Page 28

Indy

Brooklyn, New York

May 6 th , 1952

When the salesclerk at Macy’s said she hoped my wife enjoyed the gift, I didn’t have the nerve to correct her.

I simply took the bag with a sheepish nod and hugged it close on the subway ride home.

Scuttling into the apartment, I set it on the bathroom counter, perched on the edge of the bathtub, and stared at it.

The bag was innocuous, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what was in it.

Checking out had been stressful, but I’d enjoyed every second of the trip leading up to it.

Wandering between the racks in the clothing department, pinching soft fabrics with my fingers, and marveling over lace trims and rows of tiny buttons had been divine.

It was like strolling through a field of flowers deciding which one to pick.

I spent fifteen minutes agonizing over cuts, styles, and sizes, measuring with my hands since I didn’t dare hold anything up to my body.

Then I spotted it on a standing mannequin.

Satiny blue, it shimmered in the lights, as rich and deep as the ocean.

I found one on the rounder that was my best estimate of a good fit, carried it to the register, and paid with trembling hands.

I was quaking again now, jittery with excitement that I shook out of my arms as I stared down at the bag on my bathroom floor.

Since the cashier assumed it was a gift, she put a few pieces of tissue in the sack.

They poked out the top in a cluster of soft spikes, and I plucked them out one by one, laying them on the sink counter.

It didn’t take long to unbury the thing, and I peeked in at it.

It was folded and nestled in the boxed bottom of the bag, as shiny as cut sapphire.

A giddy laugh bubbled out of me as I pulled it free and let it fall into shape in my grasp.

Off-the-shoulder, A-line, with ten pearl buttons running up one side, it was better suited to a cocktail party than everyday wear, but I didn’t want to look like a housewife.

I wanted to play at glamor, so I set the dress aside and opened the medicine cabinet door to dig out the mascara and lipstick I’d squirreled away months ago.

I fought to keep the anxious tremors from returning as I combed the little brush through my lashes, then puffed my lips to spread vibrant red across them.

Stepping back, I stared at my reflection, at myself, but not quite.

The makeup made my eyes look larger, rounder, and gave my lips a distinct Cupid’s bow that hadn’t been there before.

I stripped out of my slacks and shirt before turning toward where I’d draped the gown over the tub wall.

The buttons were just for show, so I used the zipper closure to open it and make room to step inside.

Thankfully, it fastened.

I sucked a breath and held it as I fluffed my blond curls, wondering if I should have dyed them red instead so that I might have looked like Lucy bustling about waiting for Ricky to come home.

Checking the mirror again brought a scorching blush to my cheeks.

It was pretty.

I was pretty.

I cupped a hand to my mouth to stifle another giggle, almost smearing the fresh lipstick.

Stepping backward into the open space the bathroom, I gave a little twirl.

The way the satin fanned around my legs and skimmed across my skin gave me goosebumps.

I rubbed down my bare arms and moved in front of the mirror again, studying my new silhouette.

The tapered waist gave the illusion of feminine curves, though I was obviously lacking in the bust. But that could be fixed with fabric tape and safety pins.

I pushed onto my tiptoes to try to see further down my front, then remembered the full-length mirror in our bedroom.

Visions of stockings and kitten heels danced through my brain as I flung open the door and darted into the hall.

I was halfway across the apartment when I spotted an unexpected figure standing in the living room.

“Loren!” I choked on a gasp.

He must have just arrived, barely inside with the latest issue of ARTnews in his hand.

He was buttoned up in an Oxford shirt and cardigan with gray slacks and polished black loafers, looking like he always did.

Looking like a man.

Like I should have.

I wanted to retreat, to scurry to the bathroom and refuse to come out until we both forgot about this, or at least until my stomach stopped its riotous churning and I was sure I wouldn’t vomit all over the rug.

Before I could bolt, Loren set the magazine on the table by the sofa and strode forward.

His gaze swept over me from the legs I’d shaved this morning in preparation for my shopping endeavor to the mascara sure to run the moment tears broke loose.

His expression was unreadable.

I clasped my hands and twisted them together, stammering until something coherent came out.

“I just wanted t-to try it. I can return it.”

“Why would you return it?” he asked.

“I-I can’t wear it out anywhere…”

“You can wear it here.”

With tears threatening, it was risky to blink, but my eyes were burning, so I gave in and looked around our cozy apartment.

After making the circle from the living room to the kitchen and back again, I met Loren’s gaze.

“Isn’t that a bit of a waste?” I asked.

Not to mention he hadn’t seen the price tag on the thing.

I was tense and cringing at having been caught, but Loren placed his hands on my waist—my waist that was so tiny tucked into the dress—and I started to relax.

“You look happy.” He gave my sides a squeeze.

“I am.” At least, I was.

Now, I wasn’t sure how to feel.

Loren nodded. “Then it’s not a waste.”

Breath went stale in my lungs as his gaze roamed from the wide neckline that left me bare from shoulder to shoulder, then down to my toes which were turned inward and curling with embarrassment.

“Do you like it?” I whispered.

When he met my eyes, he smiled.

“It’s beautiful, Doll,” he said.

“Doll?”

He bobbed his head again.

“That’s what you look like. A perfect, pretty doll.”

The words were like garments all their own, compliments I wanted to try on and see if they fit.

Clasping my hands over Loren’s, I gave a twist that fanned the dress around my legs.

Perfect.

Pretty.

Doll.

The museum was a dream.

The whole day was a dream, really.

I didn’t even pinch myself because I didn’t want to wake up.

Of course, I wore a dress.

A cherry red gown with a sweetheart neck that emulated the same curves I’d been chasing for sixty years.

And I wore heels. They clicked on the floor as we canvassed the entirety of the Brooklyn Museum, but they made my feet ache, so I was grateful for the evening reprieve where Loren and I got to cozy up in a round booth at High Notes.

We sat shoulder to shoulder with my hand hooked around his thigh, and he seemed content.

Peaceful. Unbothered by my proximity and placing occasional kisses on my forehead even though we were in public.

The booth was dark, though, and semi-private.

That was probably why he felt comfortable enough to tip his head against mine and rest there, listening to the music drifting from the baby grand piano in the center of the room.

The vibe was utterly Loren—relaxed and intimate.

Most of the songs had been classical, and he informed me of the title of each piece and its composer.

Names like Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Brahms lingered in my mind as the woman finished playing, and the audience broke into gentle applause.

The pianist rose to take a break, and quiet conversation broke out across the room.

I turned to put my mouth on Loren’s earlobe for a playful nibble.

“So, what do you want to do?” I whispered to him.

“When it’s all over, I mean.”

He leaned away and tilted his head to meet my eyes.

It was hard to tell in the dimness, but he looked pale.

“When what’s over?” he asked.

My shoulders bounced in a shrug.

“The hunt. The demons.” He still seemed uneasy, so I added, “When we win .”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Rather than reply, he lifted his wine glass off the table and took a long sip of the Merlot.

While he drank, I gazed across the bar.

Heavy curtains blacked the windows, making it seem even later than it was.

We’d wandered the museum for half the day, then made it here for happy hour appetizers.

Plates of food were spread out before us.

Loren had ordered bruschetta and crab cakes, and I’d made a meal of parmesan truffle fries.

I picked one of the straggler fries from the plate and ate it, giving him time to answer or at least consider.

As the pause grew, the shadows on his face seemed to darken.

“I still wanna see the Hoover Dam,” I said.

Loren snorted into his wine glass.

“I mean it!” I pinched his thigh.

“You know it’s basically sixty stories tall? That’s like the Chrysler Building, but a wall.”

He set the wine down and rolled his head toward me, flashing a crooked grin that stirred butterflies in my stomach.

“You want to look at a wall?”

“Walk on it, too,” I insisted weakly.

“You can walk in the Chrysler Building or the One World Trade Center,” he mused.

“In fact, you have.”

He grabbed another fry from my plate and aimed it toward my mouth.

Those butterflies were swarming now, threatening to carry me away.

I took the offered bite, holding eye contact while my lips brushed his fingertips.

His smile took on a bashful bend as I chewed, then replied, “Exactly. I’ve seen those. I’ve never seen a dam.”

I liked tall things and high places.

The views in the desert would be so much different than in the city.

Open. Spread out. Besides our road trip to Ohio, I couldn’t recall a time I’d been out of Brooklyn.

Loren wasn’t inclined to roam or explore, but I knew he would—he’d proven as much—for me.

That wasn’t to say he was entirely wrong in his skepticism.

“And then after the dam,” I continued, “we could take a quick peek at Vegas. Just a passing glance.”

Chuckling, Loren polished off his wine, and I washed down my fries with some prosecco.

“But what about you?” I asked, harkening back to the question he’d seemed keen to ignore.

“What do you wanna do?”

Surely there was something.

A lot of things. Now that he was free from Hell, we could live unfettered lives.

It was an unknown kind of autonomy.

Might have been hard to fathom.

Loren wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me in.

He dusted the curls off my brow, then planted a kiss in their place.

“I’d like to do this, Doll,” he murmured.

“All of this. All over again.”

Appetizers at High Notes, fashion exhibits at the Brooklyn Museum, cozying up at the top of the Wonder Wheel…

All of that.

I leaned harder into Loren’s side, thinking back to before Coney Island.

To the Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

To Travis and his story.

To mine.

“Hey, Lore?” I began, but he was sliding away and tugging me along after as he moved around the curve of the booth.

He stood, looking tall and trim in his slacks and button-down with a sweater over the top.

It was one of the few that didn’t have a worn spot on the sleeve, saved for special occasions.

When I rose, he took my hand.

“Time to go?” I asked.

His fingers laced in mine, then tightened.

“Not yet.”

He angled toward the piano, and I gave a delighted shimmy.

I’d been hoping for this.

It didn’t happen in every lifetime, but a lucky few versions of me knew that Loren was a gifted pianist. His long, elegant fingers moved across the keys like liquid, pouring from one ivory to the next.

The only reason I’d ever wanted a house was so I could buy a piano and listen to him play.

If not a house, maybe a townhome with a balcony where I could open the windows and let the light in and the music out in a clash of beauty.

Speaking of beauty, there he was, climbing the steps to the baby grand’s stage and sitting on the bench, bringing me beside him.

There was a crowd. People were staring, and I knew he hated that.

It was obvious when he hesitated to let go of my hand, though he couldn’t play until he did.

We sat for a moment with him holding onto me while staring at the keyboard with a single-minded purpose.

“Baby?” My whisper seemed loud in the hushed room.

“You don’t have to…”

He tapped the keys with one hand, then added the second.

I rested my empty palm on his leg, maintaining contact while harmonic notes poured out of the piano.

Why are you doing all this?

I wanted to ask.

Loren could wine and dine with the best of them, but this had begun as a bad day.

He cried after sex, and now he was doing something I knew terrified him, playing beautifully but posed so tight and stiff it must have been painful.

Determined. That was the look now.

To get through the song, to stave off the melancholy, and why?

I fucked up. I relapsed, lied, snuck out.

I should have been groveling.

He had nothing to prove.

Reaching over, I tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, giving myself a clear view of his profile.

I studied his face as he played and wished I could push my worry away long enough to enjoy the music.

I didn’t know the song, but I’d ask him later to tell me its name.

I’d ask him other things, too.

Like what I should have pressed about before we left the trailer this morning.

Why did he cry?

Loren was focused, and I was deep in my thoughts, so the buzz of my cellphone in my dress pocket startled us both.

I moved to silence it, but a sinking feeling slowed my hand.

Sully was the only person who called me, and she was too busy with the hellhounds to make time for casual chats.

Still, I didn’t want to interrupt this moment or dismiss this overture, even though it confused me.

The call rolled to voicemail in my pocket, and Loren played on.

The song ended to a round of applause.

I kissed his cheek before he stood and snagged my hand on a hurried descent from the stage.

On the floor, out of the spotlight, he looked at me with eyes as wide as a deer in traffic.

I laid my palm on his chest and felt his pulse jumping.

“Thank you, baby,” I said and kissed him again, this time on the lips.

A few members of the crowd clapped, and someone whistled.

Loren blushed. I could see it even in the dimness.

His cheeks darkened deep red, and he ducked until his hair fell forward around his face.

Smiling, I looped my arm around his to lead him back to our booth.

When our hips bumped into each other, I felt the buzz of my phone again.

This time, I answered it.

“Hey, Sully?—”

“Indy?” she blurted.

“Indy, get Loren.”

Her voice was so loud Loren must have heard it because he whipped around.

“He’s here,” I said before a rush of fear almost silenced my next question.

“What’s wrong?”

Rapid breaths crowded Sully’s words as she said, almost sobbed, “They found the gallery.”