The Brooklyn Follies

  I had no interest in taking care of her either, but at least there was an extra room in my apartment, and when Tom called later that morning and told me about his predicament (panic in his voice, almost screeching into the phone), I said I would be willing to put her up until we found a solution to the problem. They arrived at my place on First Street just after eleven. Lucy smiled when Tom introduced her to her great-uncle Nat, and she seemed happy to receive the welcoming kiss I planted on the crown of her head, but I soon discovered that she was no more willing to talk to me than she was to him. I had been hoping to trick a few words out of her, but all I got were the same nods and shakes of the head that Tom had been subjected to earlier. Strange, unsettling little person. I was no expert in child psychology, but it seemed clear to me that there was nothing physically or mentally wrong with her. No retardation, no signs of autism, nothing organic to impede her interaction with others. She looked you straight in the eye, understood everything you said, and smiled as often and affectionately as any two children put together. What was it, then? Had she suffered some terrible trauma that had shut down her ability to talk? Or, for reasons that were still impenetrable, had she decided to take a vow of silence, pushing herself into voluntary mutism in order to test her will and courage – a kid’s game that she would eventually grow tired of? Her face and arms were free of bruises, but at some point during the day I was determined to coax her into the bath to get a look at the rest of her body. Just to satisfy myself that no one had beaten or abused her.

  I put her in front of the TV in the living room and switched on the set to a twenty-four-hour cartoon channel. Her eyes lit up with pleasure when she saw the animated figures prance across the screen – so much so that it occurred to me that she wasn’t in the habit of watching television, which in turn led me to start thinking about David Minor and the harshness of his religious beliefs. Had Aurora’s husband banned TV from the house? Were his convictions so strong that he wanted to shield his adopted daughter from the frenzied carnival of American pop culture – that godless free-for-all of glitz and garbage that poured out endlessly from every cathode tube in the land? Perhaps. We wouldn’t know anything about Minor until Lucy told us where she lived, and for now she wasn’t saying a word. Tom had guessed Kansas City because of the T-shirt, but she had refused to confirm or deny it, which meant that she didn’t want us to know – for the simple reason that she was afraid we would send her back. She had run away from home, after all, and happy children did not run away from home. That much was certain, whether the home had a TV in it or not.

  With Lucy parked on the floor of the living room, eating pistachio nuts and watching an episode of Inspector Gadget, Tom and I withdrew to the kitchen, where she wouldn’t be able to overhear our conversation. We talked for a good thirty or forty minutes, but nothing came of it except ever-mounting confusion and worry. So many mysteries and imponderables to be dealt with, so little evidence on which to build a plausible case. Where had Lucy found the money for the trip? How had she known Tom’s address? Had her mother helped her get away, or had she absconded on her own? And if Aurora had been involved, why hadn’t she contacted Tom in advance or at least sent a note with Lucy? Perhaps there had been a note, we said, and Lucy had lost it. One way or another, what did the girl’s departure tell us about Aurora’s marriage? Was it the disaster we both feared, or had Tom’s sister finally seen the light and embraced her husband’s vision of the world? And yet, if harmony reigned in the household, what was their daughter doing in Brooklyn? Round and round it went, the two of us traveling in circles, talking, talking, talking, but unable to answer a single question.

  “Time will tell,” I said at last, not wanting to prolong the agony. “But first things first. We have to find a place for her to live. You can’t keep her, and neither can I. So what do we do?”

  “I’m not putting her in foster care, if that’s what you mean,” Tom said.

  “No, of course not. But there must be someone we know who’d be willing to take her in. Temporarily, I mean. Until we manage to track down Aurora.”

  “That’s asking a lot, Nathan. It could go on for months. Maybe forever.”

  “What about your stepsister?”

  “You mean Pamela?”

  “You said she’s pretty well off. Big house in Vermont, two kids, lawyer husband. If you told her it’s just for the summer, maybe she’d go along with it.”

  “She detests Rory. All the Zorns do. Why would she want to put herself out for Rory’s kid?”

  “Compassion. Generosity. You said she’s improved over the years, didn’t you? Well, if I promise to cover Lucy’s expenses, maybe she’d see it as a joint family venture. All of us pulling together for the common good.”

  “You’re a persuasive old coot, aren’t you?”

  “Just trying to get us out of a tight squeeze, Tom. Nothing more than that.”

  “All right, I’ll get in touch with Pamela. She’ll turn me down, but I might as well give it a shot.”

  “That’s the spirit, son. Lay it on good and thick. A double grease job with syrup and molasses.”

  He didn’t want to make the call from my apartment, however. Not only because Lucy was there, he said, but because he would feel too self-conscious knowing I was around. Delicate, finicky Tom, the most sensitive soul in the world. No problem, I replied, but there wasn’t any need for him to walk back to his place. Lucy and I would go out, and he could be alone when he talked to Pamela, with the added bonus of being able to charge the long-distance call to my bill. “You saw what the kid is wearing,” I said. “Those ratty jeans and worn-out sneakers. It just won’t do, will it? You call Vermont, and I’ll take her out to buy some new clothes.”

  That settled the matter. After a hastily prepared lunch of tomato soup, scrambled eggs, and salami sandwiches, Lucy and I went on a shopping binge. Silent or not, she seemed to enjoy the expedition as much as any other young girl would have under similar circumstances: total freedom to choose whatever she wanted. At first we stuck mostly to the basics (socks, underwear, long pants, short pants, pajamas, a hooded sweatshirt, a nylon windbreaker, nailclippers, toothbrush, hairbrush, and so on), but then followed the hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of neon-blue sneakers, the all-wool Brooklyn Dodgers replica baseball cap, and, somewhat to my surprise, a glistening duo of authentic, patent-leather Mary Janes, along with the red-and-white cotton dress we bought at the end – the old classic, with the round collar and the sash that tied in back. By the time we carried our haul to my apartment, it was well past three o’clock, and Tom was no longer there. A note was sitting on the kitchen table.

  Dear Nathan

  Pamela said yes. Don’t ask me how I did it, but I had to work on her for over an hour before she finally gave in. One of the most grueling, punishing conversations I’ve ever had. For now, it’s only on a “trial basis,” but the good news is that she wants us to get Lucy up there tomorrow. Something to do with Ted’s schedule and some shindig at the local country club. I assume we can use your car, yes? I’ll drive if you don’t feel up to it. I’m off to the bookstore now to talk to Harry about taking some time off. I’ll wait for you there. A presto.

  Tom

  It hadn’t occurred to me that things would happen so fast. I felt relieved, of course, glad that our problem had been solved in such a quick and efficient way, but a part of me also felt disappointed, perhaps even a little bereft. I was beginning to like Lucy, and all during our shopping trip through the neighborhood, I had gradually warmed to the prospect of having her around for a while – days, I imagined, perhaps even weeks. It wasn’t that I had changed my mind about the situation (she couldn’t live in my apartment forever), but a short period would have been more than bearable for me. I had missed so many opportunities with Rachel when she was young, and now, suddenly, here was a little girl who needed looking after, who needed someone to buy clothes for her and put food in her stomach, who needed an adult with enough time on his hands to pay attention to he
r and try to draw her out of her baffling silence. I had no objections to assuming that role, but the show was apparently traveling from Brooklyn to New England, and I had been replaced by another actor. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that Lucy would be better off in the country with Pamela and her kids, but what did I know about Pamela? I hadn’t seen her in years, and our few encounters in the past had left me cold.

  Lucy wanted to wear her new dress and the Mary Janes to the bookstore, and I agreed on the condition that she take a bath first. I was an old hand at giving baths to children, I said, and to prove my point I pulled a photo album from the bookcase and showed her some pictures of Rachel – one of which, miraculously, showed my daughter sitting in a bubble bath at age six or seven. “That’s your cousin,” I said. “Did you know that she and your mother were born just three months apart? They used to be great friends.” Lucy shook her head and flashed one of her biggest smiles of the day. She was beginning to trust her Uncle Nat, I felt, and a moment later we marched down the hall to the bathroom. As I filled the tub with water, Lucy compliantly stripped off her clothes and waded in. Except for a small, mostly hardened scab on her left knee, there wasn’t a scratch on her. Clean, smooth back; clean, smooth legs; and no swelling or abrasions around her genitals. It was only a quick eyeball exam, but whatever the cause of her silence, I saw nothing to suggest that she had been roughed up or molested. To celebrate my discovery, I sang her the full version of “Polly Wolly Doodle” as I washed and rinsed her hair.

  Fifteen minutes after I pulled her out of the tub, the telephone rang. It was Tom, calling from the bookstore, wondering what had happened to us. He had finished talking to Harry (who had granted his request for a few days off) and was eager to get out of there.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Shopping took longer than expected, and then I decided Lucy could use a bath. Say good-bye to the little ragamuffin, Tom. Our girl looks like she’s about to go to a birthday party at Windsor Castle.”

  A short discussion followed about what to do for dinner. Since Tom wanted to get an early start in the morning, he thought it would be best if we planned something for around six o’clock. Besides, he added, Lucy’s appetite was so big, she’d probably be ravenous by then anyway.

  I turned to Lucy and asked her what she thought of pizza. When she replied by licking her lips and patting her stomach, I told Tom to meet us at Rocco’s Trattoria – which served the best pizza in the neighborhood. “Six o’clock,” I said. “Meanwhile, Lucy and I will go to the video store and look for a movie we can all watch after dinner.”

  The movie turned out to be Modern Times, which struck me as a weirdly inspired choice. Not only had Lucy never seen or heard of Chaplin (further evidence of the collapse of American education), but this was the film in which the tramp talks for the first time. The words might be gibberish, but sounds nevertheless came flying from his mouth, and I wondered if that moment wouldn’t stir up something in Lucy, perhaps give her pause to reflect on the meaning of her intractable silence. In the best of all possible worlds, I thought maybe it would even snap her out of it for good.

  Until the dinner at Rocco’s, she had been on her best behavior. Everything I had asked of her she had done willingly and obediently, and not once had a frown creased her forehead. But Tom, in a rare burst of thoughtlessness, abruptly dropped the news of our impending trip to Vermont just minutes after we sat down at the table. There was no buildup, no propaganda extolling the wonders of Burlington, no argument about why she would be better off with Pamela than with her two uncles in Brooklyn. That was when I saw her frown for the first time, then cry for the first time, then sulk through the better part of the meal. Hungry as she must have been, she didn’t touch her pizza when it was set down before her, and it was only my nonstop talking that delivered us from what might have escalated into a full-blown war of nerves. I began by doing the groundwork Tom had neglected to take care of: the hymns and panegyrics, the Chamber of Commerce tap dance, the lengthy encomium on Pamela’s legendary kindness. When those speeches failed to produce the desired result, I switched tactics and promised her that Tom and I would stay around until she was comfortably settled in, and then, going even further, took the supreme risk of assuring her that the decision was entirely in her hands. If she didn’t like it there, we would gather up her things and drive back to New York. But she had to give it a real chance, I said, no less than three or four days. Agreed? She nodded her head. And then, for the first time in half an hour, she smiled. I called for the waiter and asked him if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to reheat her pizza in the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he carried it back to the table, and Lucy dug in.

  The Chaplin experiment yielded only mixed results. Lucy laughed, emitting the first sounds we had heard from her all day (even her tears at dinner had rolled down her cheeks in silence), but several minutes before we came to the restaurant scene, the spot in the film where Charlie breaks into his memorable nonsense song, her eyes had already closed and she had drifted off to sleep. Who could blame her? She had arrived in New York only that morning, having traveled God knows how many hundreds of miles, which meant that for much if not all of the previous night she had been sitting on the bus. I carried her into the spare bedroom as Tom opened the already made-up sofa bed and pulled down the top sheet and blanket. No one sleeps more soundly than the young, especially the exhausted young. Even as I lowered her body onto the mattress and tucked her in, she didn’t open her eyes once.

  The next day began with a curious and troubling event. At seven o’clock, I walked in on the sleeping Lucy with a glass of orange juice, a plate of scrambled eggs, and two pieces of buttered toast. I put the food down on the floor and then reached out and gently shook her arm. “Wake up, Lucy,” I said. “It’s time for breakfast.” After three or four seconds, she opened her eyes, and then, following a short spell of absolute bewilderment (Where am I? Who is this strange man looking down at me?), she remembered who I was and smiled. “How did you sleep?” I asked.

  “Real good, Uncle Nat,” she answered, pronouncing the words with what sounded like a southern accent. “Like a big old stone at the bottom of a well.”

  Bang. There it was. Lucy had talked. Without prompting or encouragement, without pausing to consider what she was about to do, she had calmly opened her mouth and talked. Was the reign of silence officially over, I wondered, or had she simply forgotten about it in the stupor of emerging wakefulness?

  “I’m glad,” I said, not wanting to jinx things by mentioning what had just happened.

  “Are we still going to stinky Vermont today?” she asked.

  Each new word, each new sentence added to my cautious feeling of hope.

  “In about an hour,” I said. “Look, Lucy, juice and toast and eggs.”

  As I bent down and lifted the food off the floor, she broke into another one of her big smiles. “Breakfast in bed,” she announced. “Just like Queen Nefertiti.”

  I thought we were out of the woods by then, but what did I know – what did I know about anything? I had the glass of juice in my right hand, and just as she was reaching out to take it from me, the sky fell on top of her. I have rarely witnessed a face change expression more rapidly than hers did at that moment. In a single flash, the bright smile turned into a look of piercing, devastating horror. She clamped her hand over her mouth, and within seconds her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I said. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  But she had. According to her lights she had, and from the look on that tormented little face of hers, it was as if she had committed an unpardonable sin. In a sudden blast of anger at herself, she started banging the side of her head with the heel of her left hand, a wild pantomime display that seemed to express how stupid she thought she was. She did it three times, four times, five times, but just as I was about to grab her arm and make her stop, she thrust out her left hand and held up one finger, emphatically jabbing it toward my f
ace. She was in a fury. Eyes burning with disgust and self-loathing, she began slapping her left hand with her right, as if rebuking the hand for having had the gall to hold up that one finger. Then the slapping stopped, and she thrust out her left hand again. This time she was holding up two fingers. As before, she jabbed the air with bitter emphasis. First one finger, then two fingers. What was she trying to tell me? I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected it had something to do with time, with the number of days that were left before she would allow herself to speak again. She had been down to one day when she woke up that morning, but now that some words had accidentally slipped out of her, she had to punish herself by adding another day to her silence. One, therefore, had become two.

  “Is that it?” I asked. “Are you telling me you’ll start talking again in two days?”

  No response. I asked again, but Lucy wasn’t about to divulge her secret. No nod of the head, no shake of the head, no nothing. I sat down beside her and started stroking her hair.

  “Here, Lucy,” I said, handing her the glass of orange juice. “Time to eat your breakfast.”

  RIDING NORTH

  The car was a relic from my old life. I had no use for the thing in New York, but I had been too lazy to bother selling it, and so it sat in a parking garage on Union Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, never once driven or looked at since my move to Brooklyn. A 1994 lime-green Oldsmobile Cutlass, a shockingly ugly piece of hardware. But the car did what it was supposed to do, and after two long months of idleness, the engine kicked over with the first turn of the key.

  Tom was the pilot; I rode shotgun; Lucy sat in back. In spite of the promises I’d made to her the night before, she still wanted nothing to do with Pamela and Vermont, and she resented the fact that we were taking her there against her will. Logically speaking, she had a point. If the ultimate decision was in her hands, what was the purpose of driving over three hundred miles to get her there when the only result would be to drive another three hundred miles to bring her back? I had told her she had to give the Pamela experiment a legitimate chance. She had pretended to agree, but I knew her mind was already made up and nothing was going to change it. So she sat in the backseat of the car, looking sullen and withdrawn, a pouting, innocent victim of our cruel machinations. She fell asleep as we were passing the outskirts of Bridgeport on I-95, but until then she did little else but stare out the window, no doubt thinking evil thoughts about her two wicked uncles. As later events would prove, I was wrong about that. Lucy was far more resourceful than I had imagined, and rather than sit there fuming with anger, she was planning and thinking, using her considerable intelligence to hatch a plot that would turn the tables on us and put her in control of her own destiny. It was a brilliant scheme, if I do say so myself, a true rascal’s scheme, and one can only tip one’s hat to ingenuity taken to such an exalted level. But more about that anon.