New York Echoes (15 page)

It was her choice, a
McDonald's in the East Village, and he stood for a while, out of view, looking
through the window. Of course he was afraid, anxious, uncertain. He hadn't seen
his daughter in three years, since she was sixteen and had disappeared. “Leave
that alone,” he begged himself.

When you turn something over in your own
mind for three years, it becomes a lingering, chronic pain. Everything changes.
The anger solidifies into icy rage. He needed to squelch that now. It was bad strategy.

From this distance, he could only see
her in profile, vaguely familiar, under a profusion of harsh red hair that used
to be silky blonde, golden in his memory. She wore dark sunglasses, a strange
accessory in this sunless environment. Apparently, the place had just opened
and the customers were a tired, scruffy lot of all ages and genders. The
November weather was cloudy, chilled, and cast a pall of drabness over
everything, which he noted, was drab to begin with, despite the attempt of the
restaurant to contrive joy, a commodity that just wasn't there.

Her complexion was ashen, unhealthy, the
once-round, naturally rouged cheeks flattened, and fiery red lipstick was
heavily laid on. She was wearing a long-sleeved, beige, tight turtleneck that
emphasized how thin she had gotten. Worse, she looked ten years older, maybe
more. Oddly, he hoped that he was mistaken and this was not his daughter. Her
entire demeanor seemed to fit in with the gloomy atmosphere.

He waited, watching,
trying desperately to control himself. A sob shook his chest and he sucked in
some hard, deep breaths to steady himself. Finally, he walked in, forcing a
smile, feeling his face cracking.

“Peggy,” he said.

She nodded, and he
knew her thin smile was as forced as his own.

“Daddy.”

He feared bending to
offer her a kiss and she made no move to stand. In front of her was a cup of
coffee. For a moment, he stood watching her, but since he could not see her
eyes, he was unsure about any contact.

“What shall I get
you?” he asked, stupidly. After all, they were there for breakfast. There had
been a go-between from back home in Boise, Charlotte Gordon, an old classmate
who was attending NYU in Manhattan. She had seen and reported Peggy's
whereabouts. By then, he lived in Los Angeles, the family splintered, the blame
for which sat in front of him, the missing daughter.

Since neither he nor
his wife could understand a reason for her disappearance they had blamed each
other, and her sibling blamed them both. There was no secret between them where
the blame really lay; it simply could not be abided. There was no cure for it
but separation.

What he had wanted to
know for three years was why. She seemed perfectly happy, the picture of a
loving daughter, integrated into their world. There had been no hint, no clue,
no issue, no abuse, nothing apparent, however they had searched themselves and
the environment that surrounded her. There were just no answers, only
questions.

“I am going away. I
hate it here.” The words were scrawled on a little paste-up square, now
wrinkled from the perpetual folding and unfolding. Why? He and his wife had
gone the usual route, police, missing persons, private detectives, and long,
introspective self-analysis and confrontations with each other. What had they
done? It was increasingly impossible to live without answers.

She had disappeared
with nothing but her clothes. Her room had remained exactly as she left it. His
wife left it untouched as a kind of shrine, and after awhile, going into that
room for him had become unbearable. Inexplicably, his wife spent much of her
time there. The blame had become insidious, like acid, eating away at them.

How could they not
have suspected? No matter how hard they tried they could find no secret life,
no evidence of adolescent unrequited love, no gender confusion, no drugs, no
cult seduction, no argument, no visible anger. She lived in a loving,
supportive family environment. All of her friends and classmates were as
baffled as they were. Such bafflement and confusion became a way of life, a
creeping emotional upheaval that exploded, finally, into a kind of silent
chaos, and there seemed no solution but for him to leave. There were no tears
on his wife's part, as if such a move was ordained, necessary, a logical
outcome brought about by the missing daughter.

Perhaps it was his
obsession to find her. He left no stone unturned. No expense was too much.
Then, out of the blue, a classmate, Charlotte Gordon, had seen her and got in
touch with him. Charlotte had explained that she had been sworn to secrecy, but
that if he came to New York, she might call him at his hotel and maybe, just
maybe, she might see him. And she had, hence this meeting.

Their conversation had
been short, practically nonexistent. She simply informed him of where they were
to meet.

“So what would you
like?” he asked.

“Big Mac and fries,
large, Coke,” she said, her voice harsher than he remembered. He wanted to say:
“For breakfast?” but desisted. Standing in line, he got her the Big Mac and
ordered a chicken sandwich and a coffee for himself. He had no appetite and
looked at the mushy mess in its paper wrapping, hoping he would not gag.

“I'm glad you could
see me,” he said, watching her pick up the Big Mac. Her nails were painted
fire-engine red, and they shook as she lifted the sandwich and bit deep into
it, not dainty as he remembered her. His daughter. How could this have
happened? No, he forced himself, leave that alone.

“Charlotte meeting
you, quite a coincidence.”

She nodded between
chewing. He studied her face, but the dark glasses continued to hide any clue
to contact. She poured ketchup into a cardboard plate and dipped a salted fry
into it.

“So what is your life
like?” he asked cautiously.

She shrugged and
smiled thinly.

“Cool,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“Not bad.”

“What are you doing?”

“Things.”

“Just curious.” He
grew silent for a moment, speculating. Was she a prostitute? A drug addict? Her
exterior seemed hard, her aspect vulgar. How did she survive?

“I'm sure you know
that we've been looking for you a long time.”

He felt this
overwhelming need to know. She continued to eat, as if she had not heard his
words.

“I am your father,
Peggy.”

Her use of the old
term “daddy” had probably encouraged him. But then, that was the only word she
had used for him from the moment she had learned to talk. He was daddy. Daddy.
Perhaps he should have put it differently: I am your daddy.

“I'm Betty now,” she
said.

“Not Peggy?”

“Peggy no more.”

“Do you use your last
name?” he asked. Obviously not, since she was untraceable under the family
name.

She shook her head.

“What is it now?”

“It's not important,”
she said.

“Are you married?”

Instinctively he
looked at her left hand. There was no wedding ring.

“No way,” she said.

He watched her in
silence as she ate her sandwich, occasionally washing it down with a sip of
Coke. Frustration was beginning to gnaw at him. He wanted to tear away her
sunglasses. Why are you hiding? He wanted to scream out the questions. Finally,
he said:

“Is there anything I
can do? I mean to help.”

She shrugged.

“I don't know.”

“Look Peggy . . . I
mean Betty. I'm not asking for an explanation. It's too late for that. You know
that the family has split. Charlotte must have told you. Someday . . .” He felt
himself losing control, took a deep breath, then began again. “I have an idea.”
He had been thinking about this ever since he learned where she was. “At the
very least, call your mother and brother. Even to just say hello, even to say
‘I'm alright.' Just that even.”

She appeared to be
listening but made no comment.

“Better yet, you might
hop a plane. I'll give you money for the ticket.  Just drop by, even if it's
just to chat, or give us a telephone number. Having contact, even at a
distance, wouldn't hurt anybody.”

He had rehearsed a
thousand speeches in his mind and this was coming out badly. His emotions were
charging and recharging, running the gamut, eroding his discipline. She
remained silent. Beyond the dark glasses, he couldn't even tell if she was
listening, although he seemed to sense that she was watching him. There were so
many things he wanted to say, especially the one statement meant to spur guilt:
Your disappearance broke up the family. How could you?

He held back, of
course, fearing her anger. Because she was nineteen, he had no legal hold on
her. Before he had met her, he had taken out five hundred dollars from an ATM.
He hadn't very much more in the account. If she needed anything, anything, he
would have found a way to provide it. He was her daddy, for crying out loud.
She was his child, he thought. Why was she doing this? 

“Tell you what,” he
said, forcing a broad smile. He wanted to reach out and embrace her, forgive
her, end this baffling alienation. “As I said before, no explanation needed. I
just want you to know that we are there for you, always and evermore. You are
our daughter. Nothing can ever break that bond. Do you understand that, Peggy?”

“Betty,” she said,
finishing the Big Mac.  She wiped her lips, and he noted that the napkin was
smeared with lipstick.

“Betty,” he repeated,
continuing his smile. His eyes hurt from trying to see beyond the dark lenses.
He removed the cash from his pocket. It was folded, mostly fifties. “I want you
to take this. No conditions. If you want to see your mother, you could buy a
ticket. I live in L.A., and if you want to join me there, you are more than
welcome. Do you understand what I'm saying? Whatever has happened is water
under the bridge. Maybe some day . . .” He stopped short. Going there seemed
pointless at that moment.

He reached out and
touched her palm. It was cold. But the touch of her flesh triggered memories.
Suddenly he saw her for the first time from behind the glass of the maternity
ward, a tiny bundle of flesh, her features contorted with crying. Was it the
cry of joy or pain? Had she been sorry to be born?

He pushed the bills
into her hand and closed her fingers over it.

“Remember, if you ever
need anything.”

She nodded and her
lips seemed to offer a smile, but he wasn't sure. Then she stood up and looked
around.

“Be back. Off to the
ladies' room,” she said pleasantly. He watched her go.

“I'll wait,” he said,
but as soon as she was gone, he went into the men's room.  It was empty and he
leaned against the sink, broke down, and sobbed like a child. He could not
stop. As a man came in, he dipped his head into the sink and tried to stop
sobbing by sloshing cold water on his face. Finally, he succeeded and wiped his
face and eyes on a paper towel, looking briefly at himself in the mirror.

“Why?” he asked his
image, striking out with his hand against the glass. It did not break the
mirror, although he did feel the pain in his knuckles. Taking a deep breath, he
did the best he could to appear calm and went back into the dining room and sat
at the same table where his chicken sandwich lay, cold and soggy. He lifted his
coffee container and sipped, but the coffee was cold as well.

He waited for her
return, watching the door of the ladies' room. He continued to wait. A
heavyset, young Hispanic woman was cleaning dirty tables and he gave her five
dollars to check on his daughter in the ladies' room. She came back quickly.

“Gone,” she said.

He sat for a few
moments more, got up, went outside and looked in either direction. There was no
sign of her.

“It's the first thing I read,” Barry
Fine said, referring to the obituaries.

“That's ridiculous,” Mildred, his wife,
said. “It's like a kind of death watch.”

They sat over breakfast every day in
their Manhattan apartment reading the
New York Times
. He looked at the
table of contents and always insisted on reading the obituaries before other
parts of the paper.

He had just turned seventy and although
he had always read the obituaries casually, he spent more time at it these
days, reading the small paid-for obits as well as the headlined deaths. It was
not uncommon for him to find familiar names among the paid-for obits since he
had grown up in New York City and had gone to elementary, high school, and
college in New York and had worked there all of his life.

Of course, it was mostly
males he had known who periodically showed up in the paid-for obits, which were
inserted by relatives of the deceased or organizations that he had joined. Not
everyone inserted these paid announcements. Still, it was the only way he could
possibly be informed about the death of anyone he had known in his lifetime. It
was less likely that he would find females he had known because the chances
were that most of those from his generation used their married names.

Barry was still
healthy at his age and busy with his accounting practice, but he had already
attended a number of funerals of people in his age bracket, both relatives and
friends, and the idea of diminishing time was beginning to occupy his thoughts.

“Today's seventy is
like yesterday's fifty,” his wife told him, irritated that he was dwelling too
heavily on the subject of life's end. She was sixty-five, and they had been
married forty-one years. Their two children were grown, had their own families,
and lived in other parts of the country. It was one of their regrets that the
kids hadn't stayed in New York, but, as they both acknowledged, the world had
changed and mobility in pursuit of career advancement and economic
self-interest was the operative word these days.

With regret, both
husband and wife discussed this often, since they were what were called empty
nesters and, although they saw their children and grandchildren a number of
times each year at holiday occasions, it wasn't the same as growing up within
easy each reach of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who all lived in
the New York area. Both of them had been brought up within close proximity of
extended family circles, which was less the norm these days.

Barry admitted that he
read the obituaries from right to left, meaning that he read the ages first,
comparing them to his own. When he saw reports of people dying in their late
eighties and nineties, he felt encouraged about his own future, and when he saw
people who had died younger than himself, he counted himself among the lucky survivors
with, admittedly, some secret satisfaction. Mildred insisted that he was being
ghoulish and obsessed with dying, although, to be sure, she too read the more
publicized obituaries of the various celebrities whose deaths were
sensationalized.

He would often mutter
the same comments each time he read the obituaries, much to his wife's
amusement; like “Everybody dies” or “Our world is disappearing,” especially
when a movie star, politician, sports figure, or popular singer's death was
announced. They were, after all, part of the culture of his time and their
dying was certainly a benchmark event, a chapter ended, one more nail in the
coffin of their generational experience.

At times, he would
discover that when he mentioned people popular in his youth to a much younger
person their eyes would glaze over with non-recognition. The older he got, he
noticed that whole categories of younger men and women had no knowledge of the
people who were significant to his generation. At first, he had attributed this
lack of knowledge to ignorance, until it became apparent that the names, like
products that had disappeared, were no longer applicable or relevant and had
disappeared from any mention in the media.

Although he tried to
keep up with the popular culture, he could no longer identify the names of
people about whom he read in the gossip columns or in the magazines he skimmed
through while waiting for his doctor or dental appointments. When he spent any
time with his grandchildren, he would see how truly far the gap between the
generations had widened.

Another thing, aside
from optimism or luck, that he gleaned from the obituaries was a kind of
stimulant to long-term memory when he read the obituary of someone he had gone
to school with or who touched his life in some significant way.

One day, he read in
the paid-for obituaries the death of Aaron Schyler. He hadn't thought seriously
about Aaron for many, many years, although the incident that hung forever in
his mind had occurred more than fifty-five years ago. Not that he had been in
denial, but it was, certainly at the time and in the immediate aftermath, a
memorable event in his experience. Not long after that event Aaron had
disappeared from his life, and he had never heard from him or about him. Until
that moment.

As teenagers, perhaps
during a two-year period, say ages thirteen to fifteen, they were inseparable,
true buddies. They played together, studied together, were always in each
other's houses, which adjoined one another in the Brooklyn neighborhood where
they both lived. They went to the movies together every Saturday, were on the
same baseball team, had puppy-love affairs with girls who were also fast
friends, did their homework together, and supported each other in all of their
endeavors.

They joined the Boy
Scouts the same day and went to Boy Scout camp together in Narrowsburg, New York. Not a day went by when they didn't see each other. Seeing Aaron's obituary
brought back the old memory of that time in Boy Scout camp that could never be
completely erased or dismissed.

While at camp, they
often took overnights with their camp mates and invariably shared a pup tent.
What had happened between them, in retrospect, was merely a minor incident and
one that was common among teenage boys in that era and probably more common
today.

It was, he remembered,
a particularly cold night, and they shared a sleeping bag and found themselves
sleeping like spoons. What had happened was that during the night Barry had
awakened with an erection and induced himself to orgasm by putting his penis in
the crack of Aaron's rump. The activity had awakened Aaron and instead of
objecting, he had said, “Now me.” And Barry had reversed himself.

Being teenagers, they
were seduced by the pleasure of their orgasms and spent the entire night
masturbating each other. Although rarely discussed at the time, it was quite
common for teenage boys to display their erections and engage in what was then
known as circle jerks, where the trick was to see who squirted first. The
laughable assertion in the Boy Scout handbook of that time that masturbation
led to insanity was a source of amusement and ridicule at that moment of raging
hormones and the discovery of the mechanics of penis erectus.

It was, after all,
ages before sex education in the schools, and teenage boys usually gleaned
their knowledge about the mystery of sex from other teenage boys. Neither Barry
nor Aaron's parents ever discussed sex with their sons. It was considered one
of those hidden dirty subjects, never to be mentioned, and it was certainly not
considered a parental responsibility to enlighten them about it. Barry
acknowledged that this might not have been a universal experience, but it
certainly was his and Aaron's. It was an era long before pornography in
magazines, film, and video were readily available. Indeed, teenage boys would
rifle through issues of
National Geographic
looking for topless African
women for a furtive glimpse of the naked female breast to induce sexual
fantasies.

Teenage girls, Barry
remembered, were even less educated on that subject, and some mothers actually
taught their daughters that kissing led to pregnancy. In fact, fear of
pregnancy was the absolutely primary hysterical fear of all teenage girls at
that time. Such fears not withstanding, the girls were not averse to what was
then called necking, and “feeling up” was what petting meant.

As for homosexuality,
it was barely on their radar. In that era and in those old Brooklyn
neighborhoods, people with such propensities were effeminate and fey and known
as queers or homos and always seemed to be elsewhere or anonymous, at least in
Barry's circles. None of the sexual acts engaged in by teenage boys seemed
outside the range of normal conduct. Barry could honestly not recall anyone he
had known in those days as queer. Such memories, Barry knew, were private and
unexpressed in those terms in these enlightened contemporary times and would be
considered politically incorrect or misinterpreted or even homophobic by
today's standards. The world certainly had changed, Barry reflected, and he
knew at least in that respect he had changed as well.

Such thoughts rose in
his memory after reading the obituary of Aaron Schyler, largely triggered by
that long-ago experience. It had baffled Barry for years why after he and Aaron
came home from Boy Scout camp that summer, things had changed between them. It
wasn't exactly an abrupt cleavage, but something was decidedly different
between them. They drifted apart slowly. Aaron developed new friendships and
Barry kept his hurt to himself, never confronting Aaron for reasons for this
slow alienation.

Sometime later, the
Schyler family moved out of the neighborhood and Aaron and Barry's friendship
became a faded memory, although on occasion, triggered by an errant thought,
Barry would ponder the puzzle of their strange drift. Was it because of that
night in the pup tent? Or something else? Something inadvertently said? Some
innocent slight?

It had often baffled
him that although he had grown up in New York and had known hundreds of people
during his childhood, youth, and business career, he rarely met anyone from
public or high school and only on rare occasions someone from college. Perhaps,
he decided, it was a New York thing. In the frenetic mixing bowl of a huge big
city, people dispersed, moved to other places, other suburbs, other
neighborhoods, and formed other friendships and alliances connected to their
careers.

Occasionally, he did
observe on the street what seemed like a familiar face, but often age had done
its work, and it was difficult to identify for certain someone he had known
long ago and he usually passed them by. He had never seen Aaron Schyler again
after he had moved out of the old neighborhood, had never even seen anyone who
remotely resembled Aaron in all the years that had passed.

At the breakfast table
that morning, such questions came to the surface and once again stimulated the
old mystery of their alienation. In the obituary he noted that services would
be held in the Riverside Chapel at eleven that morning and, without any clear
reason or intent, Barry decided he would attend.

Barry took a place in
the rear of the chapel, noting that the auditorium was respectably filled. The
coffin lay in front of the chapel and a man in a dark suit spoke first. It was
not a religious service, and the man who spoke offered heartfelt words of
praise for Aaron Schyler, who had apparently touched many lives.

It wasn't until a
second man spoke that Barry got the obvious message. Aaron Schyler was gay, and
most of the people in the chapel were males, although there were a number of
women.

“I lived with this
giving person most of my life,” the second man said. “He was a good loving
person and made my life meaningful and important.” As the man spoke, tears
inexplicably moistened Barry's eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He did not
comprehend any more of what the man was saying but his sense of loss and
grieving was beyond his understanding. Still, the mystery of their alienation
persisted. Was the night in the pup tent some epiphany for Aaron? Was there a
lot more to it for Aaron than teenagers having a little sexual fun?

Was their intense
friendship more than met the eye? Barry knew his grief was real. Had he loved
Aaron in a different way? Had Aaron loved him and felt uncomfortable by the
feeling or the thought of it? Or was Barry indulging himself in something that
he could never understand, since he had never had any urge to make love to a
man and considered himself throughout his life unalterably heterosexual?

Finally the service
was over and the group waited as others filed out behind the coffin, then the
audience began to leave and he with them. For some reason, perhaps it was
because of the preponderance of men, or something else, he felt oddly
different, as if he did not belong there.

In the street, he
walked toward the subway, still filled with this overwhelming, inexplicable,
and profound sense of loss.