A Matter of Chance

by Julie Maloney

  KAY THREW HER own birthday dinner so she could pick the place. John D’Orfini had called earlier in the day, when the city was waiting for snow, and asked, “Do I need to wear a jacket and tie?”

  “Be comfortable. You’ll be fine,” I said.

  I knew Kay suspected something was brewing between John D’Orfini and me. After all, this was Kay. I checked the mirror to see if the tips of my ears were red. But, once again, he and I had distanced ourselves like dancers moving to random choreography based on chance. Roll the dice and see what numbered pairs show up.

  Kay was feeling no pain. Dressed in a short, winter-white wool dress and a twenty-three-inch triple strand of cream-tone pearls, she looked like a successful New York bachelorette who had no idea how to poach an egg. John D’Orfini walked through the door to the restaurant dressed casually in dark pants, shirt, and no tie. His sport jacket looked like a steady afterthought. As reliable as soap and water.

  Before our entrée came, Kay brought up the subject of my upcoming move-in date. “Are you excited?” I hesitated and reinforced both posts on the amethyst earrings Evelyn had bequeathed to me.

  The couple who were moving into my apartment had agreed to keep my name next to theirs on the buzzer, in case Vinni returned. They had no children of their own, but they spoke with great affection of a huge Andy Warhol serigraph of Santa Claus that, they explained, hung all year over the fireplace in their country house in Rhinebeck.

  The day I moved in was a record-breaking temperature low. Not since 1979 had New York City experienced such a freezing February. It was easier to move downstairs than I had expected. As Evelyn’s paintings disappeared from her studio, mine grew into life. In Evelyn’s space, I had two people to talk to who were not there in body: Vinni and Evelyn. I knew Evelyn would have wanted me to make the apartment my home and not to worry about the color of the hallway and the two bedrooms—all of which I had painted a color called Brighton Blue.

  “A European-drawing-room kind of color,” the clerk at the paint store told me. “Works well with white trim. We can do a glossy trim and paint the ceilings and closet doors with the same finish. Looks real sharp.”

  I repainted the studio in the same soft white Evelyn had used. In the bathroom, I asked the painters what they’d suggest to go with the Brighton Blue hallway.

  “Baby’s Feet is nice,” one of the painters said.

  I reeled back. That was the shade of the stone in Vinni’s collection: Baby’s Feet.

  “Baby’s Feet is a new color: cream with a blush tone. We can paint the trim the white gloss to match the rest of the place.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” I didn’t need to see a sample. I knew Baby’s Feet would be the right color.

  I left the apartment on the day the painters came to work on the bathroom. I needed to get out of the way. I was often distracted by the memory of George’s finding me in the street in the middle of the night during the January storm. More and more, I noticed how he stayed hidden from the customers at the bakery. I wondered if Hannah knew what he had said to me when he’d lifted me up from the rain. You’ll be no use to her when she comes home.

  Once, I caught him looking at me through the window on the door to the kitchen, where he baked. Hannah turned when she saw me staring behind her at the counter, but George had stepped out of view.

  I SHOPPED FOR a green tree for my new bedroom, where French doors opened to a tiny balcony fit for a slim woman with no hips. Strange how Evelyn had ignored this spot. Previous coats of white paint had painted the doors shut. After she died, I discovered their possibility and hired a painter to scrape away layers of years.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I TURNED DOWN FIFTH AVENUE AND WALKED UNTIL I came to Au Bon Pain, where classical music played all day till closing. With green tea and a muffin in hand, I took a seat. People came here to eat quickly and move on to where they needed to go. Messes of already-read newspapers sat on empty tables and chairs close together. People didn’t relax here for long. They skimmed headlines and turned pages fast. They stopped, took a breath, and kept going. Maybe it was fear. Stay too long, and something could happen. It was that pulse of the city—undying—that fed coffee shops like this one. It kept the wheel turning.

  As I sat and read the “Week in Review” section from the previous Sunday’s New York Times, I looked up and saw a family enter the coffee shop. A young girl of around ten or eleven, with blond braids fixed like Heidi’s from the children’s book, walked in with her mother and father and another adult woman. They spoke German.

  The woman who appeared to be the mother said something to the child, who was fixed on her digital camera, obviously browsing through the pictures she had taken. I assumed she was on holiday, as she looked particularly pleased with herself while she clicked through the photos—smiling, pointing to the screen, and showing her not-too-interested father. The mother gestured for the child to come with her to look at the pastries in the glass bins. In a flash, the child rose and joined her. The father returned to reading a map provided by a New York City tour-bus company. He kept flipping the brochure up and down, looking at mapped streets in the city. The girl pointed to a chocolate-frosted donut and giggled. The mother and the other adult woman walked to the back of the coffee shop, toward the restroom, and left the girl alone by the pastry bin.

  Something overtook me. Desire. Longing. Maybe even temporary insanity. I smiled across the room, hoping the child would look in my direction. Her skin was white. Her face bespoke threads and threads of twined innocence. Her blond braids were perfectly parted down the middle. I wanted to touch her. Be gentle with her. Lay my hand on the top of her head.

  I spun my own fantasy.

  I could take her. Walk out of the café and make her mine.

  Was this what had happened to Hilda? Had she and Rudy fantasized over Vinni as they sat on the beach? Had she whispered into Rudy’s ear?

  This is the child I want for my own. Give me one year.

  I studied the girl. We could be mother and child. Madonna minus the good.

  I could snatch her. Flee the country. Soothe her when she called for another mother. Brush her unbraided hair at night before I tucked her in bed. When she was older, I could explain how I had lost my own daughter.

  Can good people do bad things?

  The door to the street was open. We could be outside in three, maybe four steps.

  The mother’s voice interrupted my thinking.

  “Angelika,” she said. She took the child to where the father sat at the table. She said something to him. He shrugged and went back to his map. But first he leaned over and kissed the child on her cheek.

  I left the café. Terrified by my own darkness. I began to run, fleeing from my fantasy. As I slowed to a fast walk one block from the library, I felt a strong hand on my arm. A voice from behind spoke into the back of my head.

  “Don’t turn around. Keep walking.”

  “What do you want?” I said. Intuitively, I began to turn, but the hand from behind dug deep into my skin and stopped me.

  “Walk toward the black limousine parked in front of the library.”

  People moved around us, not noticing. My head froze in position. I saw a black limousine just ahead at the curb. When I was about three feet away, the door opened and the man’s voice steered me toward it.

  “Do not try anything to draw attention to yourself. Step into the car carefully.”

  With a quick turn of my head, I grabbed a look at the man who spoke behind me. He wore sunglasses and a Giants wool ski cap pulled low over his ears. Without seeing his hair or his eyes, I had no way to identify him. As I lifted my foot, someone grabbed my arm and pulled me into the vehicle. I stumbled and fell onto the floor as I heard the car door slam shut. The last thing I saw was a darkened glass window separating me from the driver. Immediately, a blindfold was slipped over my head, my hands tied behind my back. My shoulders retracted into a painful ache.

  “What the hell is this?” I scre
amed. Someone dug his fingers into my armpits, lifted my shoulders, and pushed me onto a seat. The back of my head tapped against the windows. My body swayed out of control without my arms to steady me.

  The limousine pulled away. As I twisted in my seat, a strong arm stopped me.

  “Stay still.”

  The blindfold sat above my mouth so I could breathe, although fear made me breathless.

  The man spoke each word with precise articulation. Was he Russian? Yugoslavian? I couldn’t be sure.

  “You sniff like a hungry dog. You get in the way of my business, and this I cannot tolerate. My perfect plan cannot be undone by one woman. I am a careful man. I have learned from the best how to work and be quiet. I have had to prove myself, and now that I have, I will not have you . . . sniffing. I am not a stupid man!”

  He made a sound in his throat like he was clearing a passage obstructed by thick phlegm.

  “What business?”

  Keep him talking.

  “You have a daughter named Vinni who has been missing for four years.” At this, the man stopped speaking and sighed.

  A rush of blood jammed my head.

  “We have been watching you.”

  Is this how George found me in the middle of the night?

  “We hoped you would stop asking questions. It would have made sense. After four years, the police tell you that your child is . . . who knows? Dead, perhaps? This is sad, yes?”

  “No one’s told me that my daughter is dead. No one!”

  “What do the police know? Stupid twits. I am a quiet businessman. Your country is a good place for business. But the noise you’re making disturbs me.”

  I felt his breath. I smelled peppermint from his mouth. He was that close.

  “Step away from the window across from the bakery. Do you understand?”

  My shoulders began to ache from their pinned position. My heart raced.

  “Otherwise you will not see your daughter again.”

  “Where is she?” I scooted close to the edge of my seat. I suspected the car had gone over the George Washington Bridge. Cool air breezed in through an open window. I believed we were on our way out of the city.

  “She’s safe. Happy. Grown.”

  I sickened to think what I had lost. “Why should I believe you?”

  “You have no choice, do you?”

  Everything around me heated up as the sunlight spilled onto my right side. I tried twisting in my seat, but each time I moved, a firm hand pushed at me. Strong. Nonnegotiable.

  “Why would you choose not to believe me? Don’t be stupid!” The man’s voice filled with disgust.

  “When is my daughter coming home?”

  “Hilda is not so good now. It is only a matter of time,” the man said.

  “Hilda! This is certain?” My head turned toward the voice to my right.

  “This is certain. Believe this. Do not get too close. Stop sniffing. You are getting too close to what is none of your business. If you want to see your child again, you must wait.”

  “What do you mean, ‘wait’? I can’t wait anymore. I want my daughter.”

  The sun from the window burned my thighs.

  “Hilda just wanted to borrow your child for a while. It was a simple plan.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What are you talking about? You don’t borrow a child!”

  “You went to dinner at Hilda and Rudy’s.”

  I whispered an excuse through my tears. Crushed. Broken. My heart was all of this and more. “That was a long time ago. Almost five years,” I said. I thought for a second. “How do you know about this? Who are you?”

  He continued. “When you went to dinner, they wanted to see your daughter closer. They saw she was the perfect choice. The perfect one to borrow. Not forever, you see. They never intended it to be this long. Time is funny thing. Yes? It moves when we stand still. You will see your child.”

  “When?”

  “When Hilda’s time comes. Soon.”

  “But Hilda has kidnapped my child!”

  “No, no, this is not a kidnapping. I told you. Hilda borrowed your child. Understand this. You were so busy. The American way. Yes? Work while your child grows up. Yes? Hilda could see: writing, painting. And the child? Hilda could see.”

  Tears slid down my cheeks. I tasted the salt from a few strays circling their way into my mouth. Hilda’s words from four years ago stung me again.

  Your work, then, it keeps you away from your child?

  Had Hilda thought she could do better than I at being Vinni’s mother? Did she think I could tolerate the pain of losing a child? My box of pastels (my plein-air box). How many times had I actually used the pastels? Once, twice? On most days, they stayed buried in the bottom of the beach bag. Had Hilda heard Vinni ask me, “When will you be finished, Mama?” when I had taken out the box at the beach? Once? Twice? Had she used the words against me to satisfy her own yearning?

  WE RODE FOR at least an hour outside the city. I asked questions but was ignored. “Who are you?” I repeated over and over. He commented on the air. “It’s good to smell clean air.” Finally, the man said to the driver, “Head back.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Back to where we picked you up.”

  “When do I see Vinni?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I started to beg. “Please, tell me.” I could feel my body breaking down. “Please,” I whimpered.

  “You must stop with the questions. This little car ride is a warning. I will not be patient with you the next time. You have this one chance to listen. Tell anyone, and we are done with you. Step out of line, and you will never see your daughter again.”

  The man moved close to my face. “Never!” he said.

  “Four years is a long time,” I said.

  “She did not think it would be this long.”

  “People don’t take someone else’s child!” I screamed from behind the blindfold.

  “You see how loud you Americans are! You must be quiet. Hush, woman—you tire me.”

  This wasn’t the nephew with the acne. I would have recognized his roughed-up voice.

  “How do I know Vinni is still alive?”

  “You’ll believe me because that’s all you have. If you tell the police about this, you’ll never see your girl again. That’s a promise.”

  In that instant, I believed him.

  He hesitated and then said the preposterous. “Kick off your shoes.”

  “What?”

  “Lift your leg up onto the seat.”

  I moved my leg, my knee bent onto the seat. A hand wrapped around my foot underneath my toes.

  While we had been driving and talking, terror had kept a slight distance, but now it pounced inside my chest. A shadow passed in front of my blindfold; I figured out later it must have been his arm coming down, setting the hand just so, moving it swiftly, with the confidence of an expert.

  Pain stunned me. My foot went cold, then hot. I wasn’t sure what had happened. The pain nearly made me pass out. I stopped breathing. I tried to catch it. My breath. My breath. Where had it gone? I couldn’t catch it. Shock pulsed through my throat. The car swerved. The man yelled, “Watch it, you fool!” to the driver. I heard something drop onto the seat next to me. “Now look what you’ve done. My jacket—disgusting.” Again to the driver: “Tiny tools work the best.”

  I needed air.

  “This is a little package, Ms. Stewart. So I leave you with something. A reminder. That’s all. No police. No more sniffing. Bad, bad things happen to stupid people who interfere with my business. I tell you this to warn you.”

  A pause.

  “Pull over,” the man said.

  We returned to the corner of the library where we had started two hours ago.

  “Put your shoes on. I’m going to untie your hands and place something inside them. If you want to see your girl, you’ll wait for the call. You’ll ask no more questions. Mind you, tak
e no chances. If you don’t, next time I slice you in half. Do what you are told. Stay away from the window in the middle of the night. Agh. There is mess on my trousers. You see how you trouble me.”

  Holding on to my shoulders with a rough grip, the man threw a book into my lap. I heard the door open, and someone leaned in, removed the blindfold from over my head, reached in, and pulled me out of the car. I squinted up into a pair of dark sunglasses and the same wool Giants hat. The man jumped into the car, and it sped away.

  I STRUGGLED TO catch my balance.

  I looked down, and in my hands was James and the Giant Peach— the book Vinni had been reading on the beach four years earlier.

  Shaking uncontrollably, I hobbled a few steps up to the first cement landing of the library. On sunny days like today, people sat scattered on the front and side terraces. I moved closest to Forty-First Street, away from the crowded area on the opposite corner, and sat down to examine my foot. I held Vinni’s book close to my chest and pressed my lips together hard to silence the chattering.

  I slipped off my left shoe. At first, all I saw was blood. It took me a few seconds to realize I had a toe missing. My pinky toe. I grabbed tissues from my purse and wrapped them around the top of my foot.

  I fingered the pages of the book. I turned each one, expecting to smell Vinni. Something slipped out and fell onto the stone steps. A photo of an older Vinni stared up at me. A picture of a preteen with lighter hair, thinner cheeks, and a longer face stunned me. My daughter stood holding the reins of a horse in the middle of a field surrounded by snowcapped mountains in the far distance. She was smiling. Not like a little girl anymore but rather like someone older beyond her years.

  I smoothed my hand over her face and brought the picture up to my heart. My head dropped back. My mouth shaped a silent howl. Corners of my heart broke. I ignored the throbbing of my foot. I was so close to having my child back, but I couldn’t tell anyone.