by Karen White
“‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he said to me. ‘Her drinking has gotten so out of hand, Mom. And her friend is another man. I’m sure he did this to her, and now she’s accusing me. It kills me.’
“And do you know, I believed him?” The woman seems to coil within herself. Her breathing becomes labored, and I worry that she’ll faint. I am moved to reach for her hand again, and she takes mine.
“Why didn’t I look at his knuckles?” she says, her voice high from emotion. “I would have seen the broken skin, the swollen ridges.”
“You don’t have to tell me any more,” I say, worried for her heart, worried for mine. We could be sitting in a confessional if it weren’t for the people around us.
“She’s dead,” she says. My breath stops. All other sound leaves the room and we are alone. “He killed her, just a month after that night. My baby girl came to me for help, and I took his side. She died knowing that I didn’t believe her. Even though he’s in prison now, it’s too late. I’ll never be free from my own prison.”
Prison. The word triggers a memory of the worst kind, the one I try so hard to forget but that hovers at the rim of my consciousness always, because it has to do with my son, the night he was born early. Mitch begged me to report him to the police so he could die in prison for almost killing us.
I shake my head, but the memory persists.
When I became pregnant, Mitch acted like a changed man. He doted on me, treated me with tenderness, took me for walks in Central Park. At night, he held me close to him and whispered promises about what a good father he’d be, and how he’d treat his son with such love.
His son, it was always a son. He never considered he might have a daughter. As the months passed and I grew used to having a husband who didn’t hurt me or say hateful things, I began to lower my guard, speak my mind, provoke him further than I ever had. Part of it was the pregnancy. I felt out of sorts and got frequent headaches, which left me irritable, but part of it was the different man Mitch seemed to have become. I was foolish.
One morning, when I was fighting a particularly bad headache that left me nauseous, he was humming in the kitchen when I woke up. He’d taken to addressing my stomach as Timmy—named after his deceased brother, and without any consideration for what name I might like.
“How’s Timmy this morning?” he asked.
I was so sick of being thought of as nothing more than a vessel for Mitch’s child, whom he refused to acknowledge could be anything but a son, that I snapped at him.
“It could be a girl, you know,” I said.
“But it’s not,” Mitch replied. “I can tell by the way you’re carrying him. The old lady next door said so.”
“That’s another thing,” I said. “You never even asked me about baby names. What if I don’t want him to be named after your dead brother?”
Mitch slammed his coffee cup on the counter, and I wished with all my heart that I’d never said such a thing. He stood with his back toward me, clutching the edge of the counter and breathing deeply. I stood slowly and wrapped my arms around my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that. My head hurts and I don’t know what I’m saying.”
He stood in the kitchen for a moment more before turning and walking out of the room, brushing me hard with his shoulder as he passed. I closed my eyes, still clutching my stomach, waiting for the blows, but I only heard him in the hallway grabbing his keys and slamming the door.
I sank in my chair, trembling, and thanked God that he hadn’t exploded. It took me a while to calm down, but I began to feel hopeful. He had been able to hold his temper.
He stayed away all day. I wanted to make everything perfect for that night, so I found the most becoming frock I could to cover my eight-month-pregnant figure, set my hair, and applied lipstick and perfume. I baked a potato casserole and let it brown in the oven. Just as I was about to set the table, I heard a knock at the door.
My heart pounded, but I knew it couldn’t be Mitch. He would let himself in with his key. I passed the flag in the hall, pulled my shoulders back, and opened the door to find the building super. I had forgotten that he said he’d come by at five o’clock to fix the leaky faucet in the bathroom. He was a large man of Eastern European descent and had a strong jawline and large, square shoulders. He wasn’t yet in his forties and had a cheeky, devilish glint in his eyes. Mitch didn’t care for him.
I showed the super inside and he started for the bathroom, where he’d fixed the leaky faucet a half-dozen times over the years.
He looked me over and inhaled. “Ah, smells so good. Your husband’s a lucky man.”
I smiled and allowed him to get to work while I cooked. The super hummed in the bathroom. I fantasized how nice it would be to have a husband I didn’t fear—a lighthearted man who sang songs while fixing leaky faucets, and whose compliments lit a fire inside me. Then guilt caused me to suppress such imaginings. I fetched the plates and utensils and set the table. As I turned to go back to the kitchen to get the water glasses, I ran into Mitch.
When I saw his face I shrank back toward the dining table. His clothing was wrinkled. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. He reeked of booze.
“All done, Mrs. Miller.” I heard the super’s voice as he walked down the hall. “It’s simple to fix. I bet your husband could do it next time, no trouble. Not that I mind. Oh, hello.”
The super had reached us and extended a hand when he saw my husband. Mitch stared at it like he didn’t know what to do with it, while his face burned red. The super looked from him to me and back.
“I guess I’ll just be going.”
He must have known I was in some kind of trouble by the glance of pity he gave me. He hesitated at the door and looked like he wanted to say something, but I hurried past Mitch. “That will be all, thank you.”
I nearly shoved him out the door and closed it before I lost my courage. I wished I could have fled.
Mitch didn’t wait for me to return to the dining table. He crossed the room and clenched my arm, squeezing it with his clammy hand. He put his mouth up to my ear and started his accusations through clenched teeth.
Did you dress up and put on perfume for that man? How many times has he been here when I was out? Do you show off your cooking to tempt him? Do you always sit around making fun of my lack of handyman skills when I’m not here?
I denied his accusations and cried in a string of incoherent words, pleading with him to let my arm go, terror rising in my heart that he’d hurt the baby and kill me, half wishing he would do it quickly so the horror would end. I pulled out of his grip and thought he’d leave me alone when suddenly he said, “Is the baby his?”
It didn’t matter how preposterous the accusation was. In Mitch’s inebriated state, in his misreading of the situation, and on the heels of our morning quarrel, he’d lost all sense.
I suddenly felt as if a great wave pushed me from behind, and I was sent forward with terrible force into the wall. When my stomach hit the door frame of our bedroom, I felt a searing pain and became soaked in blood and water. I collapsed to the floor, clutching my stomach, horrified to feel the terrible tightening and knowing my baby might be dead. I fended Mitch off with my fists when he approached in tears, and he let me pummel him until the pain once again doubled me over. He ran to the bedroom, wrapped me in a quilt, and carried me down the stairs and out the front door, where he shouted for a taxi.
Timmy was born a month early that night, small but perfect. Mitch came to me after the delivery and stayed with me all night, begging my forgiveness, whispering promises in my ear, telling me to report him so he’d have to spend time in jail, and ultimately collapsing on the bed, spent, sober, and more sorry than he’d ever been in his life. At dawn, as a shaft of light spilled over the room, I opened my eyes and saw him on his knees, praying. He thanked God for sparing Timmy and me and vowed
he would never, never hurt us again.
And he didn’t.
—
I feel as if I’ll get sick.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I say to the woman.
She takes my other hand. I look at her and see that she has a new light in her eyes.
“You are my chance,” she says. “A chance to atone. I tell you this because I know now that waiting even one more day will be too late. I couldn’t help my girl, but I can help you. You must flee him.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You are good at convincing yourself of things,” she says. “Of lies.”
Anger rises in me, and I snatch my hands from hers. She is a woman. She knows that I have no real choices, especially with a child. How can I give my boy a life with no father, take him away from the man to whom he rightfully belongs? And Timmy could soften him. So many children of difficult parents want to do right by their own kids. I know I have. I know Mitch wants to.
Mitch isn’t her son-in-law. Lorraine’s story isn’t mine.
“I see you trying to make my story separate from yours, but it isn’t,” she says.
“You don’t know me,” I say. “You don’t know my husband. Besides, I have no money. I’ve packed nothing. We have a son. I have nowhere to go.”
“Truly? You have nowhere? You could stay with me if you had to. Everyone has somewhere to go.”
I know Sheilah said I’d be welcome, but then what? I can’t stay in her tiny apartment just blocks away from Mitch. He’d find me. I don’t have my clothing or belongings. I’ve saved a little money, but it won’t last. And then there is Timmy. What kind of woman takes a child from his father? No court in this world would be on my side, particularly against a veteran of the war.
Timmy crawls into my lap and starts sucking his thumb. He’s so tired. I wish I could curl up with him and sleep this awful day away. And the ones that will follow.
Nine minutes.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’m sorry. About it all.”
She turns her head away from me, her shoulders stooped. She feels defeated, and I can’t give her reassurance.
I reach into my pocket, drop a whole dollar on the counter, and stand up with Timmy in my arms. His weight adds more burden than I think I can bear, but I am able to make it to the doors of the Oyster Bar. I catch the face of the clock staring at me.
Seven minutes.
My chest is so tight, I can’t breathe, and I’m afraid I’ll faint. I place Timmy’s feet on the floor and lean against the wall until I’m steady. Then I take Timmy’s hand and we climb the ramp to the Main Concourse.
—
I lift my face to the constellations on the ceiling. I’m breathing better up here. The air stirs more freely. I walk toward the stairs where the young lovers sat, but they are gone. Of all the difficulty of this day so far, their disappearance is what threatens to unmoor me. I return my gaze to the grand ceiling. I wonder why they have painted it teal instead of blue or navy, but somehow, it seems perfect. It is like the sky before a summer storm, or the reflection of stars in a Caribbean sea.
The night we first met I went with Mitch for a walk by the river. The stars seemed to rise from their reflections on its meandering surface, becoming the fireflies that winked through the night. He lifted his hand to cup one of them and held it for me to see. When he opened his hands, it flew to my dress, and he reached to brush it away. As it flew off, he allowed his hand to rest heavily on my collarbone, and after a moment, he kissed me with his hand still there.
Then there were the walks after my singing nights. All through the rest of that summer, he watched me sing on Friday nights. Young lovers would dance to my songs. He and I couldn’t hold each other while I was onstage, so I’d look into his eyes, and he would gaze at me so intently that I felt spellbound. How I wish I had understood that his look was of obsession, not love. He wished to hold me not to share himself with me, but to keep me for himself alone.
“I can’t wait until we’re married,” he’d say, squeezing me into his side on the bench by the river. The branches of the willow hung over us like black vines in the night, the hiss of its trembling leaves around us. “You can take care of me. I’ve always wanted someone to watch over me.”
My heart would burn with pity for him when he said this. I knew he’d lost his mother and brother and had a cruel father, a military man he respected and feared. I mistook his meaning. I thought he meant I was to take care of him with love. I didn’t know that he meant I was to give up my life to wait for him, wait on him, be ever ready to respond to his wishes and whims . . .
On our wedding night, he clung to me, trembling. “I finally have you where I want you.” That was the first night I heard the warning in his words. Why hadn’t I heard it before? Was I so desperate to escape my youth, my father’s shadow? I wish I knew then that they were nothing compared to what I was in for.
—
A new surge of panic engulfs me as a throng of soldiers pours forth from the lower terminal. My goodness, are they early?
People fill the space around us. Perfume and aftershave, sweat and heat. Greetings, tears, kisses, embraces.
The woman is suddenly at my side, whispering in my ear. “You must go. Now,” she says.
“But the boy? His father . . .”
“That’s why you must. Do you want to raise one like him?”
There. The essence of the question. I touch the scar on my forehead and feel something new rise inside me. If not for myself, then I must leave for Timmy.
“Here,” she says, thrusting a paper at me. I look down and see a bank envelope.
“It’s not much, but it’s what I came to the city today to collect. A payment on my late husband’s inheritance. It’s yours. Take it. It will get you somewhere that isn’t here, though not much farther.” She sees my hesitation and shoves it in my purse. “Now!”
I don’t think. I lift my boy and start through the crowds, keeping my eyes fixed at the top of the staircase leading to Vanderbilt Avenue. I push through the people. They are nothing to me. I have strength I didn’t know existed.
Four minutes.
I climb the steps, clutching Timmy to me, feeling the weight of Mitch’s letter in my pocket like a sack of rocks. I stop for a moment at the top of the stairs, throw the letter into the wastebasket, and turn to look down over the concourse.
One minute.
The woman is still there, smiling at me through her tears. She waves me on, but not before I see him.
Mitch.
My breath catches. His face has a new openness to it. His eyes are full of joy and longing. His gaze darts over faces in the crowd; he is excited, anxious. His hair is newly cut, and I imagine running my fingers over it, feeling its softness. I think of his strong hands tracing my scars, kissing each along the constellation on me. I feel my courage failing. My arms tremble under Timmy’s weight.
And then he sees me. His face glows. “Josie!” He rushes through the masses. And I notice what he holds in his hand: a bouquet of red roses.
I tear my gaze from his and run.
PUSH says the sign on the door, and I turn with Timmy still in my arms and back out, running into a man who is pushing in, and nearly falling back into Grand Central Terminal.
I am out. I run forward. The steam from the manholes parts like a curtain and I rush to the curb.
Waiting in the cab line, I think I’ll be sick. I turn and watch the doors with wild eyes. My God, he’ll come through any moment now!
I dash to the corner where the taxis pull in and grab the door of one still rolling. I thrust Timmy in before it stops and jump in after him. I give the startled driver the address of Sheilah’s apartment building, but a large truck pulls up beside us, blocking our way.
I look toward the door, frantic, but only strangers move in and out
. While the cabbie presses his horn, I reach in my purse where the woman shoved the bank envelope and see it contains sixty dollars—a small fortune to me. There is also a bank slip with her name: Mary Hagerty. Next to it rests the cork my mother sent me.
The promised land.
I turn back to the doors, and Mitch appears, his face like a bull. He looks right and left, and then spots us.
“Drive, please!” I beg.
The driver yells curse words out the window but begins to inch around the delivery truck. Mitch runs toward the taxi, wearing a look of pleading confusion that gives his face vulnerability. A rush of doubt washes over me. Maybe I’m supposed to stay. Maybe it will be different this time.
My eyes return to the bouquet he holds.
“Go!” I shout, and the taxi lurches forward. I pull Timmy close to my side. He must be so confused, but he doesn’t say a word.
As we leave Grand Central Terminal, I don’t want to look back, but I can’t help myself. I can no longer make out Mitch’s features through the dirty window. All I can see is the steam rising from the manholes, the crush of pedestrians bound for work and home and new horizons. I wonder where I will lay my head this night or the night after. I wonder what I will tell Timmy.
But I know I’ve done the right thing. My last glimpse of Grand Central becomes the end of one story and the beginning of another.
And on the dirty sidewalk in front of the station lies a bouquet of red roses.
The Reunion
KRISTINA MCMORRIS
In honor of the female pilots of World War II, whose extraordinary feats, sacrifices, and bravery should never be forgotten.
For an entire year Virginia Collier had avoided this trip. Tomorrow would mark a year to the day, in fact, since the life she’d known had ended.
