Together at Midnight Read online

  He’s gone and it’s best not to think about him, Mom says, but those sound like inappropriate words, too. She can keep me from him now, but someday, that won’t work anymore. Already she has trouble hugging me normally because I’m getting so tall.

  I walk three steps behind her down the street toward the subway. Back to Staten Island we go.

  The candle burns, even when it doesn’t because maybe they put out all the flames before the cathedral closes up for the night.

  The candle burns, so I’ll keep my memories burning, too.

  Kendall

  WE PRESS OUR WAY TO THE BACK OF THE CATHEDRAL, past the souvenir shop, and eventually out to the steps facing Fifth Avenue. Across the street, there are actually barricades to contain all the people fighting their way toward Rockefeller Center.

  Max pauses on the top step, looking terrified.

  “Are you afraid of crowds?” I ask.

  “Crowds are no problem for me. I’m a tower. I’m worried about you.”

  “Because I’m not tall?”

  “Because . . .” Max pauses again. “You know something? I have no idea why I’m worried. Eliza always got freaked out by crowds.”

  “Well, she’s tiny.” A quick mini-fantasy unreels in my mind. Eliza under the feet of a stampeding crowd, and nobody can hear her screams. As mini-fantasies go, this one’s really gratifying.

  “And she’s Eliza,” he says. Which clearly means something specific to him, completely different from what it means to me. “Mostly I just worry. About everyone.”

  “I’m tougher than I look,” I say, pretty sure that’s true.

  Max stares at me for a moment and then grins. “Okay, then. Where are we headed?”

  I look to see which direction is less congested. “This way,” I say, pointing uptown. “Central Park Zoo.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He offers his hand and I take it and try not to overthink this interaction but fail miserably. Would Jamie freak out if he saw this? asks a new Thought Worm.

  We’re friends, Thought Worm. Grow up already.

  Once we’re walking, Max lets go of my hand, and we travel in silence for a block. Then he says, “So, when you see lots of people in one place, you see multiple instances of copulation, right?”

  “You make it sound soooo hot.”

  He laughs. I like making people laugh, but I like it extra with Max. This is definitely a boy who needs to smile more.

  “Well,” he says. “I see potential future-me’s.” He points to a guy a few paces in front of us, wearing a long camel-colored overcoat and a black leather man-purse, and whispers, “I could end up as him, for instance. I wonder what I do for a living where I need a bag like that.”

  “With a bag like that, I’d lay bets you’re still single.”

  “You do one,” Max says, elbowing me.

  I scan the sidewalk and nod toward a woman with a tight ponytail and expensive stroller. “I could be her,” I say. “Parenthood would be cool. Although that stroller freaks me out. It looks like it should be protecting an alien egg, not a human baby.”

  Max snorts, then stops to avoid walking into a guy coming out of a deli. Beard, mustache, glasses, wool beanie, plaid shirt, down vest, huge coffee drink. Max shoots me a sideways glance.

  “God, no,” I say. “Please don’t be a hipster.”

  “Can I at least have a standard coffee order?”

  “Fine. Something simple and classic, though. Cream and sugar. No fancy-pants.”

  “You’ve thought about this,” says Max.

  “Europe,” I say by way of explanation. “I’m a café au lait.”

  Max smiles. He tilts his head as if he’s trying to see me from a different angle, as if a forty-degree adjustment might show him something new. Then he starts walking again, I follow, and he says, “Tell me something about your trip.”

  I think for a moment. “We learned about architecture when we visited the Eiffel Tower. Then we had a contest to design and build one ourselves out of recycled materials.”

  “You packed a lot of experiences into a few months,” he says softly, his voice sounding like it’s coming from far away.

  “Maybe in college you can spend a semester abroad.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I’ve talked a lot about me and now I want to give him a turn.

  “Brown’s a tough school to get into. You must be pretty psyched.”

  Max shrugs, like it was something that happened by accident. Oops! I slipped and fell and applied to an Ivy League school and they accepted me. I can tell he prefers to downplay how ridiculously smart he must be, and he doesn’t even know my baggage. It takes me forever to do a single homework assignment. It doesn’t matter how many people talk to you about learning differences, that everyone learns at their own pace. It’s fucking embarrassing.

  Max also doesn’t know I once wanted to go to his school, where kids plan out their own learning. “All the weirdos go there,” said Emerson once, when someone mentioned the place, and all I could think was maybe all the weirdos are waiting for me to join them. Before I even met all these Dashwood people, I’d done my own research on it. I wanted to transfer so I printed out pages and pages from the Dashwood website. I begged my parents, shoving the papers into their hands. But they couldn’t buy into the “democratic school” philosophy, couldn’t believe that kind of freedom would work for someone like me, who had to be reminded three times every night to brush her teeth. Then my mother found out about the Movable School and how I could spend a semester of hands-on learning, and still get high school credit for it. It seemed like a great compromise at the time, but now that it’s over, I wish I didn’t feel as if I was standing on the edge of a cliff.

  We stop to wait for a light to change. I put my toes on the tip of the curb and look down and think maybe a cliff is no different than a street corner. Sometimes you just have to take a step, and sometimes you have to take a leap, and either way, all that really matters is that you’re not standing still.

  Max

  “THANKS,” SAYS KENDALL AS I HAND HER A TICKET for the Central Park Zoo. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat.”

  I earned a more-than-decent salary at my demeaning job these last four months. What else am I going to spend it on? Oh, yeah. College. But right now, this seems more important.

  We go through the admission gate and hang a quick right turn toward the sea lions. Kendall picks up her pace and rushes toward the railing. There’s a sea lion swimming flips under the water.

  “Hi!” Kendall says to it. She crouches so she can see the sea lion through the glass. Then she waves and it locks its huge cartoon eyes on her.

  A memory comes over me. My grandmother and I watching the zookeepers throw fish at the sea lions. I’m holding her hand and she’s got my sister on her hip.

  “It’s hard to feel down around sea lions,” I say. One of them zooms out of the water, onto a rock. I’m sure it does this a hundred times a day but still, it looks joyful.

  “I feel down,” says Kendall softly, her eyes tracking the dark swimming shapes. “I’m sad that their enclosure is so small.”

  “I think most of these animals were born in captivity. Maybe they don’t know any better. They don’t know they’re supposed to be wild.”

  “That makes it even sadder!”

  I look at her face and realize, she feels things pretty deeply, this girl. That can’t be fun.

  “I know what you need,” I say. “Follow me.”

  We move next door to the penguin house, which stinks. I mean, it actually stinks. Like bird shit and general wildness.

  But that’s not a big deal because, penguins. Kendall and I press our noses to the glass right at the waterline. The penguins dive and swim inches from our faces. I can’t tell if Kendall’s still sad.

  “I wonder what they think of us,” she says softly.

  “Maybe they think we’re the ones living behind glass. Maybe they fe
el sad for us.”

  Kendall’s quiet for a few seconds. “They should.”

  I want to change the tone here so I say, “Hey, let’s get a selfie with the penguins.” I take out my phone. Before she has time to prepare, I pull her against the glass and crouch until I see both of our faces framed on the screen. Wait until a penguin is swimming by above our heads. Take the shot and show it to Kendall for approval. She looks confused, I look uncomfortable. Well, that perfectly captured the moment.

  But she says, “Send me that,” so I do.

  Someone has been pressing against the back of my legs. I look down and there’s a little girl, trying to get close to the glass. I step back to give her my excellent spot. Then I go lean against the wall on the other side of the room. I’ve been crazy tall since I was twelve years old. I’ve done that move countless times over the years. I don’t even think about it anymore. I never count it as something that matters. It’s an obligation, a responsibility I have to meet because I’m big. Actually, when I really think about it, it feels more like an apology than anything else.

  After a few minutes, Kendall comes over. She leans against the wall next to me.

  “Still feeling down?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Did the penguins cheer you up or are you still pondering the ethical dilemmas of zoology?”

  “Oh. I don’t know.” She seems surprised by this question, like she’s already forgotten we talked about it. Five minutes ago. “I was making up a story about the penguins. See that big one on the iceberg thing? He’s the penguin mafia boss.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  “Do you write this stuff down?” I ask, nodding toward her purse and the notebook inside it.

  “Sometimes, yeah. But sometimes it’s just a story that lasts a few moments in my head. Honestly, if I wrote down every weird idea that ever crossed my mind, I wouldn’t be able to function in normal life.”

  I’ve met other kids who talk this way. Self-aware. Conscious of what makes them different. I respect the hell out of that.

  Kendall opens the zoo map and points to the tropical rainforest building. “Let’s go there now,” she says.

  So we do. The transition into this warm, humid space is jolting and terrific. I take off my coat. I’m about to offer my arm for Kendall’s. But she folds it in half and ties it around her waist, so never mind.

  Another memory. Me getting lost in this building on purpose. I’m wandering around, pretending I’m a jungle explorer. Hearing my grandmother call my name, frantic. Me liking it. Knowing they’re looking for me. Knowing I’m missed.

  Birds are squawking like they’ve always been squawking in here.

  And somewhere, someone’s crying.

  I mean, not like in a metaphorical way. Someone nearby is actually crying. Bawling.

  We round a corner and come upon a woman on a bench, holding a flailing little girl. At first I think the kid is having some kind of seizure. That’s how much flailing we’re talking about. But the woman gets a slightly rough grip on her and speaks sternly.

  “I’m sorry that happened but you cannot scream like this. You cannot!”

  The woman’s maybe in her sixties and the girl’s about five years old. The girl’s talking, but it doesn’t sound like English. Or wait. Maybe it is. Tantrum-ese.

  Kendall pulls me aside and gives me a quizzical look. She doesn’t even have to say anything at this point. Everyone else in the tropical rainforest house is walking by, pretending they don’t see or hear this Exorcist scene playing out in front of them. So of course we’re going to stop and get involved.

  Kendall steps near, but not too near, the bench and asks, “Is she okay? Do you need help?”

  The woman looks at Kendall and her tight, annoyed face relaxes for a millisecond. Then it cinches up again.

  “We’re fine. Thank you.”

  “Are you sure?” prods Kendall.

  “Yes,” the woman says. “We were here this morning and she bought a stuffed leopard from the gift shop. She left it here by accident, but when we came back to get it, it was gone.”

  “Someone took it!” yowls the girl.

  “You checked Lost and Found?” I ask.

  “Yes,” sighs the woman, and her withering expression says, Of course, you idiot.

  The kid’s dressed like one of those American Girl dolls my sister used to collect. Shiny black shoes, white tights, pink wool coat.

  “This is life, Charlotte,” the woman says to the girl. “You lose things, other people find them. You have a hundred other stuffed animals at home.” She glances at Kendall and me now. “Actually, more than that. Much more.”

  I can’t get a read on whether this is a grandmother or a nanny. She’s so bitchy, but probably because the kid is a brat. The kid’s probably a brat because her parents are never around. We could be looking at a vicious cycle of overall nastiness here. To be honest, I’m relieved they don’t need help.

  But Kendall pushes. “If you only lost it this morning, maybe you could explain to the gift shop. Maybe they’d give you another one, just to be nice.”

  The woman laughs. Hard. Like she hasn’t had a good laugh like that in a while. “Oh, honey, that is a lovely idea but I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” replies Kendall. “It can’t hurt to ask. Look at all these tears.” She points to Charlotte’s pink, streaked face. The kid’s a hot mess.

  “No,” says the woman. More firmly now. Even Charlotte shuts up and stares at her. “And you should mind your own business.”

  Kendall backs away and holds up her hands. “Okay,” she says. “Hope your day gets better.”

  She tugs on my arm and drags me around the curve of the path so we can’t see them anymore. Then she stops. Her eyes are glassy.

  “That’s why,” says Kendall, dabbing a tear. “That’s why people don’t get involved.”

  “Because someone might be mean and say, ‘Mind your own business’?”

  “It feels shitty.”

  “I agree. But sometimes you have to take the risk anyway.”

  “On an intellectual level, yes. Duh. But in the moment, you just react. You stay in your bubble. It’s an anti-shittiness defense mechanism.”

  She’s got a point. “So how do you break through that?” I ask. “I mean, we’ve been trying because of Erica’s dare. But what about a non-dare situation?”

  Kendall stares at a lemur. It stares back at us. It looks alarmingly like Big E, with the white hair and jaded expression.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I guess that’s the point of the dare in the first place.”

  The lemur leaps from one branch to another. Kendall watches it move. I watch her.

  She’s deflating. I won’t let that happen. “So,” I say, pointing a thumb at the lemur-grandpa. “In the zoo mafia, who’s this guy? Consigliere?”

  Her nose twitches.

  “No,” she says with the hint of a smile. “He’s the best hit man they’ve got.”

  Cora

  I’VE BEEN A MOTHER FOR THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS, AND a grandmother for ten. I’ve seen a lot of terrible children. Trust me, this one’s not the worst. Not by far.

  This one, I’ve seen her spread some sunshine. Honest, real sunshine that comes from the well she has inside. But the odds are against her. Her father—my baby boy—is home maybe one night out of ten. Her mother works twelve-hour days. There are times it’s after nine o’clock when I get home to the apartment they bought for me, just five blocks away.

  My apartment with the fireplace and the bay window where I can read historical novels. My very own space for the first time in my life. Caring for Charlotte is a small price to pay in exchange for this. My son wanted his daughter to be raised by a family member, not a nanny. My son’s very, very good at making deals.

  That’s how he got to own a penthouse with so many rooms; there are three extra they have no idea what to do with. They’re empty right now. One of them, they’re turning into a dan
ce studio for Charlotte. Someone’s coming next week to install the mirrors and a barre.

  I will make a confession: I knew she’d left the leopard in the rainforest house. After thirty-eight years, I have a sense for when something is not as it should be. As we walked out and I noticed Charlotte did not have the animal in her arms, I looked back to see it sitting there on the bench.

  It looked strangely free. Unowned. I found myself jealous of it for a moment. Then I turned away and kept walking.

  Even knowing how much she’d carry on when she realized she’d lost it, it felt wonderful to keep walking.

  This child needs nothing. This child needs to know what loss feels like. This child needs to know the rules that apply to everyone apply to her, too. Those rules aren’t fair. But on the whole, she got the good end of that fairness. She’ll be okay with the bad end every once in a while.

  I know I looked so cruel to those kids.

  I’m fine with them only seeing that part of the story.

  Kendall

  WE’RE STANDING OUTSIDE THE ZOO ENTRANCE ON Fifth Avenue when Max’s phone buzzes.

  “I should get back,” he says as he glances at it. “Do you want me to walk you to your brother’s?”

  “No, I’ll be okay.” I probably won’t. Because my brother is at my brother’s place and he’ll want to talk about That Text. “I’m going to hang out in the park for a little while.”

  Max nods and we stand there for what feels like ten minutes but is really maybe three seconds. Finally he says, “I’ll call you later. Maybe we can meet up again tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He takes a few steps backward, then raises his hand in a wave. I mirror him.

  He turns to walk away, then stops and turns back for a moment.