2016
Escape had become necessary. But Julie wasn’t sure it was still possible.
Time had not slowed, even for her. For several years, especially after she retired, she sat with and learned from the ladies who gathered on the stoops of her Brooklyn neighborhood. But then, one by one, they disappeared into nursing homes or the care of their children. Their houses were sold and occupied by prosperous, polite but distant young families who were too busy finding private schools for their children to be interested in sitting and gossiping on stoops.
The stoop ladies weren’t the only people Julie lost. Her mother and her mother’s friend Isabeau were both long gone. Other relatives moved away and forgot her—or died. Friends, displaced by rising rents or simple restlessness, also left, to become online ghosts, untouchable and far away.
She even lost touch with Isabeau’s children, Mark and Eileen, who still lived in the city. Every spring, they sent her a newsy letter along with an invitation to their Passover seder. But Julie had never been close to them—she was over 15 years older than they were, and even when her mother was alive, she had only seen them occasionally. So each year, when the letter came, she assumed that the invitation was made out of politeness and would, with equal politeness, decline.
And then one day the second-floor apartment that she had rented for 30 years was claimed by her landlady’s daughter, now grown and visibly pregnant, who gave her a month to vacate. Unable to find anything nearby that she could afford, Julie gave her cat to a willing neighbor and moved to a small apartment on a noisy street in a neighborhood where she was completely unknown.
Her life crashed. Circumstances and her own body had finally betrayed her. The expenses and tensions of the move—exacerbated by a nasty case of arthritis, for which she had to visit several doctors—drained her retirement savings. She was old, and slow, and lame—and alone.
Even her former energy and power—the power that had been taught her by the small community of stoop ladies—had ebbed away, stolen by time and isolation. All she had left was a locket that Mrs. O’Neill had given her. And that wasn’t something she wanted to use. Yet.
Each night, Julie would sit and stare out the window at the people passing, feeling as though she were watching life from a distance. “I understand now, mom,” she told the framed photo that sat on a side table. “It all goes away in the end, doesn’t it? Everything just fades away. Maybe you were luckier than I am. You forgot what you once were.”
Existence narrowed to the daily grind of surviving one more week, one more day. Her main avenue of escape became the worlds of fiction, and she was starting to lose even those. The local movie theatre went out of business and became a large and unneeded drug store. Her old TV stopped working, and she couldn’t afford a new set (never mind a cable subscription or Internet feed). Finally, the only place she had left was the public library.
Unfortunately, the nearest branch was several miles away, and the way to get there was neither short nor simple. So she had to limit her trips to once a week; the rest of her days were spent in anticipation and hope.
Each week, when the day came, Julie planned carefully. The night before, she laid out her clothes, the books she had to return, a sandwich for lunch and everything else she would need. In the morning, she got up early so she could shower, dress and breakfast—none of which could be done quickly—and still be able to leave in plenty of time.
When she was ready to go, Julie first had to navigate her way down from her tiny apartment to the street—assuming the elevator was working. Then there were the three blocks to the bus stop, which could take anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour, depending on the weather.
Luckily, today was easier than usual; it was a cool, sunny autumn day—“sweater weather,” as Julie’s mother used to call it—and that would make things a little more pleasant.
Once she got outside her apartment building, Julie made sure her pocketbook—large enough to carry her keys, wallet, medications, a small bottle of water and two library books—was slung around her shoulders, and that her locket was securely fastened around her neck. She then began to make her way down the sidewalk, her walker tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the cement.
She usually timed herself so that there was no chance she would miss the bus. Today, however, she must have left late, or taken longer to walk, because the bus pulled up only about five minutes after she arrived.
As soon as the bus driver spotted Julie, she hit the switch that would sink the front of the vehicle down so there would be less need to step up. “Do you need help?” the driver asked, and Julie shook her head.
She folded her walker and clutched it in one hand as she pulled herself up into the bus using the handrail. She dipped her senior citizen card into the slot, smiled at the driver, and made her way down the aisle to the first available seat, ignoring the irritated glances she was getting from the riders who obviously resented the time she was taking (and the fact that driver was waiting until Julie was seated to resume the trip).
The bus ride itself was about 20 minutes. When she reached her stop, Julie began to climb down from the bus; the driver squeezed out of her seat, took Julie’s walker, carried it easily out of the bus and then unfolded it for her.
“Have a good day,” the driver said to her, smiling, and then yelled, “Okay, just a minute, for chrissakes!” at somebody in the bus as she went back in. The door shut with a pneumatic whine and the bus continued down the street.
Julie took a breath, made sure all her belongings were where they should be, and started the four blocks to the library.
Pedestrians strode around her quickly, trying not to look, impatient with her sluggish pace and terrified of what she implied about their own mortality. A group of teens knocked into her and ran on, laughing, as she stopped to collect herself, clutching desperately at her last treasure: The locket at her throat.
It had been given to her by old Mrs. O’Neill as she lay dying, shrunken and immobile, in a hospital bed. “When this was given to me,” Mrs. O’Neill whispered to Julie all these years ago, “I thought I would use it at a time like this, when I was old and bedridden and with not much time left in my body. I thought that I would be prepared to be part of two selves in a newer, more healthy body. But I can’t.”
“Use it with me,” Julie begged, terrified that she was about to lose a woman who had become one of her closest friends. Mrs. O’Neill smiled.
“That’s sweet of you, darlin’. But I’m too used to being on my own. And I’m tired. I’m ready to leave. You take it. Use it if you ever need to or want to. But if you do use it,” she said, so quietly that Julie could hardly hear her, “choose someone who might not mind sharing.”
The locket was still there. Julie took a deep breath and held on to it for an extra few seconds, watching the youngsters and considering. But then she let her hand drop and began walking again, anxious to get to her destination. She couldn’t blame the kids—she remembered her own contempt for the aged when she was young. Because she had known, as all children know, that she’d never get old.
By the time she got to her destination, she was winded and already tired. She paused just before the steps to the building to catch her breath for a moment. But only for a moment. She wanted to get inside.
The library was typical of the type of building built in the mid-20th century: A low, one-story construction that had had seen better days. Julie made her way up the three steps, pushed through the front door, and then stood at the return desk for a moment to get her bearings.
To her right was the long, curved desk behind which the librarians had, for over half a century, stamped books in and out. While there were still librarians behind the desk, they no longer stamped books; instead, there was a separate table with a machine on it. You put your book on the machine to be scanned and then collected a little paper ticket that told you when you needed to return it. Julie had tried using the scanner once, but she just couldn’t get the hang of it; it made her feel stupid and lost in a future that she couldn’t understand. After that, she would just hand her books to a librarian to be checked in and out. They didn’t seem to mind.
Today, the young woman behind the main desk—her name was Maria, Julie remembered, and she had just been working there for about nine months or so—waited patiently until Julie pulled out the books that she had brought and placed them on the desk.
“Do you need the computer today?” Maria asked, and when Julie nodded, said, “Steven will help you. He’s got a couple of things to do, and then he’ll be right with you. Since we knew today was your usual day, we’ve already reserved a system for you.”
Julie smiled at her and went to sit near the “Recent Arrivals” shelf. She examined the books on it, finally choosing one and placing it in her bag to check out later. She then watched the after-school children and unemployed adults wander in and out of the building for about 15 minutes or so until Steven, a stout, cheerful young man with a shining bald head, came over to conduct her to one of the computers.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said. “How’s it going?”
Today, besides checking her email, Julie also had to order more checks from her bank. According to the rules, the librarians weren’t supposed to help her with financial matters, but they did it anyway. “After all,” said Steven, as they finished up, “I might need help myself someday, if I’m lucky enough to get old.”
“Lucky,” Julie told him, “isn’t the word I’d use.” He smiled at her the same way they all smiled at her, as if she were five years old and anything she said didn’t really matter.
“You want to browse some more?” he asked. “Or are you just going to go straight to the auditorium?”
At 3 p.m. on Wednesdays, the library showed films in the back room—one of the main reasons she now tried to come every week.
Recently, the choice of films that the library had been showing had been, to Julie’s mind, unfortunate. The movies were fast moving and confusing, with little or no plot as far as she could tell. Just a lot of pretty people running around and shooting amid a lot of explosions—worlds in which Julie had no desire to spend much time, if any. But, she told herself, there was always hope.
This week, she took her seat in the first row as usual (because her Medicare-issued hearing aids weren’t worth shit). A large, flat-screen monitor waited up front, connected to a small laptop computer on which they ran the videos (they had replaced the old film projector about five years earlier).
She opened the book she had chosen—a biography of Alan Turing that was apparently a best seller these days—but couldn’t make herself concentrate on the words. Instead, she found herself remembering her mother, and the long years of caring for her. The men whom she occasionally dated but who never seemed to want to stay. The children she never bore, and the adoptions that never happened.
Of a life that seemed over before it ever began.
Thankfully, she was interrupted by Steven’s voice. She put the book back in her bag, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
The young man stood in the front of the small meeting room, looked out at her and the six other people there (two in wheelchairs) and said, “Before I introduce this week’s film, I have an announcement to make—a rather sad one, I’m afraid. Most of you may be already aware of this, but the city has decided to cut down on funding for the library system, and this branch has been slated for closure. We are trying to change their minds, but if we can’t, we will be closing permanently at the end of the month.”
Oh, hell, Julie thought. She took several long breaths to try to quiet the panic that was hitting her throat and stomach.
“Meanwhile,” Steven said in a fake-enthusiastic voice, “on with the show. This week, we’re going to do something a little different. Instead of a current movie, we’re going to show a film that was produced in another era of financial difficulties, and which was recently restored: Gold Diggers of 1933.”
Julie bit her lip and thought hard. 1933. Breadlines, poverty and desperation. Jazz, sound films, Roosevelt and the end of Prohibition. And the possibility of pushing your way up if you were young and healthy and smart enough.
Not a bad deal, actually—especially if you considered the alternative.
Steven started out of the room. On the way, he stopped at Julie’s seat. “I’m so sorry, beautiful,” he said. “I know you love coming here. If you want, I’ll see if there’s another branch that you can get to.”
“Thank you,” Julie said. “I’d appreciate that. This is, you see, the only chance I have to escape.”
The young man smiled sadly at her and left. Julie watched him go and then turned to the screen as the film started.
Ginger Rogers, pert, sexy and impossibly young, sang “We’re in the Money” while a line of young women dressed as coins swayed beside her. Julie knew these types of musicals; there would be a lot of big numbers with lots of pretty girls in elaborate costumes—and careful close-ups of smooth faces, bright eyes and darkly lipsticked mouths. She watched as the camera panned away from Ginger and across the anonymous faces of several chorines—young, cheerful, and completely unaware of what the future held.
There, she thought. That one. Fourth from Ginger, as pretty as the others but with a distinct look of intelligence in the knowing smile. Somebody, Julie mused, who would do whatever it took to earn a few spoken lines, or an extra 30 precious seconds on the screen. Who might welcome a bit of advice from someone who knew what was coming.
The camera moved on and the girl was gone.
Julie reached up with her left hand and clutched her locket—and just kept watching. Jazzy music and energetic dance routines. Sharp dialogue and wonderfully overt sexuality. It was the kind of film that Julie used to love—but now she just waited with barely concealed impatience.
The plot, such as it was, continued to unfold until it was time for the big musical numbers. Ginger and Dick Powell sang “Pettin’ in the Park.” The chorus chimed in, gamboling and singing in an obviously fake landscape of winter and ski chalets.
The camera focused in close on the faces of girls lying in the “snow” and beaming at the unseen audience, their faces surrounded by furred hoods, their eyes open and vulnerable.
And there she was again, the dark-haired girl with the knowing, lopsided grin.
It was a chance. Possibly Julie’s last chance.
She took a deep, careful breath, put the locket to her lips and blew gently. Her breath misted the amulet.
The film stopped, frozen at a single moment. There was a dissatisfied murmur from the audience; Steven ran into the room and to the computer. He poked at the keyboard, confused, trying to see what the problem was.
Julie, however, ignored him. She stared firmly into the unmoving celluloid eyes of the dark-haired chorine. The girl was still smiling, but something seemed to stir in those monochrome eyes.
Something like surprise. Or fear.
I’m sorry, little girl, whispered the old woman. I’ve no time left to wait. You may not deserve this. But for the first time in my life, I’m going to be selfish. So whether you want to or not, you’re going to have to learn to share.
She hissed a phrase, quick and powerful and effective.
And escaped.
