The Girl in Times Square

  Lily found Mrs. McFadden to be in a particularly foul mood despite the fact that it was her children’s birthday party. The house was decorated, there were balloons floating about the living room, and the Carvel Cake was on the counter defrosting. The candles were on the kitchen table, the presents were wrapped, there was a Disney tablecloth on the dining room table and the potato chips were out. On the surface everything looked like it would in any other house where young children, a twin boy and girl, were turning eight and the grownups were throwing them a party.

  Yet in this house, the father of the children was sitting in front of the TV, barely glancing up when they walked in, and the mother was in the kitchen. When Lily, Rachel and Paul walked through, Jan put her highball glass down on the counter. Her face had no make-up on and she looked as if she was wearing a house-coat.

  They said their hellos, Jan even remembered to ask them if they wanted something to drink. They held glasses of Coke in their hands and stood awkwardly. Paul hated awkward situations, and so immediately started talking about the kids, the yapping dogs, the hair salon where he and Rachel worked, anything rather than just stand there.

  “How are you, Lil?” said Jan McFadden. “You’re looking…much better. I haven’t seen you in so long. I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit.”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind, Mrs. McFadden.”

  “Yes, yes. But are you holding up?”

  Lily nodded. “I’m holding up.”

  “She’s still doing chemo, Mrs. McFadden,” said Rachel. “She was doing a lot better a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes, Paul said you’re struggling.”

  “A little bit,” said Lily. “But spring is here. I’m optimistic.”

  Jan turned her face to the sink and ran the cold water to make fruit punch.

  “At least you’re living, Lily. My Amy, she had not lived.”

  But she had, Lily wanted to interject. Amy had lived. Amy lived big, and danced every weekend, Amy wrote essays and painted though she could not paint and sang though she could not sing. Amy colored her hair a different color every two months, courtesy of Paul. Amy went to a number of upscale, ritzy restaurants, and wore upscale ritzy clothes.

  Amy skied and rollerbladed, and sat in the passenger seat of a single-engine plane over the Long Island Sound. Amy waterskied and jet-skied, and ran the New York Marathon and played tennis. Amy studied hard, and partied harder. She drank, she smoked pot. Once she did stand-up comedy.

  Amy loved. Amy loved when she was in high school and when she was older.

  And more important, Amy was loved back. Amy, throwing her hair about in Central Park, adjusting her sneakers while she was trying to steal second base in a Sunday game of soft-ball; Amy, running three times around the reservoir in full make-up and brightest lipstick, was loved. She was loved! She had lived.

  Lily didn’t say anything to Mrs. McFadden’s bereft back.

  Paul, who didn’t like this kind of moroseness on a day of celebration, pulled Lily’s hair, slapped her behind, and said, “Let’s not talk about Amy today, this is supposed to be a happy day. And our Lily here has no choice but to come out of this whole mess flying, and do you know why?”

  “Paul, stop it,” Lily said, trying not to laugh.

  “I know why,” said Rachel, tickling her ribs. “Because she’s the mighty Quinn.”

  “That’s right,” Paul said, starting to sing, “And you ain’t seen nothin’/ like the Mighty Quinn!”

  Jan McFadden turned from the sink. “Amy used to sing that song for Lil,” she said, crying, a wooden mixing spoon in her hands.

  “We know,” said Paul, rolling his eyes.

  “I remember it as if she’s standing in this kitchen right now—it was the kids’ birthday three years ago. She’d been away for months and came just for their birthday. She’s standing here with cherry blossoms in her hair, singing ‘The Mighty Quinn’…” Sobbing, Jan put her face in her hands. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t do any of it. I can’t do my life. I can’t get up every morning.”

  The ice cream cake melted over the counter. The twins were in the living room with dad, blowing party favor blowers, smacking each other with paddle balls, flying wooden planes, popping balloons, yelling. The TV was on—loud. Jan McFadden was crying. Rachel was sitting down, looking into her hands. Paul was standing next to Jan. And Lily was sinking into the round table, looking dumbly at Jan, opening her mouth, trying to say, Mrs. McFadden, what are you talking about? Amy didn’t know me three years ago.

  But nothing came out of her mouth when she tried.

  Her distress was obvious, though, even to Paul from across the kitchen. Rachel said, “What’s the matter, mama, you not feeling good? Sit.”

  “Lil, what’s up?”

  Amy didn’t know me in the spring three years ago. We met in our fall art class, two and a half years ago. I know that for a fact.

  “Lil?”

  Lily said the only thing she could say. “You have cherry blossoms here?”

  “No, no. Amy had brought them from DC that weekend.”

  Two years ago, the girls had gone down to DC at the end of March to visit Andrew, and Amy and Lily both put the cherry blossoms in their hair while strolling around the Tidal Basin of the Jefferson Memorial. They had walked the length of the long Mall to the Capitol Building. By the time they saw Andrew, they were flushed and panting. How happy he had been to see them.

  Oh my God.

  “Maybe you mean two years ago,” Lily said, holding on to the Formica table. “Two years ago, right? A year before she disappeared?”

  Jan McFadden was still crying. “The twins had turned five. That’s why she came. It was a big deal. She came from DC with blossoms in her hair for their fifth birthday. She didn’t come two years ago. She didn’t come last year. It was the last time Amy was here for their birthday.”

  Now Lily sat down. Fell down in the chair.

  “What’s wrong, Lil?” said Paul.

  “What’s wrong, Lil?” said Rachel.

  Nothing was making any sense. How did Lily continue to sit, to say nothing, pretend to stretch her mouth into a pasty smile? Thank goodness for Cancer. She blamed it for the whiteness of her face, the numbness of her mouth and the loss of her speech.

  Jim came in, Jan’s husband. He took one look at his wife, one look at Rachel, Paul, and Lily, and gritting his teeth and gripping the kitchen counter, said, “Your other children are waiting for you in the other room to throw them a fucking birthday party. Now are you going to do this, or are you just going to stand here like you do every other fucking day of your life?”

  For the next two hours, there was some running around, some singing, some musical chairs, pin the tail on the donkey, some cake. Lily barely spoke at all, but right before they left, she asked Mrs. McFadden if she could make a local call, and went upstairs into the master.

  Lily called Andrew.

  Miera picked up the phone.

  “Hi, it’s Lily,” Lily said. “Can I talk to Andrew?”

  “He doesn’t want to speak to you,” said Miera and hung up.

  Shaking, Lily called again. “Miera, please don’t hang up,” she said. “Please. I just want to say hello to my brother.”

  “He doesn’t want to say hello to you. He doesn’t want to speak to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, stop it. Just stop it. Look, you can keep calling back all you want, but I’m not putting him on the phone.”

  “I’m in Port Jeff,” Lily said, her voice unsteady. “I wanted to see if I could come visit for five minutes.”

  Miera laughed. “Are you kidding me? You’re not coming into this house, Lil. Not after what you did.”

  The other line was picked up. No one was speaking on it.

  “Andrew?” said Lily. “Is that you?”

  Only a heavy breath from the other line.

  “Andrew it’s me, it’s your sister. It’s Lily. Let me come and see you.”


  “No, Lily,” Andrew said. “Stay away from me. Stay sharp, and for your own good, stay away.”

  “Andrew! Miera, can I talk to my brother in private?”

  “No.” That was Andrew. “Anything you want to say to me, you can say to me in the hearing of my wife.”

  Not even bothering to wipe the tears from her face, Lily said, “Andrew, tell me, is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “You and Amy, were you having an affair before she and I ever met?” How did she get those words out? Miera and/or Andrew slammed down the phone.

  Lily sat in Jan’s bedroom and continued to cry until Paul and Rachel came to get her. “Oh, what is going on around here?” exclaimed Paul. “Boy, this Port Jeff. It really knows how to throw a kids’ party.” They left Jan’s house, went to have dinner at Paul’s mother’s house, and took a late train back. Paul and Rachel stayed with her until four in the morning, plying her with margaritas, trying to make her feel better about the inconsolable.

  Lily couldn’t go to sleep until dawn.

  When Spencer came on Sunday, she was still asleep. He knocked on her bedroom door, and came in, and she was still in her bed. Parts of her may have been uncovered, legs, shoulders, back, perhaps. She couldn’t even remember if she had taken her clothes off. She did, yes. She was nude. Lily half-heartedly pulled the quilt up after Spencer was in the room.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, staring at him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What time is it?”

  “One in the afternoon.”

  “Oh.”

  “Were you out late last night?” he smiled.

  “No. Well, yes. Paul and Rachel were over.”

  He stared into her sleepy face. “Why have you been crying?”

  “Not crying, sleeping,” Lily lied. She didn’t like lying to him. It felt unnatural.

  “No, crying. Your lids are all puffy from the salt. And your cheeks, too.”

  “Nothing gets past you, detective,” she said. “Well, let me get up, go grab a quick shower. Are you hungry?”

  Lily had no defenses against his inquisitive stare, against his questions, against his persistence. When she was so clearly distraught, there was no hiding it from him. And there was no telling him either. Obviously. The knowledge would be used against her brother. She was in the shower forever, figuring out the impossibilities of her Sunday, and when she finally came out, Spencer was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper, which he put down, grimly looked her up and down in her robe and said, “You have been in there for forty-five minutes. Something is so wrong you can’t even come out and face me.”

  “No, no, it has nothing to do with you, honestly.” But Lily couldn’t even speak these words without looking down at his feet.

  Spencer got up, and went to get his jacket. “Lily, you know what, I make it so easy for you, so easy. Any time you don’t want to see me—”

  “Spencer, but I do.”

  “—Any time you don’t want me to come, you just call and leave me a message. Write me a letter, beep me, tell me through Joy. I can’t make it any simpler for you. But don’t stand here and pretend you’re not lying to me now when you can’t even look into my face.”

  Lily tried to apologize, to tell him she was just hung over, not feeling well, nauseated, sleepy, she told him lies upon lies, all of them into his chest because she couldn’t look at him without spilling the thing she absolutely could not say. It was screaming so loud in her chest, how could he not hear? Ah, that was because he was already down five flights of stairs and in the street.

  AMY KNEW ANDREW BEFORE SHE MET LILY!

  How could this be?

  The credit cards, the cash, the ID, all lying on Amy’s dresser, of course, from the very beginning. Lily didn’t attach the memories to the years, but of course! From the moment Amy moved in, she would leave her life behind, and disappear for days, or go off on Fridays, and hum, hum that merciless song, from the very beginning, and Lily, so swollen with Amy’s affection, thought Amy had been singing it for her! Oh, the hubris, the childish idiocy! The Mighty Quinn indeed.

  Amy knew Andrew before she met Lily. Amy was involved with Andrew, wore blossoms in her hair for him.

  What then? Why then? How then?

  How did she meet him? How could she know him?

  And if she did, and met him somehow, and got together with him, why would she transfer out of Hunter into City College, enroll in Lily’s class?

  Hi, is this desk taken? I don’t know how I’m going to do in this class, everybody else is so talented, my goodness, look at how well you draw, you must have a gift, so this desk is not taken then?

  That Sunday night Lily tried again; she called Andrew once more. Miera hung up on her, but not before she said, “If you ever call here again, I’ll have a restraining order taken out on you.”

  Even worse than Amy. Andrew. He had kept it all secret. Lily could tell it was true from its weight on her. He and Amy knew each other before Lily introduced them. They both practiced deception around her, kept up a false front, so that she would never suspect. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was that Andrew was still perpetuating that falsehood for Detective Spencer O’Malley, that Andrew felt the need to lie and to carry on lying. If it was just a simple thing, a nothing thing—that Andrew and Amy were involved before Lily—why continue to lie?

  Lily couldn’t paint that week, couldn’t call Spencer.

  She couldn’t do anything except throw up before she even took the Alkeran. Throw up the alkaloid indelible taste of betrayal and deception in her mouth.

  47

  Harkman

  “O’Malley, how was your weekend? Mine was fine, thanks.” That was Gabe McGill.

  “Good morning. Why are you scowling at me like that?”

  “O’Malley, you bastard, this better not be subterfuge on your part. Whittaker wants to see us both in his office.”

  And Whittaker stood behind his desk and said, “What did you do, O’Malley? Did you push pins inside your little Harkman voodoo doll?”

  “Would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  “Harkman’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Heart attack.” Both Whittaker and McGill crossed their arms.

  Spencer laughed. “What’s wrong with both of you? What, did I put him in the hospital?”

  “It’s his fourth heart attack, and his doctor said no more for him. No more work. He might not make it as it is.”

  “What, you think I made his job too stressful for him? He hasn’t left the office in months! I’ve been going alone everywhere. I let him sit behind the desk and never move. I made Sanchez his personal bitch, ask Sanchez how he feels about that. Everything I could do to stave off the inevitable for him, I did. He always complained. Then I sat him behind a desk, and he never moved, and again it’s my fault?”

  Whittaker and McGill were not persuaded by Spencer’s apparent innocence in perpetrating a heart attack upon Chris Harkman.

  “We’re not going to make light of this. The man might not recover, and he’s been on the force longer than you, O’Malley. So show some fucking respect. He was a good cop. Never found a single MP, but he was a good cop.”

  “Not true,” said Spencer. “He closed custody cases, found some runaways.”

  “He didn’t find them! They came home.” Whittaker waved his hand. “Oh, look, he’s gone, and we’ve got a situation here. How clear is your desk, O’Malley?”

  “Clear? I never stop. I’m working until nine every night, picking up Harkman’s slack. What’s going to happen now, I don’t know.”

  “Now you need a temporary partner until we find you a permanent assignment.”

  Spencer glanced at McGill, who rolled his eyes.

  Harkman was gone! The man who for years made his working life so difficult with his apathy and inertia and hostility was
gone. Spencer felt such relief.

  Gabe McGill was a young Irish bruiser of a detective, straight from the “don’t fuck with me” academy. He was completely wrong for detective work. He would have been much better as a uniform, patrolling Tompkins Square Park and the rest of the East Village. He looked unruly, like any moment he was going to explode. His brown-reddish auburn curly hair was in constant need of cutting, his stubble in constant need of shaving, his clothes of ironing. No one looked more alien in an ill-fitting suit. The shirts were too small for his massive arms and neck, they were always unbuttoned and untucked somewhere. Spencer compared with Gabe was a model of grace for Brooks Brothers. Why Spencer liked him so much, he didn’t know.

  Whittaker said, “I’m making McGill your temporary assignment, O’Malley.”

  “O’Malley,” Gabe said. “Heed those words. This is a temporary gig. This isn’t a fucking marriage. This is simply for convenience. I remain in homicide, and I help you out when you need me to. Got it? Chief, explain it to him.”

  “McGill, you stay in homicide, but until we figure out a permanent solution, you’re O’Malley’s bitch.”

  “Chief, no!”

  Spencer smiled.

  “McGill, we’ve got eight homicide detectives besides you and Orkney, but in MP, there’s only him. Sanchez and Smith were pulled out of MP into robbery last week, and your friend over here needs your help.”

  Spencer was thrilled. “Gabe, I’m a different man.”

  “Just because I’m here?” They walked into the common room.

  “Yes. Can you hear it? I am Detective O’Malley, and this is Detective McGill from homicide.” He laughed with satisfaction.

  “You think title-dropping is going to help you find the McFadden girl?”

  “Something better. Soon it’ll be a year and I won’t be able to keep her on my desk without new evidence. She’ll have to go into the inactives and then I’m even more shit out of luck.”