Surviving Amelia

by Rand, Naomi;

  The guitar player moved to the front and began to sing Imagine.

  She glanced at Virgil and saw his eyes were filling with tears. It was a John Lennon song. She’d heard it on the radio. Her son had schooled her in the Beatles. She had enjoyed their music though she preferred jazz standards. It was horrible, how the poor man had been cut down in the prime of his life, leaving behind a wife and son. Celebrity brought all kinds of trouble with it. Amelia had had her share of demented fans.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Virgil said. “There he was, not hurting a soul, and this maniac blows him to kingdom come.”

  “People think they own you when you become famous,” Muriel agreed. “It’s as if there’s some sort of unwritten contract; we’ll love you as long as you give us whatever we want.”

  When the song was over, Celia stood. “I want to thank all of you for coming and celebrating with us,” she said, her face flushed with emotion. “And I want to thank John Lennon for giving us so much. We love you, John, wherever you are.”

  She sat down, and Gary embraced her. It was a mournful note to strike on such a lovely occasion, but then it was Celia’s wedding. She was that kind of person, Muriel decided, always bursting with enthusiasms, with emotion. There was something noble in being like that, being a young woman who felt with such intensity. It was unusual to be able to give in to your passion so easily.

  Luckily, the bandleader knew how to change the mood. He struck up a waltz.

  “Can I have this dance?” Virgil asked.

  Muriel wasn’t about to say no. She loved dancing. She and Albert had celebrated their anniversary every year at the Ritz Carlton rooftop restaurant where they spent the night on the dance floor. Albert had been amazingly adept. Virgil wasn’t a match. He was graceful, though, without being flashy. Muriel eyed the other couples. All those on the dance floor were at least middle aged. The waltz ended and there was barely a pause. The band launched into, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing.”

  “Game?” he inquired.

  “If you are.”

  “You can’t say ‘no’ to the Duke.”

  Muriel swiveled on her heels. Their hands meshed, up, down, up, down, and the room whirled by. Marvelous. Then the tempo changed, the band was playing rock and roll for the younger set.

  “I’ll sit this one out,” she said.

  Virgil escorted her back to the table. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  “Ice water?”

  “Your wish is my command.” He poured her a glass.

  Muriel sipped on it.

  “I remember when the Beatles first came on the scene,” Virgil said. “I was a big James Brown fan at the time. I was sure they were nothing. Going to fade away like all the rest of the pretenders. But they stuck. I thought to myself, look at those pretty boys. All the girls mooning over them, causing riots wherever they went. It seemed so silly. But then I gave half an ear to it, because you have to see what’s out there. You have to keep things fresh. Besides, playing music myself, I don’t like to get behind the times.”

  “I heard you were a musician. What do you play?”

  “The tenor sax. It was how I met Laura Lee. I was in the house band at this club out west in Los Angeles, the Beachcomber. She was dating the manager, and he gave her a shot. She was a pro, worked her way up to starring. Poor Jimmy, the manager, got left in the dust. We toured all over the country. Had this beat-up old bus. One night, I figured I’d take my chance with her. I knew if it went wrong, I’d get fired. But it didn’t. Turned out she’d liked me the whole time, too. She’d thought I was the one who was disinterested. To this day, I don’t know why she settled for me when she could have had anyone. Love is really a mystery.”

  “What a story,” Muriel said.

  “Everyone has one.” He meant she did, too. She didn’t think hers anywhere near as glamorous.

  The bride and groom were dancing close to their table. Celia’s head rested on Gary’s shoulder. They were so trusting with each other. It was lovely. Muriel’s eyes misted over. She was really quite the pushover. But then, it was a wedding, one was supposed to be.

  She willed herself back into their conversation.

  “It was January,” Virgil was saying. “We were playing the Hotel St. Georges. It was a palace, that place, with the biggest saltwater indoor pool in the city. The ballrooms were crammed with customers. We were second on the bill. That was where I saw her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your sister.”

  Muriel stiffened. “Oh.”

  “I’ve never breathed a word about it to anyone. I never even told my wife.”

  “Well, bully for you.” She stood.

  Virgil got up, a look of surprise on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Virgil asked. “What is it? Look, I never meant to presume.”

  BUT SHE WAS already saying goodbye. She had to get away. Muriel was in the coatroom, handing in her ticket, before she realized what had stung her so much.

  He’d befriended her to get to this, to his special story, his moment with his own Amelia. He was hardly the first to try it with her. But he was the only one who’d gotten past her defenses. She’d believed he liked her, solely, for herself. Hearing her own internal voice she winced. It was Jealousy, plain and simple, she was jealous of a ghost.

  He’d come after her. He took the coat from the checkroom girl and held it for her. It was the lamb’s wool Albert had bought. Virgil got his own coat. She expunged all signs of hurt from her face and made for the door.

  “Let me take you home,” he insisted, pursuing her.

  “It’s only a few blocks. I can make my own way.”

  “Please.”

  They were outside by then. The cold air slapped some sense into her. Still, she couldn’t help muttering under her breath, “You’re like the rest of them.”

  He’d heard her. “The rest? What rest? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She turned to confront him. “Vultures. That’s what you all are.”

  “I was making conversation.”

  “Were you?” Muriel demanded.

  “Of course. What else did you think?” Then he took her by the shoulders, suddenly leaned forward, and kissed her lightly on the mouth. He pulled back. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She blushed, but she wasn’t sorry. Not in the least. “You know what you are, Virgil Washinawack? You’re the kissing bandit.”

  “Is that who I am?” He smiled, bashfully. Then Muriel tucked her arm into his, surprising them both.

  THE DAY AMELIA’S plane disappeared photographers and reporters camped on her lawn. To afford everyone some measure of peace, Muriel finally invited them inside. Then they peppered Muriel with their inane questions.

  Amelia would have known how to make the newshounds her friends. She would have answered their questions with tact and modesty. She could work a room. Muriel had no practice. But there was no one else to do it. Mother was a wreck. G.P. was impossible. There was no one else to protect her sister but her. Someone had to keep the pack of wolves at bay.

  Muriel remembered exactly what she’d said to them.

  I have every confidence she’ll pull through. She’s gotten into worse scrapes before and survived. No, I don’t think she’s dead at all. I know she’s alive.

  How could she be dead even now? Sometimes Muriel felt she was so close, brushing against her, whispering to her.

  Had Virgil seen her at the St. Georges? Who was to say? Not me, Muriel thought. Once we told each other everything. But by the time she was lost, she was keeping secrets, keeping so much close. Had I judged her too sternly too many times, or did she decide it was safer to stop trusting me? Either way, it hurt.

  But they were walking to Virgil’s car. And, just like that, he was opening the door for her. Just like that, he was starting the engine and pulling out. She reached out then and put her hand on his knee thinking, I’ll just give it a pat, but then she co
uldn’t lift her hand away. It stayed there of its own volition. Virgil’s own left the steering wheel to clasp hers tight. He squeezed it once, then left his on top, light enough for her to slide away from him.

  She didn’t. And he was wise enough not to say a word.

  16

  Amelia

  December 14 1980

  MAC WAS NO longer there to open the taxi door or call for the porter to take her luggage. Not that she had any. Two men stood on the corner, sharing a bottle hidden in a paper bag. One threw it down in disgust, the glass shattering. His companion said, “Man, you are such a goddamn fool!”

  The dreary awning read Hotel St. Georges; otherwise, Amelia would have thought she was in the wrong place. Inside, Amelia saw shuttered shops and stairs leading down to a subway entrance. There was no oriental carpet leading you up the stairs to the lobby. No main desk. No waiting area with leather armchairs. And no Colorama ballroom, where it was standing room only when the big name bands played. To get inside the new version of the Hotel St. Georges, you had to go round to a side entrance on Hicks Street. A glass divider separated Amelia from the desk in a tawdry lobby. A man stared up at her when she pressed the buzzer.

  “Whatcha want?” he demanded.

  “I was wondering about renting a room?”

  “We’re full up.”

  Amelia was relieved. It was not an inviting establishment. Indeed, sleeping on a park bench seemed preferable. Still, back outside, a cold wind chased her down Clark to Willow. There, she ascertained that the number of the apartment building this Winston Barry had written on the paper existed. Inside there was a mailbox with the name Barry taped above it. What had he asked about, a “candid camera” of some sort? What was that, she wondered.

  She’d have to do some research before she confronted him again. Tonight, what she wanted most was to go to sleep. But where could she stay? This wasn’t the Brooklyn she’d expected. The air was frigid; her legs chilled inside her rayon trousers. No “Room for Rent” signs hung out. Above her head, a glimpse through a window showed a family sitting down to dinner. Inside the next, a mother held her little girl on her lap, reading a book. I had a mother once, Amelia thought, and her eyes clouded. Mother was gone. They were all gone, if you believed those biographies. With the exception of Muriel; Muriel, who didn’t even know her.

  She wandered past to the Promenade. The view of Manhattan Island was breathtaking; a cluster of monumental buildings at the tip searing the night sky. They’d been imagined and built out of ambition. She understood that, why you strained against what was predictable, why you attempted something new. Why else was one born? She leaned against the railing, and her eyes filled with tears, only partly from the cold wind whipping off the water. What if she climbed up and jumped down into the drink? Would she go back then? Would she end the day where she’d begun after burying Fred, lying on the beach, exhausted? Or would it be different, would she find herself in Lae, feverish, not even having climbed into the plane?

  Amelia had no way of knowing. She could just drown and die and no one would ever be the wiser. Was that what this was? Was that all she was meant for? Underfoot the walkway, cars rushed to and fro. Everyone in this world had something pulling at them, some purpose that they knew of, someone’s will they refused to bend to. She was the only one left completely rudderless.

  Yet it had to have something to do with him. Why else had that boy brandished her gift?

  Amelia had come here once, years ago to assure Winston Manning that the flight circumnavigating the globe would be her last, her greatest adventure. She had promised him then that on her return, they would finally be together for good. Had she even believed it? She had told him it was true, so she must have. Luckily, her resolve hadn’t been tested.

  Now here she was again. Death was death and life the absence thereof. So what was this?

  This could only be a fantasy. She’d made up this world in order to keep her promise to him.

  That is, if he actually existed in this world. If he does, Amelia thought, he’ll be older than Muriel is.

  Will he even know me when my own sister doesn’t?

  Will true love triumph in the end? She smiled ruefully. The odds weren’t good on that score.

  She had to sleep. In the morning, she’d figure out what to do next. Where to go? How to act? Who to pretend to be? Maybe then she’d discover what she was doing here in Brooklyn, New York, besides pursuing an ephemera.

  She walked back to Montague and made a left. There was an open coffee shop. She found a telephone booth. The YWCA was on the corner of Third Avenue and Atlantic. They had rooms available at ten dollars a night.

  Inside one of them, she lay on the bed and rested her head on folded arms. She recalled the weeks trapped inside Muriel’s house in Medford. She relived her newfound freedom, the elation of flying, even as a passenger. And she reminded herself that her life was nothing if not a series of improvisations. First student, then nurse, then medical student, then social worker, then aviatrix, then clothing designer, then wife, and then, of course, lover. She’d been famous. She’d been poor, then rich, then stretched for money. She’d done everything she could, cramming it all in.

  She woke refreshed. The girl at the desk advised her to try the Goodwill store and wrote down directions. Amelia bought two pairs of blue jeans, underwear, bras, button-down shirts, a navy blue wool coat, and, best of all, a pair of men’s heavy soled Dunham Tyrolean work boots.

  Showered and changed, she was ready to tackle the new day.

  Amelia rang the buzzer for Barry.

  A woman’s voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “I’m looking for Winston?”

  The speaker crackled back at her. “For what, exactly?”

  “I’m a friend,” she said.

  “If you’re his friend, then you know where to find him.” Click.

  Amelia backed away. She could stand outside in the cold, watching and waiting like that Hammett novel she’d loved, featuring the Continental Op. She scoured the street and spied an orange car. It was much like the one he’d gotten into in Boston. She checked. Sure enough there were Massachusetts license plates. An odd collection of objects were displayed on the dashboard; a grinning tiger at rest, a strange troll like creature with blue hair extending in every direction, and a sticker that read, “Deadheads Welcome.” A handwritten notice stuck in the side window said, “No Radio. No Nothing.”

  The voice had insisted a friend would know just where to find him. It was likely that same girl’s voice. She was keeping him all to herself. Amelia would have to wait for him to emerge. But she was too cold to stand here all day long without a cup of coffee to warm her.

  Inside the coffee shop, the booths were on one wall, the counter seats opposite. She ordered and looked in the bar-length mirror to discover Winston Barry. He sat in a horseshoe-shaped booth, at the center of a crowd of his contemporaries. Her breath quickened. She bent down, purposely hiding her face. She slid onto a stool and watched as a steady stream of young men and women came in to greet him, slipping in beside him, or standing and bending over to talk. The girl who’d been in the driver’s seat was at to his side.

  How to begin? “Isn’t this a coincidence?” Or maybe, “Fancy meeting you here?”

  Absurd. It was better to just try the truth. Oh yes, the truth. That would win him over. It had worked perfectly with Muriel.

  “Are you stalking me?” The boy accosted her, slipping onto the stool right beside her, then adding in a snide tone, “Are you filming today?”

  “I’m staying nearby,” she said.

  “Where?” He clearly distrusted her. Who wouldn’t? She was like the stalkers who had pursued her mercilessly, showing up at events and talks, one of them even getting to her plane and trying to sabotage it. She seemed as mad as they had, doing this.

  “I was on my way to the airport yesterday,” she tried.

  “Convenient.” He smirked. “What name should I use for you?”

>   “Amelia.”

  “All right, Amelia. We’re on a first name basis, then. Where are you staying that’s so convenient?”

  “At the Y.”

  “The Y?” He smiled. “That’s the best they can afford? The government must really be in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We both know what I mean,” he said.

  Then the girl he was with was pulling on his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” she told him.

  He got up.

  “Wait,” Amelia said.

  “For what? Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Why on earth would I arrest you?”

  Winston Barry shook his head like she was playing him for a fool. Then he was out the door. She pursued him onto the sidewalk. “What do you want from me?” he demanded.

  “That lighter,” she said. “Did Winston Manning give it to you? Do you know him?”

  “You know I know him. You’re from the feds, not Car 54, Where Are You, right? Am I supposed to think you don’t know who my grandfather was?”

  Was.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Of course he’s dead. He died twelve years ago. Wait.” His eyes narrowed, and a look of relief washed over his face. “Is this about getting it back? Did that bitch, Katherine, hire you?”

  Amelia blanched. She knew exactly whom he meant. “How did your grandfather die?” she asked, trying for a neutral tone.

  “Cancer.” He peered at her. “What’s it to you? What are you after here?”

  “I’m curious, that’s all.” Conversationally, adding, “The lighter has his initials on it. Did you know? Take it out, I’ll show you.”

  The girl was tugging on him, pouting a little. But he shrugged, and then complied. He slipped the elegant, metal object from his pocket and extended it, cupped in the palm of his hand. Carefully, she traced the letters, hidden inside the rosebush, WM. The corners of his mouth tugged up. “What about that? So it was Katherine who sent you. Well, mystery solved. I took it. So what. I’m not giving it back. Tell her whatever you want.”