“The seatbelt sign has been turned on, signaling our descent into LaGuardia. Please return to your seats, return seatbacks and tray tables to their full upright and locked positions, and stow away all carry-on items under the seats in front of you or in the overhead bins for the remainder of the flight. We will be landing shortly.”
In the blessed silence that followed, I mulled over this latest journey of mine. My mind was made up. I was through indulging myself with married men. Just as in real life, they were far too complicated.
Even if they were dead.
One last time the flight attendant marched up and down the aisles, sniffing out improprieties, like a dog that smells a bone, barking orders at the poor fools who dared defy her. I rolled my eyes.
I was the last person off the plane. As I walked down the aisle, a gold chain flashed from under one of the bulkhead seats, and I figured I could do my good deed for the day by turning it in to the attendant on my way out. When I took hold of it, drawing it out, I saw that it bore an odd-shaped cross. I stared in amazement.
A man—an old one, tall and thin, with silvery hair and a cane—came stumbling back into the passenger cabin. He breathed hard as he searched frantically about his bulkhead seat. When he spotted me with the cross, he sighed in relief. “Ah, there it is. I thought I would never find it,” he said, with an outstretched palm. “Thank you very, very much.”
As I handed it to him, the swastikas gleamed.
Note to Self:
I know you’re supposed to be able to tell your shrink anything. So again, why couldn’t I tell mine about my last strange date with Lindbergh? Or for that matter, all of them: Beethoven, Van Gogh, Dracula, Clark Gable. Why? Because it would sound so preposterous he’d have to insist I take about five different kinds of medication, half of which I’m probably already on.
During my session today, Mr. Perfect sat back in his chair with hands folded across his chest, and said, “Ariel, so how’re you doing with the things we talked about last time. You know, your feelings about continuing doing therapy together? Remember, I did tell you, if you were too uncomfortable or if it was affecting things too much, I could send you to a colleague of mine.”
Yeah, I remembered that asinine suggestion.
“So, how are you doing with your feelings about me?”
“How are you doing, with my feelings about you?” I retorted.
Yep. A smart-ass right up to the finish.
Chapter Nine
THE WILD BUNCH
August in New York City is a hot and dirty proposition. The pollution from cars and buses mixes with subway steam wafting up from the bowels of the city, and it makes you want to wretch. The pavement is so scorching that you could make stir-fry on it. Needless to say, I longed for somewhere, anywhere, cleaner and cooler.
I was in luck. Mindy, my best friend from high school, who now lives in Atlanta and was just as disgusted with the heat there, called to see if I’d like to escape to Utah for a long weekend. She’d booked a place online called Sundance, owned by Robert Redford, and close to Park City, home of The Sundance Film Festival. Since we hadn’t seen each other in over a year, and we both liked hiking and horseback-riding, it seemed the perfect solution to my summertime blues.
I packed and headed to the airport. Mindy joined my flight after a stopover in Atlanta, and we flew together to Salt Lake City.
Renting a car, we drove the short forty-five minutes to Sundance. I was in awe of the natural beauty of the canyon, and the gurgling river running through it. There were flowing creeks and ponds filled with trout everywhere around the grounds. Mountains towered in the distance, some of them still snow-capped. Up a wildflower lined walkway by the river, we checked into our small log cabin. After getting settled in, we scanned the resort activity list left by the telephone, and decided to do a late-afternoon trail ride. We donned jeans and cowgirl boots, barely containing our excitement, certain we were going to have a great Western adventure. Throughout high school Mindy and I had ridden horses at the local stable every weekend. Although neither of us had been on a horse in ten years or so, we were still confident in our riding skills. After all, these were probably just a few trail-riding nags, trained to go no faster than a slow, albeit rough, trot. For the sake of visitors with less horsemanship, a place like Sundance stabled only gentle horses to avoid injuries to its guests and any potential lawsuits.
The sky was a clear, bright blue, with just a hint of some high clouds. Sammy, our cute guide, wore leather chaps and a cowboy hat, and he held our horses for us as we hoisted ourselves into our saddles.
“Your horse’s name is Bucky,” Sammy told me.
Hmm. Not a good sign.
Bucky was fine for a while, but he lived up to his name, occasionally kicking, bucking at the horse behind him, and rearing up when a horsefly stung him on the rump. As the trek continued, it became clear he did not like the saddle or other horses. I don’t think he cared too much about people either.
Making our way through fields of orange and yellow wildflowers, we met up with a trail that wound toward a waterfall. Bucky was making me nervous, regularly kicking at Cindy’s horse that clomped along behind me.
“Whoa. Stop, Bucky.” I pulled back on the reins.
Before crossing a creek, Sammy halted to tell us some local history. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, this Indian country had been a hideout for many a gunslinger.
As our guide spoke, Bucky got more agitated. A strident rattling noise pulled my attention from Sammy’s narrative, and I looked down to see a thick, diamondback rattlesnake coiled by Bucky’s front hoof. My horse bucked, then took off fast as a bullet across the creek, with me clinging to his neck and wailing at the top of my lungs.
“Bucky! Whoa, boy. Bucky, stop!”
It was to no avail. I heard someone else yelling, and looked back to see Sammy pointing at something.
“What? What!” I cried.
He stabbed his finger forward, and when I turned my eyes ahead I discovered a large tree limb staring me in the face. The impact was bone-jarring, yanking me from my saddle, and the last thing I remembered was flying through the air.
***
I was in New York City, but not the New York I knew. It was Old New York. I found myself standing on the streets of Manhattan, and the clothes people were wearing told me I was back in time—again. Passing a corner newsstand, I confirmed this. It was mid-winter, February 6, 1901.
Although bustling with energy, the city looked nothing like the present. There were no cars. Only horse-drawn carriages. No pavement, just cobblestone and dirt streets. And no skyscrapers dotted the New York skyline. I recognized many of the marquees, at least, and knew I was walking along Broadway.
This time around, the time-traveling gods had lent me a valise and dressed me in a long bustled dress, with puffed sleeves to set off the padded buttocks, hips, and bosom. I felt what had to be a corset around my waist, so tight that it cut off circulation.
“Are ya comin’ in our not, ma’am?”
“Excuse me?” I glanced toward the mousy voice and saw a man in the box office of the Casino Theater.
“You got your ticket there, and it’s mighty cold out. You could warm yourself inside.”
In my gloved hand, I did indeed hold a ticket for the matinee show of Floradora. What else could I do but take that as a sign. I walked in and found my seat close to the stage. As I lowered myself onto the cushion, I locked eyes with the man next to me. His eyes were bright blue, electric, and I could not break our stare. Blushing, I was spared further embarrassment when the curtain rose and we both turned our attention to the play. We exchanged glances throughout the show, and he seemed familiar, though I knew I’d never seen him before.
When the show was over, I stood to leave.
“I hope you’ll beg my pardon,” the man said, removing his top-hat, “but I’d like to introduce myself, ma’am. My name’s James Ryan.”
My, he was polite. So different from the men in
present-day New York City. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Ariel.”
“I’m in town, visiting from the great state of Texas,” he said.
“The great state of Texas, hmm. And what do you do in this great state?”
“A little bit of this and that, though actually, ma’am, I’m from Utah originally. Born and raised.”
Utah? That’s where I had been only moments ago. How strange.
“What I do is … well, I’m what you would call a cowboy.”
“A cowboy?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, with a thousand-watt grin. “A cowboy. You know, we rope cattle. We do other things too.”
“What in the world would bring a cowboy all the way to New York City? Not much cattle here.”
“Well, no, ma’am, no cattle here. I guess what brings me is same as what brings everybody to New York City. Fun, some laughs, see a few shows, take in some sights. I’m here with my sister and her husband, Etta and Harry Place. We all live in Fort Worth. I couldn’t talk them into coming to this show with me. The missus wanted to go shopping, and, well … being that he has all the money, I guess he went with her.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t seen such a good-looking man in Manhattan in a long time. His broad shoulders filled out his fine black suit, his jaw was square above his silk bow tie, and he had sandy-colored hair. There was kindness in his electric-blue eyes.
An uncomfortable silence settled between us, and Mr. Ryan rubbed the hat in his hands. “See,” he said at last, his eyes never leaving mine, “I was wonderin’, ma’am, would you … well, I mean … I’d be mighty obliged if you would allow me to take you to dinner. It’d sure be my honor if you said yes.”
I was even more tongue-tied. I’d met the man only minutes ago, and now he was asking me to dinner. Men moved that fast in the 21st century, but in 1901? I guess that was status quo because everyone died so young, they had to move fast. However, a girl could not be too careful, and I heard a voice of caution in my head. After all, this was New York City.
“Well, thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Ryan. I do appreciate it, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline your invitation.”
His grin faded. “Pardon me for askin’, ma’am, but why? Did I comb my hair wrong? Is there somethin’ green in my teeth?” He touched his mouth, laughing.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “I just don’t really know you, do I?”
“That would be true ma’am, but believe me, I’m harmless. I really am. I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to change your mind? Stand on my head? Recite a poem?”
“No, Mr. Ryan.” I laughed. “I just don’t think it’d be a very good idea.”
“All right then. But if you change your mind, I’ll be at Connelly’s Bar at Twenty-third and Third Avenue. It isn’t far from here, you know. You’re a very pretty lady, and I’ll bet an interesting one too. I’d sure like to get to know you. By the way, I like that heart around your neck. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Very pretty.”
I touched it nervously. “Oh, thank you.” This little crystal seemed responsible for many unusual happenings in my life. And not all good, either.
Mr. Ryan put his hat back on, tipped it to me, and said, “If you have nothin’ better to do, you know where to find me.” He started to walk off, then turned back. “Oh, until then, I’ll be workin’ on that poem, just in case.” With a wink and a nod, he was gone.
Damn. If only I’d had the nerve to do what my heart wanted, I would have walked out that door with him. I started to rethink my position. I mean, what harm could possibly come if I met him in a public place, right? Wasn’t that the safe procedure when you met someone online?
I headed out into the late afternoon and flagged a carriage.
“Where to, ma’am?”
I hesitated.
“Ma’am?”
I checked my valise, assured by the sight of a few coins. I stepped up and took my seat. “Connelly’s Bar,” I told him.
A bumpy ride delivered me to my destination. The drinking establishment was paneled in dark wood, with a massive bar on the side. Peering through the haze of smoke, I saw Mr. James Ryan at a table in the corner, seated with a man and a woman. I ventured that direction.
“You came,” he said, standing. “Let me introduce you to my sister and brother-in-law, Mrs. and Mr. Harry Place.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. I’m Ariel Richards.”
“I’m Etta,” the well-heeled woman said. She had almond-shaped brown eyes and chestnut-colored hair. Harry had good looks, with twinkling blue eyes and dark auburn hair. They made a handsome couple.
“Glad you could join us,” James said, pulling out a chair for me. He turned to Etta and Harry. “Ariel and I met at that Broadway show I was trying to get you two party-poopers to see this afternoon. I think she was a mite ’fraid of me, bein’ that we just met and all.” He chuckled. “But I’m harmless, ain’t I, Harry? You tell her.”
“Oh, sure,” Harry kidded. “He’s harmless … as a rattlesnake.”
Seated by the window, I couldn’t help but notice the darkening sky. James said the weather was a departure from the relatively warm first few days of February, and even as we discussed the matter, snow began to fall. With none of us anxious to leave, Harry ordered a few bottles of wine and we settled into pleasant conversation.
James’s eyes lit up as he described the places he had lived—Utah, Wyoming, Colorado, and Texas. He painted a picture of himself as a man with wanderlust. It was clear he lived for adventure and intrigue, and probably scorned predictability and routine. Despite his obvious appeal, he did not seem like a man a woman should fall for.
Outside the snow was coming down hard, as Harry and Etta told me about themselves. Harry was a cattle buyer, and a cowboy like James. Etta had been a schoolteacher in Texas, but given it up to marry Harry and travel from place to place and ranch to ranch, herding cattle, then moving on as the spirit moved them.
When asked, I told them I lived uptown and worked as a writer.
“Little lady, you must be half starved,” James finally said. “Whaddaya say I buy you the biggest steak in New York City?”
“Uh … I’m a vegetarian,” I mumbled.
“What’s a vegetarian? I’ve never heard that word. You, Harry? You ever hear that word?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have,” Harry replied. Etta shook her head as well.
Of course they did not know. This was 1901, and vegetarianism must have been a foreign concept.
“It just means I don’t eat meat,” I said.
“Well, why not? It’s good for ya. Put some hair on your chest.” James grinned.
“I guess I don’t like eating anything with a face.”
He looked at me as if a third eye were sprouting from my forehead.
When the waiter took our order, I alone ordered vegetables instead of steak. It was hard to concentrate as I stared outside. Snow was piling up now, and the corner lamppost cast an eerie glow in the fog.
Harry glanced out the window. “I do believe what we have here, boys and girls, is a full-blown Nor’easter on our hands.”
The wine couldn’t hide my nervousness, but talking helped. “How long are you going to be in town, James?” I asked.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. “Well, that all depends.” He took a slow drag. “Harry and Etta here are tryin’ to talk me into goin’ down to South America with them, month’s end. But me … first, I have a little unfinished business out west that I’d like to take care of.”
“What’s in South America?” It seemed a strange choice for a pair of cowboys and a schoolteacher.
“Well, you see, Harry here’s wantin’ to do a little farming, and the three of us have a like mind to see more of the world.”
I wondered how long he would be here. Hell, how long would I be?
“Hey, look,” he said, “that still leaves us three weeks b
efore we’ve got to go, so I say let’s tear up the town. We have plenty of money. You game?”
Already I knew I’d like to see more of him. Judging by the long sultry stares he sent my way, he seemed to be taking an interest in me, too. At this point, my head should have talked some sense to my heart, but good sense had long gone missing.
“I’d love to,” I heard myself respond, with absolutely no hesitation.
Oh, my God, what was I saying?
“Then it’s settled.” James nodded and gave me a reassuring look. “We’ll visit Coney Island and Central Park. Hell, we’ll even go ice-skating on the lake. You’d like that, ladies, wouldn’t you? We’ll see every show in town, enjoy the night spots.” He gently squeezed my hand, and it felt good.
“That’s all nice and sounds like fun,” I said, “but I’m worried about this weather.” I stared out the window and shivered.
“Aw, you worry too much.” Harry called to the waiter for a bottle of champagne, then said to me. “Let’s finish our dinner, and we’ll deal with all of that later.”
I drank one glass, then another … and another. Shooting occasional glances out the window, I saw that all street activity had come to a halt. There was no question we were stuck in a blizzard. Where would I stay tonight? Did any of the hotels I knew of exist in this era?
“I need to get back uptown for the night,” I blurted out.
“Now don’t you go worryin’ your pretty little head about a thing. Do you think ole James here is gonna leave you to fend for yourself?”
Worryin’ my pretty little head? I didn’t particularly like that comment, but obviously the feminist movement was foreign to him.
Excusing himself from the table, James walked past the bar and stepped outside. He returned a moment later covered with snow and muttering to himself. “Well, here’s the long and the short of it,” he said, sighing deeply. “Nobody’s goin’ nowhere … at least not very far. There’s probably about four or five feet of snow on the ground, as we speak, and my guess is it’s comin’ down at about a foot an hour. No carriages are runnin’. My suggestion is that Miss Richards comes with us to Mrs. Taylor’s Boardinghouse for the night. I’m pretty sure she can find an extra room.”
Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love Page 14