Whispering Hearts

by V. C. Andrews

  A door on my right opened, and a short, balding gray-haired man, with glasses that had lenses so thick that they looked like deep-sea goggles, stepped out. He was about my height, very slight in build but with large hands. He impressed me as someone who had shrunk with age, every part of him except his hands. He was wearing a well-worn dark-brown leather vest over a faded white shirt and black slacks, with a pair of what looked like black, furry leather slippers.

  “Emma Corey?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  When he smiled, he looked more like someone’s granddad than a landlord. There was warmth and delight in his eyes. I never knew how important it was to have someone look and see you when he or she spoke to you. Most of the people along the way were practically robotic. This was like a warm embrace, and with the way my heart was pounding, I needed that.

  “You got here faster than I thought. Good for you. C’mon. I’ll show you the apartment. I put some water, bread, eggs and butter, and some coffee and milk in the kitchen for you. Donald Manning sent it over earlier today from his restaurant. He also sent over some fresh bedding and some towels and hand towels. Soap, too. Someone’s looking after you. Donald’s a good guy, heart o’ gold, but he ain’t no pushover when it comes to working for him,” he warned. “I eat dinner at his place on occasion and see how he cracks the whip.”

  He paused and looked at me more closely.

  “You don’t look much more than sixteen. You’re eighteen, right? You’re gonna need proof of it at times.”

  “That doesn’t bother me, sir,” I said.

  He smiled. “Oh, you can call me Leo.” He leaned toward me to speak in a loud whisper. “ ’Course, there are a few tenants here that have other names for me, names that would dirty your ears. Let me carry that for you,” he said, reaching for my suitcase.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” I did think I was stronger than he was.

  “Always take advantage of people who want to do something for you,” he advised. “This here is New York. It’s as rare as a two-dollar bill.”

  “Oh, I don’t wish to take advantage of anyone, Leo.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Eager and trusting. Youth is wasted on the young,” he declared, and smiled. “You’re on the third floor. You ain’t gonna gain weight here.”

  He started up. I followed behind. The walls, the stairs, everything looked well worn and in need of some good repainting and polishing. There were apartment buildings in Guildford that were twice this age, I was sure, that looked much newer, but one of the things Mr. Wollard warned me about was the overall grittiness of New York compared to what I was used to seeing.

  “New and well-kept-up places are way out of your league right now, but you’ll be comfortable enough. You’ll be out working and pursuing your career anyway. Where you live, as long as it’s safe, is incidental,” he said. “It’s one of the reasons the song about New York says, ‘If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.’ ”

  However, the moment we entered the apartment, I could see my mother crying for me. It was much smaller than I had envisioned. The furnishings weren’t inexpensive so much as they were worn and looking more like things from a secondhand shop. The kitchen had a small dark-wood table and four matching chairs, two in particular looking stained and chipped. There was a living room with a brown sofa and two chairs with cushions, an oval wood coffee table, and two lamps with shades that looked discolored by something I didn’t want to imagine. A television set on a table that seemed too weak to hold it was in the far right corner. A splash of a dark-brown area rug was in front of the sofa.

  The bathroom was between the two bedrooms. Each had a double bed. One was totally stripped. The mattress looked okay, but without bedding, the room looked very depressing. I hoped it wouldn’t keep someone from moving in to share the rent. Both rooms had dressers and closets with mirrors over the dressers, but the furniture here, too, needed a good polish, and there were nicks and scratches on everything. The wood floors were worn down to the stone or tile beneath them in places. Area rugs would do well to cover the blemishes, I thought. I’d have to do a lot to make it look warm and cozy.

  As I gazed at it all, I had a flush of sadness and regret, thinking about the beautiful bedroom Julia and I shared in Guildford. I visualized the flowery pattern of our wallpaper, the Wedgwood-blue floor siding and cornices, and our beautiful silk curtains. Everything in our house was always sparkling clean. And it was certainly ten times quieter. Right now, even though the windows were closed, the traffic sounded as loud as it did on the street.

  “In New York ’specially,” Leo Abbot said, perhaps because of the expression on my face, “it ain’t so much what the apartment looks like as it is about location. ‘Location, location, location,’ that’s the song the real estate agents sing here.

  “You can walk to the restaurant and to Broadway from here quickly. You don’t even hafta ride the subway. There’s a supermarket ’round the corner and a drugstore on the same street, as well as a bank. Everything’s at your fingertips, which is why you should have no problem findin’ a roommate. In fact, Donald Manning told me he posted the openin’ in his restaurant for you today.”

  “That’s wonderful and kind of him.”

  He looked around and nodded. “I know you’re far from home, Emma. You don’t hesitate to come knockin’ on my door if you need to know somethin’ or want somethin’. I’ll leave two sets of keys on the kitchen table. Oh,” he said, turning back. “If you want that phone in the kitchen turned on, let me know. You’ll need it to get calls from producers, I’m sure,” he said, smiling. “I’ll put your name in the directory tonight, too. Okay? Any questions?”

  “I’m not sure how to get to Mr. Manning’s restaurant,” I said.

  “Oh, right. You’re startin’ tomorrow, right?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. I’m sure you know it’s called the Last Diner. It looks like one with its booths and long counter. It’s two blocks east and one block north. Probably no more than a ten-minute walk for someone your age. It takes me double that.”

  “Thank you.”

  He studied me a moment. “You ain’t much younger than my wife was when we first met.”

  “My mother wasn’t much older than me when she married my father.”

  “Bet your parents weren’t happy to see you leave and go so far, eh?”

  “No, not happy.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, well, that’s only natural. Don’t lose the love of your family, Emma. No one champions you as much as they do.”

  He paused. I could see he wanted to say more, that he wanted to trust me with more personal information.

  “Been a widower for close to four years now. Still not used to it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I have two married daughters and five grandchildren, all of whom keep me busy from time to time,” he said.

  “That’s very nice. Do they live in New York?”

  “No. One, Toby, lives in Massachusetts, and the other lives in Nevada. My oldest grandchild, Jordan, is goin’ to attend college at Columbia next year. He’s the one lives in Nevada. His mother’s not taking his leavin’ home so well. I promised I’d see lots of him, and I’m sure I will.” He leaned toward me like someone about to utter a deep secret. “Until he finds a girlfriend or somethin’,” he added, smiling.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll never stop coming to see you.”

  “We’ll see. Mothers have to be understandin’. Children need the freedom to grow and develop as individuals on their own. Fathers make like it’s easier for them to let go, but it ain’t so.

  “Anyway, now you’ve got a future to build. Good luck,” he said, and walked out, leaving the keys on the kitchen table.

  I didn’t move.

  What he had said caused me to worry even more about how my mother had reacted to my leaving. Most of the time, she was so tight about her feelings. I knew that holding it all inside wore down your heart. I didn’t
care what my father had said and threatened. I would call her this week, maybe even tomorrow. She’d be worried that I hadn’t arrived safely. I was sure of that.

  I began to unpack. After I hung up my things, I fixed my bedding and then decided that I was too excited simply to go to sleep. I would take a walk around the neighborhood and maybe get a bite to eat. I also thought I might find that supermarket and get some cleaning materials. My mother would call this flat a pigsty for sure, but I didn’t want to say anything that might insult Mr. Abbot.

  I picked up one of the sets of keys and headed out and down the stairs. What I felt stepping out of the front door was like what I imagined a newly hatched chicken felt when it stepped out of a cracked egg. The city was still quite in-your-face with its traffic, pedestrians, and bright lights. Didn’t the traffic ever slow down? Or was that description literally right, “the city that never sleeps”?

  Although it was a warm June night, I felt a chill. I knew it was just a chill of fear. It will pass, Emma, I assured myself.

  Now, the wide-eyed newcomer, I started down the street, my gaze going everywhere. In fact, I was so hypnotized by all the movement around me, the lights and tall buildings, I accidentally bumped into a man. Or maybe he bumped into me. I heard something splatter at my feet and looked down, astounded. He had dropped a paper bag that had a bottle of some whiskey in it, the liquor spilling out around the dampened bag and shards of glass. Some people slowed their walk, and some paused to look.

  The man looked disheveled, homeless. His shirt was missing buttons, and his pants were held on with a piece of rope. His gray beard was longer in places and quite untrimmed, hair growing even from the crests of his cheeks. His eyes were red, and when his lips parted, I saw he was missing quite a few teeth. His hair was straggly, dirty, and even knotted.

  He bellowed like a wounded dog, sending my heart from a flutter to a drumroll. “You made me drop my bottle!” he screamed. “That’s twenty dollars.”

  I gasped and stepped back. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Twenty dollars!” he cried, and held out his grimy right hand.

  “Like hell she will,” a stout man with short rust-colored hair said, and brushed me aside to step beside me. The disheveled man staggered. “Don’t give that guy a penny,” the man beside me said, and to demonstrate I shouldn’t, he pushed my purse back a bit, holding it so the homeless man couldn’t seize it and run. He looked like he was just about to do that. My rescuer was dressed in dark-brown jeans and a T-shirt and had tattoos on both his forearms.

  “Let’s see what this is all about,” he said, and leaned down to touch the liquid on the sidewalk. He brought it to his nose. “This is water, you bastard. Move on, or I’ll break your scrawny neck.”

  The disheveled man cursed and started away.

  “You okay, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “That’s one of them new scams in town. Tourists are fallin’ for it all day. Watch yourself.”

  The people who had paused walked on. He started away. I wanted to shout to him, I don’t know your name! but he was already crossing the street and quickly disappearing in the pedestrian traffic. I looked back to be sure the homeless man was gone and then hurried along, walking now as fast as anyone else in New York. Either become one of them, or tuck your tail between your legs and hurry back to Guildford, I thought.

  I was still shaking when I found the supermarket. I went in, located the cleaning things I had wanted and a blueberry muffin. That would be my dinner tonight. All I wanted to do was get back and off the streets.

  When I reached the cashier, I took my things out of the cart and watched her ring them up. Then I reached for my purse. I was surprised the clasp was undone. How careless, I thought. I opened it and reached in for my wallet.

  It wasn’t there.

  I could feel the panic flow down my face and seize my heart. I hadn’t taken it out at the apartment, and of course, I had it with me on the airplane.

  “Anything wrong?” the cashier asked. There were people waiting behind me.

  “My wallet’s gone,” I said. “I think it was pinched.”

  She smiled. “Pinched?”

  “That means stolen,” a tall man in a jacket and tie two people back said.

  “Oh. Well, you’ve got thirty-two fifty-eight here,” the cashier said indifferently. She might as well have said, Pay up, or get out of the way.

  Fortunately for me, I had listened to advice my father had given me when I had gone on my first school trip. “Never keep all your money in the same place, Emma. Split it up so if you lose some or some is stolen, you’ll be all right.”

  I had put over three hundred dollars in my wallet, which also had so many other important papers and pictures. I quickly located some of the money I had wrapped in a handkerchief and took out a fifty-dollar bill. Still stunned, I gathered my bags and started out. I was really walking in a daze and couldn’t stop trembling again when I started back to the apartment. My eyes were searching every alleyway and every person walking toward me to be sure I wouldn’t run into the disheveled man again.

  “Miss?” I heard coming from right behind me, and stopped. It was the tall gentleman who had explained the meaning of pinched to the supermarket cashier. Getting a closer look at him, I thought he wasn’t much older than I was. Seeing someone this young in a jacket and tie was reassuring because it reminded me of the young men who worked in the bank with my father. For a moment, I imagined it was my father who had followed me to America just so he could protect me. Wishful thinking.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?” he asked. Then, before I could respond, he asked, “Where do you think you were robbed?”

  I looked around. “About here,” I said, and told him what had occurred. “I hadn’t taken out my wallet since I left England last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes.”

  He just stared at me a moment with a grin frozen on his face. He was slim, maybe six feet tall, with interesting eyes. They were charcoal but with a hint of green. I hadn’t noticed in the supermarket, but he had a dark complexion, strong, firm lips, and an almost perfect Roman nose. His hair, swept neatly to the sides and just a trifle below his earlobes, was a café noir shade.

  “That’s terrible,” he said. “I mean, terrible that you were taken advantage of just hours after arriving. I’ve heard stories about tourists being scammed. Is this your first visit?”

  “Yes, but it’s not a visit. I’m here to begin a career,” I said.

  He nodded. “Well, what happened from what you described was you were a victim of a double scam.” He spoke slowly and didn’t sound like he was born in America. I couldn’t figure out his accent, however. “The homeless guy was probably partnered with the man who rode in on a white horse. You were distracted while he ventured into your purse. That’s what teams like that do. One distracts, and the other picks pockets or whatever. It almost happened to me on a subway in Rome once. A couple across from me began to get hot and heavy with their kissing while an older lady beside me was moving her fingers into my pants pocket. Luckily, I looked down and saw it happening.”

  “I didn’t,” I said a bit mournfully. I hated sounding so pitiful.

  “Yes, obviously not. You should report it to the police. How much did they get?”

  “A little over three hundred U.S. dollars and my English driving license, passport, national health cards, and pictures of family.”

  “Except for the dollars, the rest is in some garbage bin for sure.”

  “Yes, well… what did you do when you saw the elderly lady’s fingers in your pocket?”

  “Looked at her. She withdrew them quickly, and I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t about to accuse an elderly Italian lady of pickpocketing me. Not in that subway.” He smiled. “You still look pretty shaken up. Where do you live?”

  I hesitated. It was like a blinking marquee on the entrance to Heathrow: Don’t Talk to Strangers, Espe
cially in New York. Was naive, trusting little fool written on my face? I had within hours of arriving suffered one disaster. Was I about to suffer another?

  “Not far. Thank you for your concern,” I said, and started away.

  “Hey. Wherever you’re going, you’re in my neighborhood. I’ll walk with you, if you like.” He saw the hesitation in my face and smiled. “Okay, I’ll give you references.”

  He shifted his bag of groceries to his left arm and reached into his inside pocket to produce his wallet. Than he flipped it open and showed me his driver’s license. His name was Jon Morales. He moved a wallet insert to show me he was an assistant investment manager at the UVE Group. The card had his picture on it. He put his wallet back into his pocket and shifted his grocery bag back to his right arm.

  “Is that a bank, UVE?”

  “No, it’s an investment managing company. I’m training to be a CFP, a certified financial planner. I’ve been living in New York for only two years. My family lives in San Juan, where my father is in banking.”

  “So is mine. He’s a loan officer.”

  “So we’re practically related,” he said, widening his smile.

  I had my first real laugh since I had arrived. Suddenly, however, I was feeling quite tired. The jet lag and emotional experience had taken its toll. My body felt like it was sinking in warm mud.

  “I’m just around the corner,” I said, even though I really wasn’t in the mood for company the rest of the way. I just wanted to get to my apartment, have a cup of tea and my muffin, and go to sleep. I’d start cleaning tomorrow after I worked my first day at the restaurant.

  “Works for me.”