The weather report said no rain until Thursday, but Abby knew not to trust an April forecast. In Texas you could have faith in spring weather, not in New York. And it had been so hot just a few days earlier. She remembered coming out of the cool of the church and feeling the heat, very welcome, this had been the coldest winter in years, but shocking how quickly it changed.
She finished frying her egg, opened the toaster and carefully withdrew the browned end piece of the loaf. There was no milk for her coffee. She’d been putting off the grocery shopping anyway, so she really must go this afternoon. If the rain came early, it might even come this evening.
She watched the rest of the local news as she ate her breakfast and washed the dishes, then turned off the television.
Opening the drapes only minimally increased the brightness in the room. The rectangle of sky visible from the window that didn’t face the building opposite was covered this morning with thick clouds. She raised the window a crack for the air. She had made breakfast in her nightgown and robe, so she walked back to her bedroom. As she walked, she lightly touched the back of the chair, the lampshade, the top of the photo frame: hard wood, cloth, cool metal.
As she showered, she remembered that during the night she had been wakened by the sound of the neighbors. It was after one o’clock when she heard them. The mother was giving the child a bath. The boy was quite loud, excited about something. The mother’s voice was soothing, trying to quiet him. The words were indistinct, but with her bathroom and the neighbor’s sharing a wall she could hear the sound quite easily. They had kept her awake nearly half an hour, and after that, her mind racing, it had taken her another hour, she guessed, to fall asleep.
The neighbors had named their boy Michael, a cruel coincidence. Regularly she heard the parents calling him. “Michael,” they shouted and every time she startled. Abby would never have spoken of it, but the father had let her know once at the elevator that the doorman had told them. He said he was sorry. Abby had tightened her lips and slightly shaken her head, as she did whenever anybody mentioned her son. Now the neighbors seemed embarrassed to use the name in front of her, but they did, of course.
Dressed now to go out, she returned to the living room and sat. She picked up the phone and consulting a notebook on the telephone table dialed a number.
“This is Mrs. Abilene Graves.” She spoke precisely when the salon answered. “I’d like an appointment please.”
“Oh Miss Abby, we’d love to see you. When can you come in?”
“I was hoping I could come now.”
“Now? We’re awfully booked. I could maybe make room a little later.”
“I never want to be a bother…”
“Oh, Miss Abby, you’re not a bother. Could you maybe come at two? I’m sorry. If you came any sooner, you’d have to wait.”
“Two will be fine. Thank you.”
She hung up the phone.
Abby picked up a magazine that her church provided to the members. She read a little. She flipped to the back and read the lectionary passage for the day from the eighth chapter of John where Jesus says, “Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin. And the servant abideth not in the house for ever: but the Son abideth ever.” She read the commentary by a retired pastor from somewhere in Oklahoma. The scripture made her feel thoughtful, and good, and sad. Then she read the closing prayer and then closed her eyes and silently recited the prayer Jesus taught.
A little later she opened her eyes and realized she had been sleeping. It must have been the sleep she lost the night before that made her tired. She remembered a time when her own Michael had babbled excitedly like that late at night. A little older than the neighbor’s boy was now. They had taken him to a Broadway show. He’d been transfixed. He recounted the whole experience all the way home in the subway. Even after she’d got him into bed he kept it up until he finally exhausted himself and fell asleep practically in the middle of a sentence.
The religious magazine was still in her lap. The photo frame with Michael’s picture stood on the table opposite her chair facing her. He was dressed in a blue robe wearing a blue mortarboard hat with a red tassel: his high school graduation photo, more than twenty years ago, now. She had a more recent photo, taken a few years later, but she preferred the formal portrait. Over the blue robe he wore a gold sash signifying his honors status. Smiling, a genuine smile, not posed, a handsome young man. She regarded the portrait blankly; it had lost its power, then she turned away.
Looking at the time, she decided she might as well go out. She could stop at the library first. Rising from her chair she pressed down firmly on the wooden arms, using her strength. She felt old today. She arranged herself for the day: the library book she needed to return, a coat for the chill, a hat, her purse, canvas grocery bags.
There was no one in the hall. The carpet had been cleaned and it showed. She rode the elevator down alone. Chuck greeted her, then came out from behind his desk to hold the door. She said good morning and nodded as she walked past him.
The day was gray, but lighter than she had expected from the way it had looked from inside her apartment. Daffodils were everywhere in the sidewalk planters. The cherry trees would be coming soon. She was glad she’d brought her coat.
She turned right at Amsterdam and began walking uptown. This had been her neighborhood since she and Morris had come from Texas, forty, forty-one years ago. He had his job at the Morningside hospital. She’d gotten pregnant right away. Their first apartment had been nearer the river, but she knew these blocks. She’d watched the restaurants open and close. And the stores. And one spring after another. Michael had gone to the Louis Brandeis high school over on 84th, but that was closed now.
The people passed, some in heavy coats, some in shorts pushing the season. An ambulance came up Amsterdam. Holding her library book in one hand and the crumpled grocery bags in the other she used her fingers to close her ears. She knew well the route to the hospital, and the entrance to the emergency room. She grimaced as the siren roared past her.
At 100th Street, she mounted the ten steps to the library entrance. Here it was warm. She pushed through the lobby doors into the main room. At the desk, behind a barrier of clear plastic, a young woman was reading. She closed her book when Abby approached. She had purple hair.
“How can I help?” Her voice was friendlier than Abby expected. Her large breasts, the tops exposed, filled out her black halter.
“Returning this, please.” Abby pushed the book through the gap below the plastic screen. The girl, who looked nothing like a librarian, pulled the book toward her, flipped it over and scanned the back. “All set,” she said cheerfully. “Need a receipt?”
This had been too quick for Abby. She had learned not to expect conversation from young people and she didn’t particularly want to talk to this person but she felt unfulfilled by the interaction. “No,” she said. “No thank you.”
The salon was several blocks further. She arrived a little early. The stylist spoke quickly. “There you are, Miss Abby. How ya doing? You can see I’m full up today,” she gestured toward several women already in the chairs, “So you’re going to be a little longer than usual, but here’s your place. Come on up now.”
Abby set down her things and removed her coat and hat.
“I can take those,” said the stylist. “Let’s get you comfortable. What are we doing today?”
“You know how I like to look. Nothing fancy.”
“All right. Well you need a trim. It’s been awhile since you come in. It’s good to see you. Where you been?”
“I stay home when it’s cold.”
“It’s been that. We’ve had a winter this winter, didn’t we?”
“We did. But next week is Holy Week. Sunday is Palm Sunday. I thought I better come in and make myself presentable.”
“Miss Abby, you always look presentable. You are the most proper put together woman that comes in any week.”
Abby enjoyed the flattery, though she waved it off. She relaxed. The sociability pleased her. Being attended to pleased her. Even when the woman left her alone for a time it felt good to lie peacefully in the chair. She liked the feel of the woman’s hands massaging her scalp and touching her forearm when she leaned over to whisper a piece of gossip. Abby knew none of the people this woman spoke of, and would have been offended if she had, but to be included in her circle pleased her.
The stylist offered Abby color, as she always did, and Abby refused, as always. Sometimes she said, “I’ve earned my gray.” This time she said, “I’ll age as the Lord intended.”
The grocery store she used was further up, toward the hospital. It was noticeably darker now, and colder, with a wind picking up.
She liked this store because it was clean and you could pass another person in the aisles without turning sideways. She hadn’t brought a list, but she knew what she needed. She felt confidant moving up and down the rows with her cart. She looked for bargains, on principle, but felt proud that she could afford whatever she needed. Morris had left her with a pension and she had her own social security from when she had done the billing for the doctor’s office.
She bought more than she expected. It had been longer than usual between trips, and some of the larger sizes were on sale. The bagger used all three of the canvas bags she’d brought and filled them full.
She also liked this store because it was close to a subway station, two stops from her apartment. The bags were heavy, and because there were three, they unbalanced her. She’d unbuttoned her coat in the store, and now, the wind came inside the coat and chilled her. She set the bags on the sidewalk, watching carefully, and buttoned her coat all the way up and down, then she hoisted the bags again, transferring the odd bag to her other hand and walked to the subway.
She used the security gate rather than trying to lift the bags over the turnstile. She set the bags down again inside the elevator, her arms feeling fatigued. This time of day the downtown train had plenty of room. She arranged two bags at her feet, the third beside her.
At ninety-sixth street she exited the train and walked the length of the platform to the elevator. She held the bags as she ascended and stepped out with them when the elevator door opened. Then she set them down again before the security gate and opened her purse for her credit card.
But holding her credit card against the reader made no effect. The gate remained locked. No light or sound from the reader indicated that it had registered her card. She tried again. She had just used the card twenty minutes earlier to enter the subway so she knew the problem wasn’t her card. She tried again. No effect.
Frustrated, she looked around for a station agent or a policeman. No one. People rushed through the turnstiles without looking at her. It had gotten dark outside now, the evening twilight deepened by the storm coming in early as she feared.
She knew it would be impossible for her to lift her heavy bags over the turnstile. Sliding the bags on the floor under the turnstile risked them falling open and spilling her groceries across the station. Her frustration turned to anger and then, looking around helplessly, to despair.
And then someone noticed her. A man came up the stairs behind her and coming around her saw her standing by the gate with her bags on the floor.
“Need help?” he asked. Not a young man, about fifty she guessed. Neatly dressed. A sport coat. A hat. He carried a collapsible umbrella.
“Yes!” she said, relieved. “This gate won’t open. I can’t get out with my bags.”
She noticed now that with the first man was a second man, the same age, equally well dressed, a white man. The first man had dark skin, not as dark as her son, but black, probably. The white man came over, too. “We got you,” he said.
The first man took a bag, the second took two. They easily lifted them over the turnstiles, but the white man said, “these are heavy.” Abby followed. “I can carry them but I couldn’t lift them that high. That’s why I needed the gate to open.”
“That’s all right,” said the first.
“How far are you going?” said the second.
“I can carry…”
But then the rain came, not gradually, but suddenly, like the first chord of a hymn, the first drops bouncing off the dry concrete in front of the station and then wet shine covering the street and the air filled with the glancing reflections of the streetlights in the water-filled air.
“I never want to be a bother” she complained, but it was clear now that they would accompany her. “I didn’t bring my umbrella and this is not a hat for rain.”
The black man opened his umbrella and held it over her head holding her grocery bag in his other hand. The white man came with her other two bags and the rain falling directly on his head and shoulders
She led them, then, across the street and down Amsterdam. She tried to hurry, it was clear they could walk faster, but she was afraid to fall. She walked beside the black man trying to stay under his umbrella. The white man, taller, walked a few paces ahead, waiting for her directions of where to turn.
It was when he stepped off the curb making a wide step across the flowing gutter but catching his leather shoe in the water anyway that it occurred to her that these two were a couple. It was only then that she noticed the wedding ring on the man’s hand near her face as he held the umbrella. She couldn’t see the other man’s hand but she was sure of it. That’s why they were dressed similarly. They were together. They were going out for the evening. It would have been the two of them sharing the umbrella, sharing a table at a restaurant.
“It’s here,” she said as they reached the opposite sidewalk. “Just here.”
They walked a few buildings down ninety-second street, then she led them up the front steps. She had the door open with her key before Chuck could do it for her. Chuck took the bag from the man with the umbrella who used both hands to close it. Abby continued walking toward the elevators, around the corner, the other man and Chuck following with her three bags.
When the elevator doors opened the stranger set the bags inside the elevator and Chuck said to him, “I’ll take it from here” making it clear he was not to come further.
“Thank you,” Abby said, including them both. She glanced at the stranger’s face, for the first time: clean-shaven, blue eyes. Then she looked away. The elevator closed and Chuck came up with her.
“Caught in the rain?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“They were kind,” he said.
“Yes, they were” she said.
“Real gentlemen,” he said.
“Yes.”
By the light coming in from the hall, Chuck carried the three bags into her apartment and set them on the counter. Her back holding the door open, Abby found a dollar in her purse but going out he refused it, joking, “I’m a gentleman, too.”
With the door closed the room was dark, so she moved to the table beside the couch to turn on the lamp. Then, with just the living room furniture illuminated she sat in her chair, picked up the phone and quickly dialed a number she found in the notebook beside the phone.
It rang twice. “Hello?” a male voice answered.
“Michael?” she asked. It didn’t sound like him.
“No. This is John. I picked up his phone because he’s in the other room. I can get him.”
“Would you please?” Her voice trembled.
“Who’s calling?”
“This is Abilene Graves.”
Abby heard the man whisper something at the other end. “I think it’s your mother.” Then another whisper she couldn’t make out. Then a pause. And then a second man spoke into the phone. “Hello?”
It was Michael.
“It’s me baby.”
A longish pause. “I don’t know what to say. Are you OK? Why are you calling? Did something happen?”
“No. I’m fine. Nothing happened.”
Another long pause. “It’s been so long.”
“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry.”
She could hear him breathing. Her son. “You’re sorry,” he said.
“Yes, baby. That’s why I wanted to call. That’s why I called tonight. I’m sorry.” She began to cry, softly, into the phone. “I’m sorry.”