Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [25]
I turned to see a couple of men grinning somewhat moronically. Their loud, checked sport jackets looked out of place in the Carlyle Hotel, but then they’d probably look out of place anywhere. I didn’t need this kind of attention right now.
“Evening, ma’am,” said Thing One. “My friend and I were wondering if you wanted some company.”
“No, thank you,” I said firmly. “I’m just winding down after a long day. I’m good. Thanks.”
“You seem all alone,” said Thing Two. “And kinda down in the mouth. Seems to us, anyway.”
“I’m really fine, more than fine. Thank you for asking.” I even faked a smile for them. “Fine and dandy, that’s me.”
“Bartender, the lady could use another drink.”
I looked the bartender in the eyes and shook my head. “I really don’t want another drink. And I don’t want to be talking to these guys right now.”
“Maybe you two gentlemen want to move back down to the other end,” the bartender said, leaning on the bar.
They shrugged, but as they walked away, one of them said, “This bar sure has some uppity hookers.”
The bartender and I looked at each other in shock, and then we both laughed. It was either that or cry. In my pink designer dress, five-hundred-dollar shoes, carefully applied makeup, and chic haircut, I looked like a call girl? How much money did call girls make these days? Still, I turned around on the barstool to examine myself in the wall mirror. The image was mostly a blur of people and also reflected the colorful Bemelmans murals over the bar.
Smiling faintly, I looked at my reflection, with my ruined eye makeup, my pink nose. I would be one lame call girl.
Then I noticed something else. I squinted, feeling my heart instantly kick into high speed. It was completely, totally, utterly impossible. For a moment, my eye caught the image of a man leaving the bar. He seemed to be looking at me.
Of course I was wrong — but I would have sworn it was Michael.
As fast as I saw him, I lost him out the door.
Now that was really crazy.
I took a sip of my drink. My hands were shaking when I set it down. That man — it was ridiculous. My subconscious had used a trick of the light, a shadow, to create an image of the person I missed the most, wanted most to see.
Okay, I was truly worried. Was I going off the deep end? I was starting to see things. How unhappy did a person need to be before her subconscious would kick in, try to make things better? How bad off was I that I thought I had seen Michael?
Michael, who was imaginary.
Michael, who didn’t exist.
Had I wished so hard for Michael that he had reappeared for a second?
Wake up, Jane. It had to be a trick of flashing light. Maybe a cigarette lighter.
I took a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and left it on the bar. Then I walked outside and headed home.
I knew I hadn’t seen Michael, of course, but the much more important question was why hadn’t I ever been able to forget him?
Twenty-seven
WELL, ON TO BETTER, and definitely more meaningful, subjects. On Sunday mornings, I worked at a women’s shelter on East 119th Street, Spanish Harlem. No big deal, no Purple Hearts necessary, but it was something I could do to help out a little, and it brought much-needed perspective to my life. Six hours at the shelter, and I came home feeling blessed beyond belief. I kind of thought of it as going to church, only better — more useful, anyway.
So there I was ladling out scrambled eggs and beans, hard rolls and squares of margarine. Paper plates for the food, plastic cups for the orange juice. It felt good to know that these people would have full stomachs this morning. “Can you give my son more eggs?” a mother with a five-or six-year-old boy asked. “You do that for me?”
“Of course,” I said. I gave him another scoop of eggs with a hard roll on top.
“Say thank you to the lady, Kwame.”
“Thank you.”
“You going to be able to eat all that, Kwame?” I gently kidded the boy.
He nodded shyly, and his mother spoke in a whisper: “Tell the truth, he eat some now.” She took a wrinkled piece of tinfoil from a shopping bag. “Finish the rest for supper.