Читать книгу Starlight in New York - Helen Cox - Страница 8

After the jolt of the mugging, and the sheer weirdness of the Jack episode, clearing my head was at the top of my to-do list. And so, the following day, I hopped on a subway to Coney Island, New York City’s own Avalon. My diner shift didn’t start till four which meant I’d time aplenty to relax at the edge of the Atlantic. To gaze out at the indigo horizon and listen to the jolly screams of visitors braving the Cyclone: an aged, wooden rollercoaster which rattled around a precarious track. Maybe I’d even have my fortune told on the Zoltar machine, if I was feeling adventurous and had a dollar to spare. Yes, Zoltar was a nodding puppet in a turban but I’d wager even he had a better idea about what was good for me than I did just then.

The hard stare of the Manhattan streets faded the second the salt air hit my lungs, even if it was somewhat fouled by the sweaty scent of grilled hot dogs, and before long I was strolling the length of the promenade. All around, folks made the most of the blossoming weather: some lazed out, priming their already medium-rare skin with tanning lotion. Others queued for The Wonder Wheel to the soundtrack of cawing gulls.

Nobody else was here alone.

They’d all come in family groups or in couples. Most were too caught up in their own frolics to take note of a lone, unkempt woman slobbing around in a T-shirt and a frayed pair of Jordache jeans. But those who did notice, looked at me a moment longer than I’d like. Were they wondering why I had no companion? Staring at them, staring at me, I speculated what they’d say if I told them the answer.

Further along the boardwalk, tight clusters of tourists dotted the shoreline. A bronzed, bare-chested twenty-something lifted his girlfriend in a way not dissimilar to how Jack had, without any effort, lifted me the day before. I sighed. Despite my efforts to shut him out, the actor had sauntered into my thoughts. And not for the first time. Watching those young lovers, I felt again his hands, firm and secure around my waist, and an unfamiliar warmth stirred just beneath the skin.

Oh Esther, don’t be drawn. How could you so soon forget what men do?

No. I hadn’t forgotten. Jack was just the first handsome face to take an interest since… since…

I shook my head. That’s all these thoughts were. A raw, physical reaction to the tone of his arms.

What rippled beneath that smooth surface, Esther?

More than just muscle. A savage. Unless he had a medical note for that weird, wall-punching tic. A brute. Another one.

Overcome by both the heat and the odd cocktail of emotions, I sheltered in the shadow cast by a billboard for Nathan’s hot dogs. The beach stretched out along the peninsula as far as I could make out. Sandwiched between the blue waters of the Atlantic and the jubilant roar of the amusements. Looming tall above all else was the derelict Parachute Jump ride: a fearsome, steel skeleton that mushroomed into the sky. The fact people once thought it prudent to launch themselves off the top of it was incredible. Even more incredible was that it’d achieved status as a New York City landmark, preventing developers from demolishing it and building condos. The only other obelisks on the skyline were apartment blocks, which stood in military procession beyond multi-coloured parasols and rows of refreshment bars. They’d been built in a brick that was meant to be in sympathy with the sand but were too muddy a brown and thus looked as awkward as I felt against the otherwise jaunty palate of the sea front.

Recovered from the heat, and more than aware that a two-minute stint in the shade wouldn’t cure my permanent sense of being somehow dislodged, I ambled out along the pier. There, I planned to sit out and read the copy of Homage to Catalonia I had stowed in my satchel. Though my life had taken a disturbing turn in the last few years, I clung to the comfort I found in books. Orwell, in particular, was an author who set me at ease. He wrote like he was speaking just to me, as though he was sitting in some nearby corner recounting his many philosophies and adventures, and there was an intimacy about that I found solace in. I felt close to this man I’d never known. It was the sole intimacy I allowed myself.

Spare seats on the pier were scarce but after a minute I clocked one on a wooden bench next to an old black man with long, curly hair. He sang to himself. A huge golden Labrador sat at his side. His singing ceased as I settled onto the bench. We remained in silence for a few minutes before the dog edged towards me for some fuss. I obliged, rubbing him behind the ears.

‘He botherin’ you?’ the man asked, looking first at the dog and then at me.

‘Not at all. I love dogs. In fact, I’m quite suspicious of people who don’t.’ I smiled at him before returning my attentions to the mutt.

‘I hear ya.’ At this, the man started singing again. I nodded my head in time and he noticed my approval.

‘That’s a good song,’ he said, still tapping one foot to the rhythm floating around in his head.

I nodded, patting the dog. ‘It is. It’s Wilson Pickett, isn’t it? Or were you singing the Tina Turner version?’

‘Right first time.’ He looked surprised and then a little closer at me. ‘You’re a bit young to know ’bout Wilson Pickett, ain’t you?’

‘Ha. Well, I’m not that young but thank you,’ I said, a touch of shyness creeping in at the compliment.

‘You can’t be older than thirty.’ He stared harder, trying to gauge my age.

‘I’m thirty-three.’ I gave him a flimsy smile. ‘But my Dad liked those songs. They were a big part of my childhood.’

‘Your Dad has good taste.’ The man gave a weighty nod, and pressed his lips together.

‘I always thought so,’ I said. ‘At least when it came to music.’

The man chuckled. ‘Well, daughters and fathers need only see eye to eye on the things that matter, and to my mind music comes somewhere near the top of that list.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, stroking the dog’s ears and massaging his neck under the collar. ‘It’s of little relevance now though, Dad died when I was eleven.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and gave me a look I’d seen a hundred times from a hundred different people. Nobody knows how to deal with the topic of mortality. The old man’s tack was to sidestep the subject: ‘You got kids yourself?’

‘No.’ My gaze drifted out to sea and I locked my expression in a state of indifference which I could only hope looked casual. It was the threat of bearing a child, his child, that’d created this whole predicament.

‘Well, you got time for that yet.’

‘Mmm. Relationships are…they’re complex.’ I shrugged. Complex. Is there anything so complex about doing everything you’re told? That was always Mrs Delaney’s method. ‘How about you? Do you have family?’

‘Three girls, but they’re pretty much grown up. There’s just me and the wife now. Lived in Brooklyn our whole lives and not really been much further than Coney.’ He fumbled in his wallet and produced a picture. Three little girls grinned back at me, stood in a row according to height like real-life Russian dolls. Behind them stood their mother. She had her arms draped around the kids and wore what I’m sure had once been a vibrant red dress. The photo had faded however, making it more of a soft rose colour.

‘They’re beautiful. All that time together.’ I forced my mouth to turn up at the corners.

‘Yes. I’m a lucky man, it’s true. Didn’t always feel like it; raising three women ain’t what you call inexpensive. But I’ve always tried to remember how fortunate I am at the end of the day.’ He looked over at me. ‘You got family back home?’

‘Just my mother. Back in England. I write to her when I can but it’s a long way to go and visit all the time.’ I thought about how long it’d been since I’d written Mum a letter and dipped my head in shame once I’d done the sums. God. Poor Mum. Back in England by herself. I meant to write more often but sometimes it was hard. So hard to remember, everything.

‘Yep. Sure is a long distance to put between yourself and home.’ The man gazed out at the view in front of him.

‘I suppose it is.’ I looked at the ground. If only he knew that in so many respects it didn’t feel far enough away from all that had happened. That sometimes the smell of tea brewing at the diner or the twinkling of the city lights at night made it seem like I was back there again. Back in London, living with the ghost of the man and wife I never talked about.

‘Do you miss it?’

‘What? Who?’ My breath quickened.

‘Home…’ My companion raised the eyebrow nearest me but didn’t look in my direction.

‘Oh, yes. Sometimes but it’s…it’s…’

‘Let me guess: it’s complicated,’ he said.

‘You could say that.’

‘Hmmm.’ The man joined me in stroking the dog, who was revelling in the extra affection. Pawing at our knees for more whenever we paused for thought. ‘Well, I don’t know you of course. And you can tell me to mind my business. But if you’ll let me, can I tell you something?’

‘Please, do.’ At a guess all the Zoltar machine would tell me was that I’d meet a tall, handsome stranger. As I’d already had that encounter yesterday I wasn’t willing to count that as a psychic prediction. If this old man had any advice on stepping out from the shadowland I’d been living in, it was prudent to at least hear him out.

‘When you get older, old as me, which you will do one day, what you appreciate more than anything else is time with the people you love.’ He looked out over the water. His voice deepened. ‘You see, it’s not like when you’re a kid, when you’ve got an eternity stretching out before you. Time is limited. You know you’ve only got so many more times to see the people who mean the world to you.’ I took a deep breath. Time was limited. But in moments of suffering time was elastic. In the company of Mr Delaney, seven years seemed like seventy.

‘What if…’ I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. Somehow, the man’s lack of connection with my life made it easier. ‘What if you’re frightened?’ The dog, sensing my distress, nuzzled his head into my leg.

‘Frightened of what?’

‘That someone will hurt you. I mean, really hurt you …’ I trailed off not knowing what else to say without saying too much.

‘Well –’ the man rubbed his stubbly beard ‘– in my experience there’s nothing scarier in this world than being all alone.’

I stared at my feet. Was that true? Was being lonely worse than an iron hand clamped around your neck? Worse than his body, greased with last night’s sweat, slithering against yours?

‘I don’t know,’ I said, answering my own questions out loud.

‘Listen. I don’t pretend to know everything, although I’m sure my daughters would tell you otherwise, but I do know this: if you close yourself off to people, take yourself out of their equation, it’s true they can’t hurt you,’ he hesitated, weighing up if he should say what he was about to say next, ‘but they can’t love you either. Not if you won’t let them.’ We both took a deep breath of the salt air which was fresher at the end of the pier.

A familiar twinge strained in my chest. The force of everything I held back every day rammed against my ribcage, clawing through my membrane. Trying to break through. Keen to shake the feeling that I was acting out some grisly, cut scene from a David Cronenberg movie, I closed my eyes and took another deep breath, exhaling in the hope of relieving tension.

It didn’t work.

I wanted to tell this man more but dared not. What could he say, anyway? About that woman. Mrs Delaney, that spineless, friendless tramp who learnt how to nod too often. His whore.

‘This is… pretty heavy for seaside chat,’ I said, trying hard to fight back tears that, despite my best efforts, still threatened to fall.

‘Well, I hate small talk, and I refuse to become one of those old people who spends all their time telling young people how much better and cheaper things used to be. What do you care if the subway used to cost five cents? It don’t anymore.’ The man shook his head. I managed to laugh.

‘Old people aren’t forced to talk about rising prices,’ I said. ‘There’s the weather too, and baseball, don’t forget.’

‘Not sure I know you well enough to have a conversation about somethin’ as serious as baseball,’ said the man. I smiled over at him. He reached a bony hand across, squeezed my shoulder. I put my hand on top of his and sighed.

Looking back out to sea, I wondered. Where did I go? The day Mr and Mrs Delaney married, I disappeared. But where to? Did he hide me behind his ear like a silver coin in a cheap magic trick you show your cousin? Or maybe I was banished to his back trouser pocket, folded up somewhere in the hoard of expense receipts for black cabs and Japanese restaurants in Soho. All I know is for seven years I checked out. My body repossessed by his new wife. And now they were dead. And I had my life back. But even in death, his steel grip strangled.

The old man was right.

What good was a life you were too afraid to live?