She was in love with the city. She loved the parks just off the central artery, in the open space of uptown before the streetcar dropped below the surface and the buildings were packed so tight they leaned on one another, like brothers. She loved the stately, pre-war structures; seven or eight stories high, full of marble and plush that would murmur to her, How about a cocktail in my lobby? It thrilled her; the whooshing of the traffic circles with the merging gypsy cabs painted bright green and honking. The high, iron fences, respectfully wrought in gentlemanly flourishes, painted black and rusting, made her vibrate with delight.
From the streetcar, with its authoritative acronym, she would rest her cheekbone against her fingers and take note, 2135: potted plant still dying on fire escape, 1901: UPS declares YES, 1767 – The Andersenn Building: graffiti poorly painted over. Just not keeping up, she’d think, shaking her head. Walking the last several blocks in the crowded morning the city sounds would whisper. Miss Amelia, they would rumble, heavy trucks bumping by. Miss Amelia, they would say, come up, spend the day, from our dining room we’ll show you forever. And she knew if she did, they would.
She was employed on the seventh floor. Two from the top. She rode up with Ralphie – he held the door for her – a pleasant man, half-witted, who vacuumed burgundy hallways and kept ashtrays clean.
Automatic elevator, he’d say, and point to the brass stamping above the buttons and pushing her floor.
Automatic elevator, she’d reply, as she’d replied yesterday and the days before.
Over easy on the griddle, he’d ask?
Sunny side up, she chirped, the cables slapping and ting’ing in the shaft over their heads.
Bagby, Baterby and Frink, how may I direct your call? Bagby, Baterby and Frink, Mr. So and So’s office. That’s how Miss Amelia spent her day. On lunch, on regular days, she’d follow the stairs to the basement, dragging her fingertips over the cool banisters and polished surfaces, unpack her sandwich and lounge in an old executive’s chair too good to throw away. She’d click her tongue and the building would echo under the dull thrum of the air handlers’ rumblings. She’d dream, hands limp on her thighs, of limestone faces and rose marble expanses rambling through the streets of the city, sleeping.
Her husband worked all the way downtown, in an executive tower. Stiffer. More square. With walls of steel and glass so gleaming and so bright you could roll your hair in it. He was a man who took the train. He liked the sway and the camaraderie of the crowd. At his desk by seven-thirty, he was a go-getter. Making deals, meeting for drinks, networking. This was his philosophy: become friends…get personal. He sent flowers, followed up, had his assistant order acknowledgements from a roster of connections. Things a wife could have done.
You don’t have to work, he’d remind her. We’re in great shape, he’d say, tapping his little organizer book. You remember Jerry, don’t you? Jerry’s brother’s wife just had her baby. A girl. Healthy. Jerry emailed a picture. I’ll forward it to you. Amelia and her husband would meet for a cocktail sometimes, just the two of them, in some out of the way place – an old hotel lobby -before he rushed off to a dinner meeting.
For the life of her, she couldn’t place Jerry.
A first-time uncle, her husband continued, Jerry is. He’s very proud. He’s doing a deal on The Andersenn. Gunna bring her down.
The Andersenn? Amelia’s voice pinched. The Andersenn. Tear it down?
*
The next morning, and a little earlier than usual, Amelia got off the bus at the express stop and walking under a canopy of trees, stopped in front of 1767. The Andersenn was set grandly back from the street with spacious lawns laid out along either side. They’re coming for you, she thought. Reduce you to a tangle of cement and steel in a deep hole. The Andersenn stood, blonde and solid, Nordic, with graceful, inset balconies. On its upper floors; gardens, trim and cultivated. In the clearing beside her, a concrete bench with a tidy plaque announced GREENPOCKET PARK. So inviting, she thought. I wish they would spare you, she said aloud, shielding her eyes. You’re so very handsome and fine.
Jays and Starlings chorused and called.
Sycamores and Birches swayed in agreement.
Miss Amelia spun her foot on a medium high heel.
Come back when the sun is setting, the hedgerows whispered, and see the brilliant effects on his polished face.
Unlike any other, a raven crowed, ‘ee-ee-ee’s got style.
Amelia agreed, and elegance, and poise. Generous, not greedy, no crowding up against the street like so many others. I’ll bet your Fung Shui is flawless, she giggled.
Come in, he said. Walk my wide hallways, inspect my deep foundation, have a cocktail in my lobby.
Oh, she gasped, her hand landing at her throat. I’ve heard this before.
