The Leaving Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  Eric drew up outside the apartment and returned a few minutes later with a red and white check coat. ‘Christina put a hat in one of the pockets,’ he said.

  Anne put on the coat and pulled a little white beret out of a pocket. ‘Thank you, Eric,’ she said. ‘You and Christina are very thoughtful.’

  ‘Someone’s got to look after you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Going round, scattering money all over New York, giving your clothes away. Lord knows what you’re likely to do next.’

  The city was coming to life. More people were walking through the park, the traffic had increased a little, but it would be nothing like a normal day. It was a complete contrast to yesterday, Christmas Eve, when the stores had been so busy there was hardly room to move and the streets had become clogged with traffic. Carols had competed with the impatient honking of horns to make the most noise. Today in Fifth Avenue, a few people window-shopped, but most were making their way towards St Patrick’s Cathedral for Mass.

  Eric drew up outside the massive building with its Gothic spires and white marble façade. She told him there was no need to collect her, that she’d walk home.

  He simply snorted. ‘It’s too cold to walk. Christina said you ain’t had so much as a cup of coffee yet. I’ll wait for you down Fifty-first Street.’

  She thanked him. Walking home would have been a penance for vague sins she may, or may not, have committed. On entering the church, she dipped her fingers in the holy water and made the Sign of the Cross. She knelt at the back, feeling tiny and humbled by the vastness of the church, which smelled of incense and the Blood of Christ. Waves of pain were sweeping through her head, advancing and receding like an ocean tide, and it felt as if a hole was being bored in her skull next to her right eye.

  She joined the queue for Communion, returning to her seat with the Host resting on her tongue, her throat too thick to swallow it. She worried she might choke.

  Half an hour later, she was home, though she couldn’t remember having got there. Christina made some strong, sweet coffee, and Lizzie gave her an eye mask and rubbed lavender oil on her forehead to help with the pain. ‘Have you had your drops today?’ she enquired, and Anne assured her that she had. The shades drawn and the door closed, Anne lay on the bed, hoping the headache would have gone by it was time for the party.

  In the kitchen, Christina was getting the dinner ready. Lizzie was setting the table, taking extra care with a floral display and silver cutlery because Ollie had invited some business friends and their wives. Ollie, who never went to bed until well into the small hours, was still asleep, and a bored Herbie, who’d been expecting Anne’s company that morning, was playing pool in his father’s den.

  As so often happened when she was alone in the dark, when the only sounds were muffled and far away, Anne’s brain commenced a turbulent, dizzying journey, soaring like a bird over mountains and valleys, across oceans, and through forests. Sometimes, she would find herself in a familiar, though nameless, place, like a crowded church where there was a coffin covered with white flowers. She was the only one there who wasn’t crying because she knew the person in the coffin had gone straight to heaven and they would meet again one day. In another, much smaller place, a girl pushed a piece of paper in her hand and said, ‘Hold on to this, darlin’.’ Then she was on a boat and a little boy was clinging to her skirt, sobbing his heart out, but she had no idea how to comfort him. ‘Where are you from, Miss Anne Muray? ’ asked a voice, but that was real: it was Lev and they were in a taxi. Her memory only stretched back that far. The other things might have happened or they might not. Anne tried not to think about them too deeply in case she remembered something she’d sooner not.

  Her hand was taken and tucked inside a bigger, warmer one. She wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined. ‘Is someone there?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s Lev, darling, come to wish you Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Lev!’ She tore the mask off her eyes and saw him smiling down at her. His thick, wavy hair was almost entirely grey and his brown eyes sparkled with affection. She wondered if he loved her as much as she did him. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today,’ she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘Is that the only reason you’re here, to wish me Merry Christmas?’

  ‘Well, no,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve something important to tell Ollie, but he’s still in bed, so I came to see you instead. Lizzie said you had a headache, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to just hold your hand. I’ve put your present under the tree: it’s a white kimono.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted a white kimono. Your present’s under the tree, too. It’s the latest William Faulkner novel.’

  ‘I look forward to reading it.’ He kissed the tip of her nose.

  ‘I was just thinking about the night I got into your taxi,’ she said. ‘Did I ask you to take me somewhere?’

  ‘No, darling. You just sat there without opening your mouth, refusing to answer my questions. I had no idea what to do with you, so I took you home to Tamara. I suppose I should have tried to find out who you belonged to, but you seemed quite happy to stay with us so I didn’t bother.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’

  She appeared quite satisfied with his answer. There were times when Levon couldn’t get over the enormity of what he’d done, actually kidnapping her off the streets. Should his crime ever be discovered - and it was a crime, a serious one - then he would be put in prison and the key would be thrown away - Tamara, too. She’d been an accessory to the crime. Then there was the fact that they’d stolen Anne’s baby.

  What he should have done was take Anne to Bleecker Street the following morning, taken her every day, if necessary, until there was someone in, and handed her over to the person who’d been expecting her all along.

  But he and Tamara had been too excited at the notion they’d found a daughter to replace their dead one. It was as if fate had intervened on their behalf; Anne was meant for them and they for her. No one outside their little circle had mattered.

  He wondered if her question meant that, after five years, she was suddenly interested in knowing where she came from, where she belonged, but she didn’t pursue the matter.

  ‘Can you stay for tonight’s party?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but Tamara’s expecting me back for Christmas dinner. She was annoyed enough I missed breakfast, but I have this news for Ollie.’

  In fact, Tamara had been as mad as hell. She seemed to expect him to be there every minute of every day when he wasn’t at work. The news for Ollie was important, but it could have waited a few more days. He’d felt the need to visit Manhattan - no, dammit, he’d wanted to see Anne. He really had come just to wish her a Merry Christmas.

  She sat up. ‘My headache’s better,’ she said. ‘It’s seeing you that did it.’

  ‘Good.’ Pleased, he folded her small, cold hands inside his and saw a small amount of colour had come to her white cheeks. ‘I’ll see if Ollie’s up yet, then I suppose I’d better get back to Brooklyn.’ He sighed. He would far sooner have spent the day with the Blinkers. ‘I’ll come and see you before I go.’

  Ollie was sitting behind the desk in his den wearing a gold brocade dressing gown over navy-blue silk pyjamas. He was smoking a long, fat cigar. His grey hair, normally so neat, stood out like a halo around his head. He’d put on weight with the years and the dressing gown didn’t quite meet around his waist. Considering how wealthy he was, Levon wondered why he hadn’t bought a new one.

  ‘Hey, there, Lev.’ He waved the cigar, creating a circle of white smoke. In contrast to the rest of the house with its pale furnishings and light walls, the dark wood panelling of the den belonged to a different era. Cosy, with old, well-worn furniture and a mixture of smells - cigars, liquor, the musky cologne Ollie used - it always made Levon yearn for a den of his own. Unlike Ollie, he wouldn’t have wanted a dartboard, a pinball machine, or a pool table, just a nice comfortable chair and a desk on which to spread out his books and not feel in
the way. ‘What can I do for you, old chap?’ Ollie enquired.

  Levon looked at Herbie, who was noisily playing pool at the other end of the room, and slightly shook his head.

  Ollie took the hint and requested his son make himself scarce: ‘Me and Lev have got something confidential to talk about.’

  Herbie rolled his eyes good-naturedly and did as he was told. He was a nice young man; Levon liked him enormously.

  ‘How’s that boy of yours?’ Ollie asked when his own boy had gone. He shoved the box of cigars in Levon’s directions, but he declined. He liked the smell of cigars, but if he smoked one he’d be sick for a week.

  ‘John’s five now; he started school last year.’ According to Tamara, he was the cleverest in the class. John going to school had provided another reason for Levon’s continual presence at home. There were childish concerts to attend and childish games to watch, even if John was too young to play. ‘It’s to support the school,’ Tamara claimed after they’d watched an incredibly tedious football match. At Hallowe’en there’d been a party; and at Christmas a Nativity play in which John had been one of the three kings. There was something called Little League.

  Levon knew that Ollie wasn’t interested in John, just being polite. ‘I came about Judge Seabury’s investigation into City Hall,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a client who works there. Last night he called to tell me one of the witnesses had been murdered. I’m not sure where you stand in this, Ollie, but I just thought I’d let you know.’

  ‘Why should I want to know about that, Lev?’ Ollie asked levelly.

  ‘I understand you’ve been called as a witness yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, I have,’ Ollie admitted with a nonchalant shrug.

  Levon could tell the nonchalance was put on. Only a fool would be unperturbed by the news. For more than a year, the United States Attorney General, Charles Tuttle, had been looking into the affairs of City Hall. He had discovered an alarming level of corruption in the Mayor’s administration. It was no secret that Mayor Jimmy Walker and Ollie Blinker were the best of friends - Levon had met Mayor Walker in this very apartment several times in the past. Ollie had made his fortune out of building: flooring, cement, foundations, something like that. He even had something to do with the Empire State Building currently going up on 34th Street. But Ollie sailed very close to the margins. If the Mayor went down, he was very likely to go with him.

  Just then, Ollie slapped his knee with a fat hand, making Levon jump. ‘Thanks for telling me. There’s quite a few people who’d like to see me go down with the sinking ship, but not you. Thanks again, Lev. You’re a good friend.’

  ‘You warned me about the Stock Market crash,’ Levon mumbled. ‘I’m just returning the favour.’

  Ollie grinned. ‘You’re still a good friend. Would you like a drink? I’ve got some Irish malt that goes down the throat like liquid gold. Tell you what,’ he said generously, ‘I’ll give you a bottle to take with you.’

  Levon nodded his thanks. If he had to spend the rest of the day at home, it would be preferable to do so in a mildly alcoholic daze. Ollie went to a run-down cabinet with leaded windows and removed a bottle and two glasses. There was a row of photos on top, of Ollie and Lizzie’s wedding - the groom looked positively skinny - the children, Herbie and Mabel, in various stages of development, and a charming grey-haired couple staring lovingly at each other.

  ‘Are they your folks?’ he asked. He knew nothing about the man’s past.

  ‘I like to think they might be.’ Ollie chuckled. ‘Lizzie found the photo in a book she borrowed from the library, so I kept it. It was only supposed to be a joke, but they’ve been here for years.’ He picked up the photo and studied it. ‘Good-looking pair, aren’t they?’ he said with a smile. ‘I expect they’re someone’s folks, but not mine. Me, I was found abandoned in a waiting room on Penn Station. I never knew my ma and pa. I don’t know what sort of blood runs through my veins. I’d been circumcized, so I might be a Jew. The dame who found me brought me up. Her name was Edna Blinker. She was OK, but she looked nothing like this.’ He flicked the photo with his finger. ‘She died when I was fourteen and I was left on my own. I used to find it scary, not knowing a single thing about myself, but after I met Lizzie and had kids of my own, it didn’t seem to matter all that much.’

  ‘In the long run, I don’t suppose it does,’ Levon commented, ‘but I think I’d find it scary, too.’ Somewhere in the apartment, Herbie said something and Anne responded with a laugh. It was an attractive laugh, full-throated and completely natural.

  Perhaps Ollie had heard. ‘What does Anne know about her background, Lev?’ he enquired.

  ‘Nothing and everything.’ It was Levon’s turn to shrug. ‘It’s all there in her head, buried deep down, but something happened that made her forget.’ He recalled the drawings she’d used to do. ‘I’m not as stupid as you think,’ she’d said just after she’d had John. ‘One of these days I reckon it will all come flooding back; when she’s older, maybe, and more resilient.’

  Ollie handed him an inch of whiskey in a tumbler. He went to the door and yelled for ice, then returned to his seat behind the desk. ‘That stuff Tamara told Lizzie years ago, about Anne being the daughter of an Irish friend who went bankrupt, well, I don’t believe a word of it, Lev.’ He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Not that it matters. I don’t give a damn what the truth is.’

  A bad-tempered Christina came in with a bowl of ice cubes, complaining she was far too busy to be fetching and carrying while she was in the middle of making dinner. ‘You want anything else, Master Blinker, you fetch it yourself.’

  ‘What would you say,’ Ollie said slowly after the door had slammed shut, ‘to Anne and Herbie getting married?’

  Levon jumped. ‘How long have you had that idea?’

  ‘About two and a half minutes. They really like each other.’

  ‘Aren’t people supposed to love each other when they get married? And shouldn’t the idea come from Herbie?’

  Ollie drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Perhaps he needs a bit of encouragement.’

  The idea was taking some getting used to. Levon continued to think of Anne as a child, though she must be about nineteen or twenty by now. ‘Another thing, Ollie,’ he said, ‘I’m not Anne’s guardian. It’s not up to me who she marries.’

  ‘No, but she listens to you. You’re the person she talks about more than anyone. If Herbie proposed, first thing she’d do is ring and ask what you thought.’ He reached for the whiskey. ‘What’s the drink like, Lev? Does it go down smoothly or not?’

  ‘Very smoothly, Ollie.’ He could feel it caressing his throat.

  ‘Does Anne have papers - birth certificate, passport, stuff like that?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Ollie winked. ‘I won’t ask how she got into the good old US of A.’

  Levon didn’t wink back. ‘It wouldn’t be any good asking; I don’t know. She’s not legally adopted. We just came across each other accidentally.’

  ‘I’ll have some papers made up for her, use what little influence I’ve still got with City Hall before the Mayor quits his job. It’s bound to come in useful one day, like if she decides to become an American citizen.’

  Levon thought it was time he made a move. He got to his feet. ‘You look after yourself, Ollie. Don’t forget the murdered witness.’ The conversation had taken a surprising turn, from corruption in City Hall to Anne and Herbie getting married. About the latter, Levon didn’t know what to think.

  Zeke arrived for the party that night in a dark-blue velvet evening jacket and blue bowtie. With his beautiful brown eyes, pink cushiony lips, and breaktaking smile, he looked so handsome it almost took Anne’s breath away. His ma, he explained, had borrowed the jacket from a piano player who was laid up with an unidentifiable chest complaint.

  ‘Got some bad news,’ he added darkly. ‘Pops said there’s no way a nigger can be seen dancing with a white woman - actually touching her with his
evil nigger hands. I’m afraid our performance tonight is off.’

  Anne was bitterly disappointed. ‘But I was looking forward to the three of us dancing together!’

  ‘So was I!’ said Herbie. ‘Do you have to do as your pop says, Zeke?’

  ‘He was deadly serious and made me promise on my mom’s life I wouldn’t dance with Anne.’ He looked sober for once. ‘He said the trouble with me is I have too big an opinion of myself and don’t know my place. There’s some folks who’d like to take me down a peg or two. In the South, a nigger could be lynched just for touching a white woman.’

  ‘Jeez!’ Herbie gasped.

  ‘That’s disgraceful,’ Anne said hotly. ‘And stop saying “nigger”. Your father doesn’t like it and neither do I.’

  Zeke moodily stuffed his hands in the pocket of the velvet jacket. ‘Pops said the place to live is Paris, France, where no one cares whether you’re black or white. I might go there one day.’

  ‘We’ll all go,’ Anne declared. ‘We’ll all go to Paris if that’s the only way we can dance together and be friends.’

  Two days later, Herbie slipped on the icy pavement outside the theatre and sprained his ankle. His understudy, Nelson, who normally danced in the chorus, partnered Anne that night. There’d been hardly any time to rehearse and Nelson put in an adequate performance under the circumstances. But he tried too hard and it showed. His face was fixed in a tense smile that vanished the minute the dance was over.

  Next morning, Anne and Nelson met early in the theatre so they could practise. To Anne’s surprise, Conrad Abel was already there, along with a seething Nelson, and a starved-looking young man who seemed familiar.

  ‘Anne, this is Flip Ungar,’ the producer said. ‘He’s filling in until Herbie’s ankle is better. I got him along to watch the show last night so he knows what to do.’

  ‘I remember you.’ Anne smiled. ‘You auditioned the same time as we did. While we were waiting, you had to leave the room to be sick. I hope you don’t feel sick now.’