Page 33

ELEVEN

“ Y ou seem troubled,” Cookie says when

Eddie comes in to say good morning. She’s right, of course, although that

only covers part of what he’s feeling. He’s disoriented, perplexed,

overloaded, exhausted. He’s seen a lot in the last day (year, century).

He’s seen Mae West be hauled away to jail. He’s heard Gladys Bentley

sing. He’s been passed a note by a vanishing boy. And he’s been up all

night, wandering, confused, unsure what’s real and what isn’t. But he

doesn’t answer her. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Lollipop?” She pokes him gently with her back scratcher. “What gives?”

He avoids her eyes. “Nothing,” he says softly, struggling even to form that word. “I’m not troubled. I’m not troubled at all.”

It’s a lie, and Cookie knows it. “Well, you should be,” she says. “Every eighteen-year-old should be troubled. If they have half a brain, that is. And you have more than half.”

Eddie looks away for an awkward, silent moment.

“Let’s have some music,” Cookie says, pointing at the record player.

Eddie lowers the needle, and a woman begins to sing. Her voice is smooth, and the way she enunciates her T s and rolls her R s makes her sound very glamorous.

This funny thing called love / Just who can solve its mystery?

“Who’s singing?” he asks when he comes into her room.

“That’s Libby Holman,” Cookie says. “Do you know her?”

“Nope.”

“She’s out in the hallway. Second frame to the left of the kitchen door. Bring her in.”

Eddie finds a photograph of a dark-haired woman in a cinched satin dress holding a cigarette. “Is this her?” he asks, handing the photograph to Cookie.

“Oh, look at her,” she says, lightly touching the woman’s face. “Just look. Have you ever seen such gorgeous lips? A perfect Cupid’s bow. You’d never guess how scandalous she was. They say she really got around. Men and women. Tallulah Bankhead, Josephine Baker, Louis Schanker. I remember being no more than ten and seeing her picture in the paper, draped in mourning clothes after the suspicious death of her millionaire husband. They indicted Libby but had to drop the case because there wasn’t enough evidence. She swears she didn’t do it, but I’m sure she’s hiding something. I ask her every chance I get.”

“Mysterious,” Eddie says, understanding that Cookie talks to Libby, too. Believing it.

Cookie giggles. “She was always a favorite of the boys,” she says. “If you know what I mean. I think they loved the drama of her. They called her the ‘purple menace.’ Probably because of her purple lipstick. She performed at all the balls.”

Cookie sings along to the next line in the song. She looks expectantly at Eddie, as if waiting for an answer. What is this thing called love?

He only shrugs.

“I think love tells us who we are,” Cookie says, answering the question herself. “I don’t mean just being loved, I mean giving love. It tells us that we belong in this world. All of us. Even the strange ones, the different ones, the special ones. The ones who talk to pictures—”

Eddie tenses.

“The ones who go wandering at night—”

Us, Eddie thinks. He looks away.

The song ends, and Cookie lifts the needle from the album. “Now,” she says. “I need an errand. Albert’s birthday is next week, and I always get him a ticket to the opera. The great Metropolitan Opera. Do you know how to get to Lincoln Center?”

“Yes,” Eddie says reflexively, quickly. He’s eager to get back out in the city, eager for another chance to find the boy. “I mean, no. But I can figure it out.”

Cookie raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I thought you lost your little googler.”

“I don’t need it,” Eddie says. “I have the map you gave me.”

She grins. “Good. Now. Buy a single ticket in the balcony section. It doesn’t matter which show. Except not La Bohème . La Bohème puts him in a bad mood for a week.”

“He’s always in a bad mood,” Eddie mutters.

“Especially bad, I mean,” she says. “Anyway, pick any night in September.”

“I thought you said his birthday is next week.”

“The opera is dark in the summer, so September is the best we can do.” She unzips the makeup pouch on her lap and takes out four twenty-dollar bills. “The tickets are expensive, but Albert is worth it. This should leave you enough for a birthday card from the drugstore. Make it an extra sentimental one. You know, something like a winged angel, or dolphins jumping over a rainbow. Something with a rhyming poem about how the passing years remind us of the beauty of eternity, or something equally ridiculous. Albert hates cards like that.”

“But don’t you want to get him a card he will like?”

“Would you?” she says, eyes twinkling. “No. Sappy and sentimental is your goal.”

“Got it,” Eddie says, already tightening the laces on his shoes. “Want me to flip the record first?”

“That would be grrrrand,” she says, imitating Libby Holman’s accent. She picks up her hand mirror to check her makeup. “Now kiss me, and go.”

Soon Eddie is boarding the 1 train, a straight shot up to Lincoln Center. The car is crowded but he finds a seat at the far end, holding the Polaroid camera in his lap. He looks at the floor as he rides, studying the shoes. Fila sneakers, open-toe wedges, combat boots, Uggs. All different. He imagines their stories. That pair of scuffed loafers? She’s on her way home from a bank job, where she’s just received a long-anticipated promotion, which means she will have to start wearing more expensive shoes. The green Crocs over the polka-dot socks? He’s heading to the dog groomer to pick up his Yorkie, Elaine, who he’ll tuck into his shoulder bag and carry with him to his DJ gig at a club in Queens. These are familiar visions. Comfortable, controllable. Eddie relaxes into them, letting them roll through his head like lazy waves on a lake.

At the Sixty-Sixth Street stop, Eddie exits the train, finds the box office, buys Albert’s opera ticket, then picks out a birthday card at the CVS on the corner, an overly saccharine one with flowers and a silly poem about gratitude and gladiolas, just like Cookie instructed, one that he knows Albert will hate. Eddie hopes Albert really hates it, not love-hates. But as long as Cookie’s errand is accomplished, it doesn’t really matter. When he’s done with his purchases, he’s left with only a quarter. Not even enough for a candy bar.