If Only in My Dreams

  “I’m Jed.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Say, Isamu… if you live here, you must know Clara.”

  The boy is expressionless.

  “Clara McCallum,” Jed elaborates, and, for good measure, adds, “Miss McCallum. She lives here, too.”

  The child shakes his head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just Mama… Papa… Mr. Sloan… Mrs. Sloan,” Isamu informs him. “Oh. And me.”

  “That’s everyone who lives in your apartment?”

  “In whole house.” The little boy waves a hand at the townhouse.

  “What about Jezibel? Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  Jed reaches into his pocket and crouches down beside the low wrought-iron fence, on the same level with the child on the other side of the rails. “Come over here, Isamu. Let me show you something.”

  The child obediently approaches the fence.

  Jed pokes Clara’s card through a space between the black bars, picture side up. “Does she live here?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen her before?”

  Isamu shakes his head solemnly.

  Suddenly, the door opens and a woman’s voice calls out from the doorway overhead.

  Jed straightens to see a worried-looking middle-aged Japanese woman on the stoop shouting, “Isamu! Isamu!”

  “He’s right here, ma’am.” Jed tips his fedora at her. “You must be his mother.”

  Obviously relieved to see her son, the woman just gapes. Then she says something in Japanese to Isamu, whose long-winded reply is of course inscrutable to Jed. He’s pretty sure it involves him, though, because both mother and son are now eyeing him inquisitively.

  “What did she say?” Jed asks Isamu.

  “She want to know why you here, what you want, who you are.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I say I don’t know. Maybe you detective like Dick Tracy, protector of law and order.” This time, Isamu perfectly nails the booming inflection of the announcer on the popular radio show.

  “No, I’m not a detective, Isamu… I’m looking for my… friend. Clara. I thought she lived here. See? This address is on the back here.”

  “I show Mama,” the boy tells Jed, and plucks the card from his fingers.

  Jed watches him dart up the steps to his mother, who turns the card over and over, scrutinizing it, as her son speaks to her in their native tongue.

  Jed’s heart sinks as she looks down at him and shakes her head, shrugging to indicate that she doesn’t recognize Clara, either.

  “She never know this girl,” Isamu informs him, descending the steps and returning the card to Jed’s grasp. “Mr. Sloan own house. He live here with Mrs. Sloan. We live in basement. Take care of things.”

  Jed shoots a probing gaze up at Isamu’s mother, waiting on the stoop, her arms folded against the chill. Is she telling the truth?

  Even if she weren’t, he’d probably be able to tell if the little boy were lying. And he doesn’t seem to be. There wasn’t a hint of recognition in Isamu’s face when he spoke Clara’s name, much less when Jed showed him her photo.

  “Isamu!” the mother calls sharply, beckoning.

  “See you, mister,” the little boy says before scurrying up the steps, where he is promptly herded into the house.

  The door closes sharply behind them.

  Jed looks again at the address printed on the card, then checks it against the number above the townhouse’s door.

  They match.

  Wait a minute… maybe he’s on the wrong street!

  Maybe he wasn’t paying enough attention on his way over, and he’s actually on West Tenth Street… or West Twelfth…

  He picks up the suitcase, turns, and retraces his steps to the corner, striding quickly despite the weighty bag in his hand.

  The white lettering on the arched blue sign is clearly visible before he even reaches the corner.

  West Eleventh Street.

  He had the street right.

  Again, he checks the lettering on the card. Just one more time, to be absolutely certain…

  No, he had the address right, too. And it matches the address range listed in the arched panel above the street name on the sign.

  Obviously, the card—like the clothing in the suitcase, and everything else about Clara McCallum—is just part of an elaborate charade.

  It’s all he can do not to pitch the card into the nearest trash can, and deposit her luggage along with it.

  But he can’t do that.

  It’s important evidence.

  The authorities are going to need it.

  Feeling as though he’s been sucker punched in the stomach, Jed slowly makes his way back to the subway.

  That Jonathan Kershaw—the right Jonathan Kershaw—is listed in the Manhattan white pages is perhaps the first thing that’s gone smoothly for Clara in the past forty-eight hours.

  It would be too much to hope for that her former high school physics teacher might not only be home when she called, but remember her.

  Yet he was, and he did.

  “Clara! You’re a big movie star now. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you? To hear Sandra Nelson tell it, she’s single-handedly responsible for your success.”

  Sandra Nelson was, of course, her high school drama teacher. The one who, when casting the sophomore musical, assigned the plum parts of Dolly Levi and Irene Molloy to two other girls, leaving Clara to giggle her way through a supporting role as frivolous Minnie Fay.

  She’s come a long way since Hello, Dolly!, thank goodness.

  And a long, long way since she last spoke to Mr. Kershaw.

  He seemed surprised to hear from her, and even more surprised when she asked to see him—in person. Today.

  But he readily agreed, and now here she is, climbing out of the subway on the southern fringes of the Upper West Side neighborhood where the retired, divorced Mr. Kershaw has been living for decades.

  Somehow, since having made the initial contact with him this morning, she’s managed to temporarily clear her head of the unsettling thoughts that have haunted her these past few days. Just knowing she’s going to see him has brought a temporary reprieve—though for all Mr. Kershaw knows, the purpose of her visit is a nostalgic trip down a figurative memory lane, not a scientific inquiry into whether a literal one is remotely possible. And for all she knows, he’s going to confirm that she’s lost her mind.

  But right now, she isn’t thinking ahead. Nor is she looking back. She’s just walking up Amsterdam Avenue, content, for a change, to be in the moment.

  She’s taken great pleasure in avoiding makeup on her day off and her face feels wonderfully unadulterated, as does her hair, falling loose and squeaky-clean from beneath a red knit hat that covers her bruise.

  She’s cozy and comfortable in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, a red down jacket, and of course the treasured—and mysteriously returned to her—pair of warm red mittens with a white snowflake pattern that exactly match the hat on her head.

  “Why do you go around wearing mittens?” Jason frequently asked last winter.

  “Because when I wear them, my fingers can keep each other warm.”

  That didn’t fly with Jason. Of course he believes that mittens—sentimental value notwithstanding—are impractical, mostly because you can’t wear them while dialing a cell phone or pressing the numbers on the ATM keypad.

  “So what? You can’t stash things in your gloves, but you can in your mittens,” Clara would point out to her ex-fiancé. “Like money, your license, credit cards, your keys…”

  “Or you can wear gloves and keep those things in your pockets, where they belong,” said Jason the killjoy.

  “I don’t always have pockets.”

  “Then carry a purse.”

  Today, gloriously unencumbered—by purse, or gloves, or Jason—she carries only some cash in her right mitten, her keys in her left. She even le
ft her cell phone at home, not wanting to hear from anybody for a while. Not on her day off.

  The air is crisp, the sky a brilliant winter blue. Church bells are ringing, and for the time being, all is right with the world.

  She smiles to herself as she passes an open doorway and hears Bruce Springsteen’s exuberant “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” playing somewhere above.

  It’s a heck of a lot more welcome than “Midnight Train to Georgia.”

  As she waits for the light to change, she catches a whiff of Sunday brunch—or perhaps a dozen different Sunday brunches from a dozen different restaurants—wafting on the cold breeze. She finds herself swallowing a sudden flood of saliva and remembers that she hasn’t eaten anything yet, and it’s past one o’clock. She put Mrs. Kobayashi’s soup in the refrigerator and forgot all about it.

  Come to think of it, she didn’t eat much yesterday, either. Or the day before.

  Guess you’ve learned the ultimate magic bullet for an actress’s appetite control, she thinks wryly. Cancer diagnosis with a time travel chaser. Next thing you know, your Levi’s are bagging around your hips.

  Nearing Mr. Kershaw’s cross street, she slows her pace a bit. It isn’t that she’s changed her mind about seeing him… she just wants to put it off until the last possible moment because she has no idea how he’s going to react to her question.

  She allows herself to gaze into a few boutiques as she passes, admiring the glitzy holiday merchandise; the tinsel, garlands, and lights.

  Then she allows herself to think about the pink-and-white poinsettia from her mystery Santa. But only for a moment—then she dismisses the thought and any speculation about the Santa’s identity. It’s just too much right now.

  Still… it would be so nice if I could just get into the spirit.

  Wistful again, she can’t help but pine for a simple, joyous Christmas-shopping mission. How carefree her life used to be when there was nothing heavier weighing on her mind than whether to get her stepmother a gift card or attempt to buy her something to wear.

  This year, everybody’s getting gift cards, Clara tells herself briskly, and that’s that. She doesn’t have the time, the energy, or the inclination to shop. And if that’s not sad, I don’t know what is.

  Too soon, it seems, she finds herself walking down a tree-lined, quiet side street that reminds her of her own block in the Village. Nestled among the brownstones is Mr. Kershaw’s boxy yellow-brick prewar apartment building.

  Here goes, Clara thinks as she heads toward the entrance. Several elderly men, bundled in bulky coats and caps, are sitting and talking in plastic chairs in a small patch of winter sun.

  As Clara passes, she notices that one of them is wearing a black baseball cap with WWII printed in gold above the visor. It’s all she can do not to stop and stare, suddenly struck by the realization that this withered old man was a young and heroic soldier, like Jed. And that Jed, had he lived, would now be a withered old man.

  Well, of course he would. Why is that so surprising—and disappointing?

  Because he’s lost to you either way, whether he lived or died, comes the startling reply from a wayward inner voice. That’s why.

  He’s not lost to me. He’s nothing to me, protests her voice of reason. Just a vision in a dream…

  Right. So that’s why you’re here to see Mr. Kershaw? Because you’re still convinced it was a dream? A dream about a man named Jed who had a father named Abner, also known as Lucky Landry, who died of lung cancer on December 1, 1939, all of which you couldn’t possibly have known unless…

  Okay.

  Okay.

  Clara swallows hard, attempting to steel herself for whatever lies ahead.

  On the long panel of buzzers beside the entry, she finds the name Kershaw beside 14E. Here goes, she thinks again as she removes her red mitten, careful not to drop her keys, and presses the cold metal button.

  The door clicks promptly. He’s waiting for her.

  She steps into the Pine-Sol-scented lobby. In a bygone era, it might have been elegant, with glass chandeliers, marble floors, and ornate moldings. Today, it seems a little forlorn: The chandeliers are strung with cobwebs, the floors are worn, and the moldings could use a fresh coat of paint.

  With this prime location, though, it won’t be long before the place goes co-op. Then it will be completely overhauled and populated by moneyed Wall Street types like Jason.

  Clara takes the elevator to the fourteenth floor, noticing that there’s no thirteen, in keeping with many of the city’s older high-rises including the Chrysler Building and Rockefeller Center.

  Which means that this is the thirteenth floor, she thinks as she steps out into the corridor. She’s never been particularly superstitious—unlike a surprising number of Manhattan builders—but she hopes that this isn’t a bad omen.

  Mr. Kershaw opens the door before she even reaches it. At least, she assumes he’s Mr. Kershaw. The balding, rotund man in bifocals looks nothing like the dashing teacher she remembers. All that’s familiar about him is his attire: Even in retirement, he’s wearing tan corduroy trousers and an olive-green cardigan sweater over a wrinkled white dress shirt and bow tie.

  Then he smiles, and she realizes with relief that he’s entirely familiar, after all—and she’s missed him.

  This is the man who gave her a hall pass, no questions asked, the day she cut study hall to kiss Adam Dumont behind the bleachers. The man who regaled the class with heart-wrenching stories about Bianca, his beloved only child, overcoming impossible odds to survive a brain tumor. The man who was clapping in the front row at Clara’s first off-off-Broadway performance at sixteen, and admitted afterward that he didn’t “get” the play.

  I guess I’m just too scientific to be very creative, he said with a rueful laugh.

  To which Clara responded, I guess I’m just too creative to be very scientific.

  Which is exactly the reason I’m here today, she thinks, as she walks toward him.

  “Clara McCallum! Look at you! You even walk like a movie star!”

  Somehow she doubts that, especially in blistered feet and sneakers—but it’s a nice thing to say.

  When she reaches him there is an awkward moment of not knowing whether to greet him with a hug or a handshake. She opts to let him take the lead, but he seems to be doing the same, so they share an uncoordinated hug-shake.

  “Come on in, Clara,” he says with a laugh.

  The place is huge. Rent-stabilized, without a doubt. A retired educator could never afford it otherwise.

  Gazing around, Clara sees just the architectural touches one would expect to find in a vintage building like this: crown molding, built-in bookshelves, parquet floors, tall, deep-silled windows.

  But the sparsely furnished apartment, like its resident himself and the lobby thirteen floors below, has seen better days. There are bubbles and creases in the wall opposite the door, painted a manila-paper beige that might very well once have been white. In the living room, a jagged crack runs through one windowpane, and ominous water stains spread across the ceiling above the nubby sand-colored couch.

  “Have a seat,” Mr. Kershaw offers, gesturing at the couch after taking her coat. She removes her hat reluctantly, wishing she had thought to cover her bruise with makeup. And it would be nice if she were wearing something a little more presentable than this old navy blue, hooded sweatshirt, a relic from the 2004 American League playoff game she attended with Jason.

  “My goodness, what happened to your forehead?”

  “I walked into a door,” Clara says seamlessly. “You know me… always a klutz.”

  “It was always the opposite, as I recall,” he replies with a furrowed brow and another dubious glance at her head.

  “Oh, well, I guess the clumsiness came later. I swear, there are some days that I can’t believe I was ever a dancer.”

  You’re chattering because you’re nervous. Cut it out.

  She falls silent, twisting her hat in jittery f
ingers, wishing she could put it back on… pull it low over her face, and slink right out the door.

  This was definitely a bad idea.

  “In that case, please have a seat before you hurt yourself,” Mr. Kershaw says with a grin, and she can’t help but laugh.

  “Can I get you something?” he asks graciously. “Seltzer? A cup of hot tea?”

  A double cheeseburger would be great, Clara thinks, and her stomach promptly growls at the savory image that pops into her head.

  “No, thank you,” she tells him, sitting on the couch. On the metal TV tray that serves as an end table beside it is a framed snapshot of a young family: mother, father, blue-swaddled baby.

  Seeing Clara glance at it, Mr. Kershaw proudly announces, “I’m a grandpa. My daughter had a baby last spring. That’s Bianca’s little Tyler, and her husband, Jack.”

  Bianca. The little girl who wasn’t supposed to live past her sixth birthday. Moved, Clara offers a heartfelt, “Congratulations… that’s wonderful.”

  “It sure is. They live on the West Coast, but they’re coming for Christmas. I’ve been busy redoing Bianca’s old room as a nursery, and turning the spare bedroom into a guest room.”

  “Wow, how many rooms do you have?” she exclaims.

  “Eight, including the maid’s bedroom. Not that I have a maid. My ex-wife got everything else in the divorce—the furniture, the money, half my pension. I got to stay here.”

  “It’s rent-stabilized,” she guesses.

  “Rent-controlled,” he clarifies, almost gloating.

  Ah, New York, Clara thinks, in complete understanding. A city where rent control is the equivalent of a middle-class teacher’s lottery win, and multimillionaires line up to claim apartments vacated when their half-century tenants die off.

  A fat cat with dense ebony fur appears out of nowhere to jump onto the cushion beside her, purring… or is he growling?

  Terrific. First the thirteenth floor, now a black cat.

  “Hawking, get down right now!” Mr. Kershaw scolds. Ignoring him, the feline begins to lick its paw. “You’re not allergic, are you, Clara?”

  “No, it’s okay. I like cats,” she lies. Jason had two. She prefers dogs.

  Good thing I’m not superstitious.