She pointed to my phone. “Is that text from one of the girls?”
“Donna. She sent me a text about the meeting tonight.” Lisa Leann shot me a look of concern, one that read, Why are they texting you and not me? I quickly added, “No need to worry your little red head. Everything is apparently just fine.”
Lisa Leann folded up her travel clothes she’d brought with her from the bathroom as she said, “Don’t you just love texting? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. You can get right to the point and stay on the point.” She shook her head as though in wonder of it all.
I stood from the soft mattress. “Are you through in there? I’m ready to wash this day from my body and go to bed.”
“You betcha. It’s late, and a good night’s sleep is in order. First thing tomorrow, we hit the Empire State Building.”
I shook my head as I closed the bathroom door. “I sure hope it sees you coming and moves out of the way,” I mumbled as quietly as I knew how.
“I heard that,” she called from the other side of the door.
The following morning, after a breakfast of Lisa Leann’s homemade protein bars, I stood on one side of the rumpled bed, rearranging the items in my purse, while Lisa Leann stood on the other doing the same. “Should we leave some of our money in here?” she asked.
I looked around the tiny room. “It might be a good idea to not carry all our cash on us. Where would you suggest we hide it, though?”
Lisa Leann pointed down. “I always put it between the mattresses.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, seriously … Henry and I put it between the mattresses, and then we make the bed. They’ll never think to look there. Believe me, Evangeline. I’ve done quite a bit of traveling in my day.”
I handed her a stack of bills, then pulled the MetroCards from my wallet. One, I remembered, was just to get into the system and was now void. The other would get us through until we were carted around by the studio’s limo. I waved the first one at Lisa Leann. “Be sure to ditch the first card we got,” I said. “It’s no longer any good.”
Lisa Leann was busy stuffing money between the mattresses. She looked up briefly, said, “Oh, yeah … good idea,” then went back to her task.
Ten minutes later—and with our bed neatly made—we were out of the tiny room and on our way to exploring what New York City had to offer. We stopped at the front desk and asked the day manager about the subway to the Empire State Building.
“Right on Bowery, left on Grand,” he said. “You’ll see the subway. Take the D train.”
We headed out, heads held high, shoulders back, and strutted our stuff like we’d been walking the streets of SoHo our whole lives. This morning, without the weight of luggage and hunger, I was able to take in more of the sights and sounds of the city. The crowds were thick and the traffic buzzed, echoing between old cast-iron buildings that apparently served as both commercial and residential. As I made some attempt to count the number of cars and cabs lining the street, Lisa Leann rambled on about the history of SoHo. I craned my neck and looked up to the clear blue sky. The sun was already warming the city and raising the aromas from the local cafés and the strange blended smells of herbs, fruits, and vegetables from a few storefronts. I grinned in delight at it all, the colors, the people, the scents. The flow of the crowd, stopping in unison at cross streets, looking forward at the “wait” sign on the other side, then harmoniously starting up again when the “wait” turned to “walk.”
But when it seemed we’d gone over too many cross-streets, I stopped.
Lisa Leann took another two or three steps before she turned. “What’s wrong?”
I pointed to an upcoming intersection. A major intersection. “That’s … what?” I squinted to read the sign. “Canal?” I looked at Lisa Leann, who was glaring straight ahead, a sudden glint in her eye.
“Ooooh. Do you know what Canal Street is?”
“Well, I know what it’s not. It’s not Grand and it’s not the subway.”
Lisa Leann waved her hand in a “come here, come here” motion.
I took the few steps toward her; she linked her arm through mine. “Canal Street, dear Evangeline, is in Chinatown. Look,” she said, pointing to the buildings. “Look at all the Chinese writing and the reds and golds. This is where all the knockoff purses are. Don’t you remember me telling you this?”
“Oh yes. Yes, yes. Purses, watches, scarves …”
Lisa Leann swung us around so we were facing the direction from which we’d come and began pulling me with her as she walked. “Well, I’m about as excited as a Texan can get, let me tell you. We are staying no more than three blocks from Canal Street, Evie. The place to see and be seen.” She patted my arm. “Tomorrow, you and I are going purse shopping, girlfriend. Prada, Kate Spade, Gucci …”
I clutched the strap of the simple black no-name purse that was draped over my body. “Why would I want to buy something I don’t need? Foolish waste of money. If we’re going to spend money on something, let’s spend it on food. I’m ready for some real breakfast; nothing against your protein bars.”
We crossed Hester Street and kept walking.
“Don’t be silly, Evangeline. The whole point of being here early is to soak up the culture.”
“Food can be a cultural experience. Think about last night … that pasta stuff was pretty good.” I nodded once for effect. “Besides, I thought the whole point of being here was to find the best shops for our next challenge.”
“That too.” She pointed straight ahead. “There it is. There’s Grand Street.”
We took a right. I kept my eyes open for the Metro sign—a large M. Spotting it, I pointed. “There’s the subway.”
Lisa Leann and I—still hooked together at the bend in the arms— left one side of Grand for the other. We were met by a barrage of outdoor Asian markets boasting food products, the likes of which I’d never seen.
“Would you look at this?” Lisa Leann asked as we passed them. “Now this is something we need to learn more about.” She raised her left arm—the one not linked to mine—and said, “Oh, Evie. All the ways of life one can find here! This is just fabulous!”
I glanced around as we moved forward, then ducked my chin. “You know, for someone who I told less than twenty-four hours ago not to act like a tourist, you sure are acting like a tourist.”
She grinned at me. “I cannot help myself.”
We made it to the subway. I reached into the pocket of my cotton slacks and pulled out the MetroCard. Clutching it in my right hand, I said, “Do you have your card?”
“In my purse.”
“You should probably get it out now.”
We’d made it to the subway stairs. I read the letters painted overhead and said, “This is the right place.” I pulled my arm from Lisa Leann’s then stepped in front of her, grasping the sticky metal rail and slipping in with the crowd, all of whom seemed to know exactly where they were going.
I felt rather than saw Lisa Leann close behind me. We sank into the underworld of New York, the sounds of the city fading as the roar of trains and human voices increased. I cut my eyes to the graffiti on the walls, daring to read a word here and a phrase there. According to the scribble: Chantal is not a very nice girl and we should all give world peace a chance.
We came to the turnstile. I glanced back at Lisa Leann, who was right behind me, face turned into her purse, hands digging for her MetroCard. Heaven help me … that woman …
The crowd wouldn’t allow me to do anything but keep moving. I scanned my card then pushed through the metal rod of the turnstile. Whipped to the right by other subway travelers, I immediately descended another flight of stairs leading to the overcrowded platform with its trains and their tracks.
“Lisa Leann,” I called out, as if anyone, let alone she, could hear me above the cacophony.
The appropriate train—D—was right in front of me. I took a step toward it, then two back. I couldn’t s
ee Lisa Leann anywhere. I scanned the heads of the crowd surrounding me, but not a single one was a fiery red Texan’s. “Lisa Leann,” I called out again.
The train doors closed, and the train sped northward into the dark tunnel without me. The crowd had thinned out considerably, and I searched the sea of it again. Thinking I saw Lisa Leann walking the length of the platform, I hurried toward her. But when the figure turned, I saw it was not Lisa Leann at all.
Wonderful.
I looked toward the stairway now filled with a new flock of passengers descending the steps, searching for any signs of my now-lost friend. Or maybe I was lost. Maybe she’d gotten on the train that had pulled away. Another train slid into place, opened its doors, and regurgitated those who wished to get off on Grand. Those who had just come down the steps stepped into the train, taking their place. Again the doors coughed and sighed closed, then the train sped away.
I pressed my back against the cold tile wall as I pulled my cell phone from my purse to call Lisa Leann’s. The call wouldn’t go through. Another group of people poured down the stairs, and another train slid into place. “This is like a cattle call,” I muttered.
Logic told me Lisa Leann had gotten on the first train and I might as well get on this one. I shuffled in, edged my way to the right, and sat on hard benches shoulder to shoulder with strangers. The train doors closed, the train jerked into action, and we zoomed onward.
What seemed like two seconds later—with not one person saying a word to another—the squelching of the announcer informed those interested that we were approaching Broadway and Lafayette. The train stopped, the doors yanked open, people got off, more people got on, and away we went again. It dawned on me then that I had no idea where I was going. Of course, I knew where I wanted to go … only I wasn’t sure how to get there. I was pretty sure Lisa Leann knew, but as spontaneous as she is, that was only a guess.
There was only one thing to do. So far, everyone in the city had been more than kind … just like Summit View folks. So, I plastered a smile on my face and turned to the woman sitting next to me. She had a “been there/done that” look across her face, so I assumed she was a local. “What station should I get off at if I want to go to the Empire State Building?” I asked.
The woman smiled, just as I’d hoped she would. “Thirtyfourth.”
I returned the smile, then dialed Lisa Leann’s cell number again, this time opting to send a text message. GET OFF AT 34th, I typed with the pads of my thumbs.
I was getting pretty good at this texting thing.
I kept my phone clutched in my hand and shook my head. Lisa Leann could already be at 34th. She could already be at the Empire State Building. That woman could be anywhere by now. Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue, or Tiffany’s. She could be having her picture made at Rockefeller Center or could even be in the back of Donald Trump’s limousine, gliding toward Trump Towers.
The train screeched to another stop. “Washington Square,” the announcer said, her voice sounding as though she were pressing her lips into a microphone. The train continued on then, rocking me gently in my seat as fluorescent lights from the subway walls blinked in and out, in and out as we passed. The ride up Manhattan’s subway system was dreamlike, and being separated from Lisa Leann was—for the briefest of moments—forgotten. After all, we were grown women with cell phones and texting talents. Somehow—in this city of eight million people—I was certain I’d find her.
We stopped twice more before I heard “Thirty-fourth.” I stood, adjusted my purse strap, and then plowed ahead with the rest of those who were leaving the train. For a brief instant I felt as though I were a part of something so much bigger than myself. I pretended I was truly a New Yorker, exiting the silver subway train, passing by the steel support beams running up from the platform. Each one was graced with “34th St.” painted in white letters on black squares as though to make certain travelers knew where they were, and yet no one seemed to give them anything more than a passing glance. I was just like all the others ascending the wide steps, heading up to the streets of Manhattan for work or …
Shopping.
I cut my eyes to the right, seeing that the subway deposits its passengers on 34th Street at the Manhattan Mall. One step over and I could be in what those who love to shop might call “heaven.” But a shopaholic in need of a fix I was not. I took the few steps to the left, out through a glass door, and found myself in another world altogether.
The sights and sounds of Midtown were amazing. I had, quite frankly, never seen anything like it. A river of bumper to bumper yellow cabs seemed to float before me, driving east to west, west to east. Horns honked. People shouted. Music blared. Buildings— some old, some shiny new—stretched outward and upward. The air was both still and blasting with energy.
I took in the faces of the people, none of them a familiar redhead. Everyone seemed so determined. Some heading in one direction, others marching in another, each one keeping pace with the flow of human traffic. Some crossed the street at what seemed to be a three-way intersection. A reading of a sign and I realized I was near Broadway.
I followed the pedestrians with my eyes and watched as folks entered and exited a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. In spite of the rising heat of morning, I needed a cup of hot coffee and a pastry of some sort. I was practically starving.
I looked down at my hand, my phone still held tightly by my fingers, and frowned. First things first, I told myself. Before I fed my hunger, I supposed I really needed to locate Lisa Leann. She was probably frantic by now, trying to find me.
Goldie
13
Home Cooking
Typically, Saturday mornings are for sleeping in. After a long week of work for both Jack and me and five days of getting up early—six, if you count Sundays—this is our morning to laze around in bed. We usually wake up at around 9:30 or 10:00. While Jack slips out the front door to get the morning paper, I start the coffee and warm up a couple of homemade Danish I picked up the evening before at Higher Grounds. Within a matter of minutes, we’re back in the bed, backs propped against fluffy pillows, legs stretched under the covers, a plate of sweet bread between us, a cup of coffee on each bedside table, and a section of the paper apiece folded out before us.
But not this particular Saturday. No-sirree-bob, as my grandmother used to say. This particular Saturday I had to get up early and make hay while the sun shone. I had to get my house in order, making sure all the laundry was done by the end of the weekend. I had to shop for traveling clothes and incidentals. I had to pack. I had to go to the grocery store, then come home and prepare meals for Jack for when I was in New York. I also wanted to spend some time with Brook and Ena before the girls and I left on Tuesday.
Good land of the living, how was I going to get it all done?
I had the clock’s alarm set for 6:00, but I woke a little after 5:30. It was early, I was tired, I had another thirty minutes I could afford, but then I argued with myself that a half hour saved was a half hour earned.
I sat up and slipped from under the sheet, knees popping and muscles stiff. I groaned, and Jack echoed my sentiment. “Shh,” I said, more to him than me. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Entirely too early,” I said, wrapping my robe around myself. “Just go back to sleep.”
I stepped into the kitchen and started the coffee, then went out the front door to gather the paper. I placed it on the kitchen table, then went and found my Bible and a small spiral notebook I’d been keeping lately to record the various verses of Scripture that spoke to me. When I had time for such luxury of extensive study. Those days were gone.
Before—when I’d been a homemaker only and not a legal secretary— I’d get Jack out the door for work and then spend great chunks of time in the Word. But since I’d gone to work outside the home, well … I was grateful for getting to church on Sundays and the Potluck club prayer meetings.
Not that I hadn’t been prayin
g … or reading the Bible, for that matter. I just couldn’t afford to take as much time as I had before. It was like I’d said to Lizzie just a few days earlier: “Lizzie,” I’d said, “I’m telling you right now, when I turned twenty-one my mama said the days would just begin to roll one into the other, and I have to admit, she was right. Seems to me the last twenty-seven years have flown by.”
“Just wait till you add another ten years to that,” Lizzie had said.
To which I replied, “I know … I know. Seems, though, that I wake up and it’s Tuesday and when I go to bed it’s Thursday.”
Lizzie had chuckled, but I knew she knew exactly what I meant.
So today I was bound, bent, and determined to get some Bible reading done. And, I decided, my Bible would go with me to New York. I would begin every day with Scripture reading and prayer. Every day. No matter what.
I opened my Bible, allowing it to fall where it may. I’m not one of those women who says a prayer and then opens her Bible and points to a verse in hopes that God will speak. I typically follow some semblance of order, some book, some outline. But today, with so little time, I just let it open, and I did the pointing game.
When I moved my finger, I read aloud: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Psalm 139:7–9.” Another breath, another sigh. “Oh, goodness,” I said. It sounded too much like a horoscope for a woman leaving on a jet for New York City than a passage of Scripture.
The coffeepot coughed and sputtered. I left the Bible on the table and began making myself some coffee. Okay, Lord … I prayed that we wouldn’t have to go to New York, but you have obviously chosen to answer that prayer in your own way. Now you give me this little tidbit of wisdom. What are you saying to your daughter?
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