Brooklyn Legacies

by Triss Stein

  “Oh, yeah, more or less. On and off. After a few decades she saw me as a grown-up. I entertained her with stories about Brooklyn I couldn’t put in the papers. She took me to fancy parties when she needed an escort, and I never turned down free booze.”

  “And you dressed up for that?” Impossible.

  “She told me where to buy a cheap tux.”

  Leary owned a tux? Leary? Okay, now that really was the most surprising thing I’d heard.

  When Louisa opened the door to her hotel room I saw her through Leary’s eyes, hero-worshipping in a different way.

  She shook our hands, but warmly, with two hands of her own. She was not from a hugging and kissing world, I guess.

  She wore an old-style tweed suit and an even older style fur scarf, with the creatures’ heads still on and little glass-bead eyes. My grandmother had one. Louisa was perfectly dressed for dinner out. In about 1956, I’d say. And she looked tired.

  “How are you, Louisa? Holding up?”

  “These last few days have been hard. Such a cruel thing to do to my poor old house.” There were tears in her eyes, which she quickly blinked away. “And my life so disrupted. And the phone calls and more phone calls.”

  “A good meal will help. And may I say you look elegant in spite of it all?” Leary gently helped her into a worn Burberry raincoat, perilously maneuvering his crutches and waving away my help.

  “What I need is a good martini or three!” She flashed us a rakish, unconvincing smile. I offered her my arm, and we crossed the street to a tiny neighborhood place with a gigantic menu.

  The first martini was quickly supplied, and we had a few minutes of intense discussion about dinner. When Louisa chose a venison chop, I guessed maybe she really did need a good meal. Myself, I was overwhelmed by the unusual choices and relieved to find a burger. True, it was bison, served on a brioche bun, with house-made ketchup—you can make ketchup?—but still, it was a burger.

  It was Leary who then said, “Now tell the truth, Ms. Gibbs. How are you managing?”

  Her chin lifted. “I am managing very well, considering, and with the help of my wonderful Sierra. She packed up some clothes at my direction, and personal items, so I am ensconced at the hotel for the duration. I do have a good insurance agent, and the insurance company says they are expediting the settlement. Because of my age, they said!” She almost laughed. “I couldn’t decide if I was insulted or appreciative! Nancy will start right away, and she says it is not as bad as it looks. More cleanup than reconstruction.” She lifted her glass. “So there we are. It could be worse.” We lifted our water glasses, too.

  I seized the moment. “What actually happened that day? How did you get out without being hurt? I know Sierra was not there.”

  She suddenly looked grim. She put her glass down so hard some of the drink splashed out.

  “Investigators have already asked me that. They say they want a full picture of what happened. They say.”

  Her hand was shaking as she picked up her glass and downed the last of the martini. “I have nothing more to say about it. To anyone.”

  Leary and I glanced at each other, puzzled by the sudden change of mood. He put his hand over hers.

  “Louisa, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to discuss it. And I won’t.”

  Our waiter came with plates, and she gave each of us a coy smile. “Let’s enjoy these delightful appetizers, shall we? And do tell me, dear, how is your research coming along?” She was staring right at me, and I had to respond, but two could play at that game, keeping information close to the chest.

  “I’ve learned a lot, but I haven’t found anything that would help you. If I were to dig deeper into the building that was there before, get a footprint, find more plans on file? And ownership, too.”

  She tapped a fork on her plate in a nervous movement. “That building was old, old, old. Probably built before there were plans filed and all that bureaucracy.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But for later work on it, like updates, there may be records. You know I have to go with what I find, no matter how, um—unwelcome it may be?”

  “Yes, yes. Do you think I am worried?”

  I did, and I thought she should be.

  “Since I know I am right, I am not. Not a bit.” She turned to Leary. She was beaming like an uncannily determined yet flustered hostess, rotating conversational gambits to her guests. “My old friend, how are you? How is your health holding up currently?”

  Old-fashioned dinner-party manners I had only read about.

  “No, no, Louisa, that is one we do not discuss, remember?” He smiled as unconvincingly as she did. “And here is dinner. Would you share a taste of that venison with me? And which part of my duck appeals to you?”

  She looked annoyed, started to say something, glanced at him, and stopped. She silently sawed off a chunk of red meat in red wine sauce and placed it on his plate. He responded with a duck leg for her, carefully trimmed, with a generous spoon of orange sauce. They each focused on their plates, but I caught them sneaking worried glances at each other.

  As Louisa turned pink and tried to pour her third glass of wine, Leary moved the glass away and said firmly, “If you are in trouble, remember you are not alone. Do you have that clearly in your stubborn old head?”

  Maybe it was her fourth glass, because she gave him a goofy smile, nodded, and announced, “Time for dessert. There is nothing like a slice of cake to banish problems.”

  Leary said dryly, “I wouldn’t remember that, but you go ahead.”

  I didn’t know what mille-feuille was, but Louisa insisted I try it, so we shared a large slice of crumbling pastry smothered in custard and raspberries. Not a bite was left. Espresso all around, a check grabbed by Leary—a first!—and I helped my elderly companions maneuver out of the perilously crowded room. Louisa insisted no one needed to accompany her to her hotel room.

  “I am not a child,” she said with exaggerated dignity. “I have my key right here.” She did not, and we spent a few minutes helping her locate it in her coat pocket.

  Leary watched until the elevator doors closed on her, and then he insisted at the desk that housekeeping check her room on some pretext. Any pretext would do. I saw some bills change hands, too.

  He was entirely silent until we were halfway to his home. He was a guy who liked to talk. With authority. And some bluster. This was like chauffeuring a ghost.

  “I don’t know what she’s up to.” He never admitted uncertainty to me. “She wasn’t just a firebrand. She could be extremely strategic. Polite word for devious. I’m trying to believe she’s up to something now.”

  “Do you think it’s something good or something bad?”

  “Have I taught you nothing about the real world? You’re still naive, cookie. I’m so disappointed.” He wasn’t. He was laughing at me. “Strategy isn’t ever, itself, good or bad. All depends on what you think of the goals. Am I right? Which at the moment is difficult, as we have no clue about what her goals are.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. I glanced sideways, quickly so I could keep my eyes on the traffic. He sat slumped against my side door, head leaning on the window, a tired old man, not very well himself.

  “I guess… I think…” A cab driver honked his horn—what nerve!—and I was distracted by his swerve into my lane. Even at night, Flatbush Avenue can be three lanes of aggression.

  “Yes,” I answered when I could. “She isn’t entirely making sense, is she?”

  We were at his building by then. I helped him out, and then it was my turn to watch from the sidewalk while he clumped painfully across the dingy lobby and got in his elevator.

  Chapter Eleven

  I went home that night preoccupied with Louisa. There was a possibility I had been trying not to consider. Was she—I called it “confused” in my ow
n mind. Confused as old people sometimes become. I was not admitting, even to my own internal interrogator, to the more disturbing words. She was stunningly lucid at times, but at others, she seemed to fade at the edges. Was she just old and tired, or was there more to it?

  By the time I was home, my brain hurt. My head hurt, too. I was happy to put all of this aside and be in my own life for the short time before bed. Chris irritated me, a welcome distraction. Dinner dishes were undone, and I was grateful. It gave me a reason to focus on doing something utterly mindless. Joe hugged me hello and went back to his own paperwork. Myself, I scrambled to lay out an outfit for the morning, and finally admitted to myself I needed more work-appropriate clothes. Would Chris like to walk me through some online shopping sites?

  Normal life was pushing aside serious questions. There were no more letters for me that day. Maybe it was over. I was willing to believe that unless or until I had another letter.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Louisa, though, and our evening out. She was all over the place, anxious yet determined to be social, defensive yet bossy. And Leary! He had obviously been shaken by the evening. I’d never seen him like that.

  A few days later, she was back in her house. I finally gave in to my impulses and manufactured a work meeting in Brooklyn Heights, a complete cover-up for a visit to Louisa. I would see how she was doing and perhaps tell Leary. My excuse for dropping in would be to offer best wishes to her.

  Before I reached her street, I had the flash that I should bring a gift, and turned back to the nearest grocery with a flower display on the sidewalk. A brilliant bunch of chrysanthemums later, I was trotting up the steep front steps.

  Nancy answered the door, holding an old key ring in her other hand, toolbox at her feet. She didn’t look happy to see me, and I’m sure I looked surprised to see her.

  “Louisa didn’t mention expecting a visitor. Sierra took her out to shop.” She moved the toolbox to the top step. “I’m leaving. I was touching up the last bit of repairs.”

  I fumbled with the flowers. “I should have called. Somehow I just assumed.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. Here! Give me those flowers, and then I’ll lock up.”

  I lingered until she returned, hoping she could tell me how Louisa was doing, but her only response was, “Why don’t you ask her yourself? I don’t gossip.”

  She turned and walked away, but I followed. Of course I did. She was in better shape than I am, and walked faster. It’s hard to be an astute interviewer when you’re puffing to keep up, but I tried.

  “Is Mr. Towns still bothering her?”

  “Like I said…ask her yourself.”

  “I hoped you could help me understand. He seems to be a hardworking, worried, mild sort of old guy. But I also think he lied to me about the building they tore down.”

  She stared at me, but didn’t stop moving briskly down the street.

  “Could be. He is all of that. He is also hard-hearted and hardheaded, like all the leaders. Only one way is right and it’s for sure his.” Her expression grew harder with each word. Even her steps grew harder, slamming the sidewalk. She stopped suddenly. “Sorry, I have people waiting in here.” She used a key to open the door to an old apartment building. She did it so quickly I thought she would slam the outer door in my face.

  I never had a chance to ask the obvious. If she had left the Witnesses, and disliked them so much, why did she stay here, in Brooklyn Heights, where they would be so hard for her to avoid? That’s not the way to leave a past behind. There’s a whole big country out there. Just because some parts of Brooklyn are full of people who never left—that would include me—doesn’t mean there is a magic boundary that no one can cross.

  I stood there on the sidewalk, stumped about what to do next. I wanted to talk more. How could I make friends with Nancy? I had begun that sample chapter about Brooklyn Heights. Now that I had, my hard-won determination kicked in. It mattered to me to do it and do it well. And here she was, someone who connected a lot of different stories. She was involved in historical restoration. And at the most hands-on level. She did the actual work. She was a former Witness who had strong feelings about that. She had changed—really reinvented—her own life. And she’d lived in this changing neighborhood a long time. Apparently, she’d grown up here. I wondered what else she might know.

  She was the perfect source for my chapter.

  Maybe even the perfect subject, though I was pretty sure she would not want me to write about her. She could fill in a lot of background, though. I suddenly had the funny idea of introducing her to Leary. They’d either talk for hours or it would be hate at first word.

  Amusing though that picture was, I reminded myself it was not what I was there to do. But what was that, exactly? Right now it was, unexpectedly, learning some more about Nancy Long.

  When she had entered the shabby brick apartment building, I mentally filled in that it was for a job. Old apartments need renovation just as old houses do, and with so many of the buildings converting to co-ops, where the apartments are owned and at great cost, plenty of buyers are prepared to invest further in substantial work. Gleaming modern kitchens, stylish bathrooms with waterfall showers or soaking tubs—or both! Windows that look historically correct but are built to soundproof and insulate. All to transform that shabby apartment into a dream home. And for that, you’d want a first-class contractor.

  All of this was so obvious I didn’t even process it. I knew there would be work for Nancy here.

  I stepped over to the lobby door to see how it looked and examined the panel of apartment bells. Chris went to school near here. Some museum staff lived around here. There was always a chance I would find a name I knew, a contact, someone who would tell me more about Nancy. Yes, I knew Louisa could, but I wasn’t sure if she would. And anyway, I was right here, right now.

  Not much of a lobby. More like a tiny foyer with an elevator beyond the inner door. No desk with doorman. Not “modernized” or “upgraded.” Not even in good repair. The list of tenants told me nothing. About twenty names, Cohen, Baez, Armstrong/Park, Wang, Sun/Bello. A few were being used as offices. One name on the first floor had CSW after it, certified social worker. Probably a therapist’s office. One said CPA/Tax Adviser. Another offered Nutrition Counseling. And one down near the bottom said N. Long—Assistance. That was not her contracting business name. This was—what exactly? I had no idea. Bad marketing? Or deliberately vague and evasive?

  An appointment with a contracting client? Doubted it. Something else. If I could figure out how to use my phone to google things, I could look for this name. And with that thought, I vowed I would never, never admit to Chris I still did not know how to do that.

  While I stood there punching buttons in frustration and trying to read that tiny screen in the bright sun, a skinny young man walked past me and into the building. I could see him push that bottom button, the one that said Long, and push the inner door when he was buzzed in. I barely made it in behind him before the door locked.

  “Can you help me?” I said it to his retreating back.

  He turned around. God, he was a kid, really, Chris’s age or only a little older. Pressed jeans, starched shirt. He looked anxious, trying to be polite but afraid of what I could want with him. I was almost ashamed.

  “I was wondering—do you live here?”

  His puzzled look deepened and he turned pink, even his scalp. I could see it through the close-cropped, light hair.

  “I was supposed to meet Nancy Long here, but I’ve forgotten which apartment or buzzer. Would you happen to know? “

  “Uh, no. I mean yes, I know, but no, she has a meeting at her place now. Like, right now. I’m late.” He was edging sideways toward the elevator. “Got to go.”

  Before I could say another word, he was punching the elevator button as if he was trying to hurt it. As if that would bring it faster. Before
the doors opened, I managed to ask, “This is the address for Nancy Long, the psychologist?” He sure looked like a kid with a secret meeting. Psychologist could pass as a reasonable mistake.

  “What? No, not at all. She’s…” Exactly what I hoped would happen, but he stopped himself, turned his back on me, squared his shoulders. And then was rescued by the opening elevator door.

  Well, hell. I had learned exactly nothing. I could not loiter here to see who else went in and out. I could ask a few questions, but first I had to figure out who might have answers. Louisa Gibbs was not answering her phone. Dr. Kingston was not available, either. I could try to pick up an online trace of something about her, but I’d wait until I was home and using a computer with a proper screen.

  Now I needed to go home. And once there, I could also ask Joe what he knew. How would I frame that question? “Nancy Long? Is she involved with secret activities?” That sounded ridiculous even to me.

  I left, walking toward the station, but turned back to make sure I had the right address. And I saw a girl, another teen, walking down the street at a swift pace, just below a run, her long braid swaying. Someone late for something. But she stopped abruptly at the door of the very building I was watching, looked around carefully and pulled off her long-sleeved T-shirt. Underneath she wore a skimpy tank top with a slogan. Did it really say, “Friends don’t let friends join cults”? She stuffed the other shirt in her backpack and hurried into the building, still glancing around suspiciously.

  This was most definitely a story, even though I didn’t know exactly what story it was. After years of writing a dissertation, now I was supposed to write a story about life in Brooklyn. What it felt like. It would be worth figuring out what this story right in front of me felt like.

  Thinking about it all the way home, I was no closer to an answer, and tomorrow would leave me not a minute to think any more.

  But Joe was home early and the house smelled of chicken in the oven, some kind of one-pan meal with potatoes and carrots. I didn’t understand it, but what bliss to find it there.