by Luanne Rice
“Hi, C,” he said.
“Lizzie gave me your note,” she said. “Mr. Rheinbeck came up just as I was about to open the door.”
“I know. I heard him,” he said, sounding worried.
“Come here,” she said. “Let me give you a hug.” She opened her arms as he leaned forward, not wanting to take or give too much affection, needing to maintain the tough exterior he created last Christmas, the day he started to live on the streets. Catherine and Lizzie had watched the whole scene with his father, had seen him scrounging in garbage cans the next day.
They had “adopted” him, deciding they would do their best to mother him—or at least help him out as much as he’d let them. He never liked to talk about his father or sister, or about Nova Scotia. He came and went without any fanfare, disappearing so magically that Lucy had nicknamed him “Harry Houdini,” the magician on whom she had done her school report.
During his first months here, he’d refused to stay in Catherine’s or Lizzie’s home, or at a shelter, or anywhere else they tried to find for him to sleep. It was as if he wanted to punish himself for running out on his father and sister. He had plans here in New York, but he wasn’t going to let himself be comfortable while he carried them out.
But then one day he’d asked Lizzie if he could use her address to apply for a library card. She said yes, but he’d need to present an ID. He had flinched at that idea, so she’d told him about Catherine’s library. Catherine had invited him after hours to use the books and reference materials, and he’d fallen asleep with his head on the carved mahogany desk.
After that he’d come here many times. Catherine had given him his own blanket, and he would sometimes fall asleep on her window seat, stretched out over the heating vent, facing toward the window with its incredible view of Central Park.
“So you want to sleep here tonight?” she asked.
“That’s not why I came,” he said.
She stared at him, watching the furrow deepen between his eyes as he thought about what he wanted to say. He looked so young and so old, both at the same time. The scar on his cheek was still raised and red—he’d been knifed one night last winter, sleeping under a bridge in the park. Without insurance or money, he hadn’t gone to get stitches—till Catherine saw him. And then she’d taken him to the emergency room at St. Luke’s–Roosevelt.
“You know I have my own place now,” he said, seeing her stare, wanting to set her mind at ease.
“Where is it?” she asked, because she didn’t believe him. One hard fact was that he lied when it served him. He had an agenda about being here in New York, and no one knew what it was—but he wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way. Catherine knew he lied to both her and Lizzie to get them off his back.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “It would be like Houdini giving up his magic tricks.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said, watching his smile broaden. He was seventeen now, but still a boy; he had been thrilled by Lucy’s nickname. “Well, if you don’t want to sleep here, you must have come to use my books. Just be careful to keep the blinds down, if you have the lights on late. I wouldn’t want Sylvester Junior to be heading home from the opera and come up to check.”
“Are you afraid you’re going to get caught for helping me?”
Catherine looked down. It was hard for her to explain the combination of things she felt. Although Rheinbeck had a tradition of philanthropy, the company had a strict policy about not allowing outsiders to use the library. Catherine knew that it was because so many of the volumes were rare first editions, collected by family members over the generations. So she felt guilt over letting Danny up here.
“Maybe I shouldn’t come here,” he said. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“Don’t worry about that. Hey, do you have any new pictures?” she asked.
“No. I was going to tell you—I ran out of film.”
Opening her desk drawer, she handed him a new roll. “You know … your father and sister are back.”
He nodded. “I know. I went to Chelsea last night and saw.”
She was silent, waiting.
“There’s a favor I wanted to ask you. You don’t have to do it. I can probably figure out another way—”
“Ask me,” Catherine said, cutting him off. Requesting help seemed to be the hardest thing in the world for him.
He cleared his throat, gazed out the window. From high above, Central Park was wide and dark, streetlamps dotting the landscape. Gapstow Bridge arched over the pond, reflecting a blaze of city light. Skaters circled and twirled on Wollman Rink. He stared down for so long, Catherine wondered whether he had lost his nerve.
“It’s about my sister,” he said after another long moment. When she looked into his eyes, she saw such intense emotion, it shocked her. His voice was shaking, and she knew he was trying to hold back tears. In all this time, she had never seen Danny like this before.
“You miss her, don’t you?” she asked.
He shook his head swiftly. “Don’t ask me that,” he said.
“Danny, you could stop by the stand. I’d go with you, if you wanted.” Although she didn’t like the tree man, she felt sorry for him, not knowing where his son was.
“Stop talking about him,” he said in a rush, “or I’ll leave now. I will.”
She smiled tenderly. He made it sound like such a threat, as he had all through the year, when she would suggest that he write his family a letter, or call them, or let her call them for him. He never spoke about them—she didn’t know whether his father beat him, or mistreated him, or whether he just hated living on a farm so far north—it must have been difficult and lonely for a boy his age. All she knew was that he had a plan, and he wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way of it.
“I’ll stop talking about him,” she said now.
“Okay, then,” he said, taking a deep breath. “You don’t have to help me, but if you want to … there’s something I wondered if you would do on Friday night.”
And then he asked her.
Standing at his tree stand, Christy had it all planned. He’d get some Chinese takeout for Bridget—her favorite, sweet-and-sour shrimp—and eat it with her. Then he’d read her a story and hope she fell asleep fast. He didn’t want her to feel neglected or left out, but he had to get out on the streets, looking for Danny.
He had made money today—a few people bought trees, and even more took home wreaths. Stamping his feet, he tried to stay warm. Just a few more minutes, and then he could close up for the night. His ears and cheeks stung. He chased away the cold by thinking about where he’d search for his son. Just then he heard footsteps crunching through the snow, and he looked up and saw the shy woman in black hurrying down the street.
“Good evening to you,” he said, giving her the old grin.
“Hello,” she said—and to his shock, stopped right in front of him. She was about five five, slender in her black coat, her scarf pulled up over her chin. Even at night her gray eyes gleamed behind her fine silver-rimmed glasses. Her wheat-colored hair was straight, shoulder length. He noticed her earrings—tiny moonstones, exactly like the kind that washed up on the beaches of Pleasant Bay.
“Did you want to buy a tree?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“A wreath, then?” For some reason, the hard sell wasn’t coming easy to him just now. Maybe he was tired. Or maybe he just wanted to get out on the hunt for Danny. Or maybe it was the way her gray eyes were staring at him, as if taking his measure.
“I wanted to invite your daughter,” she said slowly, clearly, “to join me and my friends tomorrow night.”
“Bridget? You’re asking Bridget along with you and your friends?” he asked, the invitation making him so happy, just making his heart absolutely soar.
“Yes,” she said, “to the tree lighting, at Rockefeller Center.”
“Oh, that’s grand,” he said. “She’ll be thrilled. That’s a dream of hers, to go s
ee that tree lighting. Both hers and her brother’s—” He stopped himself. Was it his imagination, or did she flinch? He carried on, just too happy to hold it in. “It’s a big Norway spruce, she tells me—an eighty-footer. Saw it on TV and all.”
“So you think Bridget would like to join us?”
“I’m positive of it,” he said. “She’ll put on her party clothes, that’s for sure. Her prettiest dress.”
She smiled. “It’s going to be cold,” she said.
He laughed. He was getting overenthused. Mary had always chided him about that. He couldn’t hold himself back when he was taken by strong feelings. The idea of Bridget’s face, when he told her this … He grinned just picturing it.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “Bridget will be very happy. That’s her name, by the way—oh, you know that—you said it,” he said, just babbling like an idiot. “Why shouldn’t you know? We’ve seen each other over the years, often enough. I’m Christopher Byrne. Christy.”
“Catherine Tierney,” she said, and they shook hands.
“A good Irish name,” he said.
“My husband’s,” she said. “Although I was O’Toole before Brian and I got married.”
“He fell for a pretty Irish lass,” Christy said.
“We fell for each other,” she said. She paused, and he saw that look in her gray eyes that made him think of her as sad, in mourning.
“Did Brian die, then?” Christy asked. God, he didn’t know what came over him—the words were out before he could even think. He saw her blink and then look down, overtaken by emotion.
“He did,” she said, just positively rocked.
He felt the vibrations pouring off her and wanted to tell her about Mary, about how hard it was to get through the death of a spouse, to let her know that he understood. But for once, his tongue was tied. “I’m sorry” was all he could say.
She nodded; he saw her eyes glittering as she bowed her head. When she looked up, the earlier warmth and light were gone from her—she was guarded again, transformed by the swoon. They made plans for Friday, tomorrow—Bridget would be here at five o’clock. Catherine, Liz, and Lucy would meet her, and they would go see the tree lighting.
They said good-bye. Christy watched her walk away. He cursed himself for upsetting her. She had seemed so much lighter for a moment, as if a little of her grief had been lifted. That’s what he wanted to tell her—in fact, the feeling was so strong, he actually left his stand and followed her down the avenue.
He wanted to tell her that it got better. That grief, as paralyzing as it sometimes seemed, got lifted a tiny bit at a time. You hardly noticed. One day you’d be going along, feeling crushed by the weight—and suddenly you’d notice yourself smiling at the sun. Or enjoying the taste of an apple. Sure, you’d go back into the black again—but what Christy wanted to tell Catherine was that once it started lifting, the black was never quite as terrible again. That’s how it had been for him, after Mary, he wanted to say.
But as he ran closer, he saw her stop in her tracks when she got to Twentieth Street. Something made him hang back and watch. She stood very still. He saw her draw in a breath. She stared up. He followed her gaze and would have sworn she was focused on a tiny window in one of the pretty brick row houses.
She took one slow step, then another. Christy thought she looked scared, as if she feared the street was haunted. He watched her approach the house, reach for the cast-iron handrail, and pull herself up the brownstone steps. His own heart was pounding, just watching her pause on the top step, as if she didn’t want to go inside. Then he saw her use her key in the latch, close the heavy ornamented door behind her.
Christy never got to tell her what he’d wanted to say: that when things seemed worst, she should have the most faith. That attitude had gotten him through losing Mary… .
If only it could get him through missing Danny, he thought as he walked over to close up the stand, hurrying to give Bridget the exciting invitation. But this was different. His son was only seventeen, lost to the streets of New York City. The fear and grief crushing Christy about Danny was worse than what he’d felt after losing Mary.
Worse than anything in the world.
5
On Friday night Lizzie had hats for everyone. When Catherine walked up to Christy’s tree stand, it was already dark out, with all the city lights just starting to twinkle. The air felt like snow—a festive prospect for the tree lighting. Bridget stood beside her father, swarmed by Lizzie and Lucy as they adjusted the green knit hat over her thick red hair.
“We have a white one for you, Catherine,” Lucy said, handing it to her.
“Catherine Tierney, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Bridget Byrne,” Christy said. Catherine shook Bridget’s hand, thinking of how much she resembled her brother, Danny.
“I’m happy to meet you,” she said, smiling at Bridget. “I feel as if I know you. I’ve seen you grow up over the years.”
“We all feel that way,” Lizzie agreed.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Bridget said. Her voice was quiet and shy, but her green eyes were alive and bright.
“She’s a good girl,” Christy said, looking tired and decidedly less fiery than he had yesterday evening. His weathered face was etched with lines, and he had circles under his eyes, as if he had been up all night. “You don’t have to worry about her misbehaving.”
Catherine flushed. Was he referring to Danny? She didn’t dare look at Christy just then.
“I’ll be good, Pa,” Bridget assured him.
Just then a tree customer approached, and they all said good-bye. Trooping toward the subway, they looked very festive in Lizzie’s hats. Although they were all hand-knit by the same person, each was trimmed differently. Bridget’s had a candy cane stitched to the band, Lucy’s had a wreath, Lizzie’s had a candle, and Catherine’s had a plain green Christmas tree.
“Why doesn’t Catherine’s tree have any lights or ornaments on it?” Lucy asked, peering up at the white hat.
“I don’t know,” Lizzie said. “The hat artist didn’t put any on.”
“Some people think trees are more beautiful just bare,” Bridget said. “With just pine cones, and salt spray, and sometimes birds’ nests or feathers in the branches.”
“Really? A Christmas tree with a bird’s nest in it?” Lucy asked, a true city girl shocked by such a magical-seeming thing.
“Yes,” Bridget said. “It happens all the time in Nova Scotia.” Lucy fell into step as Bridget told about how just last Christmas season her brother had found a nest with two unhatched speckled eggs in the middle branches of a blue spruce. Catherine and Lizzie lagged behind.
“What’s going on—what did Danny say?” Lizzie whispered.
“He wants us to stand at the rail, just above the skating rink, on the Fiftieth Street side.”
“Us and everyone else in New York! He’s going to try to find us? What did he say about wanting to see his sister? He’s not going to try anything crazy, like kidnapping her, is he?”
“No. He said—”
“Because whatever reasons he has for wanting to be here, and why ever he and his father don’t get along, Bridget is only twelve. Much too young for what he’s doing.”
“He knows that,” Catherine said. “I think he’s having us do this, not so he can meet her … but for her.”
“For her?”
Catherine nodded. “He told me she’s always dreamed of seeing the tree lighting, from the time she was a little girl. She watches it on TV. Their father is always so busy working.”
“He wants us to make sure his sister has a special time—that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“I think we can do that,” Lizzie said.
Going to Rockefeller Center was a trip for Lizzie, in more ways than one. The crowds were huge, the shop windows were as meticulously produced as Broadway musicals, people wore fur coats, high heels were the norm, and everyone seemed laden down with at least five bags. T
he Christmas capitalist spirit was alive and well up here. Although strictly speaking this was midtown Manhattan, the fact that it was north of Twenty-third Street made it uptown to Lizzie.
New Yorkers were, by and large, either uptown or downtown. Some people now claimed that downtown was Canal Street and points south, but Lizzie, as a native New Yorker, knew that that had been invented by realtors. Lizzie knew that downtown was a matter of attitude. Uptown was caring whether a person’s purse was Prada or Fendi. It was going to Lincoln Center in a limousine. Uptown hair was always done by someone whose name you recognized. Many uptown apartment houses prohibited pets. Uptown was caring about the difference between Barney’s and Bergdorf Goodman. Uptown was spending a lot of money. Uptown was waking up early and checking the stock prices.
Downtown was never waking up early—unless you had a kid in first grade. Downtown was creativity. It was taking for granted the fact that you could have a pet in your apartment. Downtown was sharing an air shaft with the Hotel Chelsea and seeing a flaming mattress flying out the window in the middle of one night. Downtown neighbors were frequently guitarists or people taking guitar lessons. Downtown was hats and tea sets from Chez Liz.
Lizzie was decidedly downtown. She claimed that she got nosebleeds if she went above Twenty-third Street. None of her romances with uptown men had ever progressed past the cocktail stage. In fact, the only reason she was doing this tonight—braving Rockefeller Center—was because of Catherine.
They started out at Miss Rumple’s for tea, right next door to the Rheinbeck Tower. Lizzie watched Lucy and Bridget peruse the menu, with Catherine helping them choose between tiny sandwiches of ham and cheese or peanut butter and apricot jam, between Darjeeling and wild thyme tea. Catherine was taking Danny at his word, making sure his sister had a wonderful time.
The waitress seemed very haughty, but Catherine took it in stride—she could easily navigate the uptown shoals. She had, in fact, married an uptown man. Lizzie had been so surprised—at first—when her best friend had introduced her to Brian. He had been a Carnegie Hill kind of guy, with a co-op on Madison and Ninety-first, a membership in the Harvard and Union Clubs. He worked at a Wall Street law firm. Lizzie had briefly considered taking her friend for an exorcism—falling in love with a lawyer, for God’s sake.