Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (18 page)

His mouth dropped. The wind whipped at his hair.

“You didn’t know that
I’m Jewish
, did you?” I snapped. I held that filthy cross in my hand, held it away from me as though it contained a lethal poison. “You said that you loved me. How could you?”

“Give that to me
now
,” he said, his eyes shooting daggers through me.

“You mean, you want
this
?” I dangled the medal over the ship’s banister, threatening to release it into the churning water below.

He lunged toward me, and I pulled away. The rolling seas were getting to me now. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop it. I heaved and spewed vomit all over his shoes.

“Why, you bitch. You Jew-bitch!” He made another lunge.

Struggling to keep the cross from his grasp, I let it slip from my hand and plunge into the ship’s frothy wake. “Well, that’s right where it belongs,” I said, satisfied. “May it rest well with the fishes.”

“Now look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve done,” he cried. “I worked hard for that. I earned it!”

“And look what
you’ve
done, look what
you’ve
done!” I cried, pounding my hand on my heart. My pulse seemed to skip one beat. Then another. The wind swirled up from the cold Atlantic, stinging my face with spray, and when I squeezed my eyes shut against the angry elements, I welcomed the blackness that followed …

***

I awoke in a cold sweat. My nightmare with the Jew-hater was over, but I was back on that damn plane with the “Nazi” flight attendant. She stood close by, a corded mike in hand as her voice bellowed over the speaker system:

“The seatbelt sign has been turned on, signaling our descent into LaGuardia. Please return to your seats, return seatbacks and tray tables to their full upright and locked positions, and stow away all carry-on items under the seats in front of you or in the overhead bins for the remainder of the flight. We will be landing shortly.”

In the blessed silence that followed, I mulled over this latest journey of mine. My mind was made up. I was
through
indulging myself with married men. Just as in
real
life, they were far too complicated.

Even if they were dead.

One last time the flight attendant marched up and down the aisles, sniffing out improprieties, like a dog that smells a bone, barking orders at the poor fools who dared defy her. I rolled my eyes.

I was the last person off the plane. As I walked down the aisle, a gold chain flashed from under one of the bulkhead seats, and I figured I could do my good deed for the day by turning it in to the attendant on my way out. When I took hold of it, drawing it out, I saw that it bore an odd-shaped cross. I stared in amazement.

A man—an old one, tall and thin, with silvery hair and a cane—came stumbling back into the passenger cabin. He breathed hard as he searched frantically about his bulkhead seat. When he spotted me with the cross, he sighed in relief. “Ah, there it is. I thought I would never find it,” he said, with an outstretched palm. “Thank you very, very much.”

As I handed it to him, the swastikas gleamed.

Note to Self:

I know you’re supposed to be able to tell your shrink anything. So again, why couldn’t I tell mine about my last strange date with Lindbergh? Or for that matter, all of them: Beethoven, Van Gogh, Dracula, Clark Gable. Why? Because it would sound so preposterous he’d have to insist I take about five different kinds of medication, half of which I’m probably already on.

During my session today, Mr. Perfect sat back in his chair with hands folded across his chest, and said, “Ariel, so how’re you doing with the things we talked about last time. You know, your feelings about continuing doing therapy together? Remember, I did tell you, if you were too uncomfortable or if it was affecting things too much, I could send you to a colleague of mine.”

Yeah, I remembered that asinine suggestion.

“
So, how are you doing with your feelings about me?”

“
How are you doing, with my feelings about you?” I retorted.

Yep. A smart-ass right up to the finish.

Chapter Nine

THE WILD BUNCH

August in New York City is a hot and dirty proposition. The pollution from cars and buses mixes with subway steam wafting up from the bowels of the city, and it makes you want to wretch. The pavement is so scorching that you could make stir-fry on it. Needless to say, I longed for somewhere, anywhere, cleaner and cooler.

I was in luck. Mindy, my best friend from high school, who now lives in Atlanta and was just as disgusted with the heat there, called to see if I’d like to escape to Utah for a long weekend. She’d booked a place online called Sundance, owned by Robert Redford, and close to Park City, home of The Sundance Film Festival. Since we hadn’t seen each other in over a year, and we both liked hiking and horseback-riding, it seemed the perfect solution to my summertime blues.

I packed and headed to the airport. Mindy joined my flight after a stopover in Atlanta, and we flew together to Salt Lake City.

Renting a car, we drove the short forty-five minutes to Sundance. I was in awe of the natural beauty of the canyon, and the gurgling river running through it.  There were flowing creeks and ponds filled with trout everywhere around the grounds. Mountains towered in the distance, some of them still snow-capped. Up a wildflower lined walkway by the river, we checked into our small log cabin. After getting settled in, we scanned the resort activity list left by the telephone, and decided to do a late-afternoon trail ride. We donned jeans and cowgirl boots, barely containing our excitement, certain we were going to have a great Western adventure. Throughout high school Mindy and I had ridden horses at the local stable every weekend. Although neither of us had been on a horse in ten years or so, we were still confident in our riding skills. After all, these were probably just a few trail-riding nags, trained to go no faster than a slow, albeit rough, trot. For the sake of visitors with less horsemanship, a place like Sundance stabled only gentle horses to avoid injuries to its guests and any potential lawsuits.

The sky was a clear, bright blue, with just a hint of some high clouds. Sammy, our cute guide, wore leather chaps and a cowboy hat, and he held our horses for us as we hoisted ourselves into our saddles.

“Your horse’s name is Bucky,” Sammy told me.

Hmm. Not a good sign.

Bucky was fine for a while, but he lived up to his name, occasionally kicking, bucking at the horse behind him, and rearing up when a horsefly stung him on the rump. As the trek continued, it became clear he did not like the saddle or other horses. I don’t think he cared too much about people either.

Making our way through fields of orange and yellow wildflowers, we met up with a trail that wound toward a waterfall. Bucky was making me nervous, regularly kicking at Cindy’s horse that clomped along behind me.

“Whoa. Stop, Bucky.” I pulled back on the reins.

Before crossing a creek, Sammy halted to tell us some local history. In the late 1800s and early 1900s, this Indian country had been a hideout for many a gunslinger.

As our guide spoke, Bucky got more agitated. A strident rattling noise pulled my attention from Sammy’s narrative, and I looked down to see a thick, diamondback rattlesnake coiled by Bucky’s front hoof. My horse bucked, then took off fast as a bullet across the creek, with me clinging to his neck and wailing at the top of my lungs.

“Bucky! Whoa, boy. Bucky, stop!”

It was to no avail. I heard someone else yelling, and looked back to see Sammy pointing at something.

“What? What!” I cried.

He stabbed his finger forward, and when I turned my eyes ahead I discovered a large tree limb staring me in the face. The impact was bone-jarring, yanking me from my saddle, and the last thing I remembered was flying through the air.

***

I was in New York City, but not the New York I knew. It was
Old
New York. I found myself standing on the streets of Manhattan, and the clothes people were wearing told me I was back in time—again. Passing a corner newsstand, I confirmed this. It was mid-winter, February 6, 1901.

Although bustling with energy, the city looked nothing like the present. There were no cars. Only horse-drawn carriages. No pavement, just cobblestone and dirt streets. And no skyscrapers dotted the New York skyline. I recognized many of the marquees, at least, and knew I was walking along Broadway.

This time around, the time-traveling gods had lent me a valise and dressed me in a long bustled dress, with puffed sleeves to set off the padded buttocks, hips, and bosom. I felt what
had
to be a corset around my waist, so tight that it cut off circulation.

“Are ya comin’ in our not, ma’am?”

“Excuse me?” I glanced toward the mousy voice and saw a man in the box office of the Casino Theater.

“You got your ticket there, and it’s mighty cold out. You could warm yourself inside.”

In my gloved hand, I did indeed hold a ticket for the matinee show of
Floradora.
What else could I do but take that as a sign. I walked in and found my seat close to the stage. As I lowered myself onto the cushion, I locked eyes with the man next to me. His eyes were bright blue, electric, and I could not break our stare. Blushing, I was spared further embarrassment when the curtain rose and we both turned our attention to the play. We exchanged glances throughout the show, and he seemed familiar, though I knew I’d never seen him before.

When the show was over, I stood to leave.

“I hope you’ll beg my pardon,” the man said, removing his top-hat, “but I’d like to introduce myself, ma’am. My name’s James Ryan.”

My, he was polite. So different from the men in present-day New York City. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Ariel.”

“I’m in town, visiting from the great state of Texas,” he said.

“The great state of Texas, hmm. And what do you do in this great state?”

“A little bit of this and that, though actually, ma’am, I’m from Utah originally. Born and raised.”

Utah? That’s where I had been only moments ago. How strange
.

“What I do is … well, I’m what you would call a cowboy.”

“A
cowboy?”
I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, with a thousand-watt grin. “A cowboy. You know, we rope cattle. We do other things too.”

“What in the world would bring a cowboy all the way to New York City? Not much cattle here.”

“Well, no, ma’am, no cattle here. I guess what brings me is same as what brings everybody to New York City. Fun, some laughs, see a few shows, take in some sights. I’m here with my sister and her husband, Etta and Harry Place. We all live in Fort Worth. I couldn’t talk them into coming to this show with me. The missus wanted to go shopping, and, well … being that he has all the money, I guess he went with her.”

I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t seen such a good-looking man in Manhattan in a long time. His broad shoulders filled out his fine black suit, his jaw was square above his silk bow tie, and he had sandy-colored hair. There was kindness in his electric-blue eyes.

An uncomfortable silence settled between us, and Mr. Ryan rubbed the hat in his hands. “See,” he said at last, his eyes never leaving mine, “I was wonderin’, ma’am, would you … well, I mean … I’d be mighty obliged if you would allow me to take you to dinner. It’d sure be my honor if you said yes.”

I was even more tongue-tied. I’d met the man only minutes ago, and now he was asking me to dinner. Men moved that fast in the 21st century, but in 1901? I guess that was status quo because everyone died so young, they had to move fast. However, a girl could not be too careful, and I heard a voice of caution in my head. After all, this
was
New York City.

“Well, thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Ryan. I do appreciate it, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline your invitation.”

His grin faded. “Pardon me for askin’, ma’am, but
why
? Did I comb my hair wrong? Is there somethin’ green in my teeth?” He touched his mouth, laughing.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “I just don’t really know you, do I?”

“That would be true ma’am, but believe me, I’m harmless. I really am. I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do to change your mind? Stand on my head? Recite a poem?”

“No, Mr. Ryan.” I laughed. “I just don’t think it’d be a very good idea.”

“All right then. But if you change your mind, I’ll be at Connelly’s Bar at Twenty-third and Third Avenue. It isn’t far from here, you know. You’re a very pretty lady, and I’ll bet an interesting one too. I’d sure like to get to know you. By the way, I like that heart around your neck. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Very pretty.”

I touched it nervously. “Oh, thank you.” This little crystal seemed responsible for many unusual happenings in my life. And not all good, either.

Mr. Ryan put his hat back on, tipped it to me, and said, “If you have nothin’ better to do, you know where to find me.” He started to walk off, then turned back. “Oh, until then, I’ll be workin’ on that poem, just in case.” With a wink and a nod, he was gone.

Damn. If only I’d had the nerve to do what my heart wanted, I would have walked out that door with him. I started to rethink my position. I mean, what harm could possibly come if I met him in a public place, right? Wasn’t that the safe procedure when you met someone online?

I headed out into the late afternoon and flagged a carriage.

“Where to, ma’am?”

I hesitated.

“Ma’am?”

I checked my valise, assured by the sight of a few coins. I stepped up and took my seat. “Connelly’s Bar,” I told him.

A bumpy ride delivered me to my destination. The drinking establishment was paneled in dark wood, with a massive bar on the side. Peering through the haze of smoke, I saw Mr. James Ryan at a table in the corner, seated with a man and a woman. I ventured that direction.