She wakes up in darkness a few hours later, her mouth dry and her throat achy. Gwen is asleep on the bed, wearing only striped underwear and a plain yellow T-shirt, her dreadlocks spread on the pillow. She hadn’t moved Amy, had just let her stay the way she was on the bed, only angling her body so they both had room enough to sprawl out. It’s a pretty big bed, maybe a queen. Amy’s head is pounding. A few beers and a few shots, nothing in the old days, has her feeling like she’ll never be the same.
She takes out her phone and turns it on. The same missed calls from before, but now a text from Alessandra. She hardly ever gets texts. Alessandra is the only person who’s ever texted her regularly. When they were together, anyway. Mostly they’d send each other messages about where to meet for food or drinks.
Amy rubs her eyes now and reads the text from Alessandra: saw your pic on G’s insta. i’m in bklyn. call me.
Without hesitation, she goes to her contacts. alessandra is the first name there. The name she’s hit enter for the most. By far. It’ll be nice to hear Alessandra’s voice. Something to reel her back in from this very strange present.
“Amy?” Alessandra says, picking up after two rings.
“Hey,” Amy says in a whisper. “Sorry to call so late.”
“It’s okay. What is it, three? I’m up. I’m always up. I don’t really sleep well ever.”
“Same here. I got a little drunk and passed out at Gwen’s.”
“How’s Gwen?”
“She’s good. She’s asleep.”
“I’m in Brooklyn for a couple of days. Going to auditions.”
“That’s nice.”
“You want to meet up for lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Where you living these days?”
“Still in your old neighborhood.”
“Really?” Alessandra laughs. “That’s fucking crazy, dude. I thought you’d be out of there in a flash. Go live in Williamsburg or Greenpoint or Astoria with everyone else.”
“I got a good deal. Where you staying?”
“This hotel called Brooklyn Way or something. Right near Green-Wood Cemetery. Not far from Prospect Park. You know it over there?”
“A little.”
“Pretty cheap. Got it as part of a package deal on Priceline.”
“Thrilling.”
Crazy how easy they fall into their old rhythms.
“I wasn’t gonna call you,” Alessandra says. “I didn’t think it was a good idea. I didn’t want to put you out. I don’t know what you’ve got going on. Then I saw Gwen’s picture, and I thought, What the fuck? We’ve got a lot of history, good and bad, and we can be fucking adults. When’d you make your hair dark, by the way?”
“I don’t remember. It’s been a while.”
“You know Tom’s Restaurant on Washington Avenue?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Want to meet there at one? Lemon ricotta pancakes and egg creams, that’s what the fuck I’m talking about.”
“They’ve got cherry-lime rickeys, too.”
“Okay. One, then?”
“One.”
They say hushed byes to each other, and Amy closes her phone. She’d leave if it wasn’t the middle of the night. She goes out to the kitchen and gets a glass of water from the sink and drinks it in one big, sloppy gulp, water running down her chin onto the cherries on her sweater. She can’t remember the last time she drank water like this. She goes back to the bedroom and sits down on the bed and rubs her temples. She’ll leave at first light. Who knows when Gwen will get up? She’ll probably sleep until noon. She still lives that life.
Amy’s not sure what to do until she meets Alessandra at one. She doesn’t want to go back to her apartment. She doesn’t want to check in on Diane or Mrs. Epifanio. She likes having Alessandra to focus on now. Lunch with Alessandra means remaining in character.
The sun doesn’t rise until seven. Amy’s been unable to sleep and has spent her time flipping through a pile of photography books that Gwen keeps stacked on the floor near the bed. She’s had to strain her eyes to see the pictures. Three of the books are by Camilo José Vergara. Pictures of ruined buildings and cities in decline. Amy’s almost cried a few times looking at them.
She gets up and writes a note for Gwen, then attempts to leave the room as quietly as she can. As she’s walking past the dresser, the blond wig catches her eye again. It’s the same blond she was before she went dark. A different cut, though. She likes the idea of putting it on, of furthering her costume. She takes the bandanna out of her hair and stuffs it in her pocket. A little package of bobby pins is on the dresser between two of the heads. Amy knows enough about wigs to know that she has to put her hair up and try to find a wig cap if she wants to wear this. She wonders why Gwen even has it, if it’s some kind of cosplay thing. She wonders what Alessandra will think. She’ll know it’s not her hair. She saw the picture on Gwen’s Instagram. Maybe she’ll think she’s sick. She starts to put her hair up with the bobby pins.
“There’s a wig cap in the top drawer,” Gwen says, dry-voiced.
Amy turns to her. “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” she says. “This reminds me of the color my hair used to be. I just wanted to try it on.”
“Go for it.” Gwen gets up and stretches. She comes over and helps Amy find a black nylon wig cap in the drawer and then takes over pinning her hair. She stretches the cap out with both hands and puts it on Amy’s head.
Amy looks at herself in the mirror over the dresser with only the cap on, her hair tucked away.
“I wear this at shows a lot,” Gwen says, removing the wig from the Styrofoam head. “I used to have a few others. When I’m drunk, I like to take them off and throw them into the crowd.” She fits it over the cap. She tells Amy she has to kind of reach in between the wig and the cap on both sides and click two little clips into place. Amy does that. Gwen adjusts the wig and smooths it down.
Another look in the mirror. Amy in the wig is Amy unknown. Her former self mixed with her new self. A woman in trouble. A woman in hiding. She smiles like an actress.
“Wear it,” Gwen says. “Keep it, if you want. You look fucking badass.”
Gwen invites her to brush her teeth and stay for coffee, and Amy takes her up on it. She has no reason to go home. She’d change for Alessandra, but she doesn’t want to risk going back to her apartment. Her clothes reek slightly of mothballs, but maybe she can bum some of Gwen’s oil.
Mike and Danny come out, yawning. They get back to work on their guitars. Mike gives her a thumbs-up for the wig. Danny hardly seems to notice the difference.
“You’re meeting Alessandra, huh?” Gwen says, pouring water from a measuring cup into an electric kettle.
“I’m sorry about being on the phone in the middle of the night like that,” Amy says.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping.”
“I know, I know.”
Gwen gets two mugs and fits a pour-over dripper on one. She scoops Holy Grounds dark roast into the filter. When the kettle boils, she pours the water over the coffee in a slow circular motion. She hands Amy the first mug and then repeats the process for herself.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have posted that picture?” Gwen says. “I know you’re not really on social media or anything.”
“It’s okay.”
“You know, it’s been good hanging out with you again after so long, but you’ve managed to tell me nothing about yourself. Where you live. Work. Who you’re seeing. Nothing.”
“Sorry.”
“No apology necessary. It’s actually pretty impressive. That wig really completes the picture. A mystery woman.”
Amy laughs this off but still manages not to talk about herself. She wonders what her life would be like if she’d stayed who she was. If she’d kept working at Seven Bar and moved here to Williamsburg with Gwen. If she’d kept her records. If her heart hadn’t been shaken by faith, by the strange desire to help.
A couple of coffees later, Gwen’s gi
ven her the rundown on just about everything and everyone she can think of. What’s become of Nix and Edie. A quick story about the guy they used to know who kept a bottle of aspirin taped to his hat. Norma the painter’s success. Jill and Sylvia’s move to Vancouver. The Ukrainian’s disavowal of the Lower East Side. Raised rents, broken people, cashed-in chips. Mike and Danny improvise an instrumental piece that casts a melancholy feeling over the apartment.
Since Amy’s phone is practically useless, she maps the walking route to Tom’s Restaurant on Gwen’s iPhone. Then she goes into the bathroom and brushes her teeth with her finger, using Gwen’s minty toothpaste. The kush oil is out on the counter. She dabs her wrists with it.
When Amy finally leaves, it’s after ten. She doesn’t even think about taking off the wig. It’s part of her. Gwen gives her a big hug and pecks her on the cheek and says she should come back soon, don’t let it be years again. Amy nods. Gwen says next time she wants to hear all about her and she’s going to try to talk her into moving to Williamsburg, assuming she doesn’t live here already, mystery woman that she is. She says that Danny’s moving to Portland in March, and they’ll have a room opening up. Amy says she’ll think about it, for sure.
Outside, the sky is gray and it looks like rain, but the temperature hasn’t dropped much. Up the block, on the corner of Marcy and Hooper, is Transfiguration Roman Catholic Church. She’s heard about it. Read about the history of the church and the good work they do in the parish. The Southside Mission. But she’s never been.
Truth is, she’s spent very little time in Williamsburg over the years. Her biggest memory is being here with Merrill at some party. They were on a roof. This was before Williamsburg got to be what it is now, this gentrified hipster wonderland. It had a dangerous edge to it then. You felt like you could get mugged at any time. Merrill was wasted. She was standing on the ledge of the roof, swaying, a can of Busch in her hand, moonlight reflecting off her face piercings. Amy had to pull her in. She can’t believe she ever dated someone like Merrill.
What she’s thinking she remembers reading about Transfiguration is that it has Tiffany windows. She wants to go in. She wants to see the beautiful stained glass windows. The church mostly serves the Latino community here, she knows. She wishes there was a Mass now. In Spanish. She wishes she could go in and kneel and pray. This church is far more beautiful than St. Mary’s. It’s old. It’s seen the way the world changes. It’s proof that maybe certain things don’t change. She remembers that there’s a Transfiguration Church in Queens, too. Maspeth. She’s never been there either.
A large statue of the Virgin Mary looms in the garden behind the gate. She has a white wooden fence built up behind her, like a grotto. Amy sees that the gates are closed. She imagines herself walking into the church. The smell of myrrh. Those gorgeous windows. She imagines feeling light-headed, having to sit down in a pew. It’s as if she knows the inside of the church, never having seen it. She imagines Fred slipping into the pew next to her.
She doesn’t even try the gate. She crosses the street and presses on.
It’s about a two-and-a-half-mile walk to Tom’s. Pretty straightforward. Right on Rutledge from Marcy, Classon for a long stretch, right on Sterling Place, and then come out on Washington Avenue and the restaurant will be right there. She’s got the route memorized. She likes keeping maps in her mind. Only about an hour at a normal pace. She’ll take it slow. She’ll get there a little early to secure a table. She’s nervous to see Alessandra. And she’s happy. She’s happy to feel a little happy. Everything else that’s happened feels far away. Until she looks across the street and is sure she sees Dom watching her from an alley between two apartment buildings.
12
There’s no way it could be Dom. There’s no way he’d know it was her if it was him. Not with the wig. But he’d probably at least realize she was the same woman he saw at Homestretch the day before. She’s in the same clothes. Another possibility enters her mind: he’s not after her because he thinks she witnessed him killing Vincent; he’s just a psycho stalker who decided to follow her when she walked out of the bar.
Probably it’s just her eyes playing tricks on her, like at the Starbucks with Fred. She’s reluctant to go back and confirm what she thinks she saw. She moves faster.
Just off Classon, on Myrtle, she ducks into a coffee shop and orders an Americano. She sits at a table and watches out the window, waiting to see if Dom appears on the sidewalk outside. No sign of him. She checks her phone. No messages from Alessandra. Nothing else from Diane or Mrs. Epifanio. She wonders if Mr. Pezzolanti will call, worried sick that she didn’t come home last night.
Time passes. She’s shaky from all the coffee and hungover from the booze and tired from getting up in the middle of the night and afraid at the possibility that Dom is on her trail. She taps her foot against the floor. The coffee shop’s nice. Spare. Quiet. She’s anxious, watching people pass on the sidewalk through the letters on the window. Every face could be Dom’s, but none are yet. She wants to shake some of this returned paranoia before meeting Alessandra. A copious amount of coffee probably isn’t the best idea.
She leaves the coffee shop and walks aimlessly for a while, passing Tom’s Restaurant once and walking through Prospect Park a little before doubling back. By twelve forty-five, she’s got a table at Tom’s and more coffee. It’s been a long time since she’s been here. Back in the early days at Seven Bar, her friend Abby had dragged her over on a Saturday morning and they’d waited on a long-ass line to get in. Abby thought it was the place that Suzanne Vega sings about in “Tom’s Diner,” but she had that wrong. Later, they found out a lot of people get that wrong. Amy’s never been here with Alessandra. They wouldn’t have had many reasons to hang out in Prospect Heights.
She tears open a sugar packet and pours the sugar on the tabletop, pushes her finger through it, and looks around. Pictures and signs on the walls. A few people at tables around her with big plates of pancakes. She feels like they know about the wig and they’re laughing at her. She looks at the menu.
Alessandra arrives, and Amy’s heart jumps. All that black hair. She’s wearing shoes that make her a little taller. Super skinny high-waisted jeans. A white chambray shirt with no wrinkles. Dark aviator sunglasses. She didn’t have fifteen pounds to lose, but she’s lost at least that much. She’s the actress. Memories flood in. Kissing that neck. Listening to records, legs entwined on the couch. Drinking. Showering.
Amy stands. They hug. Alessandra’s wearing perfume that smells like the beach.
“Nice wig,” Alessandra says.
“It’s Gwen’s,” Amy says. “I look stupid?”
“I like it. You okay? You look upset.”
They sit across from each other. Amy plays with the handle of her coffee mug. Alessandra takes off her sunglasses, sliding them into her breast pocket. The waiter comes over and interrupts. Alessandra orders a coffee.
“I’m fine,” Amy says, finally responding to the initial question, trying to perk up. “How are you?”
The waiter brings back Alessandra’s coffee. She empties in a packet of Splenda and stirs with her butter knife. “I’m okay. Crazy. Just had an audition in the basement of a church. It’s for this low-budget boxing movie. The role’s a boxer’s wife who gets raped by her husband’s opponent. I mean, Jesus Christ. This is the kind of shit I keep auditioning for. One worse than the next.”
“I heard you were just in a horror movie, but I haven’t seen it.”
“It sucks. Don’t see it. It’s called Hair Trap. I get killed by a guy in a wolf mask. But I met my friend Phoebe on it, and she’s a genius. She’s trying to make this movie she wrote called Accomplice, and it’s gonna be really fucking good. She wants me for one of the leads. So, there’s that.”
“You’re doing pretty okay?”
“I’m fine. Los Angeles is fine. I don’t know. I’m a dog walker. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Dog walker, huh?”
“
Pays the bills. I’m one of those dumb bastards you see walking around with eight little rich people’s dogs on leashes. I take them to the park, and I consider the shitty choices that led me to where I am. Some of these dogs, their assholes are bleached. I’m not even kidding.”
Amy laughs. “And I heard you do yoga? Gwen gave me the full rundown on your Instagram.”
“I have the pants and the mat. I go sometimes. The life I present on social media isn’t real. I don’t like dogs. I don’t like yoga. It’s just another way of auditioning.”
The waiter comes back, and they order food. Alessandra gets the lemon ricotta pancakes and an egg cream. Amy gets a fried egg sandwich and a cherry-lime rickey. They work on their coffees. Amy’s not sure where to go with the conversation. She has the overwhelming desire to come clean with Alessandra. To tell her about church and about bringing communion to shut-ins. To tell her about Vincent and Dom and Fred and Diane. To hold up her hand and show her how it’s shaking. To ask if she saw a sketchy guy outside on her way in. Alessandra, of all people, would understand her twisted motives, her private fears. She knows about Bob Tully. She’s the only one who knows.
“Tell me what’s been going on with you,” Alessandra says.
“Nothing much,” Amy says.
“You’re still around the old neighborhood, huh? I really can’t believe that. And you’re still not on Facebook or anything? I’ve got all these people I don’t give a shit about, and I know what they do, where they live, where they work, what they’re eating, how many dogs they have, when they’re sick, what their ugly kids had for breakfast. You, I’m actually interested, and I don’t know anything anymore. It’s 2017, and there’s no real trace of you online. That’s why I was so excited to see Gwen post that picture.” She pauses to take a breath. “I’m rambling, I’m sorry. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“You should come to LA sometime.”
“When do you go back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
The Lonely Witness Page 11
