There Was an Old Woman (19 page)

Chapter Fifty

Mrs. Yetner picked up the Empire State Building souvenir from the mantel. She looked at it for a moment, then set it on the coffee table. With the walker, she shuffled a few steps over to her chair, backed up, and sat. Evie tucked the crocheted throw over her legs, then ran into the kitchen to get her purse. She brought it back and pulled out a cassette recorder that, thank God, she always carried. She sat on the couch, opposite Mrs. Yetner, and turned it on.

“Tuesday, May 21, 2013. Evie Ferrante talking to Wilhelmina Higgs Yetner.” Evie spelled the name, looking to Mrs. Yetner to make sure she got it right. At Mrs. Yetner's nod, she continued, “We're at Mrs. Yetner's home at 105 Neck Road, the Bronx, New York.”

She played that much back. Then she pushed Record again and set the machine on the coffee table, the microphone facing Mrs. Yetner.

“You know, those Catholics saved my life,” Mrs. Yetner began.

Evie smiled. She knew Mrs. Yetner was making a joke, but also knew she was probably referring to the Catholic War Relief Services, whose offices had been on the north-facing side of the seventy-ninth floor of the Empire State Building. One of the secretaries who worked there had told a reporter that from her desk she could see the pilot's Clark Gable mustache right through the cockpit window as the plane struck the building. That pilot and both of his passengers had been killed.

But Evie didn't interrupt to clarify. Oral histories took time to tell, and they were richest when the interviewer kept quiet and let them bubble up of their own accord. Not only that, people were surprisingly suggestible and obligingly conjured imagined details just to satisfy their audience.

“I had applied for a job there, but they turned me down,” Mrs. Yetner went on. “They thought I needed experience to be a twenty-five-dollar-a-week stock-and-file clerk.”

The sound of the vacuum cleaner started again upstairs. Evie could hear it being pushed across wood floor.

“Some of the people in that office were burned to death sitting at their desks,” Mrs. Yetner said. “I remember looking through the names of the dead in the newspaper and wondering if one of them was the girl who got my job.”

Evie sat quietly as Mrs. Yetner talked. The day before the crash, Mrs. Yetner and her friend Betty, an elevator operator whose station was on the eightieth floor, had gone up to the observation deck as they often did on their lunch hour to watch troop ships streaming into New York harbor and past the Statue of Liberty. The war in Europe was over.

“It was hot and windy up there, and my hat blew right off my head. Betty thought her husband might be on one of those ships. She'd already tendered her notice. I remember she took her compact out and was using the mirror to reflect the sun. She was trying to signal to soldiers on the ships. I was looking through binoculars to see if any of them noticed and waved back at us. We were so silly. Giddy as schoolgirls, really. But then, we were so very young.”

Mrs. Yetner paused, gazing off into space. Then she shook herself slightly and continued.

“The next day. Saturday. I was supposed to work because we were taking inventory. I remember it was one of those soupy mornings when you look out the window here and the water is gray and the sky is gray, and there doesn't seem to be a horizon. From our office windows I could barely see the Chrysler Building.

“I had just gotten to work. I was coming out of the stockroom when I heard this roar. And I remember thinking it sounded like an airplane. I was heading for the window when someone shouted to get back. Then there was an enormous explosion. I was thrown across one of the desks. We all thought it was a German buzz bomb. Everyone was screaming. The Germans had tricked us, the Germans had tricked us! They hadn't surrendered after all.

“Flames were shooting up the sides of the building. One of the windows was scorched black. The office filled with smoke, and everyone was rushing around, trying to get out. I remember wanting to get my purse from my locker in the cloakroom, but Mr. Salamino yelled at me. Said to leave it. Save myself.”

Evie picked up the cassette recorder and leaned forward with it to be sure it caught every word.

“I remember I had this miniature”—Mrs. Yetner pointed to the souvenir—“on my desk. I took it with me for good luck. I'd bought it in the souvenir shop on the day Mr. Salamino interviewed me for the job. My first job.

“We ran out of the office, but when we got to the elevators, smoke was already starting to fill the landing. Fire alarms were going off. People were running for the stairs. A woman was on the floor, screaming. People standing around her. I didn't realize who it was at first.” Mrs. Yetner's face pinched at the memory, spots of color on her cheeks. “It was Betty. She'd been blown right out of her post. One side of her uniform was just ashes. Her legs were horribly bent, and she was in so much pain. There were ambulances on the street. We could hear the sirens. We needed to get her down there, but there was no way. Down eighty flights?”

The doorbell rang. Mrs. Yetner ignored it. So did Evie.

“Some people ran for the stairs. They just left her there. But I couldn't. The elevator was still sitting there, empty. Everyone kept saying, Don't take the elevator. It's too dangerous. But there was no choice. It was the only way for her to get down.

“Mr. Salamino and another man from the office carried Betty into the elevator. I didn't volunteer to ride down with her, it just happened. The elevator needed someone to operate it and of course she couldn't, and she was holding on to me, so I stayed. I got the doors closed. Got the elevator started. I remember praying that we'd make it. Praying that we'd get to the lobby in one piece. Praying that everything would be all right.

“And at first it was. One floor, three floors, ten floors down. Then I heard what sounded like a gunshot. The elevator jumped and lurched. The lights went out. And we began to fall. I remember screaming and not being able to hear my own voice.”

The doorbell rang again. The vacuum cleaner stopped, and Evie could hear footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened and closed. Evie heard Brian talking to someone in a hushed voice. Mrs. Yetner seemed oblivious.

“You know how they say
time slowed down
? Well, that's not what happened at all. I felt sick, like I was going to throw up. And we were moving so fast that I had to hang on to the railing of the elevator to keep from floating. I knew Betty was thinking about her husband. I was sure it was the end.”

“Aunt Mina?” Brian said.

Evie kept her focus on Mrs. Yetner, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Brian looking in from the dining room. There was a woman with him.

“Aunt Mina, this is Dora Fleischer, the woman—”

Mrs. Yetner sent him an icy look. “I'll talk to her later,” she said. Brian hung in the doorway for a moment, then he turned around and went into the kitchen with the woman.

Turning back to Evie, Mrs. Yetner lowered her voice. “After that, my memories are jumbled. There was a funny smell. That must have been all that burning fuel. And a light overhead. Like a flashlight. I have no idea how long we were down there. The next thing I remember is being outside, lying on a stretcher. Astonished that I was still alive. This priest—he had a pale face, and his glasses were streaked with soot—was standing over me and reading me last rites. I told him to please stop. I wasn't Catholic, and I'd already forgiven them for not giving me that job.”

She leaned forward and picked up the Empire State souvenir from the table. “I must have been holding this when I got into that elevator, because one of the rescue workers brought it to me later in the hospital. He said he'd been flabbergasted that either of us had a pulse. I'd broken my back, and the bones in my legs had to be pinned back together. He said the floor of the elevator had cracked like the shell of an egg.” She shook her head. “Like the shell of an egg.”

Mrs. Yetner leaned back and exhaled, her face relaxed. “I've never told that story to anyone but Annabelle and Henry. I was afraid people would think I was a hero. But there was nothing heroic about it. What happened just happened.”

Evie turned off the recorder. “What an amazing, fascinating story. Thank you so much. This is just incredible.”

Mrs. Yetner held the miniature out to Evie. “Here. Do you think the Historical Society would want this? I don't need any more good luck.”

“I'm sure they'd love to have it. Thank you.” Evie reached out and took it. The metal felt soft in her hand. Its blurred surface was a testimony to the destructive force of a fire that, against all odds, had spared at least two of its victims. Tomorrow she'd take it to the Historical Society. Already she knew exactly the spot for it in the exhibit. Too bad they hadn't gotten it in time to be featured in the poster.

“You know,” Evie said, “you could have headed for the stairs and saved yourself, just like everyone else. But you didn't. You stayed to help your friend.”

“See? There you go. That's what I mean. The truth is, I didn't do anything. It just happened, and I was in the wrong place at the right time.”

Evie didn't argue. She saw her point. “Would you mind writing a note, saying that you're donating the souvenir and giving the Five-Boroughs Historical Society permission to use your oral history?”

“Oral history? Is that what they call long, old stories these days?”

Evie laughed.

Mrs. Yetner reached over, opened a drawer in the coffee table, and pulled out a pad and pen. In a careful slanting hand, like what Evie had seen in old penmanship books, Mrs. Yetner began to write.

“Just one more thing,” Evie said, getting out her cell phone. “Would you let me take a picture of you signing the bequest?”

Mrs. Yetner put her hand up and smoothed her hair. “I suppose,” she said, touching the pearls she wore around her neck. Then she put the notebook in her lap and held the pen to the page. Evie set the little statue beside her so it would be in the picture, too. As Mrs. Yetner signed and dated the note, Evie snapped a picture, then another. After that she took a picture of the old photo on Mrs. Yetner's mantel—Mrs. Yetner with her sister when they were girls. Then she carefully tore the page from the notebook and tucked it into her bag along with her cassette recorder and cell phone.

“So you weren't burned in that fire, were you?” Evie said, taking a seat on the couch opposite Mrs. Yetner.

“No.”

“But how—?” Evie touched the spot on her own cheek where Mrs. Yetner had a scar on hers.

Mrs. Yetner tilted her head. “You really don't know, do you?”

“I . . .” Evie was baffled. “Should I?”

“No. But I thought you might.”

“Why? Was I there? When?”

“A very long time ago. We'll talk about it. Another time.” Mrs. Yetner leaned back in the chair. She looked very tired.

Evie couldn't push her, not after the story she'd just heard. “I'll come back and tell you all about what everyone says when they hear your story. I'll bring you a picture showing your little Empire State Building mounted in the exhibit hall. In fact, I hope you'll let me escort you to the gala opening. You'll come, won't you?”

Mrs. Yetner flushed. “Oh, good heavens. You can't be serious.”

“You have to come. It won't be right without you. People will be dying to meet you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you won't make a heroine out of me, will you?”

“Promise.”

Mrs. Yetner smiled. “Good. Then I wouldn't miss it for the world.” Under her breath she added, “Go out in a blaze of glory, that's what I say.” Then she called out, “Brian! We're done here.”

Brian came in from the kitchen. Following him was the woman who'd arrived earlier. From the neck down she looked like a visiting nurse: loose but ironed pastel hospital scrubs and a man's watch on her wrist. But from the neck up she could have been on her way to a ladies' lunch at Olive Garden: not a strand of her dark hair was out of place, her pink lipstick thick and carefully applied.

But she seemed to know what she was about. She went over to Mrs. Yetner and crouched in front of her, trailing a wake of gingery scent. She took one of her hands. “My name is Dora. I'll be staying with you—”

Brian picked up Evie's purse from the floor and handed it to her, clearly her cue to leave. Evie stood and followed him to the door.

“I think it's great what you're doing. Arranging it so your aunt can live where she wants to.” Evie looked up the stairs. The door at the top was closed. “Sounds like you're doing quite a bit of work up there. My mother always wanted a second bath.”

“I am sorry about your mother,” Brian said, holding the door open for her.

“You were friends?”

“Friends?” Brian looked aghast.

“No, of course not,” Evie said. “Never mind. I'll try to get back soon to see your aunt.”

“Dora will be here. She'll let you know whether Aunt Mina is up to company.”

Evie wondered if there was something about Mrs. Yetner's health that she didn't know. She started to ask. Then thought better of it. Selfish of her, really, but she couldn't take any more bad news.

Outside, the panel truck was gone. In the dark, Evie could see that pieces of lumber and building debris were not so much stacked as tossed, willy-nilly, in Mrs. Yetner's driveway. It was just as well that Mrs. Yetner couldn't see it. She'd have pitched a fit.

Chapter Fifty-one

“I had no idea that you liked Ivory,” Mina said to Brian after Evie left. “Evie said you came over in the middle of the night to look after her.”

“Is that what she told you?” Brian eyed her warily.

“And after you left, she found the whistle to my teakettle and those papers you brought over for me to sign. Know where they were? Under the couch where Ivory was hiding.”

He gave her a cool look. “You need to be more careful about where you put your things.”

“Me? Why would I put the whistle to the teakettle under the couch? And why would I stuff my eyeglasses into the base of a potted plant?”

Brian folded his arms across his chest. “I'm sure it made sense at the time.”

She wanted to strangle him.

He shook his head. “Aunt Mina, I didn't take your teapot whistle, and I certainly didn't hide your glasses. But I'm not sorry those things happened, especially if it helps convince you that it's time to get some help.”

That took some of the wind out of Mina's sails. She lowered her eyes and said, more into her lap than to Brian, “I don't know why I need someone sleeping in the house with me.” The walker seemed like an unnecessary nuisance as well. She was sore, but not incapacitated.

“Let's try it this way for a few nights,” Brian said, “and if you can get along without the help, we'll let her go. In the meanwhile, try to relax and enjoy having someone wait on you.”

Mina was glad when he left a short time later, leaving her in the hands of the capable Dora. There was no point telling Brian that at her stage of life she got a lot more pleasure from taking care of herself. So she bit her tongue and let Dora take her blood pressure and listen to her heartbeat, turn down her covers, help her into her nightgown, and settle her into bed. By then, Mina's hip was throbbing like a bad headache. She took another pain pill with the glass of warm milk Dora brought her.

Dora positioned the walker alongside the bed and set Mina's bedroom slippers inside its perimeter. “If you have to get up in the middle of the night, it'll be right here for you,” she said. “I know you'd rather take care of yourself, but if you need help, I'll be right out in the living room, sleeping on the couch. I'm a light sleeper, so just call out. That's what I'm here for.”

Dora wished her a good night and left the bedroom door ajar. Mina hadn't even seen the day's headlines, and she'd missed two days' worth of obituaries. If she'd had her glasses, she'd have sat up in bed for a while, reading the paper. Instead, she lay there letting her mind wander.

What a relief it had been to talk about the day that the plane had crashed, practically right into her office widow. Evie had been a wonderful listener. She hadn't treated Mina like a sideshow freak the way reporters had treated Betty, trailing around behind her in the months after she was pulled from the wreckage. Other than to thank her rescuers, Mina had refused to speak with the press. But now she didn't want her story vanishing into obscurity along with the rest of her memories.

And what about the troubling news the girl had brought her? It never occurred to Mina that other homeowners were being offered the same deal with the devil that Brian had wanted her to sign, property in exchange for short-term ease. She wondered if Finn had figured out who was behind the demolition of Angela Quintanilla's house. And what about the demolished house a few doors up from Angela's? Were the same folks poised to bulldoze Sandra's house?

Bulldozed houses. A battery-less fire alarm. A whistle-less teapot. A golf ball that came out of nowhere. The more Mina tried to make sense, the more the pieces slipped around. She needed to make a list. But she couldn't rouse herself to get out of bed, never mind call Dora to get her paper and pencil. Finally she gave up and let her thoughts swirl as she stared up at the ceiling, whose cracks she knew like the back of her hand but could not see.

She could hear Dora padding around in the kitchen. An occasional thump from overhead. Could the men still be working up there? From outside came the sounds of the night. The high whistle of what might have been a nighthawk. The
burr-up
of a bullfrog. She'd seen one, so camouflaged he was nearly invisible, in her garden just the other day, and she'd been careful not to disturb him. Nighthawks ate what frogs ate. Insects. She was happy to share her marsh with all three.

Ivory settled and resettled beside Mina's pillow, resting her paw possessively on Mina's cheek. The cat had been doing that ever since she was a kitten, and it never failed to make Mina smile. She rubbed Ivory on the forehead, then turned over onto her good side. Soon she'd drifted off, only dimly aware some time later of quiet footsteps. Dora was in her bedroom. Closing the windows. Drawing the shades.

Mina tried to rouse herself, to tell Dora to stop. She liked to sleep with the window open and the shades drawn halfway. That way, when she woke up she could tell if it was morning without having to put her glasses on to check the clock.

But Mina could barely open her eyes, never mind say anything. Sleep was overtaking her like a thick fog. Was she dreaming, or could she hear a man and woman laughing together? Was that the smell of cigarette smoke? Maybe Sandra Ferrante was back. She often sat outside late at night, smoking on her back porch, laughing with a gentleman caller, the smoke drifting in through Mina's window.

Later—how much later Mina had no idea—she came awake to the sounds of a door shutting, thumps and scrapes like furniture being moved around. She strained to listen but heard nothing but silence until sleep pulled her back into unconsciousness.

A jiggle on the mattress awakened her again. A shift of weight. Had Ivory gotten up? Then a low
grrrowwRRRR
and a bounce, as if the cat had jumped down off the bed. The growl turned to a prolonged hiss and whine.
Wrowww.

Mina knew the stance that went with that sound—back humped, head down, tail bushed out like a squirrel's, mouth open and teeth bared. Was she imagining shapes on the floor? Ivory and her doppelgänger facing off? Or were there three of them—like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, one splitting into two, two into four. As Mina drifted off to sleep yet again, she felt a breeze from an open window and warm bodies settling in around her.