Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin

She buys a coffee, and slides back the chair, joins him at the table. He lifts his reading glasses to the top of his forehead and leans back in the chair, laughs.

— How did you find me?

— My internal GPS. How was your jazz?

— Oh, it was jazz. Your old friend, how is she?

— Not sure. Yet.

— Yet?

— I’ll see her later today. Tell me. Can I ask? Just, well, y’know What brings you here? The city?

— You really want to know? he says.

— I think so, yeah.

— Are you ready?

— As I’ll ever be.

— I’m buying a chess set.

— You what?

— It’s a handmade thing. There’s a craftsman on Thompson Street. I’m picking it up. It’s a bit of an obsession of mine. It’s for my son, actually. It’s a special Canadian wood. And the guy is a master …

— You came all the way from Little Rock to pick up a chess set?

— I suppose I needed to get out for a while.

— No kidding.

— And, well, I’ll bring it to him in Frankfurt. Spend a few days with him, have some fun. Go back to Little Rock, return to work.

— How’s your carbon footprint?

He smiles, drains his coffee. She can already tell that they will spend the morning here, that they will while the time away in the Village, they will have an early lunch, he will lean forward and touch her neck, she will cradle his hand there, they will go to his hotel, they will make love, they will open the curtains, they will tell stories, they will laugh, she will fall asleep again with her hand on his chest, she will kiss him good-bye, and later, back in Arkansas, he will call on her message machine, and she will leave his number on her night desk, to decide.

— Another question?

— Yeah?

— How many pictures of women are on your cell phone?

— Not many, he says with a grin. And you? How many guys?

— Millions, she says.

— Really?

— Billions, in fact.

There was only one time she ever went back to the Deegan. It was ten years ago, when she had just finished college. She wanted to know where it was her mother and grandmother had strolled. She drove a rental from JFK airport, got stopped in traffic, bumper to bumper. At least a half-mile of cars up ahead. In the rearview mirror the traffic pinned her into place. A Bronx sandwich.

So, she was home again, but it didn’t feel like a homecoming.

She hadn’t been in the neighborhood since she was five. She remembered the pale gray corridors and a mailbox stuffed with flyers: that was all.

She put the car in park and was fidgeting with her stereo when she caught a glimpse of movement far up the road. A man was rising out from the top of a limousine, strange and centaurian. She saw his head first, then his torso coming up through the open sunroof. Then the sharp swivel of his head as if he had been shot. She fully expected a spray of blood along his roof. Instead the man extended his arm and pointed as if directing traffic. He swiveled again. Each turn was quicker and quicker. He was like an odd conductor, wearing a suit and tie. The outstretched tie looked like a dial on the roof of the car as he turned. His hands rose on either side of him and he pulled his whole body up through the sunroof and then he was out and standing on top of the limousine, legs splayed wide and his fingers outstretched. Roaring at nearby drivers.

She noticed then that others were out and about, with their arms draped over their open doors, a little row of heads turning in the same direction, like sunflowers. Some secret between them. A nearby woman started beeping her car horn, she heard screaming, and it was then that she noticed the coyote trotting through the traffic.

It looked entirely calm, loping along in the hot sun, stopping and twisting its body, as if it were in some weird wonderland to be marveled at.

The thing was that the coyote was going toward the city, not back out. She remained seated and watched it come toward her. It crossed lanes two cars in front of her, passed alongside her window. It didn’t look up, but she could see the yellow of the eyes.

In the rearview mirror she watched it go. She wanted to scream at it to turn, that it was going the wrong way, it needed to double back, just swivel and sprint free. Far behind her she noticed siren lights turning. Animal control. Three men with nets were circling through the traffic.

When she heard the crack of the rifle shot she thought at first it was just a car backfiring.

She likes the word mother and all the complications it brings. She isn’t interested in true or birth or adoptive or whatever other series of mothers there are in the world. Gloria was her mother. Jazzlyn was too. They were like strangers on a porch, Gloria and Jazzlyn, with the evening sun going down: they just sat there together and neither could say what the other one knew, so they just kept quiet, and watched the day descend. One of them said good night, while the other waited.

They find each other slowly, tentatively, shyly, drawing apart, merging again, and it strikes her that she has never really known the body of another. Afterward they lie together without speaking, their bodies touching lightly, until she rises and dresses quietly.

The flowers are cheap, she thinks, the moment she buys them. Waxy flower paper, thin blooms, a strange scent to them, like someone in the deli has sprayed them with a false fragrance. Still, she can find no other open florist. And the light is dimming, the evening disappearing. She heads west, toward Park, her body still tingling, his phantom hand at her hip.

In the elevator the cheap scent of the flowers rises. She should have looked around and found a better shop, but it’s too late now. No matter. She gets out on the top floor, her shoes sinking into the soft carpet. There is a newspaper on the ground, by Claire’s door, the slick hysteria of war. Eighteen dead today.

A shiver along her arms.

She rings the doorbell, props the flowers against the frame as she hears the latches click.

It is the Jamaican nurse who opens the door for her again. His face is broad and relaxed. He wears short dreadlocks.

— Oh, hi.

— Is there anyone else here?

— Excuse me? he says.

— Just wondering if there’s anybody else home.

— Her nephew’s in the other room. He’s napping.

— How long has he been here?

— Tom? He spent the night. He’s been here a few days. He’s been having people over.

There is a momentary standoff as if the nurse is trying to figure out just exactly why she has returned, what she wants, how long she’ll stay. He keeps his hand around the doorframe, but then he leans forward and whispers conspiratorially: He brought a couple of real estate people to his parties, y’know.

Jaslyn smiles, shakes her head: it doesn’t matter, she will not allow it to matter.

— Do you think I can see her?

— Be my guest. You know she had a stroke, right?

— Yes.

She stops in the hallway.

— Did she get my card? I sent a big goofy card.

— Oh, that’s yours? says the nurse. That one’s funny. I like that one.

He sweeps his hand along the corridor, points her down toward the room. She moves through the half-dark, as if pushing back a veil. She stops, turns the glass handle on the bedroom door. It clicks. The door swings. She feels as if she is stepping off a ledge. The room looks dark and heavy, a thick tenor to it. A tiny triangle of light where the curtains don’t quite meet.

She stands a moment to let her eyes adjust. Jaslyn wants to part the dark, open the curtains, crack the window, but Claire is asleep, eyelids closed. She pulls up a chair by the bed, beside a saline drip. The drip is not attached. There is a glass on the bedside table. And a straw. And a pencil. And a newspaper. And her card among many other cards. She peers in the dark. Get well soon, you funny old bird. She is not sure now whether it is humorous at all; perhaps she should have bought something cute and demure. You never know. You cannot know.