Bells of Avalon (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

New York City, New York

1966

Katie arrived by cab just before sunset. Her anxious hand went to her purse and pulled out the first bill she could find. From the cabbie’s expression of rough glee, she thought she’d given him a generous tip.

“You want me to wait?”

“Don’t bother,” she said and slammed the door. A chilly wind blew over her as the cab rolled away. She looked around the neighborhood, disoriented by her lack of bearings. She wished she’d chosen a less conspicuous color of cashmere that morning. She wrapped the yellow coat around her and buttoned up the front. Pulling the crumpled slip of paper from her pocket, she squinted to read the physical address written upon it. She spotted the narrow brick face she was looking for. She crossed a narrow cobble street, overreached by trees. She paused before the brief flight of stairs leading up to the building entryway and took a breath of cold air. Gathering her composure, she climbed the steps, just as a bantering group of men in cotton corduroys were leaving. The tallest of the young men held the door for her, not seeming to notice how out of place she was. She whispered thanks and stepped inside.             

The air inside smelled of disinfectant and cigarette smoke.  She pulled the paper to read the apartment number again. Seeing no lift, she took the stairs to the third floor. There, she followed down the hallway until she found the door she needed. She stopped, paused, then gave three loud knocks.

“You lookin’ for someone?”

She jumped, hearing the sharp male voice. From the far end of the hallway, a man walked towards her. She stiffened but, as he came closer, he looked more curious than angry. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you were looking for someone?”

“Yes,” she replied.

  He pulled a hand from his pocket and pointed at her.  He closed one eye, gauging her from head to foot.  

“
I know
you, don’t I?”

“I couldn’t imagine how,” she said and turned away.

“No, no I do,” he said, “rice maiden or barley queen…damn, what was it again?”               

She stopped and turned, realizing the harmlessness of his recognition.               

“Shit, you’re really her aren’t you?’’ His finger wagged from its point. 

“I’m looking for a man, Daniel Gallagher. He once lived here, do you know him?”

The wide smile on his face relaxed. His laughing eyes looked from her to the apartment door and back again. 

“Kingdom of Barley Field…
that’s it
, isn’t it? Oh, man it’s really
you
.”

She sighed and started to walk away.

“That’s how I knew him too, you know.”

She stopped and turned, feeling her chest tighten.

“My baby sis must’ve drug me a million times to see that picture. I don’t know I’d recognize him otherwise, he looks different now. But you, you look exactly the same.”

He laughed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. 

“You know, hearing loss is a hell of thing,” he remarked and winced as he took a hard drag from his cigarette.  “Mrs. Rohrabacher hasn’t heard a sound above a healthy roar for years. The Jersey train is due any time now; she probably can’t hear that either.”

“What?” she asked.

You don’t believe me? Wait—one…two…three—” he lifted a finger to the air as though testing the direction of the wind, “—four…five.”  A rumbling scream filled the air as the train passed from outside.

“You see? Hearing loss, it’s a hell of a thing. I wouldn’t mind losing it myself… if it’d keep me being woke by that damned train every morning.”

Katie sighed.

“Mrs. Rohrabacher, you see. Can’t hear the train, can’t hear you pounding on her door either. It’s a hell of a thing, hearing loss.” He smiled. “But you won’t find Dan in there. He’s one floor up and never home.”  He sauntered past and pulled a ring of keys from his pocket.

“Care to come in for a cup of tea, Barley Maiden?” He unlocked the door three apartments down and walked inside. She followed behind like a confused child. He’d left a small crack in the door. A hand pulled it wide again. A blonde woman stood before her with an air of flimsy annoyance. The woman said nothing and finally flipped her palms up in aggravation.

“What?” the woman asked.

“I’m sorry—I.”

The blonde looked her up and down.

“She’s a friend of Dan,” the familiar male voice came from inside.  He reappeared over the blonde’s shoulder. The coat was gone, revealing jeans and a camel-colored cardigan. He held three glasses in his hands.  The liquid was amber-colored, probably scotch. He handed one to the blonde woman and she accepted without looking down.  Placing an arm around her, he kissed the blonde full on the lips before giving the remaining glass to Katie. She hesitated but accepted as well.

“Where’s Kev?” he asked.  The blonde appeared too dazed from the thick kiss to answer right away.

“Mama took him to FAO Schwartz. He wants the Show and Tell Record player.”

“By the grace of God goes our hearing,” he said and tipped his glass at Katie. “I may not hear that damned train for long after all.” 

“You don’t look like a friend of Dan,” said the blonde.

Her hair was cropped like a pixie, framing the face of her Jean Seberg-esque beauty. She wore a thin sweater that hugged over her hips in the impression of a skirt. Katie felt a coil of jealousy in her stomach, like a motor kicking up after years of disuse.

“I’m sorry to bother you. Your…friend said he knew him,” Katie said. The blonde scoffed and rolled her eyes. She opened the door wide for Katie.

“Any friend of Dan’s…” the blonde inferred and gestured her inside. 

Katie stepped in, her eyes glancing from the ceiling to the floor. Their abode was cluttered with books and mismatched pieces of furniture. An array of unframed, abstract paintings clung to the blue walls. Most came in harsh violets and intense reds laced in geometric shapes, but one painting was different, no abstract piece but the image of a sprawling park with children at play.  Toys cluttered the floor, mostly wooden block puzzles held together by dovetailed pieces. A large, oriel window showcased an unremarkable view. 

“You don’t look like a friend of Dan,” the blonde repeated and sat on a couch next to the man.

“I remember a lot you know. I know all of Dan’s cronies, and I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m an old friend,” Katie noted.

“Well I’m an old friend, and I don’t recall ever meeting you,” the girl sank back into the couch with a look of satisfaction.

“He’s in 52. He’s hardly ever there though. You might try to catch him at the library or the park,” the man said.

“What’d you go and tell her that for, Pete?”

“Hell, Celia, she knows him,” he said, “what, you don’t recognize her?”

The blonde looked Katie over, stopping at the garishness of her expensive cashmere. 

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“Awe, Celia don’t be stubborn now. Like I said, he’s in 52. He’s barely home though.”

The man wrapped an arm around Celia’s mulish shoulder and pulled her towards him. 

“Thank you,” Katie forced a smile and sat her unfinished cocktail on a vinyl end table.

“You really don’t recognize her?” The man flashed a bright grin to his girl. Katie didn’t wait for the answer.  She turned to walk away but Celia’s laughing response was inescapable.

“I don’t know who she is. She looks like a washed-up version of Esther Ralston.”

Katie winced at the words and closed the door behind her.

She climbed to the next floor, her heels clicking like the echo of Chinese water torture on the steps. The smell of cigarette smoke was blotted out on the fifth floor, as was the smell of cleaner. She saw apartment 52 straightaway and, not giving herself time to think, knocked.

There was no reply. She held her ear to the door, piqued for the sound of running water or footfalls. When none came, the anxiety she’d suppressed since that morning flooded her. She found herself pounding at the door with her palms, each strike echoing lamely through the hallway. She stopped pounding and rested her cheek against the cool door. She looked down at the brass doorknob and something inside goaded her to turn it. She touched the knob, held her hand still for a second—then twisted it ever so slightly. To her surprise, the knob turned open without resistance. She held her breath, and then very slowly opened the door. As she stepped inside, it became evident there wasn’t much to steal. The room was also painted a light blue, but held none of the scruffy charm of the apartment below—except for the red and violet abstract painting on the wall.

She hugged her arms around her shoulders and further inspected the room.  A Murphy bed lay unfolded. The bed was simple but made to perfection, covered by a patchwork quilt Katie quickly recognized. She remembered the slight silver cross that hung above the bed as well. It was the same he’d hung over his bed at his mother’s house—or any place he’d lived thereafter.

Maybe he’d not changed as much as she'd feared.

He looks different now, but you, you’re exactly the same.

Maybe she’d unwittingly passed him on the cobblestone street minutes before. Had he seen her coming and ducked away, she thought, suddenly panicked. Perhaps leaving his door unlocked in his haste to flee her. And if he had run, would he ever return? Her hands trembled.  The calm façade she’d prepared for him was worn out. What was left was a delusional, thirty year-old woman standing in a stranger’s apartment…a washed-up Esther Ralston. 

She sat on the bed, tracing the quilt’s crown of thorns pattern. She was amazed at how the colors looked as vibrant as they had seventeen years ago. She’d spent hours staring at it, imagining little elves and sprites playing amongst the spiky motifs. She thought then it was the most miraculous thing she’d ever seen. Daniel had disagreed, of course… said it looked like a gaggle of fat, drunk turkeys bowling over each other.
Christ, Katie, stop mooning over it. You’ll give Ma false hope she’s any good as a quilter.

She lay down on the mattress and pulled the pillow to her breast. She rolled over. Out the window, she saw a lonely branch covered with snow. The remaining view was a harsh collage of smoke, brick and metal. She should leave now, but she couldn’t. The heartbreakingly familiar objects pinned her down. It didn’t matter that Daniel wasn’t there or might never come back. She thought lazily of those long ago times with Mrs. Gallagher, how Daniel’s essence seemed to cling to everything in the house whether he was there or not. She ran her fingers on the whimsical pattern once again. It was baby-soft from years of wear. She looked again at the branch outside the window, her eyelids wavering. She was suddenly very cold…and tired. Her eyelids drooped again. She caught the feathery edge of her lashes before they closed. She thought of her father’s voice…not sing-songy, but with the spouting accent in which he’d spoken. He’d once read her a poem that her mother had liked. Something about watching a wood fill up with snow, harness bells, and having miles to go before you slept. She wondered if her voice would have remained like his if they’d stayed in Hertfordshire—if the elocution teachers at the Arthur Rank School hadn’t bullied her voice into something more posh. She’d never heard her mother’s voice. Would it have sounded like hers as well? Her eyes opened on the snow-crusted branch. She heard her father’s voice again…
miles to go, miles to go.
Her eyes closed.

She heard the sound of her name repeated over and over, felt a finger run lightly over her chin. Her eyes opened, reconciling her surroundings. Four lit candles to her right, the cold, the shadow of stubble covering his jaw—and a scar that hadn’t been there before. How had she thought she wouldn’t recognize him? His face was older, eyes weary—yet somehow he was more striking than ever. 

He was calm, as though finding her there gave him no surprise. Her dreaminess snapped to cold realism. It was really him. Really Daniel. He was here, older, but not unrecognizable. She took in the very real shape of his body and covered her mouth with her hand. She had the overwhelming urge to pull him to her, to touch his skin, his hair, his rough flannel shirt—if only to affirm the fact that he was real.