Traveling Light

by Thalasinos, Andrea

  Moments later he came bounding downstairs with his keys jingling. The front door shut hard, though there was too much new weather stripping around it to give the satisfaction of a good slam.

  CHAPTER 21

  Paula felt surprisingly calm after Roger stormed out of the house. He’d never done it before and she was blasé, almost removed. She walked upstairs with a cup of coffee of which she hadn’t yet taken a sip and headed toward her couch to watch the Sunday morning news shows; it wasn’t even eight. Carrying her phone, she thought he might call to apologize.

  She moved her pile of “hot pursuit” clothes onto the floor and sat, putting up her feet as she flipped on the TV. Her phone beeped. She knew it, a text: “Sorry for acting like a jerk. Lunch? 11 am? Make it up to you at Sarbonne’s. Love, R.” She texted back: “Of course.” She smiled, not in victory but ready for answers.

  Then something under the chair caught her attention. A crumpled piece of paper where he’d tossed his pants the night before. She tumbled off the couch and crawled over. It was a schedule for the Staten Island Ferry; early-morning departure times were marked with a pen.

  Suddenly she remembered the property Roger owned on Staten Island. He never spoke of it; the only time she’d been there was just after they were married. A police officer phoned about a neighbor’s complaint that a loose shutter was banging against the side of the house after a bad storm. Roger had been in France, so Paula had fielded the call, contacting the property management company who saw to it that Roger’s Staten Island house met all the city codes. She’d taken the ferry and a cab to the address, watched as the shutter was reattached, and as far as she knew assumed that it was the end of the story.

  She stood up, looking at the rumpled schedule and then in the mirror at herself, wearing the periwinkle silk nightshirt he’d brought her from France. Why would he go to Staten Island? Running up to his office with the ferry schedule in hand, she rummaged through files, his desk drawers, looking for property tax bills, something indicating he still owned the place. She came up empty except for a key ring with three keys, none of which she recognized.

  She sat down at the desk, thinking. Trying to remember the street, anything, but it was so long ago and she hadn’t paid much attention at the time.

  “Tony,” she said out loud, and phoned Heavenly.

  “You killed him,” Heavenly answered.

  “Not yet. Is Tony there?”

  “Yeah. But I’ll warn you he hasn’t had coffee.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Hey, doll, what’s up?” Tony said.

  “Sorry for bugging you so early, but think you could find an address for me?”

  “You got a name?”

  “It’s Roger.”

  She sprang into motion. Pulling off the nightshirt, she slipped into the ready pile of clothes she’d set on the floor. Grabbed her clogs, purse and phone and the piece of paper with the address Tony had found in the police database. Running downstairs, she locked the door and raced almost into the middle of the street to flag down a cab. The driver looked frightened.

  “Ferry terminal, Battery Park.”

  It was a quick ride. She hurried through Battery Park toward the stainless-steel edifice and letters—Staten Island Ferry. As she walked up the incline, police with bomb-sniffing dogs were everywhere. Everyone entering the terminal was closely studied as they walked through the doors; yellow Labradors stood ready for duty and clusters of police stood watching.

  Bright overhead letters indicated: Next Ferry: 6 minutes. Some people had just gotten off from work, dressed in their heath-care attire, others in uniforms and almost all checking their phone messages. The group was subdued, people alone with their thoughts and phones as they looked out to the water.

  She stood, hands clasped, wondering. Last time she’d taken the ferry was to Roger’s house. A vague recollection surfaced about it not being a long ride from St. George’s Terminal and that she could see the harbor from the street.

  The minutes counted down and then the doors opened. She followed the flow up the passenger ramp onto the ferry past thick, hoary braided ropes and chains that secured the ferry to the dock. The water was calm, the sky still hushed with morning colors. People sat around her, some slumped over with exhaustion, others leaning back to doze. It was a quiet time. A few young couples were still dressed in their Saturday night finery, falling asleep and leaning on each other for the thirty-minute ride. Police quickly walked through, checking everyone out before the ferry departed.

  She felt the vessel pull away from the dock, and as it did, a million thoughts passed through her mind. Her heart started beating in her throat; she had a sick feeling. She kept flashing back to the crumpled ferry schedule just slightly under the chair. Pulling it out of her pocket, she looked at the times he had marked: midnight, 2:00 am, and 3:00 am. In his anger he must have thrown on his pants, letting the schedule slip out. How unlike Roger to be so careless.

  Several cargo ships in the harbor were loaded with brightly colored containers. A barge steamed by, pushed by a tugboat. Hamilton Street. It rang a bell but also didn’t. She’d get a cab there. The ferry ride was over after thirty minutes, the boat slowed and snugged up to the dock at St. George’s Terminal. People were already huddled up to the doors, waiting for the final docking, eager to get out, get home and get to bed—to join their loved ones and lose the weariness of the night shift.

  Once the doors opened, people surged in one motion. Paula followed into a terminal that looked identical to the one in Manhattan. Her stomach fluttered. She didn’t know which way to go, so she followed the crowd. They walked out to a long line of city busses parked by the curb. She had no idea what to do and doubled back into the terminal, asking a man sweeping the floor, “Excuse me, where can I catch a cab?” He pointed down a staircase without saying a word.

  Paula raced down the stairs; a few cabs were parked by the curb. She made eye contact with the first driver.

  “Hamilton Street.” She gave him the address. He seemed displeased, probably too short of a ride to rack up any kind of fare. The cab drove around several one-way streets before turning down Hamilton. She looked at the address on the paper and then at the houses.

  “Can’t see no addresses, lady; can you?”

  “No, but I know it’s closer to the water,” she said. “Keep going a bit.”

  He slowed as the street curved and started down a steep hill. The water was immediately visible.

  “Here is good,” she said. Looking at the red numbers on the meter, she gave him a ten. “Keep it. How hard is it to find my way back?”

  He pointed toward the water. “Just follow down to the water, turn left on Richmond Terrace and go all the way; you’ll see the signs. About an eight-minute walk.”

  “Thanks.”

  The houses were older but well kept, though nothing looked familiar except the harbor. She remembered the street being dumpier, but she also recalled Roger’s conversation with someone at a dinner party about gentrification on Staten Island.

  Paula spotted the address on Roger’s house and stopped on the sidewalk to confirm. The house appeared to have new white siding, a new roof and no shutters. The lawn was tightly cropped, as if a crew had just finished raking and mowing. Knowing Roger, he’d probably contracted with a lawn-care service to keep from being in violation of city ordinances. Even still, bushes and weeds choked the foundation, too cluttered and unkempt looking compared with the surrounding houses. An eyesore the neighbors probably all wondered about.

  Slowly, Paula walked up the front path, just shy of going up to the door. The windows were covered with cloth, not shades, blinds or drapes—just like he used to nail up old sheets to cover the windows in the brownstone.

  She felt Roger’s key ring in her jeans pocket and pulled it out. In her other hand she clutched the ferry schedule, the paper moist from her grip. She stuffed it back into her pocket.

  A New York Times sat on the doorstep in a blue plas
tic bag. As she opened the screen door, the familiar smell of mold and mildew was overpowering. Like two months ago that tangy, pungent odor of the brownstone. She closed her eyes. “Oh no,” she said as if praying. First she knocked and tried the doorbell but heard nothing inside.

  Then she tried the first key. It didn’t open. Neither did the second or third. “Shit.” She backed away, let the screen door shut and stood thinking.

  On the side of the house there was a door. She tried all three keys again, trying to peek inside past the cloth. As she worked her way around the whole house, each window was tightly sealed, offering no view inside.

  Taking off her clog, she banged on the glass, trying to work up nerve enough to break it. Paula looked around again before hitting the glass harder. It cracked. When she hit it again, it finally broke, falling down inside somewhere. Knocking the rest of it out, she reached in near the doorknob and felt for a latch. She flipped the dead bolt and the door wiggled; she pushed, but it barely budged. The smell began to make her dizzy. She pulled off the pillowcase that had been nailed over the window and wrapped it around her hand. She knocked out the remaining glass, wondering if she could hoist herself up inside. Black plastic trash bags and boxes were in the way. She yanked them, pulling them outside, and as far as she could see there was a tangle of things up to the ceiling. She created a pile to stand on in front of the door, figuring if she could create a tall enough pile she could climb in.

  Finally the pile was halfway up the door. Paula balanced on it, entering the broken window into a sea of trash. She fell, rolling through the bags, almost swimming through them. There was no way to stand or get a foothold in this ocean of stuff. Slowly she moved deeper into the house until she spotted a narrow path about six inches wide that led into the living room.

  She passed through another room until she saw another narrow path, instantly spotting familiar objects from the brownstone. The rose-colored mohair couch she’d slept on for a decade turned up on its side, lined up with five or six other sofas. There were lamps, piles of journals, boxes of the mouse-eaten linen. As she climbed through tangles of boxes, broken chairs and furniture, barbeque grills and clothes, everything from the brownstone was there.

  Then she saw it.

  Roger’s bed all set up. His bedroom re-created with stacks of astrophysics journals he’d used for a head- and footboard. Everything identically placed as it was in his old bedroom. Next to the bed was a freestanding metal clothes rack with all his clothes, everything he’d claimed the personal organizer had thrown out. The bedsheets looked fresh, his pillows crumpled into a familiar configuration of the way he slept.

  The alarm clock sat on the table, a glass of water, the bottle with his blood pressure pills. Paula lifted the orange CVS bottle and looked; it had yesterday’s date. Stacks of notepads scribbled with scientific equations and formulaic notes.

  Her whole stomach and chest convulsed in one ache.

  “Oh, Roger,” she whispered. “Poor Roger.” She began to hyperventilate and sat on the side of the bed, head hanging low, crushed with compassion. All the anger washed away in a second. Poor, poor Roger. She thought of the brownstone. It was not his home either; it was not who he was or who he’d always been.

  She phoned Heavenly.

  “Where are you and how come you haven’t answered your phone?” Celeste hollered.

  “You wouldn’t believe it. I-I found it. His stuff.”

  “On Staten Island?”

  She nodded as if Heavenly could see. “He’s got his bedroom here. He’s been living here.” Paula broke down and started to sob. “That’s where he goes after I fall asleep; he comes here, Heav.” She was hiccupping.

  “Oh, miksa, I’m so sorry, honey. You want us to come get you?”

  “No. We had a fight. I’m supposed to meet him for brunch. I’m gonna go.”

  She ended the call and sat there until she could no longer take the smell. Walking down the narrow path to the front door, she unlocked the dead bolt and yanked it open, crushing the boxes that were wedged behind it. She shut the door and left it unlocked.

  Looking out at the blue of New York Harbor, Paula took several deep breaths to cleanse her lungs, though the smell was trapped in her clothes and nostrils.

  Slowly she made her way back toward the dock. What the cabdriver called an eight-minute walk she stretched to twenty, pausing to sit on a bench and gain composure. She looked at her phone; there was plenty of time. Paula bunched up, grabbing her knees as she sobbed for Roger, for herself, for their life together, for everything she had ever hoped or thought it could be. For that young bride in her late thirties, so filled with hope and trust. She cried for that young woman and for what she had to go through to be the one she was today.

  Slowly walking back to St. George’s Terminal, she entered, walking past the police guards, the bomb-sniffing dogs. People glanced briefly at her. She wondered how she looked and whether she reeked of Roger’s house.

  Feeling sick, she headed to the bathroom. Mobs of teens were in there, fixing their hair, applying lipstick in the fingerprinted mirror, talking excitedly on the phone. Wet paper towels were on the floor. Paula found an open stall and bent over the toilet and vomited. The steel toilets had no seat, drops of urine, a discarded tampon applicator sitting on the back. She vomited again, her eyes becoming wet from the effort. She flushed, turned and tried to wedge her way between the girls who hadn’t stopped talking, to the sink. She wet a paper towel under the faucet and wiped her eyes and mouth, trying to lose the smell of mildew.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for the ferry to load and leave. She’d found a seat and stared at the dirty glass windows, focusing on dried raindrops for the thirty minutes it took to land and dock. She was past thinking, feeling, and pulled the ferry schedule out of her pocket, glancing again at the pen marks Roger had made. As the vessel neared the pier, she studied the bulkheads, the antiquated system of docks and walkways that were still used in this maritime world she knew so little about.

  People exited through the ferry doors. Paula followed them, figuring the breeze might help her feel less queasy. The wind blew a swatch of her hair in her eyes. As she reached to brush it away, the ferry schedule blew out of her hand and down into the water. She looked over the side, watching the floating paper as long as she could, until the crowd pushed her forward, forcing her up onto the dock.

  * * *

  Paula sat in Battery Park, not wanting to go back to the brownstone, waiting until it was time to meet Roger for brunch. She sat with her eyes closed, sporadically opening them to watch birds, pigeons, people pushing strollers and performance artists with painted faces.

  She walked uptown and arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early. As usual Roger had already made a reservation. After being seated, Paula went to the ladies’ room to wash her face with cold water. Her eyes were burning and her eyelids so swollen they wouldn’t take makeup. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as if seeing someone else.

  As she walked back to the table, Roger was there. He smiled when he saw her, but then his face shaded over once he saw she’d been crying.

  He touched her hand. “I’m sorry for being such a prick.”

  He bent and kissed her on the cheek; she let him.

  “I’m so sorry; please don’t be so upset,” he said.

  But Paula couldn’t speak.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She motioned. “Ladies’ room,” was all she could eke out. She shouldered her purse.

  A female attendant was now on duty. Inside the door was a “menstrual” couch, chairs with a table and lamp Paula had never noticed before. The woman attendant wore a gray uniform and smiled at her.

  Paula stepped into a stall, latched the door and leaned against it, trying to gather her thoughts, her breath. Then she turned around and retched, though nothing came up but long strings of saliva. She propped herself up on the back wall, leaning over until she stopped shaking and tremb
ling.

  “You okay, miss?” the woman asked in a Dominican-accented voice, but Paula didn’t answer.

  She left the stall and stepped up to the sink. The woman handed her a paper cup with water.

  With a trembling hand, Paula took a sip.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, miss?”

  Paula didn’t answer.

  “Are you sick, miss?”

  Paula shook her head.

  “You want me to call someone?”

  Paula shook her head no again.

  The woman handed her a white hand towel; Paula held it under the cold water and then up to her eyes.

  “Thank you.” She took out her wallet and put a tip in the woman’s basket.

  Paula stepped out and saw Roger chatting with someone he knew at another table.

  As she left the restaurant, she lifted her hand to hail a cab.

  “La Guardia, please.”

  She took out her phone and called Eleni. “Mom?” She began to hiccup again, trying to hold it together.

  “Paula mou, what’s happened?”

  “I’m coming home, Mom. I’ll be back in Duluth as soon as I can catch a flight.”

  “Here’s Rick; you can tell him.”

  “Hey, Paula.”

  “Hi. Oh God.” She touched her chest. The sound of Rick’s voice made her smile with relief. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Yours too.” He paused. “Everything okay?”

  “I think so.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I’m coming back.”

  “Good,” he answered quickly. “I was hoping you would.”

  “As soon as I can catch a flight.”

  “Text me your flight info. Eleni and I’ll meet you in Duluth.”

  * * *

  The cab dropped her off on the departure deck. She walked over to the Delta airline sales.

  “One-way to Duluth, Minnesota.”

  “For today?”

  Paula nodded and pulled out her wallet, handing over her debit card to the flight attendant. She couldn’t stop tears from rolling out of her eyes in thick drops. The information was processed and the young man handed her a boarding pass.