The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [85]
“Wow—you really are tall!” Linda exclaimed and then added, “Hey, sista, can ya spare an inch?” in a Bronx accent as she assumed the swagger of a panhandler.
Maria took a deep breath and hoped that her smile looked more genuine than it felt as she stepped into a small living room and peered down a narrow hallway toward a tiny kitchen with a half-size stove and refrigerator. “I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “It’s actually bigger than I expected.”
Linda gave Maria a complete tour of what was a ground-floor garden apartment. “Don’t you love Anna?” she mused at one point before she flapped her arms and tilted her head slightly. “ ‘My lee-tle robin,’ ” she cooed. “ ‘New York is such a von-da-fool city.’ ”
If it was jarring for Maria to hear someone poke fun at Anna, who had played such a serious role during the least funny part of her life, she resolved not to show it as they arrived at her new bedroom, which was about eight feet wide by twelve across, with a dingy window that faced a neighboring apartment building. She put her suitcase on the bed and pushed aside the curtain to peer out the window, where she was confronted by a view of the basement of the building next door.
“The view’s incredible,” Linda noted, “so don’t pass out or anything.”
Maria decided that she liked the dusty, unswept quality of the alley, which was what she had imagined for an apartment in New York City. She even liked the gray block façade, which as she watched became momentarily illuminated by the sun’s reflection in the air shaft. She pulled on the metal bars.
“Don’t worry,” Linda reassured her. “My father triple-checked all of them.”
Maria nodded. “That’s all my grandmother has been saying to me for the past month.” It felt strange—and sad—to think of Bea so far away, but rather than express this, Maria decided it might be a good chance to let Linda know she was not the only one capable of improvising on the fly. “ ‘Maria, faites attention,’” she said, assuming the accent, “ ‘this city, elle est assez dangereuse.’”
Linda seemed at least interested, if not totally impressed. “She’s French? Très chouette.”
“Actually Belgian.” Maria nodded and felt a spark of pride at having initiated this exchange. “Where are your grandparents from?”
“Palm Springs.” Linda frowned and continued more hesitantly. “Anna told me about your parents, and I wanted to say I’m very sorry, and even though I don’t really know anyone who’s ever died, if you want to talk about it or anything, I’m actually a pretty good listener—”
“That’s okay—thanks.” Maria kind of hated Linda for bringing it up, but she also kind of admired her for the same reason. In any case, Linda no longer seemed to be made of plastic, and Maria detected an expressive quality in her brown eyes that made her curious about her new roommate’s voice; presumably, she would be very good, and Maria wanted to know exactly how good.
While Maria unpacked, they spent a few minutes aimlessly talking about Los Angeles, where Maria had never been but which Linda assured her was not as exciting as New York. Maria showed Linda a picture of Bea she had brought with her in a small frame.
“Oh, she looks so tiny and cute!” Linda said. “Is she going to visit?”
“Maybe, but not anytime soon.” Maria shrugged. “She’s pretty old and way too afraid.”
“Well, we can take care of her—just looking at her makes me want to move to Europe!”
Maria took the frame back and placed it on her dresser. The photograph seemed so small and distant, and looking at it made her feel utterly alone; it was like one half of her brain kept asking what she was doing here, while the other half knew it was perfectly obvious. As Linda’s last comment continued to reverberate, it also didn’t seem fair to Maria that she should be rich and pretty, with two living parents—and four grandparents—and even though she understood why Anna had put them together, it seemed like a stupid, obvious choice that didn’t give Maria enough credit for what she had been through. But