Belle's Story

Chapter One

Copyright, Wendy Finger 2015 

Chapter 1
January, 1993

                Friday afternoon is not the best time to enter the City. Equal parts tourist trying to get to Manhattan for a weekend of shopping and culture and commuters wanting to get out of Dodge early conspire to create grid lock where expressways once stood. I’ve often wondered if it would be faster to walk. Ben just pined for the day he would amass enough wealth to rent a helicopter to take us to the rooftop of Trump Tower. All our frustration with traffic melted away as we entered Midtown. Block after block of glass and steel gave Ben a sense of excitement. It’s not that we don’t have wonderful architecture in Chicago. It’s just that everything seems just a little bit bigger and more glam in the Big Apple. The cab stopped at the corner of 54th and Park, the location of the somewhat unoriginally named, but gleamingly amenity packed Park Hotel.

Once we’d settled in and washed the dust of the trip from our faces, Ben sprung to action. “Let’s take a carriage ride.”

I thought he was a little on the nutty side. It was twenty degrees outside and the sun was setting. I threw him one of those “you’re kidding, right” looks.

                “No, really. We’ll swipe a duvet from the hotel and get some hot chocolate. Central Park at Sunset. Doesn’t it sound fun?” He had this silly boyish grin that spread from the far end of his left jaw over to his right, giving him the appearance of a sixteen year old boy who had managed to scrape up the money to take his best girl to a restaurant with tablecloths and a wine list.

How could I say “no?”He was so proud of his romantic streak. After all, he had planned the perfect getaway for us, calling it the Weekend of the Dueling Mets. The first Met (the museum) had a new exhibit on the history of the guitar. The second Met (the opera) was staging a performance of La Bohéme. A carriage ride did seem to cap off things nicely.

“Sure. It sounds dreamy,” I purred.

“Now, you’re making fun of me.” His expression changed to a sixteen year-old whose girlfriend had just said she’d rather have pizza than eat at some stuffy parent’s place.

“I’m not making fun of you,” I reassured him. You’re just making me feel sixteen, so I thought I’d talk like a teenager. Really, it sounds lovely. Then after we can get rum toddies, like naughty teens, okay?”

The carriage ride was chilly, forcing us to cuddle close together on the ride. Ben asked the driver to stop in front of a chop house down the block from FAO Schwarz called Kirkwall’s. It was one of those places that featured $12 hamburgers. I wasn’t sure how charging enough for three normal burgers made the beef taste any better, but Ben swore of the meat between those two buns was the flavor of heaven’s own kitchen expressed down to New York to be enjoyed while watching passersby on busy 5th Avenue. I wasn’t super hungry, but I got such a kick out of watching the joy on Ben’s face when his plate was served that I too was looking forward to a dinner at our favorite New York steakhouses. Ben ordered a 1/3 pounder with cheddar cheese, caramelized onions and bacon. I got a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder, the kind with the tomato base.

Ben dove into his dinner with gusto. In between swallows, he talked about the music exhibit at the Met. Ben played the guitar pretty seriously in high school and college. With running our PR firm and renovating the loft we bought in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, the playing had taken a back seat. But his love for musical instruments hadn’t.  He rattled off twenty or categories of just guitars that he wanted to see. He especially wanted to see the new Martins they had installed. I loved this about Ben so much. The kid with reckless abandon, who jumped into topics head first and didn’t come up for air until that voracious curiosity was sated. The guy who could get lost in the nuances of wood grain and stringing techniques, oblivious to the announcements warning that the museum was closing in five minutes. Listening to him describe all he’d researched about our trip to the museum made me glow with pride. I reached over to pat his hand, then I swiped a couple of fries.

After the museum we’d come back to the hotel for a quick change and then head out to the opera. I’d seen La Bohéme several times. I knew the arias by heart. Ben wasn’t sure why I kept going back for more. To me it was apparent. Why do you go to the same place to eat over and over again? Why did you buy tickets every time Pink Floyd came to town in college? That’s why I keep going to La Bohéme, because I love it. It’s Puccini, it’s Paris it’s amore and tragic and beautiful.”

“Yeah, but you know how it ends.”

“And, I still cry every time. Besides, when we see Belle on Monday I can tell her all about it.

I slipped my hand over to Ben’s plate and swiped a few more fries.

“Would you like me to order you some?”

“No, that’s okay, I’m not very hungry.” I grabbed a few more. “Just one last time,” I batted my eyes as I popped the potato into my mouth,

“Just leave some for me.”

“It’s okay, I’m done. They’re getting cold.”

As we left Kirkwall’s for the hotel, I noticed a thin woman with watery eyes huddled outside the restaurant in a tattered coat. A box with coins lay at her feet. I started to pull some money from my wallet, but Ben stopped me.

“How do you know she won’t use the money for drugs?”

“But, she looks so hungry and cold.”

“One or two dollars isn’t going to change that.”

Undeterred, I turned around and walked right back into the restaurant. I order a bowl of seafood chowder to go. I took the bag to the lady outside. Ben gave me a kiss on the forehead and whispered in my ear, “You’re one stubborn chick.”