Adam Sternbergh - Shovel Ready

I probably could have moved to Park Avenue if I’d wanted to, but it felt like the right time to retreat across the river. Always preferred this side, in any case. Even if it means you need to own a boat.

And there’s no more Wall Street, not in New York. There’s still the actual street, in the city, that you can walk on, but that financial part? Moved elsewhere. London, Beijing, Seoul. For awhile, they tried swapping stocks in the limnosphere, set up a virtual exchange, but there were too many distractions, too much money to be made indulging other vices. So they set up a separate network and do all that money-swapping somewhere overseas. All the bankers and brokers relocated. Good riddance. And thanks for the divan.

Okay, divan is a word I had to look up. A visiting lady-friend said it to me once. Said she admired it.

My hand-me-down divan.

Persephone is admiring my divan. Stretched out, leaning back on it, more obviously pregnant. White wifebeater under the unzipped hoodie, revealing a sliver of belly. I’d guess maybe five months. Like I’m a doctor now.

I give the tour.

Room back there. Lock on the door, as promised. Bathroom’s there. Clean towels etcetera. I sleep out here.

Thanks.

Hugs the guest pillow to her chest. Asks an obvious question.

Why are you being so nice to me?

It was a sad day when people started to ask that routinely, don’t you think?

She laughs.

I don’t really remember when they didn’t.

You have a change of clothes?

She shakes her head. Unzips the rainbow knapsack with the decal of My Little Pony. I half-expect a tinier pony to come out.

Instead, a bottle and diaper inside.

You won’t need those for awhile.

I know. I just like having them with me. Remind me why I’m doing this, you know?

Makes sense.

The knapsack was mine when I was a little girl. Always made me feel safe. I hope to pass it on, if she’s a girl.

Looks a little worse for wear.

Yeah, well. I couldn’t find the part of Central Park with the Laundromat.

She smiles.

You’re not from some youth hostel, are you?

Me? No. I am from Hoboken though.

Are you going to hurt me?

No.

Were you going to hurt me?

This one’s tougher. I say no. Because I would have tried to make it painless. Still a lie, I know.

Well, thank you. For your help. I haven’t met too many people here who would help me.

Not a problem.

You listen to music?

No.

What do you listen to?

I hold up a hand. Moment of silence.

The city quiet.

I listen to that.

Lot of people tapped in here, huh?

Yeah. Not most. But a lot.

I guess I should be getting to bed.

Yell if you need something. I’m a light sleeper.

She looks me over. Then asks.

How old are you anyway? I told you. It’s only fair.

Me? I’m you, plus fifteen years.

She winces. Laughs again.

God, I hope not.

Morning. Making waffles.

I mix batter, then head down to the street corner. Pick up takeout coffees, bagels, and the Post . Three comforts that outlived the apocalypse. Daily News went under and the Times long since disappeared into the limnosphere. Now it’s just a ticker running through rich people’s dreams.

But God bless the Post . They still publish. On paper.

I get back, she’s up and dressed. Left her a sweatshirt, which on her grew into a dress.

Sorry about the fit. All my clothes are garbageman clothes.

It’s clean. It’s great.

You sleep okay?

Yeah. About three weeks’ worth.

She giggles.

What?

You have a waffle iron.

Yes I do.

You don’t really strike me as a waffle-iron kind of guy.

Best way I’ve found yet for making waffles.

Can’t argue with that.

It was a gift. From my wife.

Eyebrow arches like a cornered cat.

Really. And where’s she?

Deceased.

I’m sorry.

Cat relaxes. But slowly.

I slide a waffle on her plate.

So what’s next?

I’m not sure. I’ve thought about Canada.

Last I heard, border’s closed.

Yeah. I heard that too.

Plates cleared, coffee drained, waffles eaten.

Me doing dishes.

What can I say? I don’t mind. I have a dishwasher too. Never used.

I like to clean up my own mess, as a rule.

She wanders over to the fridge while I’m not paying attention.

Stainless steel. Sub-Zero. A remnant from the Wall Street types.

You got any ice cream?

She glances over.

So sue me. I’m pregnant.

Opens the freezer.

Inside, a single Ziploc baggie. Inside the Ziploc, a butcher-paper-wrapped package, about the size of a brick.

Cat arches again, but playful.

What’s this? Your secret stash?

I step over right-quick.

That? No.

She pulls the baggie out. Holds it up. Laughing now. Teasing.

What, you deal coke? Is that how you afford this place?

I snatch the bag back.

No. I do a bit of butchering.

Really?

It’s a hobby.

Cool. So what’s that? Please tell me it’s bacon.

No. Not bacon. Just bones. For stock.

Well, look at you, Mr Julia Child. Let me know if you rustle up some bacon. I’m not a big meat eater but I’ve had weird cravings of late.

Rubs her belly.

I stash the bag. Close the freezer. Step between her and it.

Try to smile.

Can’t let the cold out.

I don’t have many visitors. So I get sloppy. Forget.

A freezer is a very bad place to keep your souvenirs.

Lazy Sunday. Me in an armchair. Her on the sofa with Sports.

Regular Cleavers.

I flip through the Post .

A22. Tiny item.

DEATH DINER DOUBLE SLAY.

The American Century.

I fold the paper back. Read it. Fill in the parts between the lines.

Surveillance tape caught him: Buzz cut. Aviators. Left the cash in the cash drawer.

Odd detail. Before he left, everyone dead, he holstered the pistol.

Stopped at the sink.

Washed his hands.

Buzz cut. Aviators.

Fondness for firearms.

This must be Mr Pilot.

Retracing our steps.

Bus-fare option doesn’t seem like an option anymore.

I fold the paper up, slide it under the chair.

You know, you could stay here again tonight. A few more nights. I’ve got plenty of sweatshirts.

She yawns. Stretches out on the leather. Leather squeaks.

I just might.

Turns her head. Freshly showered hair.

Might even learn how to sleep with the door unlocked. If you’re lucky.

Well, you’re welcome to. Stay, I mean.

I gotta ask you again. Why are you being so nice to me?

Everyone’s got to be nice to someone, right?

I get up. Pretend I’m tidying the kitchen. Try to plot plan B.

She turns back to Sports. Then stops. Sits up.

Stares me down.

My father sent you. Didn’t he?

I stand like a dummy. With a dishcloth.

Who?

You know who. T. K. Harrow. Man of God.

I’m not religious.

Don’t fuck with me. He sent you. It’s the only way this makes sense.

I’m no good at lying. Same as acting.

Yes. He sent me. To find you.

(Technically true.)

And do what with me?

Keep you safe.

(Less true. Much less true.)

Bring me back?

Something like that.

She sits up straight. Picks up the bowie knife in its sheath from the coffee table.

Turns it in her fingers.

Well, let me tell you about how things work in my family, just so you know what kind of people you’re working for. I stopped in on my uncle. In Brooklyn. For help? You know what he did for me?