“Don’t worry about it. I’m divorced, so there’s no rush to get back to my place in Yonkers.”
“Yonkers?” She’d imagined him, like all the lawyers she knew, living on the Upper East Side or off in the distant suburbs.
“Where my family’s from originally. I live near my ma, take care of her. Probably why I’m getting divorced, if you want to know the truth.”
As he spoke, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing thick forearms. She’d always been a sucker for a rolled-up sleeve on a man. Something about the thatch of short hairs against a crisp white shirt made her knees wobble. “How did you become a lawyer?”
“Studied, got into City College and then Fordham Law.”
“My ex-husband is a lawyer. Columbia.” Even though they’d been divorced for a year, she still sometimes dropped that into conversation, out of habit. As if they were still a unit and his accomplishments were synonymous with her own. Dennis didn’t seem all that impressed, which made her like him more. “How long have you been working for Penn Central?”
“Since I got out of law school. Started as an associate. With this lawsuit still pending against the Landmarks Commission, it’s been crazy, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“Why’s there a lawsuit?”
“The Landmarks Commission says that Penn Central has to keep the terminal exactly like it is. Which is absurd. The place is a money pit. If all goes according to plan and we win this case, I’m going to be promoted to head of the department.”
One of the guys in the holding cell began to moan. She wondered if the cop was ever going to come back, but in a way, she didn’t mind. “What’s the big plan?”
“Once we shoot down the notion that the terminal is protected by landmark status, we’re going to put up a new skyscraper on this very spot. Fifty-five stories. It’s going to be massive. The city will give us a huge tax write-off for improving the district, and we’ll be making serious money from the rent. Much better than this old mausoleum.” He gestured around him.
“They’d tear it down, like Penn Station?” A little less than ten years ago, she’d been as surprised as many others in the city to find that Penn Station, a glass jewel of a train hub, was to be demolished. The few voices raised in protest had made no difference.
“The new building will rip through part of it, the side facing Forty-Second Street, and rest on top, like a hen sitting on its eggs.” To demonstrate, Dennis held out one hand in a fist and settled the other lightly on top of it. His fingernails were trimmed and clean.
She studied the odd shape formed by Dennis’s hands, unable to picture what he described. A couple of years ago, Betsy had insisted Virginia join her in signing up for the ladies’ committee to Preserve Old New York, or PONY, as it was known. They met in a member’s overdecorated living room once a month and listened to a guest speaker, nodding with concern while getting buzzed on generous pours of rosé. The day of the Grand Central lecture, the historian described how Cornelius Vanderbilt constructed the original station, called Grand Central Depot, in 1871, and that the one that stood today was completed in 1913. He showed them photos of the pristine waiting room right after it was built and the Whispering Gallery, where the unique design of the vaulted ceiling carried even the smallest sound to the opposite corner. The historian, surveying the room of tipsy wives, had proclaimed that women, in particular, should recall that whispers carry and can have tremendous power, even if their voices were weaker than a man’s. Virginia wasn’t sure if he was being encouraging or chauvinistic.
Still, Grand Central had such a rich history. “You’re putting a modernist skyscraper on top of a beaux arts building. Won’t that look strange?”
“It’s the future. The city’s got to move forward. At the moment, there’s a ton of empty space in here that’s completely unusable. That’s lost revenue for Penn Central.”
Like the art school.
She thought of Terrence and his clerks. “What about the employees who work for the railroad?”
“Anything to do with the trains gets buried underground. The terminal goes down ten stories, so there’s a lot of room to play with. Next time you come up to my office, I’ll show you a model of the new building. Incredible. Hey, if you play your cards right, I’ll get you a cushy job.”
“As long as I don’t have to do stenography.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry I was hard on you this morning.”
“Don’t be sorry. I had no idea what I was doing. But I like this idea of a cushy job. I could answer phones, say. I’d be a great receptionist.” She pretended to pick up a phone. “Mr. Huckle’s office, how may I help you?”
“I like that.” He stared at her a moment too long.
He was flirting with her. The realization came with a rush of confusion. She hadn’t flirted since 1953.
How different he seemed now than when they’d first met, seven hours ago. But how could she ever consider being with another man? How would she talk about it? I had an operation. What you see is not what you get. He’d laugh, thinking she was joking, and then he’d try to look concerned. All while trying to conceal his horror.
The cop came back, and they filled out the paperwork, describing the incident and the men they’d encountered. As she repeated the details, it became less a frightening experience and more a story, something that had happened and was over. She could handle almost being mugged; it had happened to almost everyone she knew at one time or another. It was amazing she’d avoided it for so long, being a lifelong New Yorker.
Handling Dennis’s flirtation, though, was truly scary. They signed the documents, and the cop said he’d make sure his guys patrolled the hallways regularly from now on.
Dennis walked her to the taxi stand on Vanderbilt Avenue. She couldn’t afford a cab, but she was running late to meet Betsy and today of all days she deserved a little treat, a comfort that she took for granted all those years she was married.
He opened the car door for her. “Thank you, Dennis.” She avoided his eyes, tucked herself into the back seat.
As the door shut, he called out, “Hey, maybe I’ll stop by and see you in the information booth tomorrow.”
The cab pulled away before she could answer.
When Betsy ordered the third round of martinis, Virginia knew it tripled her own odds of revealing the truth about her day, but she hadn’t eaten since the street vendor’s hot dog that afternoon and the thought of three more olives in her belly was incentive enough.
“Oh my God, Vee, I’ve been blathering on.” Betsy jangled the wooden beads that hung around her neck. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.” She had that strained look on her face that meant she was trying to focus even though she was already buzzing from the gin. A few drops sloshed onto the already sticky bar as she brought the glass to her lips.
They’d met years ago when their husbands worked at the same firm. Both lived on the Upper East Side and had run into each other at corporate and school events over the past two decades. What they had in common was also what kept them from truly being friends: humble beginnings. Virginia’s home was a Hell’s Kitchen tenement that she’d shared with her parents and younger brother, Betsy’s a two-bedroom in Stuyvesant Town. They’d discussed it once and never again, a shameful secret. Betsy knew the drill as well as Virginia did. You kept certain things quiet, for appearance’s sake. Instead, they had attended barbecues in Greenwich and private dinners in four-star restaurants, and Betsy even began talking like the other ladies, as if her jaw had been wired shut. Virginia’s own accent had been tempered as an underclassman at Barnard College. After meeting Chester at a Columbia mixer, she’d toned it down even further.