Trolls in the Hamptons (2 page)

I looked down the block to see if I could figure out what happened, if I should flee the building or hide under the bed.

It was a good thing the mug was empty or tea would have been all over my carpet, I grabbed the table edge so hard. Then again, it was a good thing the table was there or I would have fallen over.

I shook my head to clear it. I'd been working too hard, that was all. And I was light-headed from hunger. No way could a troll, a red granite giant, be swinging his fists and other proportionately massive appendages as he—definitely a he—slogged down my narrow street. Parking meters bent so coins went flying; stair railings twisted into wrought iron spaghetti; the floor beneath my feet shook.

I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them, figuring the daytime nightmare would disappear. It did not. Holy shit, that was a troll—my troll, Fafhrd—smashing the fire hydrant on the corner as if it were a plastic cup. Water fountained out and up, making rainbows in the sun, and floods in the gutters. The troll stood under the streaming geyser, gazing at the colors, splashing his size thirty feet and catching handfuls of water, acting like a child at the beach, or a kid with a bottle of soap bubbles. And then, and I swear this is true, he looked up at my window and grinned at me before disappearing around the corner.

My fingers were numb from clutching the table. I had to pry them off to reach for the phone.

“Nine-one-one? This is Willow Tate.” I gave my address, but stuttered over my phone number. They had it on caller ID anyway.

“Just relax, ma'am. Take a deep breath and tell me what the problem is.”

I took a deep breath, which did not calm me in the least. I tried to keep my voice from shaking, or screeching. “There's been”—a what?—“some kind of catastrophe on my block. An accident. Cars, buildings damaged, windows broken.” On the second stories!

“Are you injured?”

“No, I am on the third floor. I cannot tell if anyone else is hurt. People are all standing around, some are crying. I don't see anyone on the ground.” Crowds were racing toward the street from other blocks, jumping out of cars and rushing out of buildings.

“Yes, we are getting other calls.”

I could see cell phones in everyone's hands. I'd guess the lines would be flooded. No, those were the streets.

“A fire hydrant is broken.”

“We are dispatching ambulances and fire trucks. I'll notify the water authority. Can you tell me what happened?”

“A tr—A tr—”

“Calm down, ma'am. Help is on the way. Was it a truck?”

That sounded plausible. “Red.”

“A red truck. Anything else?”

I could hear sirens already. “Big.”

“Yes, thank you. I have your name and address. I am certain an officer will want to speak to you later. Please try to recall as much as you can. You might jot down some notes, so you don't forget any details.”

Details? They were all over my computer, my drawing pad, my table. I couldn't help myself. I grabbed for a pen as soon as I hung up the phone. Despite my shaking hands, I draped a scarf around Fafhrd's hips to cover his privates. Then I had to laugh. Okay, the laughter might be hysteria, but I had to smile at my own hubris, thinking for one second that I had anything to do with whatever had just happened. My burst of mental creativity had
not
given birth to a physical menace. Could not, should not, would not. So there.

I am good.

I am not that good.

S
OMETIMES I WISHED I DRANK. Or smoked, or had a stash of prescription or proscribed drugs. But my mother pops in whenever she feels like it, to go shopping, visit friends, find fault with my housekeeping. I know, I'm not a kid, and the apartment is in my name now, but she's still my mother. Too much alcohol gives me headaches, smoking would kill you, and the other stuff scares me. I may as well admit it; a lot of stuff scares me. And that was before a figment of my imagination wreaked mayhem on Manhattan.

I settled for some frozen yogurt with freezer burn. I'd had worse.

I tried not to look out the window, or listen to the sirens and the bullhorn orders and the beeping of tow trucks backing up. I also gathered all my notes into a manila envelope and locked them in the bottom drawer of my desk, along with the computer files on a disk. I don't
think
anyone can sue me for having a wild new idea. If they try, I can always say I jotted down my impressions after the fact.

After what fact? That a troll came from nowhere, created chaos, smiled at me, and vanished? Oh, yeah. Maybe I should call
The Times
now. Instead I called Arlen, the guy I'm dating. He's not The One, the Happily Ever After, but he'd be better company than my thoughts, and maybe he'd bring some Häagen-Dazs.

“Arlen, something awful happened.”

“I know. It's on all the news.”

I should have thought of turning on the TV or the radio. “It was right here, on my block.”

“They showed your building from the helicopter camera.”

So that was why the building kept feeling like it was shaking. “Um, Arlen, if you saw that my building was in the middle of the mess, how come you didn't call to see if I was all right?” I mean, I would have.

“They said no one was hurt. And you said you'd be working all day, not out in the streets.”

Arlen worked on Wall Street. He was very disciplined about work and had a hard time with my looser idea of scheduling. He could never understand a sudden need for a street pretzel to untangle a plot, or a quick walk to jar a character into shape. I'd never handed a manuscript in late yet, so what did it matter whether I worked from ten to three during the day or ten to three at night?

“Do you think you could come over, maybe bring in takeout? My treat.” Arlen was also very careful about money.

“No can do. Your neighborhood is cordoned off. All of midtown is at a standstill. Maybe later. I'll call, okay, dear?”

I hate when he calls me dear, as if we are an old married couple. After three months? Maybe he calls all his girlfriends “dear” so he doesn't have to remember our names. But he's really nice, and good-looking, and likes movies. Of course, I would have found a way to get to him if he'd been traumatized. I would have found a sushi place, too, even if I like Chinese better. But I was desperate. “Later?”

“Sure. I'll listen to the news to see when the streets are open.”

I looked outside. That wouldn't be for hours. They had the water turned off, at least, and a lot of the cars dragged away. Barricades and blue uniforms kept most of the crowds at a distance. One cop car was blaring that everyone should stay inside.

As if I wanted to go get trampled by a troll.

My best friends were unavailable. Sherrie was on her second husband; make that honeymoon. Daisy'd be at court all day. Ellen tutored after school. My family was hours away, the ground-floor neighbors spoke little English, the second-story groupies hate me because I complain about their music when I'm trying to write, the gay guys on the fourth-floor level work all day, and Mrs. Abbottini who has the rear apartment on my floor is nearly deaf.

I hated myself for feeling needy enough to say, “Please try,” to Arlen, but I said it anyway. My thoughts were not going to be good enough company to erase that toothy, trollish grin. Independence is all well and good, but not when a fairy-tale ogre comes to life.

Arlen said he supposed he could tell the cops he was coming home after work so they'd let him pass through the barriers if they were still up in a couple of hours. He couldn't leave the office early anyway.

He wouldn't, he meant. Not for me and my jangled nerves. Maybe if I were bleeding or the building was evacuated. Maybe.

I went to visit Mrs. Abbottini, in case she was frightened by all the noise and commotion. She couldn't have seen what happened on the street; her apartment faces a tiny rear courtyard where the garbage cans are kept. But she would have felt the tremors from the helicopter, or maybe she was watching the news. Either way, she always had cookies and tea. I needed company more.

Mrs. Abbottini apparently remembered how mad she was that my parents gave me the apartment when they split up. She fought the realtor for the right to move to the front, but lost when I proved I had enough income to keep up the rent. Now she'd missed the biggest thing to hit the neighborhood since old man Mirabella brought home his “secretary,” and had a heart attack working overtime. All she'd seen this afternoon was a cat tipping over the trash in a panic, and it was all my fault.

If she only knew.

She didn't offer so much as a stale Lorna Doone. The TV was loud enough to deafen the downstairs neighbors, but the commentators had no answers, only questions for people who hadn't seen anything but the aftermath, but wanted to be on the news. One carefully combed reporter said that seven victims had been transported to hospitals for minor injuries and shock, and the police were now interviewing them and every other possible witness. They'd have more information about the appalling hit and run for the six o'clock news.

“They're calling it a hit and run?”

Mrs. Abbottini didn't even look at me. “The driver didn't stop, did he?”

Now I was more confused. “What driver?”

She clacked her false teeth together, a sure sign of disgust. “If they knew who it was, it wouldn't be a hit and run, would it?”

“I better get back, in case anyone wants to ask me anything.”

Mrs. Abbottini waved me away with a brush of her gnarly, spotted hand and a muttered curse, as if she could turn me into a toad and get my apartment. Yeah, right after the fairies flew by. Which, with my luck, would be tomorrow.

I did invite her to come to my place so she could look out. One of us could be polite in a crisis. Or desperate for companionship.

“I'll get a better view from right here on the TV. And your mother says your bathroom is dirty.”

There was one hair in the sink the last time she was here. One dark hair. I have streaky blonde hair. I can't believe Mom told Mrs. Abbottini about Arlen's hair. Now the old bat thought I was a slob, besides a scarlet woman and an apartment thief.

I went back across the hall and looked out. The street was still filled with rescue vehicles and police and men in suits trying to look important in case a cameraman pointed in their direction. The pizza place down the block was boarded up already, so there went dinner.

The phone rang before I put the television on. Someone was concerned enough about me to call after all.

No, it was my mother. “Did you get to see any celebrities? They're interviewing everyone famous on the block. Maybe you should go plug your books.”

Not was I okay, not was the building damaged. “Mom, why did you tell Mrs. Abbottini the bathroom was dirty?”

I could hear her sniff. “I should lie to someone I know for thirty years?”

“One hair, Mom, that's all it was. You know Arlen spends time here.”

She sniffed again. My mother was a pro at the disapproving nose. Just ask her doctor who had to treat all the sinus infections she got.

“I was not upset that a man spent the night, Willy. You are a grown woman, and how you carry on without settling down is none of my business”—sniff—“but how could you entertain a man who expects you to clean up after him? I did not raise my daughter to be any man's maid.”

“One hair?”

“And the toilet seat was up. What kind of manners does he have, anyway?”

Most likely the same as my father, which might explain why Dad lived in Florida, Mom out in the Hamptons. I gave up. “I'm fine, Mom. Thanks for calling. I'll talk to you later.”

My mother never, ever gave up. “Imagine what kind of husband he'd be, wanting you to wait on him hand and foot. And you a successful author.”

“Mom, I am not going to marry Arlen.”

“Then why does he keep an extra toothbrush next to your sink?”

“It's easier.”

“For that matter, if you are not going to marry him, why are you dating him instead of looking for someone else?”

I thought about giving the same reply: It was easier. But my mother took advantage of my hesitation to ask, “Is he coming over to be with you?”

Damn. “Later. The roads are blocked for now.”

Mrs. Abbottini could have heard that sniff.

I called my father, my editor, and two friends, in case they'd heard the news and were worried. No one picked up or called back when I left messages on the answering machines.

I really need a dog.