16

 

Amelia

December 14 1980

 

MAC WAS NO longer there to open the taxi door or call for the porter to take her luggage. Not that she had any. Two men stood on the corner, sharing a bottle hidden in a paper bag. One threw it down in disgust, the glass shattering. His companion said, “Man, you are such a goddamn fool!”

The dreary awning read Hotel St. Georges; otherwise, Amelia would have thought she was in the wrong place. Inside, Amelia saw shuttered shops and stairs leading down to a subway entrance. There was no oriental carpet leading you up the stairs to the lobby. No main desk. No waiting area with leather armchairs. And no Colorama ballroom, where it was standing room only when the big name bands played. To get inside the new version of the Hotel St. Georges, you had to go round to a side entrance on Hicks Street. A glass divider separated Amelia from the desk in a tawdry lobby. A man stared up at her when she pressed the buzzer.

“Whatcha want?” he demanded.

“I was wondering about renting a room?”

“We’re full up.”

Amelia was relieved. It was not an inviting establishment. Indeed, sleeping on a park bench seemed preferable. Still, back outside, a cold wind chased her down Clark to Willow. There, she ascertained that the number of the apartment building this Winston Barry had written on the paper existed. Inside there was a mailbox with the name Barry taped above it. What had he asked about, a “candid camera” of some sort? What was that, she wondered.

She’d have to do some research before she confronted him again. Tonight, what she wanted most was to go to sleep. But where could she stay? This wasn’t the Brooklyn she’d expected. The air was frigid; her legs chilled inside her rayon trousers. No “Room for Rent” signs hung out. Above her head, a glimpse through a window showed a family sitting down to dinner. Inside the next, a mother held her little girl on her lap, reading a book. I had a mother once, Amelia thought, and her eyes clouded. Mother was gone. They were all gone, if you believed those biographies. With the exception of Muriel;  Muriel, who didn’t even know her.

She wandered past to the Promenade. The view of Manhattan Island was breathtaking; a cluster of monumental buildings at the tip searing the night sky. They’d been imagined and built out of ambition. She understood that, why you strained against what was predictable, why you attempted something new. Why else was one born? She leaned against the railing, and her eyes filled with tears, only partly from the cold wind whipping off the water. What if she climbed up and jumped down into the drink? Would she go back then? Would she end the day where she’d begun after burying Fred, lying on the beach, exhausted? Or would it be different, would she find herself in Lae, feverish, not even having climbed into the plane?

Amelia had no way of knowing. She could just drown and die and no one would ever be the wiser. Was that what this was? Was that all she was meant for? Underfoot the walkway, cars rushed to and fro. Everyone in this world had something pulling at them, some purpose that they knew of, someone’s will they refused to bend to. She was the only one left completely rudderless.

Yet it had to have something to do with him. Why else had that boy brandished her gift?

Amelia had come here once, years ago to assure Winston Manning that the flight circumnavigating the globe would be her last, her greatest adventure. She had promised him then that on her return, they would finally be together for good. Had she even believed it? She had told him it was true, so she must have. Luckily, her resolve hadn’t been tested.

Now here she was again. Death was death and life the absence thereof. So what was this?

This could only be a fantasy. She’d made up this world in order to keep her promise to him.

That is, if he actually existed in this world. If he does, Amelia thought, he’ll be older than Muriel is.

Will he even know me when my own sister doesn’t?

Will true love triumph in the end? She smiled ruefully. The odds weren’t good on that score.

She had to sleep. In the morning, she’d figure out what to do next. Where to go? How to act? Who to pretend to be? Maybe then she’d discover what she was doing here in Brooklyn, New York, besides pursuing an ephemera.

She walked back to Montague and made a left. There was an open coffee shop. She found a telephone booth. The YWCA was on the corner of Third Avenue and Atlantic. They had rooms available at ten dollars a night.

Inside one of them, she lay on the bed and rested her head on folded arms. She recalled the weeks trapped inside Muriel’s house in Medford. She relived her newfound freedom, the elation of flying, even as a passenger. And she reminded herself that her life was nothing if not a series of improvisations. First student, then nurse, then medical student, then social worker, then aviatrix, then clothing designer, then wife, and then, of course, lover. She’d been famous. She’d been poor, then rich, then stretched for money. She’d done everything she could, cramming it all in.

She woke refreshed. The girl at the desk advised her to try the Goodwill store and wrote down directions. Amelia bought two pairs of blue jeans, underwear, bras, button-down shirts, a navy blue wool coat, and, best of all, a pair of men’s heavy soled Dunham Tyrolean work boots.

Showered and changed, she was ready to tackle the new day.

Amelia rang the buzzer for Barry.

A woman’s voice asked, “Who is it?”

“I’m looking for Winston?”

The speaker crackled back at her. “For what, exactly?”

“I’m a friend,” she said.

“If you’re his friend, then you know where to find him.” Click.

Amelia backed away. She could stand outside in the cold, watching and waiting like that Hammett novel she’d loved, featuring the Continental Op. She scoured the street and spied an orange car. It was much like the one he’d gotten into in Boston. She checked. Sure enough there were Massachusetts license plates. An odd collection of objects were displayed on the dashboard; a grinning tiger at rest, a strange troll like creature with blue hair extending in every direction, and a sticker that read, “Deadheads Welcome.” A handwritten notice stuck in the side window said, “No Radio. No Nothing.”

The voice had insisted a friend would know just where to find him. It was likely that same girl’s voice. She was keeping him all to herself. Amelia would have to wait for him to emerge. But she was too cold to stand here all day long without a cup of coffee to warm her.

Inside the coffee shop, the booths were on one wall, the counter seats opposite. She ordered and looked in the bar-length mirror to discover Winston Barry. He sat in a horseshoe-shaped booth, at the center of a crowd of his contemporaries. Her breath quickened. She bent down, purposely hiding her face. She slid onto a stool and watched as a steady stream of young men and women came in to greet him, slipping in beside him, or standing and bending over to talk. The girl who’d been in the driver’s seat was at to his side.

How to begin? “Isn’t this a coincidence?” Or maybe, “Fancy meeting you here?”

Absurd. It was better to just try the truth. Oh yes, the truth. That would win him over. It had worked perfectly with Muriel.

“Are you stalking me?” The boy accosted her, slipping onto the stool right beside her, then adding in a snide tone, “Are you filming today?”

“I’m staying nearby,” she said.

“Where?” He clearly distrusted her. Who wouldn’t? She was like the stalkers who had pursued her mercilessly, showing up at events and talks, one of them even getting to her plane and trying to sabotage it. She seemed as mad as they had, doing this.

“I was on my way to the airport yesterday,” she tried.

“Convenient.” He smirked. “What name should I use for you?”

“Amelia.”

“All right, Amelia. We’re on a first name basis, then. Where are you staying that’s so convenient?”

“At the Y.”

“The Y?” He smiled. “That’s the best they can afford? The government must really be in trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“We both know what I mean,” he said.

Then the girl he was with was pulling on his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” she told him.

He got up.

“Wait,” Amelia said.

“For what? Are you going to arrest me?”

“Why on earth would I arrest you?”

Winston Barry shook his head like she was playing him for a fool. Then he was out the door. She pursued him onto the sidewalk. “What do you want from me?” he demanded.

“That lighter,” she said. “Did Winston Manning give it to you? Do you know him?”

“You know I know him. You’re from the feds, not Car 54, Where Are You, right? Am I supposed to think you don’t know who my grandfather was?”

Was.

“He’s dead?”

“Of course he’s dead. He died twelve years ago. Wait.” His eyes narrowed, and a look of relief washed over his face. “Is this about getting it back? Did that bitch, Katherine, hire you?”

Amelia blanched. She knew exactly whom he meant. “How did your grandfather die?” she asked, trying for a neutral tone.

“Cancer.” He peered at her. “What’s it to you? What are you after here?”

“I’m curious, that’s all.” Conversationally, adding, “The lighter has his initials on it. Did you know? Take it out, I’ll show you.”

The girl was tugging on him, pouting a little. But he shrugged, and then complied. He slipped the elegant, metal object from his pocket and extended it, cupped in the palm of his hand. Carefully, she traced the letters, hidden inside the rosebush, WM. The corners of his mouth tugged up. “What about that? So it was Katherine who sent you. Well, mystery solved. I took it. So what. I’m not giving it back. Tell her whatever you want.”

He slid it away and put his arm through the girl’s. Then they were off, rounding the corner, leaving her behind eating their dust.

Dead. Dead twelve years. Gone. Gone without her. This was his grandchild. She saw the resemblance, of course; it was what had fooled her initially. The color of the eyes, the wide shoulders. Genetics were so powerful. There was the experiment all Biology students had to replicate, Mendel’s principles proved by mating fruit flies to find the dominant genes. Vestigial wings or normal ones, brown eyes or white.

She had to wake up. She was done. Shutting her eyes, she wished for the miracle to occur. She needed her body to be sucked back. She wanted hot air to wash over her. She needed to hear the ocean tapping at her feet. Enter here those for whom all hope is lost, she begged.

Nothing changed. Someone bumped into her and said, “Sorry.” She was on Montague Street. She gave in, letting the crowd take her with them to the subway entrance. She walked down the stairs and purchased a token.

This time she was all alone touring the city. No Louise. No G.P. No Winston Manning. Even her fame had abandoned her. There were wonders to behold, though. Twin towers gleamed from the tip of Manhattan Island. The banks of elevators shook as they rose. On the roof deck, she joined crowds of tourists clutching their cameras. You could see imperially far, north, south, east, and west. Along the Palisades, huge apartment towers tilted at the sun. The city had expanded everywhere at once.

 

CHINATOWN WAS OUTSIDE the Canal Street F train stop. In the more authentic restaurants she was one of the few white patrons. Amelia ordered fried chicken feet. All manner of dumplings were served in woven nests, proffered from rolling carts. She went north to Little Italy to get a cup of bitter espresso and a cannoli. Further north and west she found art galleries. On the walls, blotches of paint were smeared across huge canvases. She disliked much of it; what was wrong with representation? One artist appealed to her though, a man named Diebenkorn. His series of paintings was titled Ocean Park. It reminded her of the light, the depth, the wonder she’d seen watching the Pacific. Soothing. Remarkable. 

Outside, music blasted from a store, the singer demanding, “Should I stay or should I go?”

She didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter. She took the train to Thirty-Fourth and emerged to find a line of schoolchildren. Joining them, she admired the Macy’s windows. Inside, the story of the Nutcracker unfolded, complete with sugarplum fairies. Altman’s was no longer across the street, but the Empire State was down another block. The view from the observation deck was still striking, although eclipsed by the one visible from the upper-most floor of the trade center.

Her biggest disappointment was with the subways. They were filthy, the windows of the trains painted over. And people were camped out inside the subway stations. Many were mad, muttering to themselves. When beggars came through the cars, the other passengers usually ignored them. She always gave something.

It was a different New York, better in some ways, worse in others.

South to Coney on a warm day, she discovered that where there had been pleasure and elegance, there was now a broken boardwalk. The beach was dirty, bottles and litter all over the sand. Yet, there was still that magnificent view and, of course, the ocean. A world away, she’d crashed and watched her plane sink, then she and Fred had swum to shore. A world and several lifetimes away. Amelia sat on the garbage-strewn sand, watching as ships passed across the edge of the horizon.

 

A WEEK WENT by like this. Seven full days before she found the courage to go back. Inside the coffee shop, he was sitting in the same booth. She ordered at the counter. She watched the steady stream of people come and go and understood that whatever he was doing, it was illicit. It was obviously why he’d been suspicious of her, although wouldn’t anyone have wondered what it was she wanted of them?

He came up to her finally.

“You told her what I said?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“What do you think you’re going to get out of me?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Why come back?”

“I want to give you your reward.”

“Reward?” He laughed. “That is so bogus. For what?”

“You saved my life.”

“It was a set up.”

“No. You did save me. I wish to thank you.”

“You wish to thank me?” Winston Barry gave her a hooded look. “Fine. Buy me something. It’s her money, right?”

She wasn’t going to argue, if it pleased him to think that, so be it.

The girl was left to “mind the store.”

They walked over to Square Circle. Inside, he was well known. Lots of chatter went on before he asked for what they’d been keeping for him. “She’s paying for me,” he said. The record was titled The Beatles Yesterday and Today. On the cover, four handsome young men with oddly long, bowl-shaped haircuts were holding pieces of raw meat and dismembered dolls.

“This is what you want?”

“Yes.”

It was nineteen dollars. She could easily afford the money.

“You must like the Beatles,” he said. “Or are you more of a Presley type? Wait, I have it, James Brown! You like to get down and dirty.”

She had no idea what he was referring to, but it clearly amused him.

Outside the store, he shook her hand and said, “Mission accomplished. Now you can send in your report on me.”

That was it, as far as he was concerned. But as for her?

 

THE NEXT MORNING the woman at the front desk was distraught. Some crazy acolyte had murdered John Lennon, the former Beatle. Wasn’t it horrible? Who would do something like that?

Beatles? She read the coverage. It was tragic. She knew all about this sort of insane devotion and what it spawned. She thought immediately of the boy, Winston Barry, and how he would take it. She went to find him at the coffee shop but he wasn’t there. Not that day or the next. Amelia stood outside the window of the apartment, waiting for him. He never emerged. She read on, fascinated by the fans’ heartbroken laments, the outpouring of grief and affection.

On Saturday, Amelia went to Central Park. She thought of it as Olmsted’s triumph, his vision of a wilderness artfully tucked inside a teeming metropolis. Amelia joined the steady stream of people heading for the band shell.

Love, love me do

Love was what this group sang about.

She’d heard the band’s songs in every store this week. And blaring from street vendors radios. The park crowd was silent. Respectful. It was like Will Roger’s funeral, she thought, when every movie theatre in the country went dark in mourning. Amelia had gone to see her dearest friend privately, slipping in ahead of the line of fans to view the casket, then going home to lock herself in her bedroom and cry. 

The crowd began to sing Imagine.

There was no set age; bearded men, fresh faced boys, girls in jeans and short skirts, and children perching on their parent’s shoulders made up the crowd. A voice over the loudspeaker announced it was time and the clock struck two.

Not one person spoke. No one broke the silence. Being so tall, she could see around her. She searched for Winston Barry as one minute ticked on into two. No one broke ranks. They stood transfixed, trapped in their own memory of this singular person.

He’d been a pacifist, this John Lennon, although Amelia thought it a little silly when she’d read about his bed-in for peace. Still, the impulse was genuine. That poor bereft widow beating at the policeman with her fists, screaming that it had to be wrong, it just wasn’t possible. Those two had apparently had a passionate love affair; he’d left his wife and given up his famous band-mates for her, turning himself into a nonentity of sorts, wanting to just be a husband and father and upstanding citizen of this same city. His mistake had been to try and find the limelight again. Fame was its own reward. Now there was an odd saying.

By the time she ran into Winston Manning again, Amelia was the most famous woman in the world. It had been years since she’d broken it off with him on that corner near the library. Years and years since she’d come into her own, leaving him and all that they’d planned together, behind. Amelia kept tabs on her former beau. He’d gone and married a rich society coed from Barnard, a Katherine Benet. She pored over the grainy photos of the perfect society wedding. Sneered at it, almost. And eventually, she too had married, giving in to G.P. 

When she attended that gathering on the Upper East Side, reading and discussing her best selling book, Twenty Hours, Forty Minutes: Our Flight in Friendship, it had been four full years. She’d sat at the back of the room, signing the flyleaves, writing inscriptions. And asking the same question over and over and over again, “Is there something special you’d like me to add?”

“Whatever you think might be appropriate.”

Amelia knew his voice immediately. She swallowed hard, looking up at Winston.

“Go ahead,” he said, and she opened the book.

There was a slip of paper there, inside the front cover. She quickly slid it inside her jacket pocket. She could have thrown it away. Instead, later she unfolded it to find an invitation.

And went. How could she not? She wore a black wig, a long dark dress, glasses with see-through lenses, and a hat that obscured her face. They sat above the ballroom floor, talking. When the main act came on, they went downstairs to dance. The woman singer had a sweet, silky voice. They danced cheek to cheek under the colored lights of the ballroom. No one seemed to recognize her. That was a relief. Winston leaned in and whispered, “Anything worth doing involves taking risks.”

“It’s unfair to use my own words against me,” she told him.

“What’s that?” Putting a hand to one ear, he pretended deafness.

It was, actually, more than fair. She knew that better than he did. She had become Amelia Earhart, brazen flier, the bravest woman in the world. She’d piloted the Atlantic solo, married her promoter, and started a clothing line. She’d been feted in Europe and had ticker tape parades given in her honor. Yet with him, she’d played the coward. She’d come to tell him the entire story. Why she’d done what she’d done to him. She was going to get it off her chest and let him judge her cleanly, clearly. Yet, she found that, when she was with him, she was afraid to do it. In this one thing, she lacked the courage of her convictions. She just couldn’t bear for him to have a bad opinion of her. It would, quite literally, break her heart. He would never have to know, she told herself. What was the harm in keeping quiet now?

Back in Central Park, they were at seven minutes and counting. The cold pierced her bones. Striated sunlight dappled the crowd. People spilled out everywhere. There had to be enough gathered here to bring the city’s humming heart to a stop.

Wrong. She heard the faint rush of traffic. Life went on, regardless.

Winston Manning’s clearly had without her. She’d gone to the library right after she discovered he was dead and read his impressive obituary in the New York Times. He’d built his father’s business into a hugely successful company. He’d gotten out of munitions and into making steel beams for construction projects. Manning is survived by his loving wife Katherine, his daughter, Brooke, and two grandchildren, Samantha and Winston.

This, the same Katherine his grandson had accused her of working for, irony of ironies. The same woman Winston had claimed was barren. Had he lied to her about it? Perhaps. What mattered was he’d had a child with his wife after all. He’d had a full life. The granddaughter’s name couldn’t help but strike her as familiar, and then she knew why. It was the name of the girl who was corresponding with Muriel about that talk at Columbia. She’d looked over her sister’s shoulder enough times in that stifling office to be certain of that.

Oh, the perfect synchronicity of it all.

Nine minutes and counting. Winston Manning had told her that if she went away and never came back, it would kill him. Clearly it hadn’t. She was glad to know that. In fact, he’d had many more years without her, than with her.

She turned, trying to find the grandson’s face in the crowd. If she told him her truth, he’d think her truly mad. Still, she thought she might try. What did she have to lose?

Ten minutes.

There he was, just at the edge of the crowd. Time was up. A collective gasp and then everyone began to disperse. He stood alone, a miserable, lost, and lonely boy.

Just then, the sky changed from crystalline blue to gray, and from above, white flakes rained down like God’s own tears.