Page 63

ELEVEN

E ddie is standing up now, peering out from behind the van across from the bakery to see if Theo is still looking out at the street. But it’s not an Amazon van anymore, it’s a vegetable delivery truck. And it’s not a bakery anymore, it’s a bookshop, an unruly-looking bookshop with volumes piled high in the window. And it’s not Theo brandishing a rolling pin, it’s a young woman in a pink-and-purple dress brandishing a dictionary. She opens the door and steps out.

“Who’s there?” she calls.

Eddie doesn’t answer. He quickly ducks back behind the truck, tripping over the curb as he does, landing with a scuff on the pair of chinos he’s now wearing.

“You!” she shouts. “Behind the truck! Was that you?”

Eddie, embarrassed but not afraid, steps out into the street. He raises his hands in a shrug. “I’m sorry. My friend wanted to take a picture of the bookshop and—” He crouches down to pick up his camera. He holds it up, as if it’s proof. The plastic card, the photograph, slips out and falls to the street.

“What friend?” she demands. She looks up the street, and down the street. “There’s no one else here.”

Eddie looks up and down the street, too, pretending to search for someone he knows isn’t there. It’s still Cornelia Street—he can tell by the carriage house with the large arched doorway—but it’s definitely not 2023 here. The cars are curved sedans with whitewall tires and sharp fins. The taxicabs are checkered. James Dean and Sal Mineo stare out from a movie poster advertising Rebel Without a Cause . Marilyn Monroe is across the street from them on another poster, her halter dress blowing in the subway breeze for The Seven Year Itch . Don’t miss the Cinemascope sensation of 1955!

“What do you want?” she says.

What do you want? The unanswerable question. He looks back at her, not answering.

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” she says, setting the dictionary down in the doorway. “The one day I come in early to get my ledgers in order, and what do I get for it? A scruffy teenager with a camera and an imaginary friend.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” Eddie says. And he is. He’d be startled, too, if he was her. So he’ll just get out of here and figure out what to do next. He turns to go.

“Wait,” she says. “Are you lost or something?”

Her tone is soft, friendly, concerned, and so he slows his pace. “No,” he says. “I was just on my way to Bedford Street. On my way home.”

She folds her arms across her chest and takes a few steps toward him. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hmm.” She tilts her head, inspecting him. “Are you sure?”

Feeling scrutinized, Eddie turns away again and starts walking toward Sixth Avenue.

She calls after him. “Bedford Street is that way.” He turns to see her pointing in the opposite direction. “I live there, too.”

He feigns a shallow laugh. “Right. I’m just—I haven’t slept much. It’s so late. Or, early.”

“Same thing, really,” she says. She fiddles with a curl at her forehead, still looking intently at him. She points at the camera. “You say that’s a camera?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t look like any camera I’ve ever seen,” she says. She takes a few steps closer.

“It’s a Polaroid,” he says. “An instant camera.”

“Instant camera? What does that mean?”

“It means, you take a picture, and you can see it right away. Like—” He pulls the little plastic square, still stuck in the camera’s slot, and holds it out to her. “Like this one.”

She squints at it, raising an eyebrow. “Not much of a picture,” she says.

He turns it back to himself to see. She’s right. There’s no image at all. Just a black square.

“Must have been a dud,” he says. “Here.” He raises the camera and aims it down the street, toward Sixth Avenue, and snaps. But it’s another dud.

“Some camera,” she says, a bemused expression on her face. “You sure you know how this thing works?”

“It does work,” Eddie says defensively. “It must have broken when he dropped it.”

“He? He who? Your imaginary friend?”

Eddie slumps his shoulders, embarrassed anew. “I should go.”

“Take it easy,” she says. “Lemme see that thing. Maybe I’ll have the magic touch.”

He tilts his head, uncertain. “I’m not sure I should—”

“Oh, come on. It’s the least you can do, after scaring the wits out of me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” she says, and he believes her.

“Okay, this is the button here. Please be caref—”

“I won’t break it,” she says, taking it from him. “And I won’t drop it. Go stand over there by the truck.”

He looks up the street, and then down again, then reluctantly walks over to the truck. He stands stiffly, arms rigid at his side.

She positions herself a few feet from him and raises the camera. “This button here?” she says.

“Yep.”

“Say cheese!”

He smiles, or tries to, and she presses the button. She flinches, startled, when the camera starts to whir.

“It’s alive!” she says, laughing. “Now what?”

“Now we wait.”

But the picture is another dud. Just a black square.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he says. “I swear it works. I guess I need to get it fixed.”

“I guess you do,” she says, handing it back to him.

“Well, I better get going.”

She tilts her head, inspecting him again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Eddie.” He doesn’t think to ask hers.

“Eddie,” she repeats. “You know, Allen Ginsberg is going to be reading some of his poems here later today. Do you know his work?”

“No,” he answers honestly.

She smiles, a confident smile. “Well, you should come. I think you might like it.”

“Okay,” he says. “Maybe.”

He turns toward Bedford Street and starts to walk.

“Hey, Eddie!” she yells after him. “One more shot!” She is standing in the doorway of the bookshop now, her pink-and-purple dress rippling in the early morning breeze. She’s got the dictionary tucked under one arm, and a broad smile on her face. She waves. “How do I look?”

Eddie smiles back and nods.

“Well?”

“You look great,” he says.

“Great? That’s it? Hang on.” She darts into the shop and quickly returns, cocking a beret onto her head, tugging the curl at her forehead into a perfect curlicue.

“How about now?”

Extraordinary. Fabulous. Devastating. “Beautiful,” he says.

Eddie raises the camera, and, through its viewfinder, he finally sees it. He finally sees why Francis brought him to Cornelia Street. He finally understands what the rest of us already knew. This is Cookie’s bookshop. This is the Contrarian. This is Cookie. Of course it is. What took him so long? He knows her so well, but as the calendar goes, this is the first time they’ve ever met. She’s right there. His Cookie. He can’t believe it. The pieces of this strange, confusing, bizarre, upending, mysterious, magical summer begin to fuse into something like clarity. His mind fires, electric. He can ask her. She can explain this. Now he will know. Now he will see. Now he will finally, truly understand.

“Say cheese, Cookie!” he shouts.

“Cheese, Lollipop!” she shouts back, and joy swells inside him. She sees him, too.

He presses the button.

And just then, just as the shutter fires and the camera snaps and the machine inside starts to whir, the first arc of sunrise crests over the building behind him. That very first beam, sharp and clear like a spotlight from 93 million miles away, glints off the glass of the bookshop, reflecting directly into Eddie’s eyes. He squeezes them shut, throws up a hand to protect them, and everything goes dark.