Picking Up the Pieces. Barbara Gale

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СКАЧАТЬ think I’ll be getting home, now that he’s safely settled,” she whispered.

      His head barely turning, Harry’s eyes flickered open when he heard the scrape of her chair.

      “You’ll come back?” he begged hoarsely as he followed her with his eyes.

      How could she refuse? Nodding, Althea pressed his hand gently, ignoring the wrench in her heart.

      Once, long ago, when she’d had choices to make, Harry Bensen had been one of them. Leaving him behind had not been the high point of her life, and she would never fool herself that he forgave her. Looking down now at his ravaged body covered with wires, she knew all he wanted was a lifeline to the outside world. Glancing at the machines surrounding his bed, monitors attuned to his every heartbeat, an oxygen tank helping him to breathe, she could appreciate that. All right, then, she would give him what she could, and maybe—in the smallest way, of course—it would make up for what she had refused him in the past. Giving in to her impulse, she lowered her lips to kiss his brow and promised to return.

      Dawn was breaking as Althea left the hospital. A path plowed by the maintenance crew enabled her to make her way to the express bus, the only vehicle big and heavy enough to dare the city streets after such a storm. Glittering with six inches of newly fallen snow, New York was a prism of beauty now that the sky had cleared, and as the bus lumbered into Manhattan, she was treated to the sight of a skyline that seemed just short of unearthly. Against the expanse of white snow that covered the buildings and floated on the river, a red-orange sun was creeping into the early-morning sky, painting the city with a Technicolor wand. For one brief moment, suspended as she was between her old life and new, Althea wondered if the sight was an omen. It pleased her to think it was.

      The bus left her two blocks from her West Side co-op, but treading carefully, she managed to make her way home. It had been nearly a year since she had been back, but Broadway seemed the same. She dashed through the heavy brass doors of the lobby, hungry for its familiar warmth.

      In the year she had been gone, its ornate vestibule remained unchanged. Heavy gold-framed mirrors still decorated the walls; the vestibule was still crowded with cabbage-rose sofas and fake greenery. Its familiarity was a comfort, and yet a strong sense of disquiet disturbed her as the doorman greeted her uncertainly. He was new and didn’t know who she was. He saw only a black woman rushing through the door, tracking snow into his immaculate lobby. Scrambling to his feet, he gave her a hesitant smile, but she noticed that, very tactfully, he blocked her path.

      She watched as he assessed her. A black woman. That was mainly what he saw.

      “Ma’am?”

      Althea sent him a cool nod, his single word a question she refused to answer. Exhausted, her feet like icicles, and half sick with worry about Harry, she was not in a tolerant mood. Her eyes glacial slits, she could almost read his mind, as he tried to figure her out. Could she live there? She could be a visitor. Maybe a maid using the wrong entrance? No, not a maid, not wearing that fur coat. No, she was definitely not someone’s maid. She was too young and pretty, no, definitely not a maid. He stepped aside and let her pass. You never knew.

      “I live here,” she said tersely as the elevator door closed on his red face.

      Shaking with anger, Althea rode the elevator to her floor. The way the doorman had stopped her, stared at and assessed her had been humiliating. Having developed the technique of the cold stare to enormous success, she was not as vulnerable as she used to be, but the assessment was something that, although it happened from time to time, she could never get used to. It happened in stores, in restaurants, in so many countless places. When she stared back, she felt as if she was maintaining her dignity, but it didn’t make these confrontations any less painful, or the young man’s rudeness any less distressing.

      Her distress was twofold. The forbidding silence of the apartment, after she found her keys and let herself in, felt symbolic of her life. She berated herself for being melodramatic, but the feeling would not leave. The silence of the future stretching out before her was a question mark that hovered in the air, not easily dismissed now that she was home. The faint, musty odor of disuse that greeted her, the hollow click of her heels on the cold tile floor were unnerving. She was glad to tug free of her ruined shoes and toss them in a corner, shrug off her coat and turn the thermostat to high.

      Nothing had to be decided in a day, a week or even a month, she told herself, as she made her way from room to room, turning on the lights. The workaholic in her was making such unreasonable demands, she knew, as she switched on her bedroom light. Her favorite room, it was done up—unabashedly—in every shade of pink imaginable, lacy and feminine, hers alone. With its pale-pink quilt and featherbed, throw pillows scattered everywhere, a pile of books always at the ready on her night table. It was her safe haven. The custom-made makeup table with its fully lighted mirror made it her work space at the same time.

      Plowing through one of the huge bedroom dressers, Althea searched for a favorite pair of cashmere socks she hoped were still buried beneath the pile of stockings. She might be meticulous with her public appearance, but when she was home alone, with no obligations to fill, makeup never touched her face, and it was sweatpants and socks, all the way.

      Taking the opportunity to change and get comfortable, she wandered into her office and plugged in the phone machine. Calling the supermarket down the block, she asked them to send up some milk and butter, a piece of cheddar cheese, a loaf of sourdough bread and a few oranges—until she could get to the supermarket herself. She placed a Post-it note on the refrigerator to call Kennedy Airport in the morning and have them forward her luggage. In the chaos of Harry’s fainting spell she had left her luggage behind. A cursory look through the kitchen cupboards revealed a canister of English Breakfast tea. Tried and true, it would go well with a long soak in a hot bath, before she crawled into bed.

      Thirty minutes later, surrounded by pale-pink marble and gleaming brass fixtures, the scent of bath oil heavy in the humid air, Althea sank low into the tub. She almost fell asleep, it was so heavenly to lose herself in the bubbles, but the mental notes kept piling up, and she finally gave in to them. No doubt it was a form of regaining control. After her ex-husband’s domineering ways, it would be a relief to begin making her own decisions again. She had abrogated so much to him, when they married.

      Thus she made a mental note to call her mother, who was probably wondering where she was and not above calling Althea’s friends or, worse yet, her ex-husband. Safely tucked away in a pretty house twenty miles outside Birmingham, Alabama, Mrs. Almott still kept close tabs on her only child. The waters Althea traveled were muddy, as her mother was always quick to point out.

      In a few days, when she was rested, it might be a good idea to call her old agency, too, and ask her long-time agent, Connie Niles, to start booking her some modeling assignments again. She and Connie had been together forever, since Althea first arrived in New York. Althea had signed with Connie for the simple reason that Connie could be trusted to look out for her interests—Connie was African-American, too. Having just opened her agency, Connie had been on the lookout for new faces. One look at Althea’s tall elegant frame, creamy black skin and slanted, golden eyes, and Connie had offered to take Althea all the way to the top with her, if she wanted to come along for the ride. It had taken two years, but things had turned out just as Connie promised. The Niles Model Agency was now one of the most respected agencies worldwide, and that was saying a great deal in an industry that was predicated on whimsy.

      So, yes, she would call Connie. And she would call up some of her old friends, drop by some of her old haunts. A long look at her hands and she knew that a manicure was in order, too. She must find a decent gym to join, also. A gym, not a sports club. Her body was her meal ticket; these things must be seen to. She would begin her life anew, and maybe, just maybe, things would СКАЧАТЬ