by Gilbert Ford
Soon Mrs. Fisher would be gone forever. Maria willed herself forward and descended the stairs to the C train, the temperature dropping as she fell into the shadows of the station.
The widow fumbled through her purse until she pulled out a MetroCard and swiped it through the turnstile. Maria didn’t have a MetroCard or any money to buy one, but she knew she couldn’t turn back. She’d promised Edward.
Mrs. Fisher passed through the turnstile.
Maria waited for the widow to descend the second set of stairs that led to the train before she approached the entrance.
The turnstile came up to her chest. It would be so easy to hop over it. Maria looked around. The station was empty.
“DO IT,” she told herself.
She knew she was taking a risk, and she was not a risk taker.
Maria took a deep breath. She slapped the metal turnstile with both hands and lifted her legs high above it. Then she flung her body over and landed on her feet. Maria steadied herself and took off after the widow.
The train entered the station just as Maria was descending the stairs. She hopped aboard and exhaled, blowing the hair out of her face. Maria grabbed hold of the pole while the train rocked back and forth and increased in speed. This was her first time on a train, and a mixture of excitement and fear overcame her. It felt so good to be moving somewhere fast, to be anyplace but her stuffy closet at home. Maria scanned the seated passengers for Mrs. Fisher’s plaid cape and her bright white hair.
There was a white hoodie on a teenager, a plaid sweater on an old man, and a red ball cap on someone reading the paper. Then she spotted the widow. Mrs. Fisher was inspecting her wrinkled hand, rubbing her finger where the ring had rested for all those years.
In between the moments of exhilaration, Maria felt sorry for Mrs. Fisher and a little ashamed at having a part in the con. She hoped she would be able to make it up to her when she found the treasure in her apartment. But she had not anticipated the widow living this far away.
The train made many stops: first stopping at Lafayette, then Hoyt, then Jay Street, then High Street where it continued under the East River into Manhattan. Maria didn’t sit down. She wanted to keep her eye on the widow.
At West Fourth Street, the train filled with more people. Maria glanced back at Mrs. Fisher’s seat.
The widow was suddenly gone!
Maria dove for the door just before it closed, and landed on the platform.
People swirled around her, bumping into her as they exited the station. Students plugged into their headphones glided by. Tourists holding bags paused to look at a map. A blind man breezed past her, the sound of his tapping cane becoming lost in the hollow thuds of beating bongos.
Maria pushed her way through the crowd gathered round the bongo player. She scanned the ramp of the exit, where she could just make out the familiar white hair of the widow weaving through a pack of people holding bags.
She chased after Mrs. Fisher, dodging a tattooed person with pink hair and just missing a family of tourists wearing I LOVE NY sweatshirts. She climbed the stairs into the gray light of the October sky.
Maria caught her breath, shaken by the heavy rumble of the trains below her.
Screeeeeeeech! A bus slowed down in front of her.
Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Taxis swerved around the bus letting off passengers.
Manhattan was much louder than the quiet library and peaceful sidewalks of her neighborhood in Brooklyn. And there were so many people. Maria waited behind Mrs. Fisher at the crosswalk, the yells from the crowd behind her soaring as a basketball hit a net. She spotted a movie theater across the street with a line outside it. The crosswalk sign turned white, and the mass of people walked down Sixth Avenue.
Like a swan caught in the rapids of a moving river, Mrs. Fisher’s hair bobbed between the uneven lumps of heads in front of Maria. The old lady veered left down a tiny, quiet street that made a semicircle. She stopped in front of a brick town house with paint chipping off the door and dug through her purse for her keys.
Maria cleared her throat and pulled on Mrs. Fisher’s cape. “Excuse me. Mrs. Fisher?”
The widow slowly turned around, a little startled. “Yes?” she said.
“I—I—I have a message for you.”
“Oh? From whom?” asked Mrs. Fisher, a faint smile hinting at the corners of her lips.
“It’s from your late husband.” Maria tried to sound reassuring. “Can I talk—”
“What?” Mrs. Fisher stepped back, her expression troubled. “I’m sorry?”
“Please don’t be angry with me,” said Maria. “I was sent to—”
“My husband?” said Mrs. Fisher. She composed herself so that she stood just a little taller than Maria. “Who are you, and how do you know—”
“Robert Fisher has asked me to contact you,” Maria said, and moved closer to Mrs. Fisher. Then she whispered, “He said I should tell you first: Remember the light of the silvery moon, and the honeymoon a-shining in June.”
Mrs. Fisher slowly raised her hand to her heart. “Oh, good Lord,” she whispered, and seemed to shrink.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Maria added, and backed away. “He asked me to help you.”
“Well, I, well, I…” Mrs. Fisher stuttered, and her words seemed to float higher and trail away from her. She straightened her glasses and examined Maria. After a long pause, she asked, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Maria.”
The widow nodded and said, “Would you like to come in for tea, Maria?”
Maria nodded.
Mrs. Fisher pulled out her keys and fumbled with the lock until it clicked.
The door slowly creaked open, and the two of them entered the widow’s home.
7
A Vanished Era
Maria squinted into the dark hallway of Mrs. Fisher’s apartment. She breathed in the musty air of dust and mothballs and the scent of flowery perfume and talcum powder. Maria held her nose. She’d stay five minutes, long enough to tell the widow the clue and find the treasure.
Mrs. Fisher’s light steps shuffled past her down the hall. Then the lights flicked on.
Maria blinked.
There was so much stuff! From floor to ceiling, Mrs. Fisher’s apartment was crammed with paintings, photographs, framed memorabilia, statues, masks, knickknacks, and books.
The walls in Maria’s home seemed dead with obituaries compared to Mrs. Fisher’s walls, which were filled with life—her life.
A black cat darted behind the doorway to the bathroom, kicking kitty litter into the hallway.
A color photo hung by the door. It was a young woman wearing a turtleneck, embraced by a short, balding man wearing glasses. In another photo, the same pair was seated at a table with a group of adults laughing in a cafe.
This must be Mr. and Mrs. Fisher, thought Maria.
Maria couldn’t believe how lovely and carefree Mrs. Fisher looked in the photo with her short, blond, wavy hair. There was another picture of a picnic with Mrs. Fisher wearing a crown of flowers and toasting a group of adults dressed in funny costumes.
A painting of a blue man with four arms smiled at Maria in the hallway. “That’s my Shiva!” sang Mrs. Fisher. “He looks after the place while I’m gone. Have a seat on the sofa!” The old widow’s heels tapped down the hall.
Maria paused to consider leaving again. If she sat on the couch, the widow would talk her ear off. She seemed lonely. But Maria had promised Edward she’d help.
She brushed her fingers against the contours of framed photos, arrowheads, and a Grecian vase. Maria crept to the glow of the living room.
The space was bright and flooded with light from two large windows. An upright piano stood against the wall with stacks of sheet music on the bench and the floor. The widow must be a musician, Maria thought.
She felt eyes staring down at her and swung around to take in a wall of strange faces in all shapes and sizes. Maria caught her breath. She examined the be
ads and feathers hanging from the faces and thought they must be some kind of tribal masks, like the ones she’d seen in books.
Hung between the masks were more photos and paintings. At the far end of the room stretched a nine-foot dining room table covered in books, which seemed to make the space also a dining room. It was clear Mrs. Fisher was a reader. Maria exhaled at the sight of the books, feeling a little more comfortable in her surroundings.
Just as Maria eased onto the sofa, Mrs. Fisher entered the room with a tray containing a long, skinny loaf of bread and a dish of butter. She placed it on the chest that also served as a coffee table. “Voila! Here’s a baguette,” said Mrs. Fisher. “If you’re hungry, then just help yourself. It’s been so long since I’ve had a visitor. I wish I had more food!” A whistle blew in the other room. “Tea’s ready!” The widow disappeared down the hallway again.
Maria hesitated before the food. If she ate it, she’d have to stay even longer than she’d planned.
Her stomach growled.
She knew she shouldn’t take food from a stranger, but she tore off a small chunk of the baguette and spread some butter on it. Her teeth sank into the hard crust to discover soft bread in the center. It was so different than her usual snacks of beef jerky and Ding Dongs. Before she knew it, she’d eaten it.
Maria tore off another chunk from the baguette and took a bite. Then she took another, and another. The bread was delicious.
Tiny squeaks grew louder in the hallway until Mrs. Fisher entered with a rolling cart. On it were two cups and saucers and a china teapot. The widow poured Maria a cup of tea. Then she opened a cupboard, thumbing through a bunch of cardboard sleeves. She pulled out a black disk from one sleeve and placed it carefully onto a box with knobs. She swung a small arm with a needle around and placed it on top of the disk.
“Have you ever seen one of these?” she asked.
“No. What is it?” Maria mumbled, covering her mouth since it was full.
“It’s a record player.”
The record scratched and skipped before the bongos and the deep pluck of melody from an upright bass became a song. Then a voice slipped lightly between the strings. “Place park, scene dark, silvery moon is shining through the trees.” The voice was quirky, not at all perfect, but soft as a light breeze.
“This version is better than the Doris Day version of the time. The jazz clubs didn’t want the girl next door to sing it.” Mrs. Fisher smiled and sipped her tea.
“To my honey I’ll croon love’s tune. Honeymoon (honeymoon, honeymoon), Keep a-shining in June,” chirped the voice under a low bass and drums.
“Only, I really was the girl next door. I was a Brooklyn girl, just nineteen! It was about … 1959, and oh, New York was an exciting place!”
Then Maria knew it. This was Mrs. Fisher singing! Maria tried to do the math. How many years must have passed? It was another era. Another century. Wow! Mrs. Fisher was old!
“My father discovered I was singing after reading a review in the paper,” Mrs. Fisher continued. “Boy, was he angry.” She reached for the teapot and poured herself another cup. Then she offered more to Maria.
“But having the spotlight on you, staring out into the dark heads, the band behind me, and the microphone at my grasp—my voice in my ears—nothing else mattered.” She closed her eyes and smiled while reaching for an invisible microphone. “And when I sang, ah … I was transported to another world!”
Maria set down her teacup. The widow needed to get to the point. “So, the message I gave you was a … a song that you sang?”
“It was our song,” Mrs. Fisher said before opening her eyes again. “My husband was a regular at the Vanguard before we were married. If I didn’t sing it, he would always request ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon.’” Mrs. Fisher lowered her voice. “It got to the point where I would sing it just for him—no one else in the club mattered. And one night he asked me out.” Mrs. Fisher swung her tea up to her mouth and took another sip.
“And then … you got married?” asked Maria.
“After a little while we did, yes.” Mrs. Fisher nodded. “Once he’d saved enough money to buy this apartment and fix it up. That’s the only reason I’m not priced out of this neighborhood. Robby had the good sense to buy. This place had been a speakeasy where people drank during prohibition. But he sealed up all the escape routes used to fool the police when we moved in.” Mrs. Fisher poured another cup of tea. “I knew when you told me those lines … you really had spoken with Robert. How could anyone know this? It was years ago!” Mrs. Fisher took a sip and set the cup down. “Now, enough about me. Who are you, and do I know your parents?”
Maria needed to tell Mrs. Fisher why she’d come. She wasn’t here to talk about her family or hear about Mrs. Fisher’s love life with her late husband. She’d come to find the widow’s fortune. She’d hoped the lines would lead them somewhere. Maria tore off another piece of bread and chewed.
Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
A wooden bird shot its head out of a door beneath the shingled roof of the cuckoo clock, before retreating back inside. It was five o’clock. Maria knew she needed to get back. Her mother was probably angry and wondering where she was. But she hadn’t told Mrs. Fisher why she’d come. Maria took a deep breath and decided to just come out and say it.
“Mr. Fisher has asked me to help you find a treasure hidden inside your apartment,” Maria continued with her mouth full, no longer worried about her manners.
Mrs. Fisher was quiet for a long time. Finally, she said, “Treasure?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure there’s anything of value in my home.” Mrs. Fisher glanced at her finger where the ring once rested and frowned. “So … Maria, how did you come by this message from Robert? Did your parents put you up to this?”
“It’s hidden here!” exclaimed Maria. “All I know is that I was asked to follow you here, give you the lines to the song, and help you find it.”
Mrs. Fisher laughed. “The strange forces that bring people together!” She clapped her hands. Then her face grew serious. “Just how did Robert find you? Are you a psychic?” Mrs. Fisher gave a smirk.
“Well, he didn’t actually find me,” Maria said.
“Oh?” Mrs. Fisher met Maria’s eyes, making her uncomfortable. Maria looked away.
Now what? Maria thought, chewing more slowly to buy herself some time before answering. She couldn’t mention Edward. Finally, she swallowed and said, “Someone close to me talked to him.” Maria had never told a living soul about Edward, and she wasn’t about to tell a stranger.
“Does this someone talk to Robert regularly?” asked Mrs. Fisher.
Maria looked down at her feet.
Mrs. Fisher cleared her throat and said sharply, “Do I know your family?” She took off her glasses and began to polish them with the hem of her skirt.
Maria carefully ignored her question. “My friend talks to all kinds of … spirits,” she replied, “but never with Mr. Fisher. And he never asks me to approach anyone. You’re the first.” Maria took a quick sip of tea. She hoped Mrs. Fisher wouldn’t guess that her friend was a ghost!
“And this friend”—Mrs. Fisher paused deliberately—“tells you only what he hears from spirits?” She put on her glasses again and looked straight at Maria.
“He usually just gives me advice and comforts me when I’m sad.” Maria took another bite of bread so that she wouldn’t say too much.
She recalled Edward’s sporadic visits. He’d tell her what the deceased relatives were really like. When Maria was sad, he’d pay her compliments, telling her how smart and pretty she was. And always there was his promise that things would change; her life would one day improve. After Maria finished chewing, she added, “He’s my best friend.”
“Well, it appears that your best friend has some kind of a gift. IF he can talk to spirits.” Mrs. Fisher didn’t sound convinced. “You must tell him to use his gift to make the world a better place.” Mrs. Fisher paused and in a barely audible vo
ice said, “And never let anyone tell him to stop.”
Maria sensed the pain in her voice. “Why would my friend want to stop?” she asked.
Mrs. Fisher cleared her throat and said, “I imagine that a … boy talking to spirits is a hard thing for people to accept.”
Maria’s forehead wrinkled. She couldn’t tell what Mrs. Fisher meant by that.
“Do your friend’s parents know about this?” asked Mrs. Fisher.
Maria thought for a moment about Edward and realized she didn’t know how old he was or even if his parents were still alive. Somehow, she’d always thought of him as older. She gave a quick shrug.
Mrs. Fisher raised her brow. “Each of us carries a gift inside us,” she said. “Mine was singing. Could yours be telling stories?”
Maria shook her head. Where was Mrs. Fisher going with this?
“But my family didn’t approve of my gift. After marriage, I took on a more traditional role … as just a wife.”
“Why?” asked Maria. “I don’t get it.”
Mrs. Fisher laughed. “It was different times! In the 1960s that was just what women did: tend to their husbands.”
“So … you gave up singing when you married Mr. Fisher?” Maria asked. She didn’t understand why Mrs. Fisher was telling her this.
“Yes, he needed someone to help him with his dreams, so I gave up on mine. Now I deeply regret it. If your friend really can communicate with the dead, there will be opposition. Just like if you were, say, a storyteller, and strung together a tall tale after learning a few facts about an old woman somewhere…”
What? thought Maria. Was Mrs. Fisher accusing her of lying? After all she’d done? First escaping her mother, then hopping a turnstile—all to deliver Edward’s message. Only to be called a liar?
“Perhaps if you used your stories in—”
Maria shot up from the sofa and blurted out, “Well, they’re not made-up stories! And if you want your treasure, I guess you’ll have to find it yourself.” The clock was already at five thirty. It was time to go.
Maria placed the saucer and cup down on the trunk beside the sofa.