by Ann Charney
Nerina now guesses that Doris is probably checking to see if she’s available to replace one of the cashiers. This is a more welcome request; she is glad for any chance to earn extra money. “Walter is going to a couple of estate sales in Lake Placid, I think. So I’m totally free,” she says.
As soon as Doris speaks, she realizes she has misunderstood once again.
“Great,” Doris says, looking pleased. “Stacey and I are driving up to Montreal tomorrow. She’s been down in the dumps lately and could use a change of air. You two are about the same age and you’d be good company for each other. While you’re out having fun, I can do a little shopping and take care of some business.”
Nerina remembers hearing Helena speak of Montreal — her favourite city in Canada. At this point, after months of isolation, any city would be tempting, but there’s no way she can risk crossing the border. If only she’d waited a moment before rushing to declare her availability.
“I can’t go,” she says, deciding she has no choice but to tell Doris the truth. “I’m still waiting for my temporary green card. I would need a reentry permit to be allowed back into the US.”
“No problem,” Doris says, dismissing Nerina’s objections. “We’ll cross at Cannon Corners — one booth, very little traffic, and I know all the guards. If we have to, we’ll smuggle you back in the trunk,” she adds, looking pleased with herself.
Nerina has read about the smuggling that goes on at these small border crossings — cigarettes, alcohol, even people if they’re willing to pay the right price. For all she knows, Doris, or her husband, may be involved in these kinds of activities. It’s possible that, like Helena, Doris also has sidelines she doesn’t discuss with everybody.
Whatever the case may be, Doris’s cheerful readiness to break the law makes Nerina uneasy. “I appreciate the offer,” she says, trying to sound as if she does, “I just can’t take the chance of something going wrong.”
“Suit yourself. I was only trying to do you a favour.”
On Monday, when Doris picks her up as usual, Nerina asks how the trip went.
“We ended up not going,” Doris says, offering no explanation.
Doris’s unusual curtness makes Nerina feel she’s being blamed for the failure of the trip. She tells herself she’s imagining things, but in the days that follow she detects a definite coolness on Doris’s part, as if Nerina has somehow disappointed her.
A couple of weeks later, when Nerina has managed to convince herself that she is indeed imagining the coolness — accounts of Doris’s domestic dramas have resumed again during their drives — Doris drops by the checkout counter and asks Nerina to come by her office after she finishes her shift.
“Much as I hate to do this, I’m afraid I have to let you go,” she says as soon as Nerina is seated across from her. “You can see for yourself how slow things are around here, and I’ve been told to cut back on staff. Anyway, it’s not as if you really needed the money the way some of these kids do. You’ve got Walter to look after you. I hear he’s a regular knight in shining armour.”
What brought this on? Nerina wonders. Has Doris somehow found out the real reason why Walter married her? Unlikely, she tells herself. Unless Doris has figured out that Walter is gay and put two and two together.
“You’re right,” Nerina says, doing her best to sound unconcerned. “Walter’s been asking me to help him get his business off the ground. Now I’ll have the time to do that.”
“Good. I’m not sure how much call there is for antiques around here, but you’ll make out all right. You’re a fast learner, not like these dumb kids stuck here forever.”
The last remark doesn’t feel like a compliment, but she no longer cares. She just wants to get away from Doris’s innuendos. “Thanks. Thanks for everything,” she says, keeping her voice casual. “I enjoyed our drives together.”
“You know where to find me.”
Luckily Walter picked today to come into town for the pieces of lumber he needs, and is waiting for her in the parking lot behind the store.
“You did well to last as long as you did,” he says when he hears the news. “With so few jobs around for the locals, I’m surprised Doris hired you in the first place. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved you won’t be spending time with her anymore. She’s a bit of a troublemaker.”
With Doris’s mystifying comments still fresh in her mind, Nerina thinks Walter may be right to mistrust Doris. It doesn’t alter the fact, that she must now get started on the next phase of life sooner than she planned. It’s true that she hasn’t saved as much money as she would have liked, but she hopes Helena, or maybe the Ohstroms — whom she’s contacted as well — will come up with some useful suggestions. Helena has promised to try to help, but so far there’s been no response from the Ohstroms. Maybe her letter to them was lost or mislaid. She’ll write to them again, she decides.
“I almost forgot,” Walter says, as they pull into the driveway. “There was a phone call for you earlier.”
“Who was it?” Nerina asks. Not for the first time, she finds herself growing impatient with Walter’s slow way of speaking.
“Some guy named Marco. He left his cell number. Said you can reach him any time.”
While Walter stores the new lumber in the garage, Nerina dials Marco’s number. She can hear music and a woman’s voice in the background when he answers. She’s not surprised. Marco is never without female company for long.
“When are you coming?” he asks, as soon as he hears her voice. “I haven’t seen you since Venice. Much too long.”
She’s surprised to hear him speaking so freely with a woman beside him. “I don’t know. Soon I hope.” Maybe the woman is a roommate, not a girlfriend.
“You can always stay with us,” he says, adding to her confusion. “I’ll pick you up at the bus station. Come soon.”
When she turns off the light in her room that night, she sees a pair of deer in back of the house, looking up at her window. Don’t count on me, she warns them through the glass. As soon as I’m gone, Walter will bring in the dogs to chase you away from here.
PART THREE
Manhattan
XII
Leaving
IT’S June when Nerina leaves Smith Falls. Through the window of the Trailways bus she can see rivulets of melting snow running down the mountainside and patches of green sprouting from the earth. A time for new beginnings. Nerina’s thoughts, however, are back at the bus stop where she left Walter only a little while ago.
Saying goodbye had been harder than she’d expected. Watching him as he stood beside her, dressed in his woodsman camouflage, she couldn’t help feeling she was running out on him. At least while she was around he had someone to talk to, someone with whom he could let down his guard. Not that Walter had ever expressed any regret about her leaving. For all she knew he might even be glad to have her out of the way.
To fill the silence while they waited in Saranac for her bus to arrive, she started to tell him how grateful she was for everything he had done for her.
“No need to thank me,” he interrupted her. “What I did for you, I did for myself as well. Who knows where I might have ended up if you hadn’t come along? Let’s just say we’re even. Anyway, it’s not as if we’re parting forever. I’ll come and see you once you’ve settled, and you know you can visit here any time you like. I’ll be here.”
The next time she looks out the window, the mountains have given way to clusters of houses, and the bus is now moving in a cortege of cars and trucks. The trees are in full leaf here and clumps of wildflowers line the embankments. They must be close to Albany, where she is supposed to change buses. In less than three hours, she will be in New York.
Inside her purse is the key to her future — a letter from Helena that arrived a few days ago. She’s read it so often she knows it by heart, but she pulls it out again just to bolster her confidence:
Please forgive my long silence. I have not forgotten you, but I tho
ught it best not to raise your hopes before I had something definite to report.
After much thought, I finally decided to contact my cousin Leo Samuels on your behalf. Leo owns a framing store, where he exhibits some of his clients’ work from time to time. He is well known in New York art circles, and I hoped that even if he could not use you himself, he would know someone who could.
Leo is a second cousin to be exact, and we haven’t been in touch for years. One of those petty family squabbles that just grew in importance over time. For your sake, dear girl, I swallowed my pride and wrote to him.
I began with a note, congratulating him on a recent profile of him that I’d read in an art magazine I came across. To demonstrate my good will, I inquired about his mother, Miriam, although it was she who had been the cause of my estrangement from the family.
Leo’s reply was quick and exceedingly gracious. Making no reference to the past, he wrote that he was coming to Venice on business, and invited me to have dinner with him at the Danieli, where he was staying.
We spent a surprisingly pleasant evening, and by the end of it I felt sufficiently comfortable to raise the subject of your predicament. Leo didn’t seem the least bit put out by my request and immediately entered your name and telephone number in his Blackberry. He said he would contact you directly as soon as something turned up. I expect that you will hear from him very soon.
Nerina had had her doubts when she first read the letter, and wished that Helena had given her a way to contact her cousin directly. A few days later, Leo Samuels called, just as Helena had predicted.
“I don’t normally hire people sight unseen,” he said, getting right to the point. “But Helena spoke very highly of you, and the truth is I find myself in a bit of a bind.” He explained that his receptionist had left suddenly and that he needed to replace her as soon as possible. He offered to put her up in a small room in back of the shop until she found a place of her own. “It’s really a storage space, but I’ve had people staying there on and off for weeks at a time.”
“I’ll be there Thursday, the day after tomorrow,” she told him, trying to sound cool and efficient — like a receptionist.
It’s nearly eight hours since Nerina left Saranac and the bus is now making its way slowly through midtown Manhattan, crowded with more people than she’s ever seen in one place. Looking out the window, her excitement builds as she recognizes the bright lights of Times Square and the profile of the Empire State Building in the distance.
When she steps off the bus in the Port Authority Terminal, she is overwhelmed by the noise and the rush of people in all directions. She stands uncertain for a moment, trying to get her bearings. There’s no sign of Marco, who promised to be waiting for her when she arrived.
She’s just about to panic when she sees him moving deftly through the crowd with the grace of a dancer.
“Ciao bella,” he says, embracing her. “Sorry I’m late. New York traffic, you’ll soon see what I mean.”
He looks thinner and sleeker with his short hair and tightfitting clothes. She has never been so happy to see him.
“Wild, isn’t it?” he says, picking up her bags and guiding her towards an exit. “You’ll get used to it in no time.”
Nerina is not so sure. She stays close to Marco, afraid of losing him, though he seems to know exactly where he’s going. A couple of blocks from the bus terminal he stops next to a small grey Honda.
“A friend’s car,” he explains, as he loads her bags into the trunk. “I borrowed it just for your arrival.”
The car barely inches forward after Marco starts the engine. Police barriers block the road ahead, forcing the cars to divert to side streets. Beyond the barriers, a large crowd has gathered. People stand with heads tilted back, their cameras pointed upwards.
“What are they looking at?” she asks.
“They’re photographing the news ticker on top of the Times building,” he says, pointing to the office tower ahead of them.
Looking up she reads: “MICHAEL JACKSON DEAD AT 51.”
“Is it true?” she asks, watching the words crawl past her.
“Nothing else on the news since early afternoon. I guess you didn’t hear about it on the bus.”
The news is shocking, but so is Michael Jackson’s age. She thinks of him still as the boyish young man in the music videos she loved to watch as a kid — much to her grandmother’s annoyance. Her grandmother’s case against the singer — that news reports of Jackson sending medical supplies to Sarajevo were pure fabrication, that he had no voice, and that, furthermore, all his famous dance moves were stolen from the French mime Marcel Marceau — meant nothing to Nerina. She had never heard of Marcel Marceau, and she didn’t care what her grandmother thought. Yet all these years later, she can’t help feeling vindicated by this huge public outpouring of grief.
“Will you look at that traffic,” Marco says, pointing to the cars ahead of them. “Total gridlock. Never mind. It gives me a chance to explain a few things to you before we get to the house. Here’s the situation. The woman I’m living with, Sarah, is the jealous type. Suspicious of every woman I mention. The only way I could think of bringing you home was to tell her you’re my sister.”
Nerina feels she’s back on familiar ground. Marco may have learned how to navigate the streets of New York, but he’s as lost as ever when it comes to his entanglements with women. “You’d better fill me in. Do we have other brothers and sisters? And what about our parents, are they alive?”
“No, there’s just the two of us. Anyway, Sarah will be asleep when we get there. She usually leaves early for work, but if you run into her in the morning just pretend you don’t understand her questions.”
“I get it. I’m the dumb one in the family. Anyway, I thought you didn’t like possessive women,” she adds, teasing him.
“It’s a long story,” he replies with a show of weariness, as he manoeuvres into the middle lane. “I’ll tell you all about it some other time. For now, just remember you’re my sister and we’re very close.”
The apartment is dark when they arrive. As they tiptoe across the living room with the exaggerated caution of night time prowlers, Nerina starts to giggle. “What’s so funny?” Marco asks once they’re in the small guest room.
“Nothing,” she whispers back, and again bursts out laughing.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” he says, looking at her with a fondness that could get them into trouble.
“It runs in the family,” she says, and pushes him out of the room.
Nerina stretches out on the bed and turns on the TV, muting the sound. She hasn’t been near a television set since Venice, and she is riveted by what she sees on the screen. Every station is switching back and forth between images of the dead singer in happier times and the crowds gathered in cities around the world to mourn him.
As she drifts into sleep, she imagines her grandmother, arms crossed over her chest in disapproval, watching alongside her.
You were wrong, Baba, wrong about everything.
XIII
A room of her own
WHEN Nerina wanders out of the guest room the next morning, she is relieved to find herself alone in the apartment. Last night’s giddiness has worn off and she is in no mood to play the part of Marco’s little sister. There’s half a pot of coffee on the counter and a note from Marco. “Help yourself to anything you like. I’ve left a map and some subway tokens on the chair in the hallway. See you later.”
Glancing at the clock radio, she sees it’s nearly eleven. She’s slept almost twelve hours. Her appointment with Leo Samuels is not until three in the afternoon. Plenty of time to pull herself together and figure out how to get to his place on 3rd Avenue. She has some idea of the layout of Manhattan from Googling the city’s streets on the computer in the Saranac Library. Picking up Marco’s map, she sees that he has highlighted the route to her workplace.
Marco’s thoughtfulness does not alter the fact that he has put her in an
awkward situation. Why didn’t he warn her when she called to say she was coming? How typical of him to present her with a fait accompli, leaving her no choice but to go along with his plan.
The strong coffee lifts her spirits. There is another option, she realizes, and she dials Samuels’ number.
He sounds harassed and a little wary when she identifies herself. “I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon. Is there a problem?”
No problem, she assures him, she’ll definitely be there. She’s only calling to find out if she can move into the spare room this evening, rather than on Monday as they had previously arranged. “The people I’m staying with don’t really have the space,” she explains.
“I had hoped to have the room cleaned before you moved in,” he replies, after a moment’s hesitation. “But if you don’t mind the mess, it’s yours.”
It’s only a little after noon, but Nerina doesn’t feel like hanging around the apartment until her appointment with Samuels. There is always the chance that Marco may turn up and try to talk her out of leaving.
It feels good to be out in the fresh air, and she decides to walk down to Samuels’ place. It doesn’t look that far on the map and she’s got the time. After a few blocks, the weight of the suitcase begins to hurt her arm and she heads for the subway entrance. In less than thirty minutes, she finds herself outside Samuels’ building, two hours ahead of her appointment with him.
The street is crowded with people rushing past her, as she stands uncertain what to do next. She decides to walk to a coffee shop she sees at the end of the block, but finds her way barred suddenly by a woman wearing several layers of clothing and pushing a grocery cart filled with garbage bags. She expects to be asked for money, but it’s a cigarette the woman wants.
As Nerina rummages in her purse, she becomes aware of a man who’s just emerged from the building and is looking at her with interest. She has no idea why she is drawing all this attention, and thinks it’s best to move on.
