A Taste of Fame (14 page)
I glanced around as we moved forward, then ducked my chin. “You know, for someone who I told less than twenty-four hours ago not to act like a tourist, you sure are acting like a tourist.”
She grinned at me. “I cannot help myself.”
We made it to the subway. I reached into the pocket of my cotton slacks and pulled out the MetroCard. Clutching it in my right hand, I said, “Do you have your card?”
“In my purse.”
“You should probably get it out now.”
We’d made it to the subway stairs. I read the letters painted overhead and said, “This is the right place.” I pulled my arm from Lisa Leann’s then stepped in front of her, grasping the sticky metal rail and slipping in with the crowd, all of whom seemed to know exactly where they were going.
I felt rather than saw Lisa Leann close behind me. We sank into the underworld of New York, the sounds of the city fading as the roar of trains and human voices increased. I cut my eyes to the graffiti on the walls, daring to read a word here and a phrase there. According to the scribble: Chantal is not a very nice girl and we should all give world peace a chance.
We came to the turnstile. I glanced back at Lisa Leann, who was right behind me, face turned into her purse, hands digging for her MetroCard. Heaven help me … that woman …
The crowd wouldn’t allow me to do anything but keep moving. I scanned my card then pushed through the metal rod of the turnstile. Whipped to the right by other subway travelers, I immediately descended another flight of stairs leading to the overcrowded platform with its trains and their tracks.
“Lisa Leann,” I called out, as if anyone, let alone she, could hear me above the cacophony.
The appropriate train—D—was right in front of me. I took a step toward it, then two back. I couldn’t see Lisa Leann anywhere. I scanned the heads of the crowd surrounding me, but not a single one was a fiery red Texan’s. “Lisa Leann,” I called out again.
The train doors closed, and the train sped northward into the dark tunnel without me. The crowd had thinned out considerably, and I searched the sea of it again. Thinking I saw Lisa Leann walking the length of the platform, I hurried toward her. But when the figure turned, I saw it was not Lisa Leann at all.
Wonderful.
I looked toward the stairway now filled with a new flock of passengers descending the steps, searching for any signs of my now-lost friend. Or maybe I was lost. Maybe she’d gotten on the train that had pulled away. Another train slid into place, opened its doors, and regurgitated those who wished to get off on Grand. Those who had just come down the steps stepped into the train, taking their place. Again the doors coughed and sighed closed, then the train sped away.
I pressed my back against the cold tile wall as I pulled my cell phone from my purse to call Lisa Leann’s. The call wouldn’t go through. Another group of people poured down the stairs, and another train slid into place. “This is like a cattle call,” I muttered.
Logic told me Lisa Leann had gotten on the first train and I might as well get on this one. I shuffled in, edged my way to the right, and sat on hard benches shoulder to shoulder with strangers. The train doors closed, the train jerked into action, and we zoomed onward.
What seemed like two seconds later—with not one person saying a word to another—the squelching of the announcer informed those interested that we were approaching Broadway and Lafayette. The train stopped, the doors yanked open, people got off, more people got on, and away we went again. It dawned on me then that I had no idea where I was going. Of course, I knew where I
wanted
to go … only I wasn’t sure how to get there. I was pretty sure Lisa Leann knew, but as spontaneous as she is, that was only a guess.
There was only one thing to do. So far, everyone in the city had been more than kind … just like Summit View folks. So, I plastered a smile on my face and turned to the woman sitting next to me. She had a “been there/done that” look across her face, so I assumed she was a local. “What station should I get off at if I want to go to the Empire State Building?” I asked.
The woman smiled, just as I’d hoped she would. “Thirtyfourth.”
I returned the smile, then dialed Lisa Leann’s cell number again, this time opting to send a text message.
GET OFF AT 34th
, I typed with the pads of my thumbs.
I was getting pretty good at this texting thing.
I kept my phone clutched in my hand and shook my head. Lisa Leann could already be at 34th. She could already be at the Empire State Building. That woman could be anywhere by now. Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue, or Tiffany’s. She could be having her picture made at Rockefeller Center or could even be in the back of Donald Trump’s limousine, gliding toward Trump Towers.
The train screeched to another stop. “Washington Square,” the announcer said, her voice sounding as though she were pressing her lips into a microphone. The train continued on then, rocking me gently in my seat as fluorescent lights from the subway walls blinked in and out, in and out as we passed. The ride up Manhattan’s subway system was dreamlike, and being separated from Lisa Leann was—for the briefest of moments—forgotten. After all, we were grown women with cell phones and texting talents. Somehow—in this city of eight million people—I was certain I’d find her.
We stopped twice more before I heard “Thirty-fourth.” I stood, adjusted my purse strap, and then plowed ahead with the rest of those who were leaving the train. For a brief instant I felt as though I were a part of something so much bigger than myself. I pretended I was truly a New Yorker, exiting the silver subway train, passing by the steel support beams running up from the platform. Each one was graced with “34th St.” painted in white letters on black squares as though to make certain travelers knew where they were, and yet no one seemed to give them anything more than a passing glance. I was just like all the others ascending the wide steps, heading up to the streets of Manhattan for work or …
Shopping.
I cut my eyes to the right, seeing that the subway deposits its passengers on 34th Street at the Manhattan Mall. One step over and I could be in what those who love to shop might call “heaven.” But a shopaholic in need of a fix I was not. I took the few steps to the left, out through a glass door, and found myself in another world altogether.
The sights and sounds of Midtown were amazing. I had, quite frankly, never seen anything like it. A river of bumper to bumper yellow cabs seemed to float before me, driving east to west, west to east. Horns honked. People shouted. Music blared. Buildings— some old, some shiny new—stretched outward and upward. The air was both still and blasting with energy.
I took in the faces of the people, none of them a familiar redhead. Everyone seemed so determined. Some heading in one direction, others marching in another, each one keeping pace with the flow of human traffic. Some crossed the street at what seemed to be a three-way intersection. A reading of a sign and I realized I was near Broadway.
I followed the pedestrians with my eyes and watched as folks entered and exited a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. In spite of the rising heat of morning, I needed a cup of hot coffee and a pastry of some sort. I was practically starving.
I looked down at my hand, my phone still held tightly by my fingers, and frowned. First things first, I told myself. Before I fed my hunger, I supposed I really needed to locate Lisa Leann. She was probably frantic by now, trying to find me.
Typically, Saturday mornings are for sleeping in. After a long week of work for both Jack and me and five days of getting up early—six, if you count Sundays—this is our morning to laze around in bed. We usually wake up at around 9:30 or 10:00. While Jack slips out the front door to get the morning paper, I start the coffee and warm up a couple of homemade Danish I picked up the evening before at Higher Grounds. Within a matter of minutes, we’re back in the bed, backs propped against fluffy pillows, legs stretched under the covers, a plate of sweet bread between us, a cup of coffee on each bedside table, and a section of the paper apiece folded out before us.
But not this particular Saturday. No-sirree-bob, as my grandmother used to say. This particular Saturday I had to get up early and make hay while the sun shone. I had to get my house in order, making sure all the laundry was done by the end of the weekend. I had to shop for traveling clothes and incidentals. I had to pack. I had to go to the grocery store, then come home and prepare meals for Jack for when I was in New York. I also wanted to spend some time with Brook and Ena before the girls and I left on Tuesday.
Good land of the living, how was I going to get it all done?
I had the clock’s alarm set for 6:00, but I woke a little after 5:30. It was early, I was tired, I had another thirty minutes I could afford, but then I argued with myself that a half hour saved was a half hour earned.
I sat up and slipped from under the sheet, knees popping and muscles stiff. I groaned, and Jack echoed my sentiment. “Shh,” I said, more to him than me. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Entirely too early,” I said, wrapping my robe around myself. “Just go back to sleep.”
I stepped into the kitchen and started the coffee, then went out the front door to gather the paper. I placed it on the kitchen table, then went and found my Bible and a small spiral notebook I’d been keeping lately to record the various verses of Scripture that spoke to me. When I had time for such luxury of extensive study. Those days were gone.
Before—when I’d been a homemaker only and not a legal secretary— I’d get Jack out the door for work and then spend great chunks of time in the Word. But since I’d gone to work outside the home, well … I was grateful for getting to church on Sundays and the Potluck club prayer meetings.
Not
that I hadn’t been praying … or reading the Bible, for that matter. I just couldn’t afford to take as much time as I had before. It was like I’d said to Lizzie just a few days earlier: “Lizzie,” I’d said, “I’m telling you right now, when I turned twenty-one my mama said the days would just begin to roll one into the other, and I have to admit, she was right. Seems to me the last twenty-seven years have flown by.”
“Just wait till you add another ten years to that,” Lizzie had said.
To which I replied, “I know … I know. Seems, though, that I wake up and it’s Tuesday and when I go to bed it’s Thursday.”
Lizzie had chuckled, but I knew she knew exactly what I meant.
So today I was bound, bent, and determined to get some Bible reading done. And, I decided, my Bible would go with me to New York. I would begin every day with Scripture reading and prayer. Every day. No matter what.
I opened my Bible, allowing it to fall where it may. I’m not one of those women who says a prayer and then opens her Bible and points to a verse in hopes that God will speak. I typically follow some semblance of order, some book, some outline. But today, with so little time, I just let it open, and I did the pointing game.
When I moved my finger, I read aloud: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Psalm 139:7–9.” Another breath, another sigh. “Oh, goodness,” I said. It sounded too much like a horoscope for a woman leaving on a jet for New York City than a passage of Scripture.
The coffeepot coughed and sputtered. I left the Bible on the table and began making myself some coffee.
Okay, Lord … I prayed that we wouldn’t have to go to New York, but you have obviously chosen to answer that prayer in your own way. Now you give me this little tidbit of wisdom. What are you saying to your daughter?
I took a sip of the hot brew, then went back to the table. I pulled a pen from the coils of the notebook where I’d tucked it days before, flipped open the notebook to the first blank page, and scribbled the verse, underlining a few of the words. Words like heavens and depths and sea. But when I reread the words “your right hand will hold me fast,” I drew a circle around it then dropped my pen and prayed.
When I drove my car out of the driveway and onto the street I fleetingly glanced at my watch to check the time. It was 8:00 our time, 10:00 in New York. I wondered what Evangeline and Lisa Leann were already up to. What sights they’d seen. Had they slept well the night before? I thought about calling one or the other, then decided against it, opting instead for calling Lizzie.
“Good morning, Liz,” I said when she answered.
“You’re up and at ’em early,” she said, sounding a bit groggy.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
“Oh no. I’ve been up a few minutes. I just haven’t said much yet.”
I laughed. “I have a mountain of things to accomplish today. Otherwise, I won’t be on that plane come Tuesday.”
“I know what you mean. I was just sitting here writing out a to-do list.”
“A written list. Now, there’s a thought. I just keep it all in my head.” I smiled. “Which explains all the gray that’s been popping up lately.”
Lizzie was quick to reply. “Don’t even talk to me about gray.” She paused, then added, “So, what’s up? Besides us …”
“Just wondering if you’d heard from Lisa Leann or Evangeline.” By now I was pulling my car into the grocery store’s parking lot. I slipped the gearshift into park and then stepped out of the car, never missing a beat of the conversation. The summer’s warm air hit me squarely in the face, and a hot flash rose from my toes, electrified my face, and spilled my makeup down my chin. So much for the efforts I’d made to look nice.
“No. You?” Lizzie asked me.
“No.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a tissue, then blotted my face. “Wonder if Donna has.” I pulled my collection of recyclable grocery bags from the backseat, then closed both doors.
“You’d have to ask her.”
