Cape May (3 page)

It took five minutes to reach Times Square. Billboards, neon, construction, and lots of noise. Joanna once loved this area and the excitement, but she was younger then. Now it was an area to rush through. It was so frenzied crossing Seventh Avenue and then Broadway that she didn’t feel her cell phone vibrate the first time. Finding an unoccupied spot against a building, she answered the phone. She knew it was her sister, again.

“Hello, Cynthia,” she yelled into the phone.

“I can hardly hear you,” Cynthia snapped. “Why is this city so damn loud?”

“Well, I am at the Crossroads of the World. It has a right to be loud.”

“Not when I need to ask you something.”

“Ask, but yell so I can hear you,” Joanna said, checking her watch again.

Cynthia loudly whispered, “I can’t. I’m in the shop.”
She was standing behind the reproduction Louis XV
desk in her antiques store on Madison Avenue. “Are you sure about this realtor? Did you check her credentials?” Cynthia’s disapproval always added up to more than two cents worth of opinion.

Joanna said, “Yes. Cynthia, I have to go. The bus leaves soon, and I have to get through this wall of tourists.”

“Keep in touch. You need your older sister now. I can help. I have business savvy. You don’t.”

As Joanna continued walking, she tried to make sense of the assaulting theme park that the street had become. Funny that she missed the way it used to be. In the seventies and eighties, Forty-Second Street was slummy, with porno shops and bums, and movie theaters you wouldn’t take a kid into. Now it was an outdoor strip mall of chain restaurants and attractions, from Applebee’s and McDonald’s to RiteAid and Duane Reade to Madame Tussauds and Ripley’s Believe It or Not. “
Give me a head shop over this anytime
,” Joanna thought, laughing to herself, she who had smoked marijuana a grand total of three times.

By the time she got to the front of the Port Authority
building, Joanna was exhausted. Hundreds of people entered
the travel hub or exited with luggage and confused looks on their faces. Some people browsed counterfeit merchandise laid out on tables, others glanced at the statue of Ralph Kramden. Her inner core craved quiet.

Safe inside where it was slightly less crowded, Joanna slowed down and followed signs to her gate. She was winded from walking so fast but she’d made it in time. The huge clock over the archway read 2:17. Nearer her gate, she went into the ladies room, assuming it would be slightly less awful than the one on the bus. She fluffed her hair and checked her general appearance. Her preferably chin-length hair, neater for business and easier to control, was getting a little too long. Time to make an appointment at the salon. It still looked good, though, with waves that, she hoped, softened her aging face. She peered a little closer: yes, maybe that new miracle moisturizer was, indeed, “erasing” some fine lines. Heavens, she hoped so. Although the thought of a face lift made her feel queasy, so did the sags, wrinkles, and other joys of being fifty-nine.

At the Starbucks near her gate, she bought a cup of peppermint tea. Although there were empty seats at tables, she stood, leaning against a column, having just recently
read that sitting too many hours a day was fatal. Tomorrow she’d probably read that drinking hot tea was fatal.
Or breathing.

She drank slowly, trying to calm down her insides, which were still racing from the hectic sprint to the Port Authority. No need to rush to the bus. Her prepurchased ticket guaranteed her a seat and, after all, how many people would be going to New Jersey midday on a Thursday? She glanced at the other customers around her. Would Cape May offer such extraordinary people watching? No. Joanna had done her research—Cape May was almost ninety percent white; New York was thirty-five percent white, almost twenty-seven percent Hispanic, and about a quarter Black. After growing up in multiracial Queens, and living in Manhattan all these years, that disparity was unnerving. She had hopes of making her own inn—IF she bought
one—somehow more welcoming to all. The thought of being
surrounded by white, middle-aged people for the rest of her life didn’t thrill her. She gulped. That was
her
, wasn’t it? When and how did that happen? And what came between middle-aged and elderly? Older aged? Ugh. She felt young inside, and still looked pretty good on the outside. Her pale skin kept her out of the sun, which cut down on the wrinkles she might’ve had at her age. A few extra pounds refused to leave her average-sized frame, but she ate carefully and even her older clothes still fit, mostly. Infrequently she went
to the gym and more frequently she thanked her slim parents
for passing along their DNA.

A couple, in their late teens or early twenties, sat kissing at a small corner table. Unable to stop herself, she stared at them. When was the last time she and Brian had really
kissed? Not just a peck hello or goodbye. A few days, and
nights, together away from work, commitments, and routine would do them good.

Downing the remaining bit of soothing peppermint tea,
Joanna listened to a Port Authority loudspeaker announcement in a lyrical Spanish accent: “The 2:30 bus to Atlantic City, with connections to Wildwood and Cape May, is now boarding at gate three nineteen.”

Over the rim of her paper cup, Joanna risked one last glance at the kissing couple. After peeking (they were still kissing), she gathered her things, tossed the empty cup, and walked to the gate. She was surprised to see a line and, as she climbed aboard the bus, was again surprised to see it almost
packed. Apparently one of the Atlantic City hotels was having
a special mid-week offer, luring people south to the casinos, hence the crowd. Close to the front of the bus, where she preferred to sit, was an empty aisle seat next to a teenage boy with spiky black hair. The seat was comfortable and she managed to settle in, despite a strange cleaning-fluid smell.

A raspy smoker’s voice over the bus speakers announced, too loudly, and with an awful accent, “Dis is da tooo-thurdy bus to Alanic Ciddee, wid transfuhs ta Wildwood an’ Cape May.” Her seatmate put in neon green ear buds, which emitted a steady thump thump thump. The engine also made a lot of noise. So much for a few relaxing traveling hours. Joanna pulled out her new notebook. Even if she didn’t move to Cape May, she was keeping a journal about this midlife change, or attempt at change. She loved to write but was usually too tired after work and always too self-critical. She was learning already: her first “Note to Self”
was
Visitors may crave quiet after a not-so-relaxing bus ride
.

Joanna looked out the window, but the kid with the headphones made a face, as if she was intruding on his space. So instead, she gazed at the rainbow pattern on the back of the headrest on the seat in front.

She concentrated, and jotted down: “
After twenty years of marriage, a woman and her accountant husband contemplate moving from Manhattan to buy and run a B&B, far away from the noise and crowds of the city.
”

Wow. Individual days might be long and draining, but years really did fly by. Twenty years of marriage.

Her seatmate turned up his volume and through the
thumping she could hear the screaming of the singer.
The bus driver was loudly conversing with a passenger, too. She needed to move away from the noise. She craned her neck and saw, all the way in the back, a few empty seats. Grabbing her overnight bag, she stood up, and carefully inched her way to the back of the bus, hurrying to find a seat. She wanted to sit alone and spread out but there weren’t two empty seats together. The bus made a turn and she almost fell in someone’s lap.

“Please siddown, ma’am,” came the voice over the speakers. Joanna assumed the driver’s concern for her well-being was rooted in the bus company’s reluctance to be sued.

There were three empty seats: her prospective trip mates were a sleeping woman, a very large man, and a man
who was reading. She decided on the woman, who suddenly
snored, so she sat down next to the reader. He didn’t look up or budge an inch.

She settled in: bag at her feet, notebook on her lap, pencil in her hand…and nothing in her mind. One sentence completed, she was already losing concentration. Was that age? Postmenopause? Disinterest? Or did she just desperately need to relax.

Too often lately she’d been feeling that, about to turn sixty, “It’s all downhill from here.” Sixty now wasn’t what sixty was for her mother but, most likely, the best of life was over. Maybe her need to move, to start a business, to change everything, was simply a stab at slowing the inevitable
decline. Maybe she wanted to shake things up with Brian. Things had gotten dull, and she was at least fifty-one percent to blame.

It was odd, really. She and Brian had started radically. All their friends thought they were crazy for marrying the way they did.

One night over twenty-five years ago, she went to Brian’s
apartment, lonely and desperately needing someone to just hold her. She wasn’t in the mood for anything more, but
quid pro quo. An hour later, over scrambled eggs and bagels,
Brian had said, “You know, I have more fun with you than anyone else. If we don’t meet anyone…”

“Oh, please, not one of those
we’ll be married soul mates
kinda thing,” Joanna said.

“Why not? I’m not saying we should get married tomorrow. But if we hit, let’s say, forty, and neither of us is married, we could live our lives together. I’ll watch your boring black and white movies, and you can go to baseball games with me. That’s the one with the small round hard ball, and the bases.”

“Got it.”

“And you could help me to get home after I’ve had a colonoscopy.”

“How romantic.” She giggled, “You know, it doesn’t sound bad, really.”

“You know I love you, Joanna. Like my best friend ever.”

“You, too, Brian,” said Joanna, knowing full well she had years to meet someone and truly fall in love. But despite an assortment of boyfriends and a range of relationship lengths, she never did.

***

She jotted down in her notebook, “
Change, selfish? Poor Brian the New Yorker
.” Avoiding veering off into negative self-hate territory, she gazed out the windows past the man sitting next to her. The rocking of the bus, and scenery shushing by, began weaving a hypnotic spell. Her shoulders relaxed. She breathed slower, more deeply.

The man next to the window continued to read, with the brim of his denim baseball cap shading his eyes from the sun streaming through the window. She wished she had his ability to tune everything else out. Maybe it was the book? She stole a look at the title, and chuckled. What a coincidence. She tried to make eye contact but his eyes never left the page.

One of the many books she was always reading about how to run a B&B said “
The importance of warm, open
personal interactions with guests cannot be overstated.
” That was definitely something she’d have to practice. Talking to
strangers wasn’t her thing, but no time like the present. She took the plunge, and quietly said to the man sitting next to her, “You enjoying the book?” The man didn’t answer. A little l
ouder: “Do you know there’s a sequel?” No answer. So much for her attempt at being outgoing. “Never mind!” She
resettled into her chair, semi-accidentally elbowing the man.

He reached up to his ear, pulled out an earplug, and said, “Am I in your way?”

“Earplugs. Great idea.”

The man nodded. “I don’t like being disturbed…”

Joanna threw up her hands. “Great.”

“No, I didn’t mean you.”

“First I sit next to a sullen teenager and now a grumpy old man.”

“Hey lady, I’m not grumpy. I’m not old. And I’m not
that
rude. I don’t like to be disturbed by all the bus noises. I didn’t mean you personally.”

“Oh.” She settled back in her seat, more than a little embarrassed. She smiled a little shy smile. “Then I’m sorry for what I said.”

The man huffed, then slowly turned away, pushed his earplug back in, and returned to his book. Joanna opened her notebook.

CHAPTER 2

Hours earlier that morning, on West Seventy-Third, Michael Leighton had exited his apartment building and made a right onto Amsterdam Avenue. He pulled his denim baseball cap a little lower on his head. The brim, plus his sunglasses, made it easier for him to people-watch. The humans of Manhattan were well worth staring at. Invariably he saw someone or something that made its way into his writing.

He swung on his backpack. It didn’t weigh much. Long ago he learned to pack only necessities for these long weekends away—the usual extra pair of pants, underwear, socks, and toiletries. He didn’t need trunks; he didn’t go to Cape May to swim. The beat-up leather briefcase in his left hand contained the important things, the tools of his trade: writing materials, including two notebooks from that new, hip Japanese store, along with a variety of pens and pencils and a folder full of research. There was something about putting a writing tool—be it a #2 pencil or a mechanical one or a fountain, felt-tip, or ball-point pen—to paper that made him feel connected to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and other authors he admired and to whom, unfortunately, he compared himself unfavorably. Once he had enough pages filled up, he sat at his tiny desk at home, or brought his new laptop to a coffee shop and typed, editing and revising as he went.

This trip he was going to be disciplined and work on the new book. All he needed was resolve and another long bus trip. Maybe he should’ve rented a car? No, he wanted those extra hours on the bus to read and think, to decompress from Manhattan and be ready to immerse himself in Cape May.

The weather was perfect for his walk to the Port Authority. In Manhattan, forty blocks flew by—once he was warmed up so he wouldn’t get shin splints…ain’t aging grand?—and he liked the exercise for both body and mind. He headed east in the upper sixties to walk through Lincoln Center, a place he treasured, and which always offered great visuals. The face-lifted patrons walking side-by-side with teens in artfully ripped jeans, and the ballet students with hair in buns and toes pointed outward. During one walk through the plaza he saw magician David Blaine in a water sphere. Another time he encountered actor Michael Caine arriving to receive a lifetime achievement award from the Film Society. Never a dull moment.

Warmed up, he walked, faster now, past the fountain where eons ago he shared a rare, tender kiss with his wife Donna. Memories flowed, and not just the good ones. To his left, in front of Avery Fisher Hall, his wife told him, years after that rare, tender kiss, that she wanted a divorce because she didn’t love him any more. That was almost eight years ago and no longer stung when he thought about it. He hadn’t been a great husband, and they had never been the kind of madly in love that some couples are, but still it hurt and derailed him. Fortunately, their son was in college when they split, and wasn’t traumatized or even surprised by the event. When Donna signed the divorce papers, she said she “didn’t want to waste another day” of her life. She proved it just days after the divorce was finalized by marrying the guy she had been having an affair with. Husband number two was wealthy, serious, and successful, everything Michael wasn’t. On the positive side, he never had to pay alimony. Another benefit was having more time to work. He had a steady income from a freelance
job writing speeches for executives at a Fortune 500 company.
Under a pseudonym, he had written mysteries for middle schoolers, but that was years ago. A lover of Cape May since his boyhood vacations, he was working on a novel about the nation’s oldest seaside resort. His expenses were low, his apartment close to being paid for. If he could finish the Cape May book he was working on, he’d be content.

***

The bus rolled along south on New Jersey’s Garden State Parkway. Michael took his out earplugs. He said to the woman sitting next to him, “Excuse me.” She looked up at him. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Joanna gathered the things on her lap and stood, allowing him to pass. Michael walked to the back of the bus and Joanna stretched. The seats were comfortable, but it was hard sitting in such a little space for a long time.

When he returned he slid past her into his seat, saying, “Good thing we’re both slim,” and put the earplugs in, and went back to reading.

Settled in again, Joanna tried to concentrate, but a woman two rows away was on the phone, talking so loudly she didn’t need a phone. And every fifth word was a curse. Joanna tapped Michael on the arm, gently. He took out the earplug. “You wouldn’t have an extra set of those, would you? I brought work with me,” she said, holding up her notebook, “and it’s so noisy.”

“Sorry, no. These are my last pair…” and he dropped the one he was holding. It didn’t just drop down, it sort of leaped out of his fingers, and began to roll out of view. They both bent over to try to stop its progress and bumped heads. “Ow!” said Michael.

“Ouch!” Her hand went to her head.

“I’m sorry!”

“No, I’m sorry. Was that really your last one?”

“Yes, and judging by how much it rolled, it may be in Atlantic City already.” Rubbing his head, “Ow, that hurt!” and he started to laugh. “No good deed, huh?”

She joined in, laughing. “Should I ask the bus driver to take us to the nearest hospital?”

“Or the nearest earplug store?” he said, and removed the other earplug. “No. I’ve heard misery expands the character.”

“Listening to that woman’s phone conversation for the next three hours may make us explode.”

“I’m trying to tune her out. I’ll tune you in. What did you say to me when I was rudely ignoring you?”

“Oh, nothing important. I saw your book,
Time and Again
. It’s one of my favorites. I think it’s the best time travel book ever. I’ve read it about five times.”

“This is my third. It’s perfect for a bus trip.”

“Or a horse-drawn carriage ride.”

He wondered where she was from, as her appealing
voice was so unlike the woman still on the phone, still loudly
demonstrating her grating Noo Yawk accent. He said, “I’ve never seen the bus this crowded.”

“I was surprised, too. I figured a Thursday wouldn’t be.” Joanna wished she were better at small talk. “Maybe a Friday. You know, people getting a jump start on the weekend.”

“Gambling away their life savings. You, too?”

“Hmm?”

“Atlantic City.”

“I’m not going to Atlantic City. I’m going to Cape May.”

“Oh, me too.”

“I’ve never been. You?”

“I go pretty often. I lived there awhile, and I have friends there.”

“You live in Manhattan now?”

He nodded.

Joanna shivered, “It’s chilly back here. The a/c must be on high.” She searched around her, and under the seat. “Oh! I left my sweater over there,” she said, pointing towards the front of the bus.

“You want my jacket?”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s fresh from the dry cleaner.” He pulled it out from
behind him. “I don’t know why I brought it. I never get cold.”

“You don’t mind? I’m afraid I’ll wrinkle it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Thanks. I couldn’t face negotiating that aisle again.”
She blanketed his jacket around her. “I’m sorry about
your earplugs.”

“They made you think I was rude,” he shifted in his seat to face her, partly to save wear and tear on his neck, and partly because he was intrigued. She had a gleam in her eyes that he found curious. “They deserve to die on the dirty bus floor.”

“I thought you were rude or had an amazing power of concentration.” She smiled and continued, “You reminded me of me. I used to get so involved in a book I’d sometimes miss my subway stop.”

“You a New Yorker?”

“Yes. I live on the Upper West Side. Twenty years now. Before that, the Lower East Side, and before that Queens. I still take the train but I read all day at work so I don’t read as much for pleasure as I used to. My eyes are too tired. Easier to be a couch potato.”

They were quiet. He reopened his book, and she picked up her pen. A few minutes later the bus jarred and Joanna’s notebook fell on the floor. He made a movement to reach down for it and stopped. “I don’t want to risk concussion.”

“I’ll get it,” she said and retrieved the notebook.

“You managing to get some work done?”

“Oh, not work, really,” she said, self-consciously hiding the words with her hand.

“Hmmm, a book of your own?”

She smiled. “A book? An article in
More
magazine? More likely just a diary. I’m thinking of starting a business in Cape May. No big deal.
She said, gasping for air.
”

He was nodding. “I understand the anxiety. It’s a big lifestyle change.”

“A big scary change. Moving my husband and cat two-hundred miles away from home. Leaving behind the known for the unknown. I make it sound like we’ll be
traveling in a covered wagon. Sometimes it seems that drastic. To my husband anyway.”

“He’s retired?”

“No, he’s an accountant. He’ll never retire. Works out of our second bedroom.”

“Rough commute. No wonder he doesn’t want to move.”

“As long as he has a computer he can work anywhere. He has a highly organized mind. He’ll probably die with a calculator in his hand.”

They were quiet again, writing and reading. It was comfortable on the bus, and the loud-talking-on-the-phone woman was asleep. Then Michael turned and said, “I know a lot about Cape May. Wait, that sounded braggy. I mean if you have any questions or anything. My ex-wife and I lived there for about a year, I mean before she was my ex. I’ve been a tour guide, worked in a shop, and slept in many an overly decorated, creepy room.”

“I sat next to the right person.”

“Just wait. It’s a long trip, and you never know what’ll come out of my mouth due to boredom and leg cramps.” He turned his head to look out the window. Then he said, “Where are you staying?”

“The Manor Rose,” she said.

“You’ll love it,” he nodded.

“And we may tour the Captain’s Bed.”

“Uh huh.”

“Or the Hat Pin.”

“Nice variety.”

“I want to get a real feel for the town.”

“First a four-star inn, then a mid-level, and then an economy inn, if you can call $195 a night a bargain. You’ve done your research.”

Shaking her head she said, “Not nearly enough.
I browsed county websites, thumbed through some travel books. But I don’t know good or bad streets, what the walk to the ocean is like, the quality of the sand, you know. All that stuff you need to see and feel in person.”

“The quality of the sand? That’s thorough.”

“I want to know everything.”

Joanna returned to her notebook and Michael to his book. About ten minutes later he noticed she wasn’t writing any more. “I don’t suppose you’re dying to play Scrabble.”

“That came out of nowhere!”

“Is that a ‘no’?”

“No! Yes, I
love
Scrabble,” she said.

“If you can scoot out for a minute, and I can get to my backpack,” he said, pointing upward to the luggage rack.

Joanna put her notebook in her bag, and stood up, holding onto the railing on the overhead rack. There wasn’t much room. Michael stood and stepped out into the tiny aisle. The bus jerked along, and even though Joanna held tightly to the handrail, she nearly fell, but Michael grabbed her arm. “You don’t have your bus legs yet.” When she was steady again, he reached up and into his backpack.

The bus driver’s voice chastised them: “Please ruhmain seeded when da bus is in mowshun.”

Joanna giggled, “You’d better hurry or we’ll be thrown off the bus.”

“It would be quieter by the side of the road.” He pulled out the game and a dictionary and sat down. Joanna plopped in beside him and they both laughed. He said, “I hope you have a strong bladder because I don’t think the driver will allow you to walk to the bathroom!”

Michael opened the Scrabble board and handed her a tile rack.

She said, “Are you prepared to be beaten?”

He flexed his bicep. “By you and whose dictionary?”

“I know all the two-letter words allowed by the Scrabble Gods,” she warned him. “Even the newer, seemingly made-up ones.”

They balanced the playing board on their thighs. It was slightly uncomfortable, and they were sitting at odd angles, with their knees clashing, but somehow it didn’t seem to bother either of them. He held the bag of tiles for her. “Ladies first.”

She reached into the faux velvet bag and picked a letter. “P.” He did the same. “P.” He said, “What are the odds? Remind me to buy a Lotto ticket.” They tried again. He picked a D, and she an M.

Joanna said, “You go first.” As he picked his seven letters, she asked, “So, what do you do?”

“I’m a writer.” He rearranged his tiles a few times, then put down each of the seven tiles, one with each syllable, as he said, “Or. Should. I. Say. I. Am. An.
OUTLIER
.”

“It’s a good thing we aren’t playing for money.”