Belle's Story

Chapter Two

I debated whether to let Belle know we were coming before leaving Chicago. She didn’t like surprises. But I didn’t want to engage in the inevitable argument over where we would stay. I knew she would want us to stay with her. As much as I love my grandmother, I can’t think of a place I’d like to stay less on a romantic weekend.

Her apartment was old, dingy and in a state of perma-dirt. When I was little we lived in New York. Spending time at my grandparents had always been a stress inducing event because their home was not well suited for children. Mom, or our maid, Eula, would take me and my sister, Victoria (and later, my brother, Will) there about once a month. The apartment building was old and creaky, just like its occupants. I was sure the white stone hadn’t been washed since the dawn of time and it looked more soot-grey than white. The surrounding buildings were equally run down. And, unlike our mod home in the Village, Morningside Heights was boring. Our neighborhood had a mix of quaint little shops and new apartment buildings, capped off by my playground at the splendid Washington Square Park down the block. Morningside Heights, where my grandparents lived, was just one beaten up old-folks mid-rise after another.

We moved to Kentucky when I was six; requiring a sojourn back to Manhattan for a week each summer. This was worse. We actually had to stay in that place overnight. Victoria, and I would share the sleeper sofa in the spare room. It was old and saggy, and the mattress springs stuck into my back. In addition to the lousy accommodations, my grandmother’s cooking was worse than school lunches and her iron pipes spat out rusty water.

Better to get the argument over and done with. Belle was delighted – almost relieved – we were coming. She didn’t seem to mind that we were staying in a hotel and thought a romantic getaway sounded “delightful.” Belle’s reaction worried me. There was not one trace of guilt inducement at being snubbed for the bulk of our trip. It was so uncharacteristic of my grandmother, that I began to worry something was wrong. I quickly pushed those thoughts aside. Even she could appreciate the need for privacy and romance.

Monday morning came early. I’d had an action packed weekend of museum galleries, performances, shopping, and wining and dining. Sunday night seemed to tilt a little more heavily toward the wining side than I was used to. Still, I’d promised my grandmother a full day together and after she’d so graciously given us the entire weekend to ourselves, Ben and I knew better than to be late. I ordered a tomato juice for breakfast and braced myself for the cab ride to the Upper West Side.

While riding down The Henry Hudson Freeway I cracked cab’s window to get some fresh air and gazed at the Hudson River on my right. My brain felt foggier than the steam rising from the water. Our cabby pulled off of the Henry Hudson Freeway and at the Riverside Drive exit. Light traffic allowed us to zip past the brick and stone homes of Riverside Park. When we got to the split at 95th, the taxi veered onto Broadway (no doubt to shake loose that extra quarter or two in fare). While Riverside was the prettier of the two streets, I liked Broadway better. It had a gritty honesty about it. Florist, green grocer, Arab market, Indian restaurant, Woolworths, dry cleaner, butcher. I knew these places; they were part of my soul. Today, protective scaffolding and orange cones cluttered Broadway’s sidewalks, underscoring a renovation boom designed to attract young lawyers, doctors and investment bankers who could not yet afford the multimillion dollar listings of the Upper East Side, but were well on their way to uber-affluence.

We turned off of Broadway and onto 110th Street. Even with the renovations all around it, the outside of Belle’s building was still shabby and soot grey. We stepped inside the vestibule lined with tarnished brass mailboxes. I moved over to the intercom, lifted its 1920's ear piece and punched 8-E into the black press-buttons on the wall. When Belle did not answer, I hung up and punched in 8-D to call her neighbor, Joanie. Joanie came down to the street to let us in the building, and persuaded us to come to her apartment and talk before seeing Belle. We walked through the small unfurnished white marble foyer and into the rickety vintage elevator. As Ben pulled the old metal cage door closed, the elevator’s dull black interior wrapped around me and I was overtaken by a sudden sense of claustrophobia.