by Cat Bauer
The old man coughs and takes out a handkerchief. He spits into it. Disgusting. “Far enough.”
The skyline is almost in front of us now. The bus slows. It winds down a long circular stretch of road and stops at a toll booth. Up ahead is a long white tunnel.
“Lincoln Tunnel,” reports the old man. “We're going under the Hudson River now. I always look for cracks in the wall.”
Oh, great. We zoom into one of the shoots of the tunnel. Cars and buses merge together and speed under the water. I imagine the Hudson River above us. One crack in the wall and the water will gush in, drowning us. This old man is starting to get to me.
After forever, we pop into the light and streak up a ramp and back into darkness. Everyone fidgets and stands. The bus flies into an enormous building and screeches to a stop inside a gigantic bus garage.
The old man wobbles to his feet. “Follow me, young lady. I'll point you in the right direction.”
I don't want to follow the old thing, but I really have no choice. He tips his hat to the bus driver and grabs the handrail. I think he's going to tumble right down the steps, but he makes it. He leads me to an escalator. I step onto the moving stairs and glide slowly down to Oz.
Inside the terminal, there are about five million people scurrying around like ants who just had their hill stepped on. My mouth falls open. I have never seen so many people, even in the mall. Newspaper stands and florists, ticket sellers and restaurants—people, people everywhere, shouting, running, wheeling suitcases, getting shoe shines, pushing and stampeding past each other. The footsteps of a million soles trample the floor. Bus arrivals and departures blast over the loudspeakers. Waves of languages crash against my ears. The old man is running himself now, scurrying down escalators, dashing down the stairs. I try to keep up with him.
“Come on, young lady. I'm late. Faster, faster!” I run alongside him. He is the White Rabbit and I am Alice racing to I do not know where.
Finally he stops. The crowd surges around us. He points straight ahead. “Go out that door. That's Eighth Avenue. Make a right and keep going for thirty blocks or so, till you get to West Eleventh. Or just hail a cab and tell him where you want to go. I gotta run.” The old man takes a step and gets swept into a whirlpool of people. I watch the top of his funny old hat bob along the surface until I can see it no longer. Come back! I want to yell. I stand there alone in Port Authority. I take a deep breath and let the current carry me out the revolving door.
On the street, there are even more people. Ladies in bright, long dresses, squinty-eyed bald men in white togas, women in business suits wearing sneakers, little girls in fiesta dresses, all bustling along like at some kind of crazy costume ball. Everyone is moving, moving, moving. Except for the traffic. That is not moving at all. Cars and trucks and yellow taxis and a bride and groom riding in a horse and buggy are bumper to bumper. People are yelling at each other through their car windows. Everyone is blowing their horns like an out-of-tune orchestra gone mad. A businesswoman knocks me with her briefcase and mumbles, “Sorry.”
I look up. The buildings stretch so high I cannot see their tops. Across the street, a sign on a grimy building says Live Nude Revue Open 24 Hours. On one corner, a construction worker is chopping up the sidewalk with a jackhammer. On another, a man is selling big soft pretzels out of a cart. A guy with a beard sticks a dirty hand in front of passersby, asking for spare change. I have to admit, this is a lot scarier than I thought it would be. This town is so enormous. I feel so small. I take a breath and force myself to start walking.
From the corner of a building a fat man with elephant jowls steps right in front of me. “Got a match, kid?” His voice is a gravel pit.
“N-n-n-o.” I look up at this wall of a man who is blocking my way. His black hair is an oil slick. Tattooed on his wrist is a green devil with red eyes. An unlit cigarette drips from the side of his mouth.
The fat man squints. “Where ya goin', kid? You runnin' away from home?”
I am speechless. Do I have “runaway” stamped on my forehead or something? “No,” I manage to say.
The fat man sneezes and wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Lotsa kids from Jersey get off the bus, runnin' away, is why I ask. You sure look like you're AWOL. Whatcha got in the backpack?”
I try to act calm. I shrug. “Nothing much.”
“Nothin' much? Well, let's have a little look-see.” Before I know what is happening, the fat man tries to yank the backpack off my back.
“Hey!” I holler, scared. “Leave it alone!” I spin around and hold tight to the straps.
“You tormenting kids again, Harry?”
I turn. Behind us, dressed in blue, with a gun and a nightstick hanging from his belt, is a policeman, chewing gum.
“Nah.” The fat man named Harry spits on the ground. “Just tryin' to keep her occupied. You know these runaways from Jersey.”
The policeman looks down at me. “That true, kid? You running away?”
My head is spinning so fast, part of me wants to confess and just go home. Then I remember: Home to what? My parents hate me, Carla hates me, Evan's dumped me, I have no friends. They have even taken away the last thing I love, the portrait for the play. I try to think of how all this happened, what I did wrong, but I don't have a clue. Fat Harry is right. I am a typical Jersey runaway. There is only one thing left: to get to Sean Shanahan. “I'm going to visit my father,” I say.
The policeman makes a face like he doesn't believe me. “Oh, yeah? Where does your father live?” This question I can answer. I take an index card out of my backpack. On it I have neatly printed Sean Shanahan's address and phone number. I hand it to the officer.
The policeman reads, then hands the card back to me. “In the Village, huh? I think you should take a cab, kid. What's your name?”
“Harley. Harley Columba.”
“If your name is Harley Columba, how come your father's name is Sean Shanahan?”
I want to say, Why, that's what I'm here to find out, Officer. Instead I say, “Divorce.”
The policeman frowns. “You know, I've got a daughter about your age, and I wouldn't like to see her walking around here all alone.” The policeman moves to the edge of the street. He puts his arm up and yells, “Taxi!” Immediately a yellow cab zooms out of the river of cars and pulls to the side of the street. The policeman opens the door. “Take this kid down to the Village, will you?” He gives the driver the address and almost shoves me inside the cab. “Be careful, kid.” He slams the door.
The driver has dark skin and a big turban on his head. He takes one look at me, sighs, then steps on the gas so hard I am thrown back against the seat.
The taxi careens back and forth across the street, beeping and honking. I clutch the back of the seat, hanging on for dear life. We make a few turns and then start speeding down a different street, Seventh Avenue. I see there are yellow cabs on either side of us, accelerating fast. My driver floors it. We are in a crazy race with the other yellow cabs, darting and weaving through the traffic. At a red light, we all line up at the starting gate, five yellow cabs across. My driver revs the gas pedal, a wicked grin on his face. The light turns green. It is a starting pistol. Vroom! We're off.
A strange language crackles over the radio, and for a moment I think I am in a foreign country. The buildings grow smaller the farther downtown we go. I press my face against the window. Skyscrapers shrink into apartment buildings and restaurants. The road narrows into two lanes and cobblestones and my driver is forced to slow down. Mothers with babies sit in a park. People stroll instead of run. Fruit and flowers are stuffed into bins outside the storefronts. Everything is clean and cozy. Down here it is quieter, almost peaceful, like a small village. Uh, duh, Harley. You must be in Greenwich Village.
We turn right and pass an old corner building that looks like horses should be tethered out front. The White Horse Tavern. Children play in the road. I'm starting to feel better.
The taxi slides to a halt i
n front of a redbrick building. “West Eleventh Street,” the driver says. At least I think that's what he says. I can barely understand him. He presses a button on the meter. “Five dollars and twenty-five cents.” He says those words loud and clear.
I hand him my other ten-dollar bill. He hands me four singles over his shoulder, without looking back. I wait for my seventy-five cents. He jingles some coins, but doesn't give me my change.
“What about my seventy-five cents?” I ask.
“YOU WANT YOU SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS? I GIVE YOU YOU SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS!” The driver practically throws the coins at me.
Geez. Maybe I am supposed to give him a tip. I hand him back the seventy-five cents. “Thank you.”
He takes the money and says nothing. He shakes his head. I wonder what is under his turban, if he has long hair or a bald head. I open the door of the cab and get out. The taxi peels away, leaving me alone in front of Sean Shanahan's doorstep in Greenwich Village, New York City.
I stare at the row of stoops and shops in front of me, amazed. I have never seen a setup like this. A Laundromat is on the ground floor of the next building, a pastry shop on the other side. Next is a hair salon. Imagine, pastries and a haircut right downstairs! I inhale baking bread and dryer lint. It's impossible to believe that this morning I was in homeroom in Lenape Lakes, New Jersey.
Well, I could live here, I think. I could start a new life. I could hail cabs and go to art school and come home and prepare dinner for Sean Shanahan. Or we could eat at that restaurant across the street, the Black Sheep; it looks all cozy and inviting. He'd say, Let's eat out tonight, Harleykins, you're doing too much. And I'd say, Oh, we don't have to, but secretly I'd be thrilled to waltz into a restaurant on the arm of my father.
I walk up the stairs, excited now. Sean Shanahan will make everything all right, I'm sure. I open the heavy glass-and-wood door and step inside a cubicle. Here, another glass door leads into the building. It's locked. I peer inside and look down a long white tile corridor. On either side of me are mailboxes. My eyes skim the names. I see the words “SHANAHAN— 5W” and take a quick breath. He's real. This is real.
That name makes the whole thing real. I rub my fingers over the letters like I am summoning up a genie out of a lamp.
Next to the door is a panel with rows of buttons. After each button is an apartment number. 5W. That is all I see. Press 5W and you will get Sean Shanahan. My heart is thumping. My finger is shaking. I cannot do it. Pull it together, Harley. I close my eyes and jab the button, one quick press. My finger is electric; I feel the energy flow right out of the tip and into the button. Moments later, I hear a buzzing sound. I push the inner door. It clicks open. I step inside.
I walk down the long white corridor, silent, in a dream. I come to marble stairs worn down in the center from years of footsteps. Next to the banister is the tiniest elevator I have ever seen, big enough to fit one person. I decide on the stairs. I add my imprint to the marble as I grip the banister and walk up. On each floor, I pass four closed doors with numbers on them. Apartments. There is only one apartment building in Lenape; everyone lives in houses. I've never been in an apartment building before. I hear people's muffled conversations going on behind closed doors. I want to stop right here in the hallway and listen to their lives.
At the third floor, I stop and catch my breath. Sean Shanahan must be in pretty good shape to climb up this mountain every day. Maybe I should have taken the elevator.
Finally I reach the fifth floor. There are only two doors on this level, 5E and 5W. I walk up to 5W. I stare at the dead bolt. My heart is pumping the blood through my body so fast, I think my veins will explode. I raise my hand to knock. It stops in midair. Oh, come on, Harley. I am ridiculous. I have turned to stone. Come on, Harley. I make a fist. I knock. Rap, rap, rap. I hold on to the doorjamb so I don't collapse.
I hear footsteps. A man's voice yells, “Coming.” On the other side of the door, someone fiddles with the dead bolt. Click. Whoosh. Light from the apartment streams into the hallway. The door opens halfway and there stands Sean Shanahan. “Yeah?”
He is beautiful. His hair is brown, just down to the top of his shoulders. He has a beard and an earring. He looks surprised, as if I am not what he is expecting to see. He smiles, and I see that his eyes are blue, brilliant blue. He is beyond gorgeous. He is perfection.
“Well, hello.” He talks fast, like he wants to get back to doing something. “Are you selling candy bars? I'm trying to cut back on the chocolate.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. All I can do is stare. It seems impossible, but this time life has delivered better than what I could imagine.
He cocks his head. “I don't want to be rude, but I've got a deadline….”
Still I say nothing. I just stand there with my mouth open.
He gives me a curious look. “Cat got your tongue? What's up?”
“I'm … I'm … Harley Columba.” I drop the bomb.
It does not explode. I watch his face. It is blank.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “Do I know you?”
This is not going the way I expected. All this time, I imagined he would grab me in his arms at the mere mention of my name and shout, Harley Columba? My long-lost daughter! I clear my throat. I try again. “Patricia Columba's daughter?” I am one inch tall. “From Lenape?”
He frowns, trying to remember. “Why is that familiar?” Then his face lights up as if suddenly all the connections have been plugged into the right outlets. “Peppy Harley's daughter?” He sounds stunned. He backs up, and for a second I think he is going to slam the door right in my face. “This is some shock, I've got to tell you.” I watch him gather himself together. “This is some surprise. You're … gigantic. The last time I saw you, you must have been two years old. You're like a person.”
“I am a person.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen years …” Now he is acting as nervous as I am. I wait for him to invite me in, but he doesn't. Instead he says, “Honestly, Harley, you've caught me at a very bad time. I'm really busy. I've got a deadline—”
He is almost being rude. He is throwing me off balance. “I'll only stay for a little while, I promise.” People never act the way you want them to, I swear.
I'm not sure what to do, so I stand, expectantly, waiting for him to let me in.
He hesitates, then steps aside and opens the door all the way. “Come on in, then. But I'm warning you, I've only got a minute.”
“That's okay.” He isn't exactly making me feel at home. I step inside his apartment. It's wild. There is a dark burgundy sofa and a tech center. An electronic keyboard is in the corner. Next to the keyboard is an acoustic guitar, and I am happy to see he is musical. All over the walls are theatrical posters like Bud Roman has, only in frames. Off to the right is a kitchen. Off to the left is a bathroom.
“How did Peppy know where to find me?” Sean asks, as if he has been in hiding for all these years and now I've blown his cover. He leads me down the hall to the back of the apartment, a huge open space with bare hardwood floors. It looks like the high school art room, only with furniture.
“I found you myself.” Against one wall is a long slanting table. Miniature cardboard models of living rooms, bedrooms, and kitchens are scattered around on the floor and the desk. They look like dollhouse rooms with no walls. Drawings and sketches are tacked onto a big bulletin board. I point. “What's all this?”
“I'm a set designer,” he explains. “Those are different sets for the play I'm working on.”
“I'm working on a play, too!” I tell him. This is too eerie. Like father, like daughter. I want to impress him. “I'm painting a portrait for Anastasia, the drama club play. I want to go to art school. I'm really good at drawing and stuff, you know. I must have gotten that from you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “From me? What are you talking about?”
Shut up, Harley. Don't go so fast. “Oh, not
hing.” I walk around the space. “Where do you sleep?”
Sean grins, like it is a relief to change the subject. “You walked right under it. Up there.” He points to a platform with four long legs. “A loft bed.”
“Aren't you afraid of falling out?” I am asking ridiculous questions. I'd better watch it or he'll think he spawned some kind of moron.
“I am, actually, I am. But I need the room.” There is a long pause. He looks at me as if he doesn't know what to do with me. “Do you want a drink or something? I think I have a can of Coke….”
“That's okay. I'm not thirsty.”
“Some lunch?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, sit down. You know, I haven't been back to Lenape in years.”
I sit on this weird-looking black leather chair. He sits across from me on a lumpy red sofa. There is a miniature cardboard meadow on the glass coffee table between us. A small cardboard wolf is in the middle of a herd of cardboard sheep.
Sean examines me as if I am a bug and his blue eyes are a microscope. I squirm, his stare is so intense. I remember the welt on my face and hope my makeup is holding up. I shift my position and smooth my hair so it covers the mark. He doesn't say anything for a long time; then: “So. What brings you to New York?”
“Oh …” I glance around the room. “Actually …” I have rehearsed this a million times, but now that the moment is here, I don't know what to say. Instead I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Actually, I want to see the Imagine mosaic. You know, in Strawberry Fields?”
Sean nods. “Yeah. It's a great spot. Tranquil. I used to sketch up there, but I don't get past Midtown much these days.”
“Really? Is it far from here?”
“Nah. Not if you catch the subway. The uptown C train drops you right there on Seventy-second Street.”
I nod. We sit in silence, all awkward and stiff. He smiles. I smile. Talk, Harley, talk. Sean says, “You know, I've got another …” His voice trails off. He coughs into his fist. “I was going to say, I've got a daughter about your age…. It's hard to believe.”