The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen (29 page)

“Thanks, Etta,” Maddie says, not getting up from where she's slouched down in the sofa, boots splayed and in the way.

The woman sets the sandwich tray down on the coffee table with a grunt, and then shuffles back out without acknowledging any of us.

Tyler picks up one of the sandwiches and sniffs it. He makes a face.

I pick one up and stuff it into my mouth without hesitating, which is a mistake. I suppress a gag. It's cucumber. And mayonnaise. And nothing else.

Maddie eyes me, laughing silently.

“So,” I say through a mouthful of sandwich. “What does ‘not exactly' mean?”

Maddie sighs and stares up at the ceiling.

“Don't laugh,” she warns.

Tyler and Annie and I all look at one another and nod.

Maddie sinks lower into the cushions.

“I bet it's at the New-York Historical Society,” she says. She waggles one booted foot thoughtfully.

“What?” I say, rather intelligently, I think.

“My dad loaned them a ton of stuff last year. All these papers and crap, I don't know. Junk. Stuff his WIFE”—she yells that last word—“didn't want.”

“Crap,” Tyler says.

“And my mom doesn't have it, 'cause she lives on Antigua with her tennis instructor,” Maddie says to one of her boots. “Dad took back the family jewels in the divorce.”

Tyler snorts on
family jewels
, but doesn't say anything.

Annie keeps staring up at the painting. I can't imagine what it must feel like, to see such a wrong painting of yourself. Especially after you're . . . after you're . . . Anyway.

“Great,” I say, leaning my head back on the sofa and staring at the ceiling.

Perfectly smooth plaster patterned in delicate florets.

No divots.

“How the hell are we going to get it out?” Tyler asks the room at large.

“Depends on their security,” I say. “Like, is it more
Thomas Crown Affair
, or more
Ocean's Eleven
?”

“Please.
Thomas Crown
is bullshit. They're not going to have sliding metal doors on the walls. Now,
Pink Panther
, on the other hand,” Tyler says. “They might have lasers. Lasers are way cheap now. With motion sensors.”

“
The Italian Job
!” I add, getting excited. “The remake, though. The original sucks.”

“Mmmmm.” Tyler sighs in a Homer Simpson voice. “Charlize Theron.”

“But where are we going to get equipment?” I say. To Maddie, I ask, “Is there, like, a spy gear store around here? Or police supplies?”

“You need ID to buy at the police supply place. What about an REI? They'd have grappling equipment,” Tyler points out.

Maddie is watching us, disbelieving.

“Are you guys insane?” she asks. To Annie, she says, “They're insane, right?”

Annie suppresses a giggle. “At least I know what an ID is now,” she remarks. “Everything else, I'm just guessing. What does ‘spy gear' mean?”

“Huh?” I say.

“I can just go pick it up tomorrow,” Maddie explains.

“You . . . what?” Tyler looks disappointed.

“Duh. I turned eighteen last week. And thanks for the flowers, by the way,” she says pointedly at me. “And the card and the pony.”

“I had a pony.” Annie sighs, but nobody pays any attention.

“So you can just go get it?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yeah. Pretty sure. Anything that's on deposit that's ours, I can just go pick up.”

Tyler and I stare at each other, and then we both look at Annie.

“We can go get my cameo?” Annie says. “Tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Maddie says. “There's just one thing.”

“What?” I ask her.

Maddie casts a baleful eye down on her clothes: ragged cutoffs, ripped fishnets, white ribbed undershirt.

“I think I need a costume change,” she says, arching a penciled eyebrow. “When I moved to the squat, I sold my other clothes.”

“I know just who to call,” I announce, feeling pleased with myself and pulling out my phone. “And he doesn't have to be at Abraham Mas until ten.”

O
utside on the street, so far uptown that I have trouble reconciling myself to the fact that we're not standing on a wooded stretch of the post road under the watchful eyes of cows, I stare up at the face of Malou's tenement building, trying not to be afraid.

Wes and Tyler are conferring between themselves, as boys are wont to do. I don't know if they're not including me in their conversation out of habit, or for fear that I'm such a being out of time that I can't conceive of whatever it is that they're saying. The funny part of that is, though it's bigger than I would have expected, and taller, and better lit, and with fewer horses, it's not after all so very different. The pace is the same. The crowded streets, the smell of food and spirits, the thrum and noise and crush.

New-York is always New-York.

Though the air in Malou's house was exquisitely cold. Like a perfect fall day, all the time. Amazing.

Malou is going to take me with her tomorrow to the historical society, which she thinks holds the cameo Herschel gave me, which at some point I must give to Ed, and Ed to his wife, and his wife to his son, and so on for longer than I can think about. I haven't tried
to discern what we are to each other, Malou—Maddie—and I. Those tattoos. She looks like a whaler. She's beautiful, though, for all her ink. I see in her cheeks and in the corners of her eyes contours rather like Ed's and Beattie's. She's like my sister, if we weren't separated by so much distance and time.

Ed. Ed grows up, and marries. I wonder who.

I wonder where he is, right now.

And Beattie. Where is she? She looked so sad, in the painting. And not at all like I remember her. She dies with me and our parents, Maddie said. But why?

Wes and Tyler's conversation is intensifying. It's almost an argument. Malou told us to come back tomorrow morning at nine, and I think they're trying to decide what to do with me until then. I've considered absenting myself, but I don't know how much memory I have left to explore, if I try to go back.

I don't want to run out of time.

“Are you crazy?” Tyler's saying.

“No way,” Wes answers. “Forget it. Give it back.”

They're arguing about the little camera box that Wes has. He says it's a way of taking down images and keeping them forever. He's very particular about it. I guess Wes wants it back, but I'm bored by their posturing. I realize that their encounter with me, in my peculiar circumstances, will qualify as one of the more memorable experiences of their short lives. But I'd venture to say, that in my short (or is it long?) life, the circumstance looms rather larger.

“Wes?” I interrupt, placing a hand on his arm. His skin is warm to the touch, burned from summer sun.

They stop their arguing. It's well and truly night now, though I don't know the time. I step into the pool of light thrown by a streetlamp, and glance down at myself. The tatters in my dress go into stark relief, a whiff of smoke escaping from under my feet, and I
cast no shadow. I close my eyes quickly, not looking. I'm here, I tell myself, I'm here right now.

“What is it, Annie?” he asks me.

When he looks at me, his eyes go soft and tender, and I feel they see deeper into me than eyes usually should. I feel guilty, if I'm honest with myself, when I see him look at me that way.

“Do you think you could take me to see the Central Park?” I ask quietly.

He gives me a long, pained look that I don't much like.

“You want to go to the park?” he asks. “Now?”

I nod.

Tyler and Wes exchange a look. Then Tyler turns the camera over to Wes without further argument.

“You think I can meet you guys tomorrow morning?” Tyler asks. “I wanna see what happens.”

“I guess,” Wes says. “Is that okay with you, Annie?”

Okay,
he says. They both say it, all the time. I've finally started to figure out what it means. It means “yes” and “all right.” It also means less than all right, and a begrudging no. It means everything, and nothing, all at once.

“Sure.” I smile at Tyler.

He's not a bad sort, this Tyler, though the shortness of his hair still surprises me. He doesn't wear a braid, like the Celestial men I've known, but it seems that no one does anymore. I can see that he and Wes are friends, in the way that boys sometimes compete more closely with their friends than they do with their enemies. I've watched Herschel argue with his friends in the same way. They flash their feathers at each other like roosters.

“Okay,” Tyler says.
Okay
, again. “Nine o'clock. I'll see you guys then.”

“Right,” Wes says. “See you.”

Tyler fixes me in a strange stare, his eyes sliding down my form in a way that makes me cross my arms over my chest. Then he grins, and jogs off backward with a wave. Wes and I wave back.

“It's dark,” Wes remarks, and he sounds nervous. “Are you sure you want to go into the park now?”

I can't help but laugh at him. First, at his idea of dark. The night lights here are so harsh and glaring that I can see every divot on his nose.

“What do you think's going to happen?” I chide him. “You afraid the boys from the Bowery will come cut your watch fob? Come on. Walk with me.”

Wes laughs, too, perhaps realizing that whatever he might fear for himself, I, at least, have nothing to fear in the Central Park tonight.

My fear waits for me tomorrow.

There are street signs on the lampposts, a splendid invention. They tell us that we are on the corner of Seventy-Second Street and Park Avenue. Imagine, the city reaches this far uptown.

I take Wes by the hand and lead him west. The streetlights mark our way as friendly and safe, and there's even a sliver of moon overhead. There's almost no one about. This quarter seems rich enough that I imagine everyone has a country seat where they retreat in the summer, avoiding the cholera. Perhaps up by the Bronck's. I knew a girl whose parents had a house nearby where I imagine we are, when it was hilly countryside shot through here and there with streams and apple trees. I wonder if she knows her country house is paved over and gone.

Wes allows me to pull him along, holding my hand pressed between both of his as if he's afraid I'm going to float away. His hands are hot around mine.

“So,” Wes says.

“Hmmmm?” I ask. I'm enjoying the walk, staring up at the
bright-lit windows. Here and there I spy silhouettes of people behind the curtains. I like that I can see them, and they don't know I'm here.

“Tell me about this Herschel guy,” he tries to say it lightly.

I glance at him, and he's looking at me with naked eyes. I have to be careful, how this unfolds.

“Well,” I say slowly. “What do you want to know?”

“How long have you known him?” Wes struggles to get the words out.

“We met when I was fifteen,” I say.

“How old are you now?”

I laugh. “Why, seventeen, I should think. Depending how you count.”

“Really?” He's surprised, but I can't tell why.

“Why, how old are you?” I ask.

“Nineteen,” he says, his voice sounding kind of strangled.

“Herschel's nineteen, too,” I say.

The afternoon I wandered into his uncle's dry goods store by mistake, having gotten lost and missed the store two blocks over that Mother wanted me to visit, I must've lounged on the counter talking with him for over an hour. His uncle was sick that day, so he was running the store by himself. I'd never seen a boy with brown eyes as heavily fringed as his. And he was funny. He had this way of talking, this order to his words that made light of everything I said. I was laughing so hard my ribs hurt, and my cheeks got sore from smiling. I coiled a curl around my finger and leaned forward, and when I saw his gaze accidently slip to the lace at my chest, a thrill thundered through me so hard that I couldn't breathe.

He looked away immediately, and sold me some thread.

His hands were shaking.

I came back the next day.

I knew I wasn't supposed to.

He tried to explain. That it had nothing to do with me, but that it would be impossible. His family would never allow it. I must see how impossible it would be.

I didn't care.

The first time we sneaked out together was two weeks later. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was supposed to be home with a fever. Mother, Papa, Beatrice, Ed, and Lottie were all at church, and Winston was up in Seneca. Our house was empty, and I rattled around in it, pacing the floors, chewing the nail off my thumb, wearing a path in the leftover scrubbing sand.

Then, I left. It was the middle of the day, autumn.

I forgot my hat.

I didn't even wear a shawl.

I went and stood outside his uncle's shop, staring in the window. His back was to me, he was putting something away on a high shelf, but he felt me there, watching him. I saw his back stiffen, and he turned. He stared back at me, into me, with those fringed eyes. Without a word, he came outside, locked up, and we stole away. I came home disheveled, with leaves clinging to my dress, and everyone wondering where I'd gotten to. But I think my mother knew.

I glance at Wes. He's waiting for me to tell him something, but I can see in his earnest, boyish face this isn't what he wants to hear.

We pause at the avenue crossing, watching the yellow horseless carriages go sailing by, and the sign over our head reads
MADISON
. Like Maddie. I smile, thinking about that strange, angry sort-of-sister. I wonder if that's where she got the name that she really wanted. And Cinders! Like Cinderella. I wish I'd thought of it.

“Annie?” Wes says. “Are you all right?”

This corner, where we're standing, used to have a small wooden house, with a grassy hillside behind it dotted with sheep. I don't know how I know this with such certainty, but I do. I can see it,
without seeing it. Like I can see the impression it left behind. It's there, underneath the surface of the buildings and asphalt. They'd trade with travelers rolling on cartback down to the city from Hartford or Boston. And even this far inland, their yard was ringed with crushed oyster shells.

Wes pulls on my hand, bringing me back to myself.

“Am I?” I ask him.

He squeezes my hand and we hurry across the street, the lamps on the landaus throwing him into stark relief in the dark. His shadow stretches long against the stone walls of the buildings as we pass them. His shadow moves alone.

Fifth Avenue, when we reach it, is awash with carriages and people, the urgent rush that I'm used to. The carriages come equipped with horns, replacing—or sometimes adding to—the shouts of drivers scattering passersby out of the way. I feel a jolt of excitement, seeing the black outline of the trees against the night sky across the avenue.

“They've been talking about this, you know,” I say to Wes, marveling. “I heard Papa and some gentlemen from the committee.”

“About what?” Wes asks.

“About having a park,” I say. “There's no parks, where I live. Have you noticed that?”

“I never really thought about it,” Wes says, sounding surprised. “Why not?”

I shrug. “I don't know. But on hot days, like this, it means we all go to the waterfront.”

“Really?” He makes a face.

“Oh yes. The sailors and ropemakers all hate it, because we're underfoot, and the boys steal things to sell at the pawnshops. When the sun is hot and bright, like it was today, it makes a corona around your head, if you stare at yourself in the river. A halo, that follows you wherever you move. Have you ever done that?” I ask him.

“Yes,” Wes says softly.

The carriages all stop at once, following the command of some complex system of lamps, and we dash hand in hand across the street, running for no reason.

It's cooler when we reach the park, and the darkness makes me feel safe. I can tell the opposite is true of Wes, though. Anxiety vibrates in him like an over-tuned fiddle string.

“How did you meet him?” Wes presses me.

“At his uncle's store,” I say without looking at him. I feel him stiffen next to me, with a new awkward hitch in his walk.

“So, is he, like, your boyfriend or something?” Wes asks.

We move deeper into the park, wending our way along a roadside. We're not alone. Couples wander with us, people walking little dogs on leads. Children weave around us on funny toys with wheels. We cross over a bridge, and off to the right spy a wide plaza leading down to a lake so perfect it almost doesn't seem real. A fountain plashes in the center of the plaza, and under the bridge I hear a lone violinist playing music that sounds both beautiful and sad.

“I don't know how to answer that,” I say, looking at Wes.

“It's a pretty basic question,” he says, a line forming between his eyebrows under that sweet mop of hair on his forehead.

We keep walking, turning down a long promenade lined with trees so tall they meet overhead. Benches line the promenade, and people from all walks of life rest on them, watching us pass. Old women with wire baskets at their feet, tiny babies in wheeled carriages, men dressed only in undershirts. A family walks by, and the man has a cap on the back of his head like Herschel used to wear. He's young, and so is his pretty wife in her modest clothes. Three children, two girls and boy in a cap, too, romp around their feet.

I have to look away.

“Tell me,” Wes says. “I need to know. Please?”

“We'd steal away to be together . . .” I hesitate. “But we weren't allowed.”

Wes abruptly releases my hand, and as soon as the pressure is gone, I miss it.

“Two years,” Wes says, sounding almost angry as he walks next to me. He's thrust his hands in his pockets. “That's a long time.”

“I guess,” I say. I don't know what to do with my own hands now. I wrap them around myself and cup my elbows.