by Mary Hogan
For Muriel, that frosty Saturday afternoon with her mother was the best day of her life. She couldn’t stop smiling. She loved everything about subways and trains—the way their rhythmic growl pummeled her chest, the side-to-side shimmy, the salty taste of grit in the underground air. All those interesting people with their braided hair and puffy jackets. To her, trains sounded determined, as if tracks were a mere suggestion of where a train might choose to go on its own. A subway car might loosen its own third rail and take off one day, not caring in the slightest who was onboard. Trains were the sound of freedom, of escape.
Beneath her best coat, Muriel wore a green velvet dress with satin trim. A gift from her grandmother Piacek Jula—Pia’s namesake. The dress was too young for her, the kind of overfussy dress a flower girl wears to a wedding, then never again, but Muriel wore it anyway because she knew it would please her mother. She also knew the next time she saw her babcia, her grandmother would ask, “How did it fit? Was it too tight?” Family members were always asking Muriel if her clothes were too tight. As if they didn’t have eyes in their very own heads.
Sitting on the hard plastic seat, with her shoulder touching her mother’s, Muriel felt utterly grown up in spite of her snug little-girl dress. They faced the window, rocking in tandem with the ba dum ba dum sound of the tracks below. Muriel wanted everyone on the train to see that she was with her mother on the way into New York City. Just the two of them on an outing to see a real live Broadway show—without Pia to hoard her mother’s hand and affection, without Owen to silently hover or Logan to darken the day with his sulking.
Though cold out, it was warm and thick aired inside the train. Queens flickered past like a flip-book. Puffy graffiti tags defaced the metal underpasses, paint flaked off the brick faces of dirty walk-ups. The apartments along the elevated tracks were so close you could see life inside: flickering TV sets, kettles billowing steam. Scanning the gauzy curtains for faces, Muriel saw an old lady with pink curlers in her hair and a man in an undershirt with an ashy cigarette dangling from his lips. Their windows must rattle when the train passes, she thought. Did they feel the same rumble in their chests, the same longing to get out?
“How do they sleep, Mama, with the noise of the train?”
“Keep your voice down, Muriel.”
In the tunnel beneath the East River, the rail joints echoed loudly off the greasy tiled walls. Muriel twisted herself around to look out the window for orange sprays of sparks, the flare of a used Kleenex tossed carelessly onto the track. She felt a rush of exhilaration with the metallic scraping of the train’s brakes. What if it didn’t stop? Couldn’t stop? And how did they get heat into a string of subway cars a block long? Did trains ever crash into each other? Hit head-on? Did a maid come through in the middle of the night and scrub the scuffed-up floors? Did she work all night and sleep all day and never see her children when they came home from school? Did her kids feel like they had no one at all?
“Do orphans have no mother, or no parents period?”
“Sit up straight, Muriel. Your dress is getting crushed.”
By the time Lidia and Muriel arrived at the Times Square station, it was about twenty minutes before curtain. The underground air smelled vaguely of vomit. Muriel covered her nose with one mittened hand, gripped her mother’s open palm with the other. Most of the travelers around them were in a rush to catch a train, make a connection, or exit up the stairs into the cold. Like a giant polka, people automatically sidestepped one another, except for the leaners who rested against riveted support beams with their hands out and their eyes glazed over, or the man in the corner with white crust around his mouth and a droopy coat hanging off one shoulder, its lining loose.
“Don’t stare,” Lidia said, though she really meant, “Don’t look.” Lidia believed you could make bad things disappear by looking the other way.
Outside, the afternoon air was the color of lead. Muriel’s cheeks stung instantly. The theater was only three blocks from the subway stop, but they were swarming with humanity. The sidewalk was crunchy with tiny salt rocks after the previous day’s snow. Hardened ice mountains along the curb were black topped with soot and backfire. Yet there was a distinctive kindness in the air. Bonded by the 9/11 attacks three months earlier, New York City had suddenly become a small town.
“Let me help you with that.”
“No, after you.”
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Everywhere were previously unfamiliar conversations. Nowhere was the city’s new Mayberry veneer more apparent than in Times Square. Once filled with neon signs promising GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! and faded posters featuring topless women with black bars covering the nipples on their watermelon breasts, Times Square had morphed into Disneyland’s Broadway. The billboard sky drew Muriel’s eyes upward even as Lidia bulldozed through the crowds pulling her daughter behind her. They passed tourists with cameras pressed to their faces, caricaturists, a manly looking girl shivering in hot pants, someone in a giant red Elmo suit, and several sidewalk vendors with hunched shoulders who shifted left and right on their duct-taped sneakers. Young Muriel had never seen so many different people in such a small space. It was beyond thrilling. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a procession of elephants galumphing down the center of the street. Only when the throng spontaneously erupted in applause as two New York City firefighters were spotted on the street did Lidia stop and become part of the people around her.
“I see why you want to live here, Mama,” Muriel said, adoringly. But her mother didn’t reply. She only smiled in a sad sort of way.
When they finally got to the theater, it was close to curtain. Through the golden doors, in the warm interior, Muriel gasped when she saw the green and orange swirls in the painted ceiling, the gilded molding, the glowing chandelier, the braided gold fringe at the bottom of the red velvet curtain. She burrowed into the soft worn chenille upholstery on her seat and put her hand on her chest to feel the thudding of her heart. It felt like she was sitting inside a jewelry box, as if she, herself, were a pearl. Inside that theater, the outside world disappeared. No longer was she a lonely and chubby kid.
With her Playbill sitting pristinely on her knees, Muriel softly folded her hands on her lap and beamed at her beautiful mother. At last Lidia genuinely smiled back and Muriel felt a rush of warmth wash over her. What a lucky girl. That magical Saturday belonged to them and no one else. It was a mother-daughter special day that was all hers. So there.
At that moment the lights in the theater blinked. Stragglers were escorted to their seats. Muriel felt the shift in the crowd as everyone settled in. Purses were snapped shut, throats were cleared. Cellophane crinkled as hard candies were unwrapped. Facing front, she listened to the mess of notes as the orchestra tuned up.
That’s when it happened. It was less than an instant, really, though it felt as long as life itself. The houselights faded to black. A complete eclipse of light. The curtain swept open sideways. Swoosh. The silence was so thick it was audible. In that solitary moment of absolute stillness between the last sputter of light and the first chord of music, Muriel felt the most exhilarating sensation. She was completely aligned. Amid a collectively held breath, in the middle of a sea of tilted heads, she felt a pure sense of containment, an utter oneness with the world. Her brain didn’t buzz with unanswered questions, her waist didn’t strain against her clothing, her feet didn’t feel too big for her ankles, and her nose wasn’t too large for the allotted space on her face. In that single moment of weighted anticipation—like the last second before sleep, before waking up in a dream—Muriel’s heart ceased to beat with the longing to be someone else. To be Pia, her perfect sister. For the first time in her young life, she felt present and accounted for.
Though she didn’t know it then, Muriel would fall into her fate that Saturday afternoon. Or fate would fall on her. By the time the cast twirled onto the stage she would be hooked for life.
With a gut-lurching jolt, the orchestra fl
ared. The stage lights blazed yellow. Transfixed, Muriel was so immersed in the colorful wonder unfolding before her eyes, she barely noticed when her mother leaned over and whispered, “Be right back,” and didn’t return until intermission.
Chapter 13
THE M5 BUS rumbled down upper Broadway, past the green glass walls of Julliard and the illuminated grand stair in front of Lincoln Center. Through the window Muriel watched her city pass by: a Duane Reade drugstore, salad bar deli, nail spa, dry cleaners, bank, another bank, and, of course, a Starbucks. The same pattern repeated all over the island.
Pia said, “So much to do.” Then she sighed.
Muriel agreed. New York was great that way. It was a comfort knowing the whole world was outside her door—well, down four flights and east two blocks—if she ever felt like entering it.
Uncharacteristically reaching down to squeeze her hand (what was with all this touching?), Pia softly smiled and stared out the window. Muriel recrossed her ankles and fastened a casual look on her face. Now that her sister’s tears had dried up, she prepared herself to say, “Let’s get this over with, sis. Why are you here?” Though of course she’d never use the word “sis” and had no idea why she’d even thought of it. Next she’d call something “fabulous.”
They hit traffic near Columbus Circle, but the driver skillfully knit through crisscrossing cabs to pass the vertical mall and loop around the elliptical plaza. Fountains were spurting skinny arcs of water; purple spires of Liriope and persimmon-colored buds of Cotoneaster decorated the bases of honey locust trees. After they turned right on Central Park South, Muriel both saw and smelled the line of hansom cabs waiting for tourists, their hairy-footed horses scraping the asphalt with crusty yellowed hooves.
“So, what brings you to our fair land?” she blurted out, instantly biting the inner flesh of her lip and cursing her idiocy. “I mean, to what do I owe the honor?” Turning her head away, Muriel wanted to leap out the window and throw herself under the bus tire. Why all semblance of human personality deserted her around her older sister she hadn’t a clue. In the same way she could never comprehend why she gobbled up free samples of mini bagel bites at Costco even though gluten immediately gave her a stomachache. Some things were just mysteries of life.
Subtly sliding her hand out from beneath Pia’s, she released a nervous spew of conversational buckshot. “Of course it’s always great to see you. Especially on such a beautiful day. It really is so very lovely outside, don’t you thi—?”
Pia reached up and stroked Muriel’s cheek with the backs of her first two fingers. It shut her up instantly. Not sure what else to do, Muriel let her face hang there like a bolt of sateen. Was Pia checking for exfoliation? Good God, would the nightmarish day never end? Smiling softly again, Pia covered her mouth and coughed, resettling her hand in her lap. Then she returned her million-mile gaze through the bus window. After a lifetime of memorizing her sister, Muriel knew it was useless pushing Pia to talk before she was ready. It was the frustrating trait of a person who’d never known the loneliness of not being listened to.
“I can’t wait to see the grand spot you’ve chosen for lunch,” Pia said, at last. By then, the bus was almost at Fifth Avenue. Lurching into traffic, they turned the corner and stopped across the street from FAO Schwartz. Muriel stood up. “This is us.”
Pia looked out the window. “Bergdorf’s?”
“Follow me.”
Tugging the white shirtdress over her hips and adjusting the suffocating scarf, Muriel led her sister down the bus steps and back up Fifth Avenue a few yards before turning to walk across a cobblestone square past the Pulitzer Fountain of the naked goddess Pomona.
“Ah, Muriel,” Pia said, stopping. “It’s perfect.”
Muriel beamed. It felt good to please someone who was so hard to please. Thank God she’d read the New York Times review.
“You can’t smell the horses inside.”
Together the two sisters walked toward the regal red carpet leading to the fabulous entrance of the Plaza Hotel.
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE not to feel grand or magnificent or glorious or splendid at the pitch-perfect blending of old and new known to all New Yorkers as “The Plaza.” The front steps are so alluring they practically suck you through the shiny brass revolving door. Overhead, a black lacquered molding is filigreed in gold. It probably isn’t real gold, but it might as well be.
“Ladies.” As if welcoming Cinderella to the ball, a gloved doorman bowed his head slightly when Pia flitted up the red-carpeted stairs. Not far behind, Muriel attempted her own light-footed flit. In his top hat with its gold-braided trim, the doorman looked like an actor onstage. The “Be My Guest” scene in Beauty and the Beast, or, more accurately, Grand Hotel. Muriel felt the same fluttery anticipation she felt right before the curtain rose on Broadway. For a moment she forgot about the tugging buttons of her dress.
“Glorious day,” she said to the doorman, sounding not one bit ridiculous. Gallantly, he swept his arm across his chest and replied, “Indeed.”
The Sullivant sisters leaned into the heavy rotating door and pushed themselves through time. In the central lobby, Pia stopped cold and gasped. Muriel nearly toppled into her.
“Oh, my,” Pia said. “I haven’t been here in ages.”
Overhead, a crystal chandelier as large and shiny as a new car sent snowflakes of pearly light dancing about the square lobby. Milky bellflowers in a huge center vase infused the air with the aroma of harvested hay. Their soft petals were an explosion of violet. Pia’s heels sank into the thick floral rug. Tourists and guests entered through the revolving door and sidestepped her. The rubber strip along the edge of the circulating entrance flap, flapped with each revolution.
“It’s this way,” Muriel said, but her sister didn’t budge. As if standing alone, Pia dropped her shoulders and tilted her head back to see the ornate white ceiling. Her handbag dropped down to her fingertips; her lips went slack. The dappled light powdered the length of her satiny neck. She let her eyelids fall shut as if imagining a Downton Abbey sort of world where women wore silk shoes and teardrop earrings and diamond-studded hair clips to dinner. Their men retired to the study after dining to smoke cigars and sip cognacs and furrow their foreheads over the sorry state of England.
Next to her sister, Muriel studied the mosaic tiles along the edge of the lobby’s red floral rug. “I never did stay here,” Pia finally said in a whisper.
“You still can. Only part of it was made into condos.”
“Yes. Well.” Pia opened her eyes.
Together, the sisters made their way to the rear of the hotel, past a jaw-dropping side lobby, its marble floor so polished you could apply lipstick in its reflection. They circled around the famous Palm Court with its sky-high stained-glass ceiling curved upward like a colossal bejeweled brooch. It cast an ethereal yellow light onto the white-linened tables. Pia ran her fingers along the carbonite stone wall in the long hallway and said, “Isn’t God amazing? Creating man with the ability to imagine this?”
“Conrad Hilton, one of the owners years ago, destroyed the original stained-glass ceiling to install air-conditioning. God created him, too.”
Pia didn’t respond.
A brass-edged escalator carried the sisters down to the basement level, where they were going to have lunch. Like a secret city, it was a Gatsbyesque expanse of shops and gourmet food, an unearthed treasure of chocolate, pizza, elaborate millinery, custom perfumes, sushi, charcuterie, oysters, artisanal cheese, coffee, and cupcakes. Anything anyone with style could ever want to eat or buy.
“Two for lunch?”
A hostess greeted them at the Food Hall—a huge open room dotted with high communal tables and curving Carerra marble counters. Each counter faced a food station, though as the hostess explained, “You can order anything you want at any station.”
Before Muriel could request a quiet corner away from the noise, Pia said, “Seat us in the middle of the action.” Shrugging, Muriel followed t
he hostess to two bar chairs in front of a large sizzling grill. One of the grill chefs clacked his tongs in greeting. Two older men in suits that cost more than Muriel’s monthly rent looked up when the sisters sat down.
“Ladies,” they said in unison.
“Gentlemen,” Pia replied in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way. Muriel blushed even as the men ignored her. Many times she’d witnessed the way a man’s gaze lingered on her sister. At thirty-one—precariously close to New York’s expiration date—Pia was still asked for her phone number. Muriel, eight years younger, was asked for directions. Never had Pia been a woman unseen. Men wanted her in their limo, on their arm, in their bed.
“Any chance we can buy you ladies lunch?”
Muriel quietly fluffed her scarf, allowing her sister to let the men down easy. The man nearest Pia—with his tan hands and spangly watch—looked at Pia alone. While attractive enough, Muriel was the sort of woman men looked through. They saw their iPhone messages clearly, or the swivel of young hips in tight pencil skirts, but men rarely noticed Muriel unless they were standing opposite her in Joanie’s office trying to land a part. Even then Muriel was convinced most male actors gazed deeply into her eyes merely in the hope of spotting their own tiny reflections.
“Why not?” Pia said, causing Muriel’s mouth to fall open like an unlatched basement window. “Unless you’re Hindu,” she added gaily, “you only live once.”
Both men erupted in laughter and the tanned one flagged down the waiter. “I’m Richard, and this is my business partner, Edward,” he said, reaching out to shake Pia’s hand.