The Heavenly Fugitive (6 page)

****

Unable to stand the silence of the apartment, Amelia changed into a warmer outfit and went out again. When she had first arrived in New York, she had been eager to see all the sights and had exhausted herself doing so. Now, however, there was no eagerness to see anything new. She was simply fleeing from the leaden silence of her apartment. As she moved woodenly along the street, she noted once again that men were watching her. She was accustomed to this, and a part of her still felt pride in her ability to attract their attention. During her stay in the city, however, that pride had gradually changed to wariness. She still carried a gun in her purse, although she had only used it the one time she had threatened Dom. That memory came back to her now, and she thought about the big man and about the girl Rosa. A touch of envy rose in her—envy for the girl’s beauty, and also for her family’s apparently unlimited money. Rosa could go anywhere she pleased, do what she liked. What that was Amelia had no idea. She had asked Phil once about the girl, and he had shrugged, saying he hadn’t seen her again. He had added that he felt sorry for her, and when Amelia had asked why, he’d remarked, “She’s got everything . . . and she’s got nothing. That’s a bad combination, sis.”

With Christmas only two days away, the shoppers were out in force. The city exuded a warm holiday spirit that amazed her. She had thought of New York as a soulless place, but now she sensed a happiness in the crowds and a welcome of the season. She passed people of all ages laughing and smiling, listened to the din of cars blowing their horns, and watched trucks muscling their way through the traffic in the street, their engines rumbling. The scene was noisy as always but had a sense of life and gaiety about it. New York might be as
hard as a diamond, but at this time of the year the hardness was not so apparent, only the glittering richness.

She passed a well-dressed couple and their two children, a boy and a girl, all of them holding hands and laughing as they swung their arms. Amelia was struck with the thought that perhaps there was such a thing as beautiful simplicity for some people. She, on the other hand, was torn between what her parents had taught her and the contrasting complications of the city and of her own heart. She longed for simplicity but could not fathom how to find it in her present life. A fire burned in her to express herself, to find happiness through her work. Phil had found such contentment in college, happily throwing himself into his studies. But for Amelia nothing was that crystal clear or simple.

As she finally reached Central Park the sun appeared as a white hole in the sky, filtering down antiseptic light. The reds and golds of the trees were long gone, brought down by wind, bruised and discolored by the hammering rains of autumn. Now she stopped by the lake and enjoyed watching the snow fall in long, slanting lines. It covered the ground in strips until all was sheer white, a beauty to behold. There had been nothing like this in Africa, and the splendor of it held her transfixed. The noisy city gradually grew quieter as the carpet of snow muted the cacophony of squealing wheels, blaring horns, and roaring engines.

She thought about Africa then . . . about the heat, the discomfort, the flies, the danger of snakes and leopards . . . but that part of her life was over. She instinctively knew that if she ever saw it again, it would be as a visitor and not as a part of it. Seeing it again would not be living it again. She knew she could always go back and rediscover an old haunt and that she would say,
Oh yes, I remember this.
But she reminded herself that the valley and the river and the path she had once followed in Africa, though she remembered them, no longer remembered her.

The afternoon was growing long now, and gray blades
of light sliced through the gathering darkness. She lingered still, hating to go home, hating the thought of spending the night in the quiet of the empty apartment. With Blanche gone there would be nothing but the sound of her own voice or maybe a scratchy Victrola record. But finally the dusky night settled in, and she turned and made her way homeward in the glow of the streetlights. The cold bit at her, and the snowflakes touched her eyes like tiny, seeking fingers. People leaned against the wind, bundled up in their heavy winter clothing, looking for all the world like bears waddling back to the warmth of their caves.

She passed by a church on the way and for a moment almost turned to go inside. She had not been to church since living on her own, but now she felt it might bring her some peace. Her thoughts of God were conflicting. She had grown up listening to sermons and had made a public profession of faith when she was only six years old. Her parents had doubted her sincerity at the time, but her emotions had been stirred by the preaching, and as a child she had insisted she had meant it. But as she grew older, the experience gradually left her until she had known as a young woman that she did not truly intend to follow God.

That childhood experience of God seemed long ago and very far away as she stood staring up at the church spire, a cold mass of blocky stones pointing at the sky like a bony, accusing forefinger, almost invisible now in the darkness. She turned away from the church and made her way home, feeling lonelier and more lost than she had felt in a long time.

She had barely stepped into the apartment and begun taking off her good clothes when the phone rang. Eagerly she ran to pick it up, hoping it might be a job offer, but then she heard Phil’s voice. “Hi, sis. How do you like this snow?”

“It’s beautiful. I’ve just been out walking in it.”

“Listen, sis. Get ready. I’ll be there at noon tomorrow to take you to Grandmother’s for Christmas.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go there, Phil. Maybe we could meet
by ourselves on Christmas Day and have our own quiet celebration.”

“Nothing doing. Grandmother won’t hear of our not spending the holidays at her house.”

Amelia wasn’t sure she could face her grandmother with the news that she had quit her job at the restaurant. She still felt a shred of guilt over the way she had left Lola’s house last spring in anger and frustration. Although Amelia longed to ask for help to accomplish her plans, she wasn’t sure her grandmother would even approve of them. Without completely understanding her own conflicting emotions, she decided it best to avoid contact with her grandmother until her circumstances improved. “I’d rather not go, Phil.”

“You don’t have any choice. Grandmother’s sending a car.” He laughed then and said, “You’re going one way or another. Come under your own power or be dragged.”

Amelia sighed. She couldn’t think of an adequate argument. After all, it was Christmas. “Well, if you put it that way, I guess I’ll have to go.”

“Of course you will. It’ll be fun. Twelve tomorrow in front of your apartment. I’ll see you then, and merry Christmas!”

****

Before returning to his apartment Phil made a quick shopping trip. He had little money, but he easily enough picked out a present for his grandmother. He could not buy her an expensive gift, but he found an old poster advertising the grand meeting of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific Railroads. It pictured the two trains pulled up nose to nose with men standing on the engines and the engineers holding up bottles of champagne. His grandmother had followed the track of the Union Pacific and had met the man there who became her husband, and he knew she would love the poster. At his next stop, a used book store, he found a book of poetry by Walt Whitman that was in excellent condition. He knew Amelia
would like it, and he was pleased to be able to purchase it for only two dollars.

He bounded up the stairway to his apartment and found a small package wrapped in red paper with a green bow lying on the floor propped against the door. He picked it up, unlocked the door, turned on the light, and took off his hat and coat. There was no card on the outside of the present, and he thought perhaps his landlady had left it. From time to time he helped her make small repairs, and the two had become friends. He removed the wrapping and found a white box with a gold seal. Opening the box, he pulled out a beautifully designed, rich-looking leather billfold. It glowed with a dull sheen, and when he opened it, he found several pockets for cards.

“Mmm . . . pretty fancy,” he murmured, still thinking it had come from his landlady. Then the edge of a white paper caught his eye, and he pulled out a card that read,
I’m sorry! Merry Christmas.
It was signed simply
Rosa.
Rubbing his thumb over the rich texture of the leather, Phil was touched by the thought. He had not seen Rosa for weeks now and had not expected to see her again, but this changed his mind.

“I get a gift—I give a gift,” he said aloud. He thought hard for a moment, then smiled. “I’ll give her something she couldn’t buy in any store in New York.” He started whistling “Joy to the World” as he went into the bedroom to get it.

Finding a scrap of Christmas paper and some ribbon, he quickly wrapped the gift and left the apartment. The snow was coming down hard, so he decided to go first-class. He hailed a cab and told the driver, “I’ll tell you how to go. I don’t think they have a street address.”

“You’re the boss,” the cabby said, putting up his flag and starting off.

Phil directed the cabbie through the streets of New York to the outskirts of the city. The snow was coming down even faster now, and Phil remarked, “Gonna be hard driving.”

“You’re tellin’ me! Seen a couple of wrecks already.”

They made their way slowly through the thickening snow, and when they neared Ten Oaks, Phil said, “It’s right over there. You see those big iron gates? Just let me out there.”

“Okay, buddy. You want me to wait?”

“No, you might get buried under all this snow. I’ll find another way home.”

Getting out after they had pulled to a stop, Phil paid the driver and said, “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, sir.”

The cab made a U-turn and left almost silently in the three-inch layer of snow. Phil pushed the bell and waited. As he did so, he thought of his first visit here to the Morino estate. He had gotten over the beating fairly well, except for a scar on his forehead that he would probably carry to his grave, and occasionally his ribs still gave him a twinge. He tensed suddenly at the memory and started to panic at the thought of what he might encounter this time. He began to wish he hadn’t sent the cab away, but at the thought of seeing Rosa’s face when she received her gift, he shook off his jitters. The Morinos had gone out of their way to help him during his recovery. They surely meant him no harm now.

He didn’t know the man who came to the gate this time, a short fellow in a furry overcoat. “Yes. What is it?”

“I’m here to see Miss Rosa.”

“You got an appointment?”

“No, but I think she’ll want to see me.”

For a moment the man hesitated, then shrugged. “You can go up to the house, but I’ll have to stay with you.”

The gate swung open, and the man waved him on.

“Don’t you want to see if I’m packin’ a gat?” Phil teased.

The man had a sharp, foxy face and a mustache. He grinned broadly. “It’s almost Christmas. You wouldn’t be carrying a gun on Christmas, would you, Mac?”

“No. Just a present for Miss Rosa.”

“Come on up to the house. Man, it’s cold out here!”

The two walked up the long driveway and to the front
door. “Ring the bell. I’ll stick around to see if you get in. If not, I’ll have to show you out.”

“Sure thing.” Phil rang the bell, and after a short wait the door opened. A woman Phil recognized stood framed in the doorway, and though he couldn’t remember for sure, he thought it might be Rosa’s mother. He had caught only one glimpse of her on the day he’d been beaten, and his memory was vague. “Mrs. Morino, isn’t it?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’m Phil Winslow. You remember me?”

A flush touched Maria Morino’s face. “Why, yes, I do remember you.”

“I brought Rosa a gift. Do you suppose I could give it to her?”

“Yes—of course. Come in out of the cold. Thank you, Jerry.” She nodded to the guard.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Morino.”

While the short man took his leave to continue patrolling the premises, Phil stepped in and stamped his feet on the rug. Snow was on his shoulders, and when he pulled off his hat, flakes fell to the floor. “I’m making a mess.”

“There’s no help for it. Come in by the fire. I’ll get Rosa for you.” She hesitated, then said, “Do you feel all right, Mr. Winslow?”

“Oh, fine, thank you, Mrs. Morino. Never better.”

“My husband’s in the study. He’ll want to see you too.”

Phil followed the woman down the hall and through a door into a large study. A fire blazed in a massive fireplace, and Big Tony himself was seated in a Windsor chair. He turned his head, then got up alertly and came over to shake hands. “Well, it’s Winslow, ain’t it?” he said guardedly.

“That’s right, Mr. Morino. How are you?”

“I’m fine. You’re sure lookin’ a lot better than the last time I saw you. What brings you way out here? Bad weather to be out in.”

“Not too bad. Until last winter, I’d never seen snow before.”

“Never?”

“Nope. We didn’t get it in Africa.”

“Africa?”

“Where I come from, sir.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I guess you told me that, huh? There must’ve been plenty of heat, though.”

“Yes, sir, plenty of that. You’re probably wondering why I came. Rosa sent me a present. I’ll be visiting with my family tomorrow, so I thought I’d come by tonight to give her something, if it’s all right with you.”

“Why—I guess so. Sit down by the fire and thaw out. I’ll go get her.”

As Tony left the room Phil was aware that Mrs. Morino was standing by nervously. “Are you planning a big Christmas, Mrs. Morino?” he asked pleasantly.

“Oh yes! We always have family in and lots of company. You say you’re going to be with your family?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am. My sister and I are spending the holidays with my grandmother.”

The door was filled then as Tony entered and Rosa followed right behind. She was wearing a bright aqua jumper that contrasted with the darkness of her eyes and a white blouse underneath with delicate pearl buttons. She looked at him with an odd expression and then smiled. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Winslow.”