by Koko Brown
While she waited, Shoshana kept an eye on the bathroom exit. With each passing second, she couldn’t push aside the unsettling vision of her father, disoriented and truculent, ambling down Whitestone Expressway, trying to make his way home.
“Here you go, Miss.” Shoshana accepted the two bags with gratitude. Her stress level skyrocketing, she tore into one.
“The bathvroom’s packed.” In between pep talks, she shoveled more pecans in her mouth. “There’z a long wait,” she mumbled. “He’ll be owt soon.”
Never taking her eyes off the exit, chewing on automatic, Shoshana poured herself another handful. The game proceeded behind her. The crowd cheered. Fans scrambled to and fro. The line into the bathroom trickled down to a steady stream.
“Excuse me,” Shoshana stepped forward, stopping a man with a young boy. “My father went in about forty minutes ago and he hasn’t come out yet.”
“Maybe ah he’s taking a dump,” he reasoned, his thick Queens accent stronger than a fresh mug of dark-roast.
“Maybe,” Shoshana acquiesced and absolutely unfazed by the guy’s crudeness.
“My father’s up there in age,” she lied, attempting to garner sympathy. Ike Haufman wouldn’t celebrate his sixtieth birthday until November. “Could you do me a solid and take a look, please? He’s about your height and complexion but add more gray.”
“Yo’ old man…he a Mets fan?”
Shoshana almost rolled her eyes. Figures team loyalty over another person’s well-being. “Season ticket holder for more than twenty five years.”
“What’s your fatha’s name?”
Relieved, Shoshana smiled. “Isaac Haufman. But he’ll also answer to Ike.”
“Gimme a minute. Junior here thinks pahddy time is play time.”
“I’ll be right here.”
A minute passed, then two, the last seeming even longer than the first. Waiting was enough to drive a person mad. Overwhelmed, Shoshana felt tears scalding the corners of her eyes. Where could her father be?
“Any luck?” she asked pouncing on the father and son the moment they exited.
“One of the stahlls wuz occupied but dude’s name was Warren. No one else matched your description.”
“Thanks,” Shoshana mumbled, feeling far from thankful since his news brought her back to square one.
“No problem.” The man took his child’s hand. “How about we grab a pair of dogs?”
Nose scrunched, his son stuck out his tongue. “No sowerkrod.”
“Boy, sauerkraut puts hair on your chest.”
Their father and son back and forth causing a discomforting knot to twist in her belly, she turned away.
With the roar of the crowd buzzing in her ears, Shoshana shuffled over to the stairs. Instead of taking them to her seat, she looked down and found them empty.
“Enjoying the game?”
Shoshana didn’t return the usher’s smile. “It’s been a nightmare.”
The usher eyed her Mets t-shirt. “But our boys are up by four.”
Shoshana fished in her back pocket for her cell phone. “Have you seen this guy?”
He scratched at his head, pulling his toupee off center. “Yeah! I saw him earlier with you when I ushered you twos to your seats. Did something happen?”
“He went to the restroom almost an hour ago. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Want me to check on ‘em?” He moved to abandon his post at the top of the stairs.
“Been there, done that,” she admitted, stopping him.
“Have you checked the concessions?”
“I guess that’s my next option.” Shoshana placed her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. She needed to calm down or she’d keel over from anxiety. “Can you keep an eye out for him while I walk the level?”
“I’ll be sure to tell him to park his butt and don’t move an inch.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Shoshana looked away sheepishly. “You know men and their pride.”
“My wife used to claim mine was an island onto itself,” he chuckled, revealing a set of off-white dentures.
“My father’s is the size of Long Island.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open and my lips sealed.” Lifting a hand grizzled with age, the usher pretended to lock his lips.
Shoshana anxiously searched the concession lines looking for the familiar lines of her father’s rounded shoulders, his distinctive profile with highbrow and prominent cheek bones. What if he left the stadium? Her heart beat so it caused an unbearable ache in the center of her chest.
“Any luck?” The usher’s hopeful expression only made her spirits plummet even further.
“I walked the entire second level,” she muttered. “No sign of him. It’s like he never existed.” Shoshana blinked back tears.
“And here I was hoping you’d have good noos.” The man rubbed his jaw, seemingly uncomfortable with a woman on the verge of tears. “How about I get your fatha’s picture and hand it over to the front office. They’ll broadcast it on the scoreboard.”
Shoshana shook her head. “He’d have a fit if I did.”
“Pfftt…get outta here!”
“A few weeks ago we lost track of each other in Bergdorf’s. I had management page him. He didn’t talk to me for three days.”
“I oughta mind my own business but if your Pops has Alzheimer’s its best we post a bulletin. He could be anywhere.”
Bristling, Shoshana tugged at her ponytail. “He hasn’t been diagnosed. He’s forgetful, that’s all.”
“Someone’s in denial,” the usher said under his breath.
“I’m going to check the upper levels.”
Behind a pair of slightly crooked spectacles, the usher’s wintery blue eyes widened. “This place has four levels. I’m gonna post a bulletin. Hey, Bart.” He raised his arm to flag down one of his associates.
Not willing to lose control of the situation, Shoshana stepped in front of him. “How about I leave you my number? If my father comes back, you can text me.”
“You’re putting me in a real bind, lady. The safety of our fans is paramount.” He sounded like he cited a clause from his employee handbook, but he handed over his phone.
“You keep an eye out for my father, and you’ll be my hero.”
“I’ll call you,” he relented though sounding none too happy about it.
Amid the chaos swirling around her, Shoshana felt entirely alone and filled with self-reproach. She should have never let her father out of her sight. His fragile ego be damned. Filled to capacity, Citi Field could be tricky to navigate. With mild memory issues, it became a chaotic maze of identical seats, locked doors, stairways, and entryways.
Head spinning, Shoshana had no clue on what level she was. All the promenades looked identical. Hands trembling, she rubbed at her temples. Her vision blurred. Her heart beat so hard, it threatened to shatter her ribcage.
Focus! It wouldn’t benefit either of them if she broke down. Rallying, Shoshana sucked in several calming breaths until she stopped seeing double and her heart rate dropped back to normal. Retracing her footsteps, she hiked it back to her seat, making a bee line for the usher.
His gaze met hers, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, young lady.”
“Thank you for all your help,” she clipped out in a pitiful attempt to keep the disappointment from coloring her tone. “It’s the top of the ninth so maybe he’ll turn up before they call it.”
“For your sake, I sure hope so.”
Shoshana carried the man’s skepticism with her back to her seat and marinated on it through the rest of the inning. Preoccupied, she didn’t catch the end of the game nor the rush of the crowd for the exits.
“Excuse me, but we need to clean the stadium.”
“Sorry.” She stood to gather her things.
“No worries. Pops over there is glued to his seat,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward center field. “He won’t move no matter what.”
Shoshana froze. Hunched o
ver, head in his hands, sat a man in the lower decks behind center field. The jersey looked familiar, so did the light-colored khakis. Heart in her throat, she croaked, “could you radio someone over in center field. I think that’s my father. He took a wrong turn and he’s been missing since the seventh inning.”
The custodian glanced at the lone figure. “Your old man, hungh?”
Shoshana nodded.
“Nuthin’ like killing two birds with one stone.” Chuckling, he unclipped his walkie talkie from his belt. “Yo, Kwesi.”
The walkie talkie chirped, and then a man’s booming voice filtered through a succession of beeps, “Tahk to me.”
“Do me a solid, will ya? Check on that guy sitting in row fifteen. Believe his fam’s over here looking for him.”
“Wut’s his name?”
“Isaac Haufman,” she supplied while watching his coworker hiking down the stairs. He leaned over the man, exchanging words.
The radio squawked again. “He said he’ll meet his daughter at the entrance.”
“No!” She was already heading for the stairs. “Tell him to stay put. I’ll come to him.”
The custodian on her end chuckled. “You hear that, Kwesi?”
“I’ll sit on top of ‘em.”
A fire under her heels, Shoshana set off.
“Hey! Take the escalatah up a level, followed by an immediate right. That’ll get you there faster.”
At the end of the row, she turned back. “Thank you.”
Smiling, the custodian tipped his Mets’ baseball cap.
As she climbed the stairs, Shoshana felt hysterical laughter scratching the back of her throat, so great was her relief that her father hadn’t ended up in the East River. Drawn by the twinkling lights, her gaze strayed to Manhattan’s skyline. A city that never sleeps, a glittering landfill of abandoned hopes and forgotten dreams, New York was a bedlam that swallowed people whole. Things could’ve have turned out differently. Worse. Much, much worse.
When the possible ramifications of the evening’s events sunk home, anger stirred like a brewing tempest. Exasperation powered her stride and manifested the words of an inevitable row.
As promised, the custodian had remained with her father. Even engaging him in what sounded like a mild-mannered discussion on who the Mets should acquire during the post season, providing the team became a wildcard.
“I better stop chewing your ear off, your daughter’s here from the land of the lost.”
Land of the lost? Did her father believe she went missing, and not the other way around?
“Why, I oughta…” He playfully waved his fist, engendering a smile despite the circumstances. Growing up, she’d sat in his lap watching the Honeymooners and loved it just as much as he did.
“Where’d you go, numb-nuts?” He wrapped his arm around her as they climbed the stairs. “I came back and you were gone. You had me so worried I ate the darn candied nuts I bought you….”
Her expression must have tipped him off, “I got lost, not you.”
“It can happen to anyone, Dad.” She looped her arm around his waist. Sure, it was a pass and a blatant evasion of the big gorilla in the room, but he was her father. The strongest and smartest man she knew. And she wanted him to always remain that way.
“How about we call a moratorium on attending anymore games this season?”
Shoshana’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“The Mets are all I have left since you took over the company but we missed most of today’s game because of my blunder. Maybe parking my butt in the Lazy Boy for a while might be a good idea. You don’t need me complicating things.”
In true Isaac Haufman fashion, her father readily sacrificed one of his passions for his family. And father like daughter, realized it was foolish to think of Patrick Kelly as anything but a client. To wish anything beyond that would simply complicate things.
CHAPTER NINE
First thing Wednesday morning, Patrick headed to human resources.
“You have a minute?
Randall Ivy had to have the worst job in the building. As the resident Human Resources Director, he was responsible for the doing the dirty work, firing people when they didn’t pan out, which was quite often at the Morrissey Group.
“Have a seat.” Randall pointed to the nondescript chair across from him. Unlike the rest of management, his office was small and windowless. Patrick wasn’t surprised. At the Morrissey Group, one’s perks were earned by how much money you brought in.
“What can I do for you?” Ivy smiled and his bottle brush mustache flared over his lips.
Patrick could almost feel him chomping at the bit for a gossip session. He’d learned a long time ago, during a Christmas party, that Ivy had loose lips. And with enough stroking one could learn absolutely everything about everyone. He didn’t do it intentionally, he just couldn’t help himself.
“I need some information.”
Ivy sat forward. “Really? About whom? Did you hear about Dillinger’s divorce? Wife discovered him in bed with his caddy. She wants everything.”
“Not on someone but something.” Flummoxed, Ivy frowned. “And I need you to keep this between us.”
****
Joe’s gnarled hands smoothed over the fabric. A river of royal blue wool gabardine, it spilled over the cutting table and off the side. Shoshana, standing nearby but out of his way, watched him take unusual care with the vintage material. As master tailor, she rarely performed any of the manual labor that went into the making of a commissioned suit, but she oversaw each step of the process.
“What a beautiful color!” Flo effused. She hugged Patrick’s recently pressed pattern in her arms.
Shoshana silently agreed. Vibrant, the color would overpower a lesser man. Not Patrick Kelly. Bold with a touch of arrogance, the color would complement him.
Flo turned to her. “I haven’t been this excited about a suit in I don’t when. The
Lawford is one of my favorites. Peter was such a lovely man and so charming. And don’t forget that accent.”
Shoshana smiled at Flo’s starry eyed expression. Rumor had it the female staff had fallen in love with the movie star who’d married into the Kennedy family. The fanaticism had been so bad her grandfather had to schedule the actor’s fittings for after hours.
“It’s ready,” Joe declared, stepping back.
With a practiced efficiency born from being on the job for over forty-five years, Flo whisked around the cutting table, and in less time than it took to make a pot of coffee, she’d penned Patrick’s pattern.
“You’re up,” she beamed.
Scissors in hand, Shoshana stepped up to bat. With a reverence reserved for a work of art, Shoshana fingered the material. Of exceptional quality, the fabric would last at least two generations. Careful with her cuts, she took much longer than Flo. One misstep and both processes had to be redone.
Once cut, Flo clipped each piece to a wooden hanger. “Did he commission any shirts? What about the lining?” she asked before handing the garment over to Perry, another old timer responsible for piecing the segments together for the seamstress.
Shoshana groaned. Not only had she forgotten the shirts but also the lining, which was essential. “It’s my fault.” She turned to her assistant. “Can you ca—”
Tyson whipped out his cell. “On it.”
Before he could hit send, Shoshana placed her hand over his. “Just ask him for his email address. We can inbox him a few selections.”
“You’re spoiling all the fun,” he grumbled, and then hit send.
“Mr. Kelly, this is Tyson from Haufman’s Clothier—”
Tyson appeared to light up and Shoshana felt a pang of envy.
“—I’m fine. Thank you for asking and you?”
They had a veritable love fest going on!
“—No, we’re good, but not that good—”
Tyson chuckled and Shoshana resisted the sudden urge to rip the phone from his ear.
&n
bsp; “—well, we’ve had a slight oversight. We noticed you’d commissioned a couple of custom shirts. Unfortunately, we didn’t get your preferences. You also didn’t select a lining for the blazer. Can I get your email addy?”
Tyson snapped for the client card in her hand.
“You can come in?”
Tyson glanced at her. A slow grin curled his lips.
“Unfortunately, she can’t see you today. Let me check her schedule. Can you hold, please?”
Fingers flying over the cell, Tyson toggled through her schedule. His eyes widened, causing her heart to speed up. A second later, he shook his head. To Shoshana’s surprise her stomach took a nose dive.
Had she been lying to herself? Did she really want to see Patrick Kelly as more than a client? The emotions fluttering through her system and casting it into its current tailspin were out of character for her. Well, not since she’d turned twenty-five. That was the last time she’d experienced a full-fledged crush on someone.
“Miss Haufman can squeeze you in at two on Friday. Is that good for you?”
Tyson was smiling so hard, Shoshana almost handed him the Chapstick in her pocket.
“Awesome. We’ll see you on Friday, Mr. Kelly.”
***
Listening with only half an ear, and with even less interest, Patrick sat through the weekly director’s meeting, or what he secretly called a gathering of fourteen wind bags blowing a ton of hot air. To think, he couldn’t wait for these meetings to toot his own horn.
Self-centered prick.
Filled with nervous energy, his feet restlessly shifted as he peeked at his watch. Half past one, he still had time to speak with R.W. before heading to Haufman’s Clothiers. Patrick reached up to tweak his tie. He’d worn the Armani again for his reunion with Shoshana.
Patrick drew in a deep, calming breath. It’s only an appointment to pick out shirts, not an open invite into her bed. The thought of which did nothing to quell his agitation or the memories of their last meeting. He recalled her luscious curves beneath his hands. The fascinating provocation of her smile, the soft press of her lips beneath his. Needing an outlet for this irrepressible excitement, streaming through his veins, he rocked back and forth.
