Twenty-six

“BOOM! Boom! Boom!”

My eyes were closed, everything was dark, and a little girl was laughing. It sounded like Joy! I felt the light weight of her body in my arms . . .

Where are we?

I open my eyes. The sun is shining. The weather is lovely. Looking up, I see a soaring archway of Tuckahoe marble—Stanford White’s arch.

I’m in Washington Square Park!

A band is playing. The crowd around me is young and beautiful. Women are barefoot, wearing flowing summer dresses, proud of the flowers in their hair. Men are peacocks in expensive suits and polished black shoes. They’re dancing together, but in the strangest way.

Couples pair off. They bow with formality. Then they swing each other with wild abandon. Suddenly, they stop and switch partners.

Switch, switch, switch . . . again and again and again!

It’s an ugly dance, jerky and graceless.

“Mommy, I want to dance, too!”

“I don’t know, honey—”

“Pleeease!”

I have so much love for my baby. I want her to be happy. So I put her down, watch her twirl in front of me. Her dark hair lifts. Her little yellow dress billows on the breeze.

As she spins, she begins to grow taller and older. Before my eyes, she turns six, then eight, and twelve. A few more turns and she’s a gangly teen. At last, she’s a fully bloomed woman, spinning away . . .

“Wait! Where are you going?”

I try to stop her, but she disappears into the crowd. Pushing bodies aside, I finally see her across the park. A man approaches. He has a scraggly goatee and a black denim jacket. The face of this man looks familiar to me. He’s been in my coffeehouse.

It’s Richard Crest!

“No!” I shout. “Not him! Get away from him!”

But the sounds of the crowd swallow my words.

I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. Madame is behind me, shaking her head. “You’re too late, Clare. Linda is gone. You can’t save her.”

“I have to try!”

As the young pair leaves, I follow, hurrying out of the park and into the streets. I pass dear little shops and quaint cafés; historic town houses and landmark buildings with Italianate flourishes and Federal lines. This is the Village of Henry James, the only one Linda’s family knew.

But there is another Village, one with a basement and boiler room, a dark place, haunted by a brick and bloody fingerprints.

In this Village, the streets are dingier. Cement cracks open, paint peels, weeds sprout from broken sidewalks. I reach the very edge of Manhattan, but it doesn’t look right.

This isn’t the East River!

Suddenly, I’m on the West Side, in Hudson River Park . . .

A young woman is crying. I hurry toward the sound. It’s my daughter! Joy is sobbing at the Bronze Age table in Habitat Garden. Her yellow dress is gone, replaced by a pink flowered skirt and virginal white silk blouse.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Boom! Boom! Boom!” she shouts, pretending to fire a gun at the sky. She rants and rages, yelling at thin air. Then she runs toward the river and jumps in!

Horrified, I scream and race after her. A foot trips me. I fall to the concrete. Looking up, I see Richard Crest. He’s back in his designer skinny suit—and laughing at me.

As I try to rise, he grabs my arm, pulls me to the railing. I punch and kick, but he’s too strong. Like a bag of refuse, I am picked up and thrown away. I drop forever, then splash into the water.

The waves are choppy, but I swim and swim, desperate to save my daughter. Barges float by like silent giants, indifferent to me. I thrash and try, but the harder I swim, the more I sink, and as the surface recedes, darkness swallows me . . .