“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Joe can make you a half. You’ll feel better with a little food in you.”
“Please. No.”
“Okay then. Now, Mrs. DeMartino.” He scoops a forkful of coleslaw.
“Rachel. Call me Rachel,” she says, glancing out the door.
“Rachel. Now about this friend of yours.”
“Sara Beth.”
He turns when he notices her look past him at someone approaching. Joe sets down two steaming mugs of coffee. “You have enough? The food’s good?” Joe asks.
“The best.” Joe gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze before turning back to the counter. “He and my Pop were paisans,” he explains to Rachel, shifting in his seat and glancing around the room. “Both their parents came from the Italian mountains. Let me tell you a story about them.”
“Really,” Rachel insists, “I don’t have time for stories.”
“Hear me out, the story explains something. See, both couples, my father’s parents and Joe’s parents, came to Ellis Island on the same boat.” Rachel sips her coffee, no nod, no nothing. He waits for a second until she glances to the door. “Coming here with only the clothes on their backs, the four of them struck up a friendship on that boat. They lived in the same tenement houses and bought homes on the same block in Queens, raised their families doors apart, took turns having the holidays.” He turns back toward Joe. “Always together. Ever since the boat ride.”
“Okay. Nice story. Joe over there grew up next door to your father.”
“See, right off the boat,” he continues, “their fathers were masons. Coming from the old country, that’s all they knew. Working with their hands. So with the union work around the city, bricklaying and labor work on the commercial sites, they followed the jobs.” He finishes the roll and washes it down with coffee. “They worked hard and saved hard. After about ten years, they settled in Queens, on that same street. They did okay.”
He sees that Rachel is about to bolt when she checks her watch. “I’m sorry, but—” she begins.
“Joe and my Pop were like brothers. Eventually Pop bought a house down the same street from Joe. They raised their families as neighbors, just like their parents. I grew up on that street.”
“Well. That’s great, but I think…”
He sees it coming, the way she looks at her purse, then up at the door. It’s in her resigned smile and quick breath, the moment before she decides to leave.
“Wait a sec, okay?” He nods toward Joe behind the counter. “Joe’s sixty-six now, could retire with a big bank account. But that would kill him. This,” he motions around the small deli, “this is his, you know. His life. His bricks and his mortar and his sweat. His wife, Lena, cooks the sausages and meatballs, and brings in her specialty eggplant parmagiana. They’ve got another ten years in here, easy.”
Rachel’s eyes sweep the deli, her purse in her lap, hands through the shoulder strap. At the far end, a small counter with red-cushioned, silver stools butts up against the meat case, full of the freshest cold cuts around. Tubs of macaroni and potato salads fill the cooler case behind the counter.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Michael asks. “Between the two of them, they’ve fed this corner of Manhattan for twenty-five years. The Manhattan that Joe’s mason father and shipmate friend, my grandfather, helped to build.”
Rachel shifts, as though to stand. “I’d like to hear more, really, but—”
“My dad was a union mason all his life, too. Had a stroke a few years ago and never fully recovered. He died last year.”
“Well, I’m very sorry. But this isn’t helping me—”
“Thanks. Joe took the loss hard. He was so close to Pop that I’m like a son to him, too. And that, Rachel…It’s Rachel, right? That’s why I understand your worry about your friend. I grew up watching a great friendship. The same expression is on your face that I saw on Joe’s, when he lost my Pop.”
“You take an extremely long time to get to the point,” Rachel says. “And how does that point help me?”
He turns up his hands. “You’ve lost a good friend, and it makes me want to help. Now, since she’s not a minor and hasn’t been kidnapped, you can do one of two things.”
“Okay.” She pulls her chair in close.
“One, we sit here and get that report finished. What they’ll do with it at the Station is a Risk Assessment. Prioritize it, give you a copy before they file it away. Too much else is going on, you know?” He takes a swallow of coffee and wipes his mouth with the napkin.
“And the second thing?”
Michael leans close over the table. “Sara Beth. Let me guess. Attractive, educated forty-something, leading a tame life. Nice husband, couple of smart kids, white picket fence, PTA?”
“Pretty close.”
“Comes to the Big Apple for this Ladies’ Weekend and, basically, is seduced. Manhattan looked her dead in the eye, gave her a good stiff drink, a dinner, exciting atmosphere…Except you can’t seduce a married woman unless something’s wrong at home. With her old man, with her life.”
“What are you saying?”
“Something’s screwed up at home, or maybe in her thinking, and it’s so bad that she can’t go back. It happens. Anything come to mind?”
Rachel sits up straighter. “It’s presumptuous of you to tell me Sara Beth’s head is messed up.”
He starts to stand. “I was just looking for clues. They’re always there, somewhere.”
“Wait.” She grabs his arm. “You said I could do two things.”
“Rachel.” So he sits again and tries something else. “I don’t see you going back to…”
“Connecticut.”
“Connecticut. Right. I don’t see you leaving here without a fight. Believe me, you’ve made yourself clear on that. But don’t go hunting her down. You’ll only put yourself,” he glances past her, then back at her face. “At risk. It’s better to wait her out for a few days. Where are you staying?”
“The Plaza. Till Sunday.”
“So she knows where she can reach you. That note means this is her choice. Give her time, be there for her if she calls or comes back with her tail between her legs. But let her come back to you.”
“So you’re telling me to spend the next few days waiting in my room. That’s the best the NYPD can do?”
He pauses, not sure how to help her. “Well, no. But with no signs of foul play, and she’s not a risk to herself or anyone else, our hands are tied. So go ahead and see the sights. But don’t check out of The Plaza. If she tries to contact you, the desk will take a message. And she’ll know you’re still in the city.”
“I don’t have much choice, except now I’m flying solo.”
“Can you call someone to stay with you? A husband? A sister?”
She eyes him for a cautious second, but he never sees this one coming. “I’m a widow.”
“Now it’s my turn for sympathy.”
“Well thank you. And Sara Beth asked me not to bring her husband in on this.”
“That’s ridiculous. And there’s no one else you can call?”
“No one near enough to make the trip.”
“That’s a tough one then. You’ve got a lot on your plate. Maybe call her family then.”
“But she asked me not to. I mean, what’s she thinking? It’s not like I can just ignore this and what, go bowling?”
Lord knows he’s spent his share of hours alone in desperate situations. There is nothing worse, your worries spinning like a fantastic kaleidoscope sucking you right into it. Maybe he can help her that way, to worry less. “You can, you know.”
“What?”
“Just go with me on this. Go bowling.”
He kind of figured it would happen, the way she abruptly stands, hikes her bag on her shoulder and reaches in for a few dollars to pay for her coffee. “What the hell? My friend is in serious trouble and you’re telling me to go bowling? I’m really losing my patience.”
&n
bsp; “Hear me out, okay? Please listen.”
She pauses, then slowly sits again, that bag and two dollars clutched in her lap.
“No, I don’t mean definitely bowling. It’s a figure of speech. But you’ll imagine the worst waiting alone in your hotel. Believe me, I’ve been there.” His voice drops. “She could be anywhere. So finish that report, then go out and spend a few hours bowling, or eating, or at a show, doesn’t matter what. Bring your cell and it’ll help you wait.” Now, he stands. “That’s the only thing you can do, really. Pass some time while waiting. Maybe you’ll remember something she said in the meantime.”
Rachel doesn’t answer. She sits looking at her hands, at the counter, out the window, anywhere but at his face.
He checks his watch. “Listen. I thought it might help, you know? That’s all.”
Footsteps come up behind him. “Michael.”
He turns around and can’t help smiling. “Lena. How are you today?”
“Good, Michael. Here.” Lena is small and moves quietly, a strand of gray hair slipping from her bun. She hands him a red apple she held behind her back. “For Maggie.”
“You spoil her, just like she’s your kid. She got spooked today, I practically ran over a woman a few blocks back and it shook her up.”
“Poor horse. You tell Maggie I’m sorry, and stop by for sugar cubes tomorrow.” Lena gives his hand a squeeze and turns back to the kitchen. “And be careful.”
There is a second, one that he stretches into a long pause, because sometimes someone needs one, or a situation does, when all that hinges on the day can happen in that pause, before he turns back to the table and pushes in his chair. “Mrs. DeMartino. Take care now. And I hope your friend’s all right. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. You let us know if anything develops.” He picks up his keys and walks to the door.
Rachel looks out the window onto the narrow street at dusk. Too much is happening, too fast. This is not how she planned on spending her long weekend, this sitting in a Manhattan deli, scared for her friend, talking to a police officer. “Damn it,” she says, scrunching up her napkin. Why did Carl have to go and die? This would never have happened if he were here.
But he wasn’t, and Sara Beth was. Rachel had turned forty a month after her friend. And it felt good. There’s something new about it, something exciting. And she always celebrates life’s good days, buying herself little presents, chocolates, or silver hoop earrings. Something! And Sara knows this about her! She knows that this weekend is about celebrating a long friendship while turning the corner on forty together. And while shopping and getting mini-makeovers. The fun stuff, like the voucher in the hotel gift bag for a discounted haircut at Frederic Fekkai in Bendel’s. Now she’s gone and made it something else.
Rachel turns in her seat when this cop waves back to Joe as he pushes open the door to leave. Friendship or not, she is not going to lose this weekend and just sit around. Forty gives her nerve, is what it does. Is there a limit on that? On nerve? Does the pot ever run dry? Because suddenly she feels like she’s been dipping in a lot.
“Excuse me!” she calls out as the door starts closing.
Michael catches the door with his boot heel and backs up into the room, holding his keys in one hand and Maggie’s apple in the other. She waits for him to say something, anything, as he looks over his shoulder at her.
“And exactly where would I find a bowling alley in this city?” she finally asks, frustrated that her weekend has come to this, to killing time and worrying, worrying in spades.
“Well,” Michael begins, walking back to her table. “Down at the Piers—”
“The Piers?”
He stands at his chair, looks back at the door, then checks his watch. “Okay listen. If you want, I can take you there. A little later on. I have to stop home first.”
“You’d do that? You don’t even know me.”
He shrugs. “I’ve got a general picture of the situation here.”
“Okay,” she finally agrees after a long silence, one in which she actually has to glance away, his stare is so darn steady. Maybe it’s because there’s some tenderness in his look, too, in his offer of time in the city that took her friend.
“You’re sure?” he asks, checking his watch again. “I’ll pick you up then? At seven. Okay?” He waits, watching closely until she nods. “Get that report done too, okay?” When she agrees, he tosses the apple in the air and catches it before walking out the door.
Seven o’clock. Sometimes you have to set a precedent. Yes. This is what it will be on her girl’s weekend out. Forty will be her choices. If Sara Beth returns by this evening, fine. If not, well. Well okay.
Sara Beth has to do her thing, but so does she. Forty is forty, after all.
So, at forty she thinks she did something she hasn’t done in twenty years. She checks her cell phone for any messages from Sara Beth, and stands then, collecting her purse and the police report before heading out the door back to The Plaza.
She accepted a date. Well, kind of a date, anyway.
Chapter Three
Shop lights are coming on and Rachel catches her reflection in a glass building on Fifth Avenue. The city is doubled in the fading afternoon light, its image reflected in the windows, doubling her panic at the same time. There is two of everyone now. She turns quickly and squints at a passing reflection, auburn hair catching her eye. “Sara!” she calls out, brushing past people until she can reach out and turn the woman. “Sara Beth!” The woman tugs away and keeps moving in one swift motion, a few pigeons flapping in agitation around her feet. Every auburn head will draw her now, there’s no getting around it.
It’s strange, looking for someone so familiar, so much a part of her life. At sight of the New York Public Library, she crosses the busy street and climbs the grand staircase, finding an available computer terminal she can use inside. She takes a seat at a long wooden table with reading lamps spaced evenly across it. If Sara Beth can’t be found physically, maybe there’s some sign of her virtually. Maybe she updated her Facebook page, leaving some clue to her behavior today. Or tweeted her whereabouts in one hundred forty characters. Maybe someone friended her, someone who knows something Rachel doesn’t know.
First she checks her own email, scanning the inbox, looking for Sara Beth’s name there. Not seeing it, a feeling of vast emptiness settles on her. She glances around, moving from her cyber world on the screen to the gothic doorway rising beside her, right next to the table. Two stone pillars reach up to the soaring ceilings, framing the doorway. What a juxtaposition of old and new, the past and present. Online mailboxes and intangible correspondence exist in harmony with the substantiation and strength of this building.
Sara Beth’s Facebook page isn’t any help. Rachel scrolls over her friends, recognizing different town groups who’ve left messages on her wall…The Friends of the Library, asking her if she can collect book donations; the Beautification Committee planning the summer plantings; other local names Rachel knows well. And what they all do is suggest a virtual portrait of her friend through their connections. She clicks on Sara Beth’s photo albums, coming across several of Sara with her mother in a pumpkin patch, antiquing, at Christmas. There are others, with her sister Melissa, the kids, one with her arms wrapped around Tom.
“What are you doing?”
Rachel looks up at the sound of the harsh voice. A young mother grabs a pen from her child’s hand, looking around quickly to see if anyone noticed the scribblings the boy made right on the table. “Let’s get out of here,” she says, standing and leaving behind a messy pile of books and paper.
Rachel turns back to her screen and blocks out the distraction, focusing intently now on Google and missing person statistics. The mother and son voices echo back even after they’ve left the room, continuing through the building, indifferent to the people around them.
Subject: Quick Hello
From: SaraBeth
To: Elizabeth
Date: May 15 at 4:3
0 PM
Hey Mom, it’s me. I haven’t talked to you in a few days, and wanted to check in.
Sara Beth looks at the screen for a few seconds, aware of the massive concentration in this huge room. It’s amazing how a place so large and full of people can be so hushed. Her eye is drawn to the endless line of long wooden tables, each with reading lamps evenly spaced across them. The old and new. Read a book beneath golden lamplight, or log on to the Internet and read virtually. Her mother loved that sense of contrast, the new adding a whimsy to her old antiques. She misses her so much.
I don’t really know what I’m doing Mom. I might’ve screwed up, I can’t tell anymore. Without you here, it’s so hard to decide things. So okay, I left. I walked away from everything I knew, for a few days. And honestly, no one will even really realize it, since I wasn’t home anyway. I’m just taking a few days alone in NY. I’m not sure why, it felt like I had to get out, to leave. To find answers, something. Remember that da Vinci philosophy we talked about? You know, “One can have no smaller or greater mastery than mastery of oneself.” Well I really wish someone, you especially, could tell me exactly how to do that.
Love,
Sara Beth
“What are you doing?”
The voice unnerves Sara Beth, as though it would be the exact question her mother would ask. It came from the far end of the long room, but carried well. “Let’s get out of here,” a woman says, and she sees a harried young mother push back her chair and grab the hand of a toddler beside her, rushing out. She looks around the room at the rows of long wooden tables and brass desk lamps and computer stations. Near the loud woman, a grand doorway is framed by two towering stone pillars. The other patrons tune out the woman, intent on their readings and research. In all her life, she’d never been in the New York Public Library, never walked up the steps between Patience and Fortitude. Until today.
Whole Latte Life Page 3