Meet Me in the In-Between

by Bella Pollen

  Ask for Help had a drop-down menu of elaborate subheadings. We were to ask for help but only from authorised people in a formalised order. Top of the list was a person in uniform. Cops were the guardians of law and order. Firemen, though rarely seen in the park, were self-sacrificing and brave. Sailors—well, sailors were considered unsuitable. A sailor might be drunk or have the clap or break into an embarrassing dance routine, though I dare say had I returned to Ninety-Second Street high kicking between Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra my mother would have forgiven me. If no one in the appropriate uniform was available, we were instructed to wait for a nice family to wander by. Failing the complete assemblage, a nice mother and child were acceptable. At a pinch, a nice young couple would do, but only if they looked as if they liked children or might even want to have children of their own as soon as they committed to down payments on a bigger apartment.

  The nice thing was confusingly subjective. My mother had once observed that my science teacher Mrs. Bloemeke had a nice face, but my father countered that the layout of her teeth suggested she was directly descended from the genus Crocodylus. Nevertheless, we grasped the spirit of the thing. To those candidates who qualified, we were instructed to explain our predicament in a clear, high voice—no panic, no sentiment!—before politely requesting delivery to the nearest police precinct.

  And that was it.

  Strangely, old people didn’t feature on the list at all. I do remember that my mother had recently read Rosemary’s Baby, and though she fell short of telling us that an elderly couple might drug us and force us to copulate with the Devil, I imagine that for a while she may have been thinking it. Out of the question too (exempting those covered by the uniform law) were single men. Even a single man with a flock of doves at his heels; even a single man accompanied by an angel with gossamer wings. Forget it. In the event that a single man was to offer us anything—Candy! A lift in his car! An invitation to see his collection of shrunken Peruvian heads!—we were to scream as loudly as possible, bite his hand, then run like crazy things in the opposite direction.

  On this ambrosial New York afternoon, with Central Park crammed with families of every size and permutation, with cops galore queuing up for cones of lemon sherbet, with heroic ash-smeared firemen resting their smouldering backs against the trunks of trees and reading Boris Pasternak, it was harder than you might think to track down a single man, especially one who looked uncannily like the Rosemary’s evil traditionalist, Roman Castevet. Finally, I settled on a sinister creature lurking at the water fountain. With dark, intricately woven eyebrows offset by unnaturally white hair, he was reassuringly ancient and dressed in a coat, bow tie, and hat, the mode of which hinted at broken wicker furniture, a whiskey habit, and satanic paraphernalia. Once I’d checked there were no mitigative dogs or female relatives in tow, I threw myself across his path and duly started bawling. Startled, he looked up. Water ran in rivulets from his mouth to the point of his beard and dripped onto his waistcoat. “Dear me,” he said, dabbing at the patterned silk with a natty handkerchief. “Whatever’s the matter?”

  “My sister left me here,” I whispered pitifully. “She left me all alone.”

  “All alone?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Toute seule.”

  “Oh, dear.” He looked round sympathetically. “Right here?”

  “Yes.”

  “In this very spot?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “I haven’t moved a step. Pas une petite étape.” I don’t know why I’d starting speaking in French, to be honest. I just felt like it. And then—didn’t all abandoned little girls in storybooks speak French?

  “Good girl,” he said. “First rule of being lost. But are you sure your sister is not coming back?”

  “Positive. After all, I’ve waited here for such a very long time.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “My parents?” I lowered my eyes. “Yes. I miss them so much.”

  “And you don’t have a nanny or someone else taking care of you?”

  “I’ve never had a nanny.”

  The old man looked at me thoughtfully. “You do seem awfully young to be in the park without a grown-up.”

  “Indeed I am very young, monsieur. I am only ten.” I had an inexplicable urge to perform a series of pirouettes for him in my brand new, Madeline school shoes.

  “I see. Well, well, what a predicament. Have you told anyone?”

  “You mean like a policeman?”

  “Yes. Or a fireman, perhaps?”

  “What about a sailor?”

  “A sailor?” He hesitated.

  “Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody dans toute le monde entier!” In French lessons I’d been classed as a troublemaker, but now I felt my teachers would be proud.

  “That settles it. How about we go and find a policeman together? Would you like that?”

  Actually, no. Not one bit. To be brought home by a policeman would be far too easy and might cast the suspicion that it was I, not Susie, who had done something wrong. This story was about courage and resourcefulness in the face of criminal neglect. It was a story that would have more personal resonance than anything printed in a boring newspaper, plus it would have the added bonus of getting my sister into serious trouble.

  There was nothing for it but to hurl myself against the damp silk of the old gentleman’s waistcoat and marshal fresh tears.

  “Don’t you understand? A policeman can’t help me. No one can help me!”

  Even at ten I suspected I was laying it on with a trowel, but the old gentleman merely patted me on the head.

  “In that case, would you like me to take you home myself?”

  I peeped up at him through sparkling eyelashes. This reporter-as-part-of-the-story thing? Easy once you knew how. “Tiens, monsieur,” I said. “I surely would.”

  Down the path, under the bridge, then, a thought: Where was Susie now? Home? Searching for me? Harnessing the assistance of her own suspect old benefactor? The risk of running into her was slight but could not be discounted.

  “Must we really walk?” I whispered. “I’m so very tired and my legs so very short.”

  “I have a car,” the old gentleman said, smiling. “But first, why don’t we get something to pep you up?” He stopped at a food kiosk. “Tell me, what’s your favourite candy?”

  For a moment I considered him. For Susie to be in the greatest possible trouble, I had to be in the direst peril. But what did that mean exactly? My parents had never felt it necessary to expose their children to the scratchy underbelly of reality. Consequently, the villains of my imagination still hailed from storybooks. This was just an old man. And how dangerous could an old man really be?

  When encountering an adult, politely ask questions, Mum liked to tell us. It’s important to have an inquiring mind.

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  “Oh, bless you for your interest,” he said. “I’m a collector of rare South American artifacts.”

  “Ah . . .” I looked at the dark, wet stain on the front of his waistcoat and tried to imagine it as blood. But truly? It looked more like water from the drinking fountain.

  “Bubblegum,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bazooka is my favourite candy.”

  Within minutes I was sitting in the front seat of his Buick, blowing the most ravishing pink bubbles you’ve ever seen.

  He glanced over. “You’re very good at that.”

  “Thank you. I practise a lot.”

  My assailant’s car was sleek, his steering wheel a Hula-Hoop of burnished oak. If this was kidnapping, it wasn’t half bad. We’d rub along fine together, the old gentleman and me. I pictured a classic brownstone, interior walls lined with first editions, and on his desk a set of quills next to an antique globe, perhaps a shrunken Peruvian head or two. My own living quarters might be cramped and to the rear of the house, but surely he would give me an eiderdown and a Batman night light? Even if he elected to
keep me outside in a rickety shed covered in chicken wire, I’d find a cockroach or a desiccated rat dropping with endearingly human features to befriend. The point was I’d be OK; I’d make it work.

  At home, though? My sister? A different story.

  In our family, minor infractions were dealt with by Nanny; punishments included being sent to our rooms, a smack on the bottom, or a ban on her famed cheese, potato, and onion pie. More serious transgressions were referred to our mother, who would further threaten, should the crime merit it, an audience with our father. For Susie, this would be only the beginning. When my image on the back of milk cartons yielded nothing, after the last candle had been blown out at my funeral-in-absentia, she would become increasingly reviled, an untouchable for the rest of her days. For my parents too, this story would be front-page news for—well, forever.

  Except . . .

  We were out of the park now and cruising up Madison Avenue, past the ice-cream vans, past Joe’s Pizza Parlor, approaching a traffic light only a block from home. I stared at the light, knowing that the colours would soon change and aware suddenly of the crossroads they presented.

  Straight on meant chicken wire and cockroach friends. A right turn equaled warm bed and cheese and onion pie. The line between calm and chaos was thinner than a whisker, and as the light merged from yellow to red, Madeline, bravest and most outgoing of little girls, began to feel a tad quivery.

  Another thought. What if the old gentleman didn’t live in Manhattan? Or even in New York. What if I was forced to leave my beloved city for somewhere new and unfamiliar?

  For the first time in my life I thought about home and what it meant: the Sunday-morning pillow fights and picnics in the park. Being dangled on the end of Dad’s arm and swung up into the tallest tree. Mum’s spiky brooch that she unpinned from her cocktail dress before kissing us good night. The smell of my father’s old tweed coat. What would mornings be like without the Wall Street banker who roller-skated down Park Avenue every day wearing a cherry-decked hat? Or the friendly cop we’d once passed in the subway who shouted, “Hey, watch out for the man covered in Jell-O”? Home was yellow snow and potbellied Santas and the panorama of water tanks and fire escapes. Home was home, and what if it was gone forever?

  Red gave way to green, and my eyes went to the old gentleman’s hands on the wheel as he rolled the Buick straight through the intersection.

  “I think this is the wrong way,” I said, in a very small voice.

  “Don’t worry.” His frown relaxed as he took the next corner. “I was only trying to avoid the traffic.”

  In the hallway, my mother sounded grateful. The old gentleman called her madam and tipped his hat. I said my prettiest merci and waved as he stepped back into the elevator, one gloved hand raised. As Mum closed the door, I opened my mouth to explain further, but here came Nanny to fetch me for supper. Susie was already at the table, calmly picking the onions out of her potatoes. Had she not thought this through? Even if I was in for a telling off for the kicking I’d given her, I’d learned the hard way about the relative value of news—and there could be no doubt, Susie’s crime eclipsed mine.

  A key turned in the lock—my father, arriving home. I smiled in anticipation as he and my mother disappeared into the study. It was only a matter of time. In my head I rehearsed my story in a high, clear voice, no exaggeration, no emotion. Then it would be Susie’s turn in the dock. My parents operated a hugely effective good cop, bad cop routine, my father cutting, powerful, my mother gently reproachful, disappointed. I saw my sister, a mess of torn hair and hot salty tears, being led to the dungeons of Château d’If. Oh joy . . .

  I took my plate to the sink, where Susie was already rinsing hers. We exchanged sneers.

  “Stop that nonsense,” Nanny said. “And now you’ve finished, go and see your parents, both of you.”

  In the study, on the linen jacquard sofa, against the intellectually abstract wallpaper so very much of its time, Susie and I were arranged side by side, our parents, in two single armchairs, facing us.

  “Can I go first?” I piped up.

  “Wait a minute, darling,” Mum said.

  The door opened again, and Nanny ushered in my brother. He zigzagged over to the sofa and mashed himself between us.

  This was not right. Not right at all.

  I studied my parents. My father had removed his glasses; my mother’s face was taut as she reached for a twirl of hair. Then it hit me. Of course! I’d been trumped. A bigger story had broken. Wade had reversed Roe! NASA had accidentally exploded the sun!

  I wanted to cry in frustration, but instead I sat quietly. We all did. No fidgeting, no pinching. Three little piggies to the slaughter.

  “Darlings,” my mother said. “Your father and I have come to an important decision.” She looked quickly at Dad, then away again. “Your father is moving out.”

  Three little mouths popped open in surprise.

  “You see, your father works very hard and must therefore live somewhere closer to the office.”

  Three little snouts turned to their father.

  Dad nodded, as if to confirm that, yes, the distance between home and the office was something of a deal breaker.

  I waited for more. Nothing came.

  “You understand, don’t you, darlings?” Mum said.

  Sure, I understood. It made perfect sense. Sotheby Parke-Bernet was a good ten, fifteen-minute walk away. Of course Dad must find somewhere closer. All of us hated walking.

  “Good.” Mum pulled us into a hug. “Well, that’s all right then.”

  A strange atmosphere had filled the room. I’d never felt more confused. That was it? The so-called big news? The headliner that had knocked mine off the front page?

  Mum scooped up Marcus and left, followed by Susie.

  Flummoxed, I stayed. I needed Dad to explain. Had this been a hopelessly misjudged editorial decision by them, or had my theory of relativity been way off the mark?

  I turned to Dad, but he remained immobile, staring through me. Miserable, I went back to studying my knees.

  “Pssst.”

  I glanced up. Susie was standing in the doorway. I forced myself to meet her eyes. I’d always been a poor loser, and despite my machinations she’d triumphed. She wasn’t looking smug, though; she was looking sad.

  “Come on.” She stretched out her hand and beckoned. “Bedtime.”

  I hesitated. Susie had never before put me to bed. As yet, there was no legislation regarding bedtime, but it sort of felt OK. The earth had shifted on its axis, if such a thing were possible.

  Leaving Dad behind, I went slowly to her. When I put my hand in hers she gave it a little squeeze.

  “We’ll go to bed at the same time tonight,” she said kindly, “and, if you like, you can tell me one of your stupid stories.” I shrugged and together we walked back along the hall.

  I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly, but at that moment, I could have really done with a lollipop.

  LONDON

  GODFATHER?

  Part 1

  I was fourteen when, as a dare, I swiped a random hardback from a London bookstore. Bad luck it happened to be a memoir, but once I’d read it I couldn’t get enough of the genre. The lives that excited me most were those set against a backdrop of danger and tagged “freighted by history.” Exile from Cambodia worked well, as did China’s Cultural Revolution. Whatever the geography, these stories ran to a pattern. If their authors had not been part of some country’s bloody coup as toddlers, by the time they reached adolescence you could count on their family’s having fled an oppressive regime and relocated to the more bohemian arrondissements of Paris or Jerusalem to spend languid summers thereafter under a canopy of orange trees, tersely debating the political issues of the day with a group of thinkers and activists, all of whom looked exactly like Arthur Miller—particularly the women.

  The most compelling of these exiles would be appointed the author’s godfather. He would teach her at thirteen
to receive a compliment without simpering. On her sixteenth birthday, he would take her to a damp underground place where glasnost was understood to be a policy rather than an unattractive noise you made while sneezing. At the end of this evening, the young author’s enlightenment would continue in his apartment, on a bed dusted with yesterday’s philosophy, where she would be initiated into the symbiotic worlds of sex and self-loathing. And it would be her fractured, displaced past, alongside this mentor relationship—never fully understood, forever tinged with sorrow—that would one day propel her to write a memoir lauded by critics as vivid and haunting.

  OK, so I understood there was suffering involved, but to me these lives contained the poetry of every grand emotion I couldn’t wait to feel. My own life, by comparison, seemed prosaic. London was full of dead buildings and depressed pigeons. Who were we there but misfits, hybrids, belonging to neither one country nor the other? New York had always been my city, and shut off from its corridors of light and mirror, I felt like an outsider, face pressed to the window of an achromatic world. A world where I no longer woke up happy and I no longer woke up curious.

  The only oppressive regime my parents had fled was marriage, and though the grace with which they handled their separation was matched by the diplomacy of their subsequent divorce, a bloodless coup is still a coup, and we three children had been exiled to English boarding schools.

  Summers were spent as they always had been, in feral isolation on a tiny Hebridean island off the coast of Scotland. Once the nub of jolly family holidays, it was now a place where my mother went on long windblown walks along the cliffs, and my father drifted in and out of our lives like the shiny treasure of a beachcomber. By then our kid ranks had swelled to seven, my mother having inherited three nieces and a nephew on the death of her sister. We were all a little lost in the years that followed, but somehow my mother re-grounded us in the remoteness of those islands.