by Gae Polisner
“Now I do. Yeah,” she says excitedly.
“That’s there on purpose. It’s part of a restoration they did years ago to clean the ceiling, the mural, the whole nine yards. They left that little square to show the accumulation of dirt. And to make sure the restoration didn’t hurt the artwork.”
“Really?”
“I swear. That square is a mix of dirt, fumes, and cigarette smoke.”
“Gross,” she says. “But fascinating.”
“And, this,” I say, steering her to the gold, four-faced clock over the pagoda, “is worth millions. And, beneath it is supposedly a secret spiral staircase that goes to the lower level and a top-secret room.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“How do you know all this?” she asks.
“My father.” I swallow back a lump and plow forward now that I’ve started. “He loved this kind of stuff. He was always telling me myths and stories about the city, and the world and—” But, I stop. I can’t. We’ve made a pact, and I don’t want to get all choked up thinking about him. It’s the first time I’ve been back to the city since we moved, and I already feel him everywhere around me.
“Klee?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re awesome. Stop brooding.” She swings my hand, then skips to the exit, pulling me along with her into the bright outdoors.
* * *
At MoMA, I find myself mimicking my father’s stories as I tell her about the exhibits. Like in the Matisse room, when we reach his Swimming Pool cutout: “Can you imagine,” I say, “two thousand hours to replace the burlap, fiber by fiber…”
I should heed Cleto’s advice, but Sarah seems interested and, maybe, impressed. And, anyway, it’s not like I know how to help myself.
After the Van Goghs, which don’t include Sorrow like I was hoping but do include his olive tree series from Arles, the period during which he became obsessed with Japanese printmaking, I decide we’ve seen enough and head us up 7th Avenue toward the park. Things grow quiet between us, though I’m not sure why. Maybe we’re still in hushed mode from the museum, or maybe it’s the ghosts of my father that seem to pop up on every corner.
“Did I ever tell you about the ship carpenter, Lozier?” Dad asks.
“Yes, the guy who convinced everyone they should try to saw Manhattan in half…”
My chest tightens as I shake off the memory. It’s unseasonably warm for October, and I pull off my sweatshirt and carry it in my hands. Sarah keeps pace next to me, though every once in a while she has to do a little skip to keep up. I turn and watch her, and smile. I need to stay light. I need to be fun. She won’t want anything to do with some fragile wuss who keeps losing it over his dead father.
At 59th Street we cross Columbus Circle and head north up Central Park West.
Sarah leans into me. “You sure know a lot about Van Gogh.” She nudges me when I don’t answer.
“My father loved him.”
“What happened to him?”
“Van Gogh?”
“No, your father.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. I really can’t talk about this now. “We made a pact, remember?” Blood rushes to my ears. “Nothing but good stuff. Like you said.”
“Okay, fine, so tell me about you. Is that what you want, to be able to paint like Van Gogh?” The question makes me dizzy. I try not to think big, or in the future tense about my own art. My father proved it wasn’t a real career.
“Who doesn’t?” I say finally. “But, it’s pretty naïve, because, seriously, what are the chances? That’s why I picked Fine Arts, Boston. They have a dual major, business and art, so I can do anything after. I could go to law school like my father…” I swallow hard, trying not to hate myself for sounding like him. Well, not him, but my mother. “It’s hard to make a living as an artist, is all.”
“I bet you could.” She squeezes my arm. “I tease you, but you’re really, really good.”
Warmth creeps up my neck, my cheeks. “Those pieces in Tarantoli’s? Those aren’t my best. I haven’t felt much like painting since…” I stop again. “It’s been hard to find my rhythm here at Northhollow.”
“Well, if that’s not your best, then you must be awesome,” she says. “Everyone talks about it. About how talented you are. I’m not the only one who’s noticed, Klee.”
I give her a look because I’m pretty sure exactly zero and a half percent of the population of Northhollow know, or care, what I do or who I am. “Everyone?”
“Okay, fine. Maybe not everyone. But everyone in Tarantoli’s class, for sure.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I’m okay. But, my dad, he was amazing. Way better than I’ll ever be. And I know from him that most of us will never make a living—”
“Maybe,” she says, cutting me off. “So he was a lawyer?”
“Yeah. Corporate. Securities. Tax work. Pretty boring stuff. He made good money, but he hated it. Hey, it was your pact. Do we really need to keep talking about this?”
“No. You’re right. If it makes you feel better, my mother is a nurse and she hates it, too. She used to like it when she first started, but it’s hard, with crazy hours, and there are all these hospital politics she’s always bitching about. And they don’t pay her nearly enough. She’s always complaining, and always tired, and, I swear, it seems like babies are always dying on her.”
“Babies?”
“Yeah, she works with preemies in neonatal. It can be brutal sometimes.”
“Wow, that’s hard. See? This is why I shouldn’t give a shit if I’m poor. Money never makes anyone happy. That’s one thing I know. I can’t work a shit job I hate, just so I can buy someone else fancy things.” My voice hitches with anger. “So, I guess that’s one difference between my dad and me.”
“So, he was rich, then? I mean, you are…? I mean, it’s clear you’re not poor.”
“Come on.” I start walking again and she follows.
“I mean, I knew that from where you live, obviously. The Ridge neighborhood is pretty exclusive. Not like my neighborhood. Wait till you see.”
It isn’t lost on me that she knows where I live, but it makes me wonder why she does. “I won’t care,” I say, pressing forward, warding off the growing knot in my stomach. “But you keep bringing all this up, when it was your pact not to in the first place. I’m going to have to remember that about you: You’re a crap dealmaker. Or at least a crap deal keeper.”
She laughs and I glance up, relieved. We’ve reached the 72nd Street entrance to Central Park.
“Forget all that,” I say. “We’re here. Let me show you my favorite place in the whole city.” I grab her hand and pull her into a run.
* * *
Dr. Alvarez has put her pen down. Her eyes are closed, and for a second I wonder if she’s sleeping. I can’t believe I’m telling her all this stupid stuff anyway. The small things. The private things. What do they even matter now?
She shifts her feet under the table, opens her eyes, and studies me. “I love Central Park,” she says. “And, don’t be fooled by my eyes,” she says, closing them again. “Sometimes I just listen best this way.”
* * *
In the park, Sarah takes my hand again, which makes me dizzy in a good way. It’s as if I can feel the electricity pass from her fingers into mine, traveling like a current up my arms and through my chest, thawing the cold numbness I hadn’t even realized had settled there.
“This is Bethesda Terrace,” I say, when we finally reach the fountain, its towering Angel of the Waters cascading her circular waterfall from her feet to the basin below.
“She’s beautiful,” Sarah says.
As the mist dampens our faces, I explain how the angel is actually a goddess or something more secular, not religious. “She’s supposed to be the purifier of the city’s water supply,” I say, less worried than I should be about the total geek I keep sounding like. “Which is ironic, I guess, since a guy has to come clean the coins
and garbage out from under her pretty much every day.”
She laughs. “Is that true?”
“Yeah. It’s actually his job.”
“It’s crazy how much stuff you know.” I give her a look, and she adds, “Good crazy, not bad. Seriously. I like that about you. It’s different. You’re different. Weird, but hot.” She gives me this smile, which kills me, then walks off, trawling her fingers along the edge of the fountain’s coping. I follow, watching the spray catch in her hair like tiny, mystical crystals.
At the far side of the fountain she stops again and leans so far over to cup her hand under the cascade of water, I’m sure she’s going to fall in.
“Hey, Klee,” she says, turning to me finally, “out of all those wishes, how many do you think come true? I mean, there must be thousands of coins in here, so thousands of wishes every day, right?” She looks down again. “I hope at least some of them come true.”
“Me, too,” I say, nodding, as she starts off again. I follow silently, wondering what it is about her that breaks my heart and fills it at the same time, that scares me but comforts me, that makes me want to tell her things I can’t begin to find words for.
When she stops again, she tilts her face to the sun and closes her eyes and inhales deeply. I stop next to her and do the same. I know what she’s doing because I’ve done it myself before. She’s letting the mist collect on her face, on her shoulders, her body, hoping in some magical way it might anoint her.
* * *
“I know it’s not a story exactly, but you’re a good storyteller,” Dr. Alvarez says when I pause again to collect myself. “You have a way with words, as well as art, I suppose. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I shake my head and look away, embarrassed at how lovesick I sound. I don’t know why I’m telling her all this. And yet now that I’ve started, I don’t want to stop. It’s like I need to. I need to go back there myself to know I didn’t imagine it. That I wasn’t crazy.
That she liked me as much as I thought she did.
* * *
“Can I kiss you?”
Sarah jerks her gaze back to me, her face damp and sparkling, then tilts her head back and bursts out laughing. When she straightens again, she says, “Jesus, Alden, you’re adorable. You’re asking me if you can kiss me? You’re just supposed to do it.” Then she takes my hand and leads me definitively across the terrazzo to the grass, and pulls me down onto her, and we make out intensely, just like that. No further conversation, no fanfare. Just her and me, our tongues mixing, our bodies pressed tightly together in the middle of Central Park. Me, desperate beyond desperate with wanting her.
I’m not usually one for public displays of affection, but she started it. And, I’m so freaking happy and awake now that she has, that I’m pretty sure I won’t ever be the one to calm us down. This, now, here, is everything. She is everything. Like a vacuum and an eddy and a tornado all mixed up together, pulling me down, but lifting me up, swirling us like a tumult through eternity.
* * *
“I can’t explain it,” I say sheepishly to Dr. Alvarez. “I know I sound naïve, but it was like…” I search for the words. “I had been so checked out before, but I didn’t know it. And, then, there I was, for the first time in a long time, feeling totally happy and alive again. That’s it, I think: alive. And I remember thinking, ‘I don’t want to move from here. I just need to stay here. I never want to go back there, to Northhollow.’”
“But you did have to,” Dr. Alvarez says, nodding in understanding. “You had to go back. Bring her home. Go to school. Go about your routine. And some things work better in a vacuum.”
“What do you mean?”
She glances at her watch. “We need to stop for today. I’m glad you’ve opened up. You shared a lot, and I know it’s hard to talk about this, so I appreciate your willingess to try. In the meantime, it doesn’t sound crazy, Klee. None of it sounds crazy. It sounds like you and Sarah had found an important connection, one she wanted. It sounds like she probably cared for you deeply.”
I shrug, but my heart aches.
K EE HA WOO . I haven’t told her that part yet.
Her words, that she spoke. That she wrote.
How badly I wanted to believe that they were true.
Day 4—Evening
“So, you didn’t come to group today?” Martin asks as if he doesn’t know the answer already. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews for a while, and waits. Then he says, “You really should come.” Sabrina kicks him under the table with a thud. “Ow! What? He should. It’s useful.”
I sit, tray heaped with food there’s little chance I’m going to feel like eating.
“I didn’t feel much like talking. Dr. Alvarez said it’s fine if I’m not ready.” Martin’s gaze moves to mine, and suddenly I feel lame telling a twelve-year-old I’m not ready. If he can go, I should be able to, right? I wonder if Martin sees Dr. Alvarez, or a different therapist. I’ve never seen him going in there, and I’m pretty sure Sabrina doesn’t since she’s always at the other end of the hall. If there’s more than one therapist here, I feel lucky to have gotten Dr. Alvarez. I can talk to her, at least. As much as I don’t really want to talk to anyone.
Sabrina nods and pushes her tray away. “Take your time. Don’t let the Mayor of Madness here pressure you.” I laugh. Sabrina is quiet, but she packs a punch. “But you should eat,” she says, nodding at my untouched meal. “I’ve never seen you eat when you’re in here.”
“I haven’t been hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” Martin says. “I can eat through anything, pretty much. Earthquakes, tornadoes, suicide attempts. My mother’s boyfriend going to town on me with some endless string of verbal assaults.”
“Martin!” Sabrina glares at him. “Why do you have to be like that?” She shakes her head and turns to me. “I swear it’s for shock value, or something. Even Dr. Howe said—”
“It’s a defense mechanism,” Martin cuts in. “Psychology 101. I say crap because it helps me to process it. So, I really can’t worry about whether it’s bothering you.” He turns to me. “So, enough about my troubles, what happened to you?” He indicates my bandaged ear. “You never did tell us. If you want to, of course. No pressure.” He makes bug eyes at Sabrina.
Sabrina rolls her eyes. “Way to be subtle, Martin.”
Ignoring his question, I bite into my sandwich, then, even though I’m not sure I want to know, ask, “Wait … Suicide attempts?”
“Well, more like ideations, I guess. I’ve mapped them out, but never really attempted to carry them out. But I’m pretty sure I want to.”
“I’m sorry. That’s awful. Don’t think that … You have no idea…” I look away. I don’t want to share anymore.
Martin shrugs. “It’s okay. At least my mom figures it out before and brings me here.”
“So, you’ve been here before?”
“Twice. Plus now. So, three, if you’re counting. And, you?” I shake my head. “No, not that. I meant your bandage, there. Fess up.”
“Oh.” My hand moves reflexively to my ear. “I had a fight with a bad day. Well, actually, a bad night. And the night won.”
Sabrina smiles. “I’ve lost my share of those.”
“Actually, it was a few bad months. Well, really the whole, entire, freaking, goddamned year.” I push my plate away. I can’t eat through the lump that’s taken up residence in my throat.
“I hear you,” Sabrina says, trying to commiserate. But it’s too late. Thoughts of Sarah, of my father, slam me. Of my mother’s letters. Sabrina nudges my plate back toward me. “Trust me. Sometimes you just need to talk about it. Maybe not right now. But soon.”
Martin nods, taking some fries from my plate. “We’ve all done stupid things we regret around here.”
“No one said it was stupid, Martin. And sometimes you just need to not talk about it, too.” Sabrina smiles at me again. “Especially with food in your mouth. Geez.”
And, I can
’t help it. I laugh. “It’s okay. I guess it was pretty stupid,” I say.
“See?” Martin says. “We’re all brilliant and stupid. Geniuses and losers.” And he sits back, satisfied, content with whatever debate he thinks he might have just won.
* * *
“Mr. Alden, not asleep?” Sister Agnes Teresa waddles forth, sounding surprised as she drops a Hostess Fruit Pie on my table. Its cheerful cherry label stares up at me.
“Do you own stock?” I ask.
Sister Agnes Teresa frowns and says, “Ah, in Hostess, you mean. But Yodels are Drake’s Cakes, my friend.” She nods toward the window, where the shades are up, letting in the melancholy glow of the courtyard. “Awake and you let the outside in. Good signs this evening. Plus, always smart to have the reminder.”
I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but don’t ask, just watch as she moves to the window and stares out, her tunic rising and falling with her breath. She crosses herself before finally turning back to me.
“Don’t you like cherry pie, Mr. Alden?”
“I do, thanks. I’m just not hungry yet.” I pick it up anyway and examine the label, then hold it out to her. “It says fruit but shows cherry. Is it fruit or cherry, do you think?”
“Ha, we could ask Annie, right? See if she likes it.”
“Annie?” I rack my brain, worried the crow is lurking, about to make some grand entrance, proving I’m no better than I was a few days ago. That even Sister Agnes Teresa is a hallucination.
“Annie,” she repeats. “Don’t you know her? She’s odd and funny, but not peculiar.”
“O-kay?” I search beyond her to the top of the window sash, but no crow.
“Such a shame you haven’t heard of her,” she says, determined. “Annie, Annie? No? Well now you have. She likes cookies but not tarts; she likes apples but not peaches; and for sure she likes cherry pies but would never eat a fruit one.”
“Ah. Okay. A riddle, then?” I ask, more confused than ever.
