal was also busy preparing for a series of ceremonies on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. The goal was to honor the sacrifices Americans had made thus far in the war effort and, naturally, to urge civilians to buy more bonds. New bunting was draped from the north balcony. Larger choirs than usual were engaged, and several famous singers had been lined up for December 7.

  For Nora and Joe, there would be a private anniversary two days earlier. It had been an entire year since the December 5 when Nora’s light had come through the east window, bringing her back to Joe’s embrace. They had decided to celebrate, and Nora knew exactly how she wanted to do it. She had seen the signs in the Biltmore’s lobby and in magazine and newspaper ads: The Biltmore’s grand ballroom
was on the twenty-second floor, and its restaurant there was called the Cascades. Even with the war going on, it remained famous for its twenty-eight-foot waterfall, as well as its wall of roses, its clientele, its orchestra, and its oval dance floor.

  Joe, slightly uncomfortable in the one suit he owned, nevertheless beamed as he saw Nora slip into the sparkly black dress she had borrowed from her friend Paige. He watched over her shoulder as she bent toward the mirror, applying her lipstick the way he’d seen her use paintbrushes, pursing her lips and then laughing as he grabbed her, kissed her, and thereby made it necessary for her to reapply the lipstick he’d smeared.

  They rode the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. Nora stopped talking as they approached the restaurant’s entrance. Inside, the crystal glittered, the tables were arranged around the polished dance floor, and a swing band was providing the music. Joe and Nora had nearly reached the maître d’ station when Joe saw Nora begin to waver, her normally sure footsteps slowing.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, or even look at him. She listed to one side, as if the floor had suddenly slanted, and as the smile left her face, her hand grew colder.

  “Nora,” Joe said, immediately feeling the hollow horror of those two nights when they’d been out on the street and he’d lost her.

  Before he could even turn her around, she flickered for just a second. If anyone saw it, Joe would never know, because he was already pulling her away, back down the hall toward the nearest staircase, as quickly as he could. He scooped her up over his shoulder. Fireman’s carry. He’d learned that from Finn years before. With each step he descended, she seemed to grow warmer.

  They were back down on the nineteenth floor when she said, “You can put me down now, Joe.”

  Despite her protests, he carried her all the way to their room.

  * * *