“I don’t know…”
“Then talk to me as a comic. We’ve heard it all.” I laugh, and begin to tell him my whole tale from Hudson running off to Henry storming out. He listens patiently, punctuating the conversation with appropriate murmurs of understanding and exclamations of indignance. By the time I’m finished, I feel lighter.
“I have heard what you had to say. Do you want my opinion?”
“Your medical opinion?” I ask.
“No, my show biz opinion.”
“Go on.”
“Your English friend is right.” My heart plummets, but I keep pushing forward, walking at a clip. “You must seize this opportunity.”
“I can’t. You don’t understand,” I confess. “I know it sounds stupid, but I feel like I literally might die if I have to say personal things about myself in front of the whole world.”
“Ah, but I do understand. You are talking to a former geek, nerd, and outsider. I was the skinny Indian kid who was good at math in a school of jock WASPs whose families were part of the Ivy League ‘Old Boy’ network. My family started out more Slum Dog than Big Dog. You try keeping a smile on your face when no girl will go with you to the prom because they whisper in the halls that you smell like curry. I started doing comedy to protect myself. Then it developed into a way for me to have a voice. Having the attention of a crowd is a powerful thing. You have been handed that chance on a silver platter.”
“Did they teach you all about tough love in medical school too?” I ask him.
“I am not sorry if I seem harsh. I lived in that kind of fear for too long. That fear robs us of our chances to get what we truly want. You must have sensed that I would say this. I think that is why you phoned me.”
I keep walking, head muddled. “I don’t know,” I mutter.
“Yes, you do. Confusion is having information you don’t want. You know what you have to do. I will tell you what. My shift today is short. We will meet around the dinner hour and I will coach you. By the time we are through, you will be able to do this.”
“Why? Why would you give up your night for a total stranger who doesn’t really even want to be helped?”
“Because I am human. Because you need someone. Because a guy did it for me once. The first set I ever did at a tiny place called Bananas in New Jersey bombed so badly I thought it would be my last time doing standup. Someone in the audience presented me with a bill for his wasted time. A veteran comic pulled me to the side, and as they say, ‘schooled me.’ Let’s just say I’m paying it forward. Are you in?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him. “I have to be honest. All I can say is that I’ll try. If I bow out, you’ll have wasted your time.”
“I’ll try if you will. Like we used to say in medical school, ‘you win some and you lose some.’”
“You really said that?”
“No, what we said was much worse. Black humor got us through. But you are not on a need-to-know basis, so forget I said that. Insider privilege. So, will we give it a try?”
I feel like I’m walking blindfolded through a snake-filled tunnel, but I give him the info he needs to find me at the Waldorf.
“And Vijay,” I tell him with a lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me by killing on the Today Show.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” he says very seriously. “And neither should you.”
Chapter 11
Breathless and exhausted, I hang up my coat and pour myself a tall tumbler of water. It’s strange being in the suite without Henry. It’s stranger still not to know when, or if, to expect him back. I drink the entire glass, then refill it and drink that. My legs are rubbery and my hair is damp. I had walked from midtown all the way down to Ground Zero. I had paused to catch my breath in front of a plaque memorializing the rescue workers who, without hesitation, put themselves in harm’s way to help those who couldn’t help themselves that day. Gazing up at the newly minted Freedom Tower at One World Trade Center lifted my frightened, shivering heart. The soaring, glimmering structure was a concrete reminder that there are more good people in this world than bad. Breathing in the hope, I made a choice to believe that Hudson is under the care of someone kind, someone who simply wants the best for him, the way that Mrs. Rabinowitz, and Craig, and Vijay simply want the best for me. And then there’s Henry. I wonder what it is that he wants.
I wobble my way to a hot shower, hoping the spray will loosen my now-still muscles. Eyes closed, I think about the brave people who really risked their lives on 9/11 and how inspirational those actions are. I picture myself walking on to the set of the morning show, and shaking hands with the host. My shoulders relax under the pressure of the warm water, and some of my fear rolls off and disappears down the drain. Standing up in front of a crowd isn’t truly dangerous. It just feels that way.
I towel off and slide into my robe and slippers. Boy, when I go home for good, the static trickle of my showerhead isn’t going to cut it. Maybe I’ll get a new one, I think to myself. I’m not sure I’ll be able to go back to the farm now that I’ve seen Par-ee. The thought of going home carves a hollow space in my core. Without Henry, it’ll be so lonely, I think. Wait, I mean Hudson. I laugh at myself. Without Hudson it will be so lonely.
I have time before my appointment with Vijay. I consider calling Henry, but then I remember the look on his face when he left. I can’t face him pressing me about the show. I push it out of my mind for the time being. The large, puffy bed calls to me like a siren. I crawl on, fluff the pillows, and lay down my head. Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute or two. I feel small in the huge bed, in the huge room. The heavy curtains obscure the light, and as I drift on a wave of half-sleep, it’s hard to remember if it’s day or night. The only sound is the constant, gentle whirr of the climate-control system. At home, I think, my bedroom could use an update. I float, enjoying the feeling of the soft duvet along the length of my body. I’m in and out of daydreams. The Waldorf feels like home, and home feels like a distant memory, or a story I heard someone else tell. Then I remember Hudson, and as if someone flicks on a projector, the day that I found him plays against the movie screen of my brain…
Struggling against the wind, I shoulder the solid glass-paned wooden door to my building open, and squeeze my body through. The wind whooshes across my brownstone stoop and my hair whips my face. It’s way too cold out for April. I look left, then right, wishing someone would tell me where to go. I’m hungry. At least I think that’s what that hollow feeling is.
I pulled myself from the warm cocoon of my duvet to go get food. I ran out of pretty much everything yesterday, or was it the day before? I fiddle in my raincoat pocket for my keys. I’ll just go back inside and order a pizza, I think, even though my heart knows a New York pie won’t satisfy me. It’s not just my stomach that’s hungry. But really I’m too tired to go all the way downtown to the Village to Tea & Sympathy just for an order of Sticky Toffee Pudding.
I turn to go back in just as the older man from 2R pushes out, two squat and panting Corgis stomping over his feet toward freedom.
“Oh, excuse us. Dylan! Connor! Be polite, fellas” he chides the roiling dogs, who are trying so hard to overtake each other that their leashes are weaving together like a macramé basket. The man tugs his hat down tightly.
“Blustery!” he booms, as an empty plastic shopping bags flies by. I try to smile politely. Instead, I feel my eyes start to dampen. I wipe them on my coat sleeve, and pretend it’s because of the gust.
“Yes, certainly is windy,” I mumble.
“We’re just on our way to the park,” he says brightly, as the dogs rub against my ankles. Their fur feels soft; it takes the chill off of my bare skin. I’m still in my pajama bottoms and house slippers. “You flirts!” he admonishes. “Stop begging. The young lady doesn’t have anything for you.” He reaches in his coat pocket and cups his hand under one dog’s nose, then the other. “There’s your c
ookies, now leave her be.”
The man’s always polite, though we’ve never said much more than hello. To be honest, I don’t know many of my neighbors very well. Any, really.
“The boys are just dying to get to the dog run before the rain starts. Very fussy about getting their paws wet, these two.”
The stoop isn’t big enough for him, his two eager Corgis, and me, so I get pulled down to the sidewalk in a mini canine stampede. “Dylan and Connor!” the man scolds half-heartedly, indulgently allowing the dogs to pull him east toward Central Park. He turns back to call, “Have a nice day!” and catches his hat just in the nick of time as it blows off of his head. It’s a comical scene, the man hanging onto his hat for dear life, and the Corgis galloping forward on their stubby little legs, but no laugh rises up in my belly. I just feel…nothing.
I look at the front door, and try to summon the energy to climb the four steps. It would be so nice just to be home. I glance up at the brightly colored curtains in my window, three floors above. My limbs feel too heavy to climb stairs.
Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I think. I’ll walk to the market on Columbus, and buy the ingredients to make Sticky Toffee Pudding. I’m a trained chef, I think to myself, I aced all my pastry courses at the Culinary Institute of America no less, how silly to traverse half of Manhattan to buy one dumb dessert.
A few fat raindrops hammer down on my head, and trickle down my scalp. It’s stupid to trudge to the market when I could order in pizza.
It’s not stupid, it’s lovely, a familiar voice echoes in my head. Beautiful moments make a beautiful life. It’s worth the effort. I can almost smell Sticky Toffee Pudding, warm and inviting. I have a memory of spooning the rich, dense treat into my mouth, so sweet and so substantial, washed down with strong, milky tea.
I cross the street, and my legs continue to carry me west, even though my brain isn’t yet onboard. I look at the ground as I walk, blinking raindrops out of my lashes. I should have worn a coat with a hood.
A delighted whoop and the roar of a crowd startle me, drawing me back to the real world. I stand stock still, looking around me for danger. The double red doors of the church on the uptown side of the street have been flung open, and a crowd of shouting, cheering wedding guests emerges, the people holding umbrellas, newspapers, and wedding programs over their heads against the rain. As if choreographed, they part to make an aisle for the bride and groom. No one seems to care about getting wet.
A stout woman in a frilled dress and a wide-brimmed hat beams with pride. She holds fast to the arm of a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, and the couple recedes to the side, waving.
Halfway down the stairs, the bride whispers to her groom, lifts the train of her dress, and races back up the stairs. She beelines for the woman in the hat, and throws herself into her arms. The older woman rocks the bride like a little girl, tears mixing with rain and trickling down her powdery cheeks past her wide smile.
Now I’m crying in earnest. Rain snakes down my collar, and my slippers squish with each step. I’ve only made it two blocks. Standing in front of the Hudson Deli, I seriously consider catching a cab home. I fish in my bag for my wallet, and realize I’ve left it at home. Now I have no choice to walk back.
I step out to cross back to my side of the street, and a horn blares. I hear a whoosh, and stagger backwards just in time to avoid being hit by a delivery truck, but not soon enough to avoid the sheet of water that slaps me across the legs. I’m off-balance, and my bag slips from my shoulder. I fall against a row of metal garbage cans. Amid the thunder of the crash, I think I hear a yelp. Or maybe it’s a baby crying. I pull myself to my feet, and stand very still, listening hard. The only sounds are cars, and the drone of the downpour.
I turn toward home. I never should have left it in the first place. I just want to be behind closed doors, alone. As I stoop to retrieve my soggy purse, a truck rattles by. Its headlights slice through the gray curtain of rain, and for a split second they illuminate something blindingly bright, deep among the trash cans. Cautiously, I inch forward, crouching down and squinting. I find it hard to believe, but there it is, right in front of me.
The glint came from a pair of eyes, clear and focused, staring straight at me from deep inside a big Macy’s shopping bag, one of the ones with the red star on it. I get down on my knees, and see that they belong to a trembling, skinny dog, with a slicked-down, soaking-wet coat. I extend my hand to the poor creature. I expect him to cower, but he doesn’t even look away.
“Are you hungry too?” I whisper.
I stretch my hand a little further, reaching out to him. He lays his cheek against the fleshy outside of my fist, pressing his sweet face against my chilled skin like a hug.
Still crying, but now for a wholly different reason, I scoop him up and take him home.
Chapter 12
I wake to a knocking, and imagine that it’s the elderly couple from 1F finally coming to thank me in person for having left a meal in front of their door. Struggling to surface from a murky soup of memories, daydreams, and real dreams I raise my head off of the pillow and squint in the dark. The feel of the duvet grounds me. I realize I’m at The Waldorf, and I leap to my feet to run for the door. Henry must be back!
I swing open the door to the suite, only to find a smiling Vijay standing in the hall. My befuddled brain recalibrates. Of course it wouldn’t be Henry. He has a key. And I have a meeting scheduled with Vijay. “I am glad to see you don’t stand on ceremony,” he tells me, indicating my bathrobe. “It must mean you are comfortable with me.”
I apologize, and invite him in, surprised that I am, indeed, comfortable with him. “I’ll just go and change,” I say.
“Don’t do it on my account. For one thing, you are more covered wearing that than most women are on the city streets. On top of that, I have the most wonderful girlfriend on the planet. You could be a model standing here naked and I wouldn’t even look. I only have eyes for my Nina.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Well, if you want to pin me to the wall, I suppose I might take a cursory glance.”
“No, I meant to ask if you really had a girlfriend.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Of course not. Any woman would be lucky to have you, but what about the arranged marriage?”
“Yes, that will be very awkward,” he says with a wry smile. “That is why I cannot fail. And we are not going to let you fail either. Just wear that, and let’s get started. I’m doing ten minutes at StandUp New York tonight, so I only have a little more than an hour.”
“Understood, but before we get started you have to let me buy you dinner. Or, to be honest, to let my Aunt buy you dinner.” I call room service and place our order. “Do you want wine?” I ask.
“No, thank you. I never, ever go on stage under the influence. The whole idea is that you have to be in control. You have to steer the ship. That’s what I am going to teach you about tomorrow. But you go ahead.” I order a bottle of wine, and hang up.
“The wine is for after. Understood? This is serious work.”
“Understood.”’
“First thing first. Go stand in front of that chair. I am going to look at you. Don’t try to do anything. Just be. Just stand there.”
I do as he says, but after about 10 seconds, I say, “I feel funny.”
“From the top. Try again.”
I go back and do it again. It’s more exhausting than it sounds to do nothing. “Do not fidget with your sleeve. Try again.”
I stand up, and once again attempt to do nothing. “Drop your shoulders. Breathe. Don’t make faces.”
We do that again and again. When Vijay finally tells me to shake out my muscles and walk around the room, I’m surprised to see that half an hour has passed. “Hold that sensation in your brain. Remember the feeling of doing nothing. That’s what you need to access when you are being interviewed on that couch tomorrow morning.”
“IF I’m being inter
viewed.”
“Moving on!” He makes me sit on the couch and simply tell him that my name is Charlotte Bell, that I was born in England, and that I moved to America where I have lived ever since. It’s harder than I would have thought. “Simpler!” he coaches. “It is not complicated. Just tell the truth, tell the facts.”
We do that until he is satisfied. When room service arrives, Vijay asks the server to stay and watch me. I go through my three-minute routine. “What do you think of this girl?” Vijay asks the man.
“I think she was born in England, she moved here and her name is Charlotte. She seems nice.”
“Excellent, thank you boss,” Vijay says to the guy, and gives him a fist bump. When the waiter is gone, Vijay turns to me and says, “You did great. He didn’t say you seem nervous or stuck-up.”
“I’m not stuck-up!”
“No, but nervous people can be read as snobby. That is the last thing you want when you are trying to get America on your side.”
Hurriedly, we scarf down our burgers and fries and get back to work. “Now, you are going to tell me about Hudson.” Again, Vijay puts me through the paces. At first, I tell him bits and pieces. His eyes are so kind that I find myself telling him more and more about my personal life. “Good!” he encourages, as I confess that Hudson is really my family. “More!” he hollers as I tell him that my aunt loved me in her own way, but didn’t quite know what to do with an adolescent girl. When I get to the part about my mother, he’s quiet. I can see that he’s really listening. It feels very intimate.
“Anything else?” he asks.
I’m scared. I want to say no and move on, but I find myself nodding slightly. “Will you tell me?” he asks, moving to sit next to me on the sofa.
“I’m sorry, Vijay.” Two hot, fat tears push their way out from under my eyelids and roll down my cheeks. “It’s too much.”
“It’s OK. You are tired. And besides,” he says, looking right into my eyes. “We have company.”
Startled, I look up. “How long have you been standing there, Henry?”
A Miracle at Macy's Page 25