Garden of Lies (6 page)

with its arched ceilings and lovely antiques, the Waterford chandelier like a bouquet of dancing

prisms, the precious Tabriz carpet, she felt as if she must memorize it, burn it into her brain so it

wouldn’t escape her.

Up, up the curving black marble stairs, her legs trembling with the effort, footsteps muffled by

the Chinese runner, past the satin-wood calendar clock chiming the hour in a doleful tone, the

Rose Medallion vases standing guard in their hollowed-out marble niches.

Then their bedroom, the most beautiful of all, only now cold and somehow implacable. The

river mist that clung to the diamond-paned windows casting a gray pall over the Aubusson rug,

turning its lovely autumn colors winter pale.

Then he stood there, as if he had all the time in the world, watching her undress, never taking

his frostbitten gaze from her. Usually, he averted his eyes politely. Sylvie felt as if he was

scrutinizing her for a telltale sign, proof of her crime. She fumbled at the hooks of her brassiere.

Was it fastened properly? Dear God, there was a tear in her slip where Nikos had grown impatient

tugging it off her. Had Gerald noticed?

Sylvie was nearly in tears by the time she had climbed into bed and slunk under the coverlet.

She was shaking so hard she thought she must be sick after all. The tall posts at each corner of the

huge [25] bed seemed to tower over her, the carved dolphins at their peaks no longer delightful,

but frozen and ghastly with their fixed sneers.

Gerald walked over to the French windows, and stood looking out over the garden. It was late

October, and the apple tree was nearly barren except for a few ragged leaves and one or two

wizened apples clinging to the branches like small fists.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve decided to let Nikos go.” He spoke softly, but each word hit her like a

hammer against an iron anvil.

Sylvie felt the air squeeze from her lungs, as if the anvil were sitting on her chest, pressing

down on her, yet she feigned only mild surprise. “Oh, why?”

“Remember my missing cigarette lighter? Bridget found it in his room. Stupid of him. It wasn’t

even valuable.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and took out the silver lighter, turning it over in

his palm—how oddly delicate, those hands, their fingers white and tapering, with small flat

seashell-pink nails, like the hands of the Meissen shepherdess on the mantel. Then very calmly,

he lit one of his long thin cigars.

He was lying, the bastard. And he didn’t care that she knew it. Bridget never went near Nikos’s

room. Sylvie was positive, too, that the lighter had never left Gerald’s pocket. This was just an

excuse for Gerald to get rid of him.

Dear God, had she been so obvious? But what if she hadn’t been? Perhaps he only suspected.

Yes, if Gerald knew for sure, had proof, he would toss her out like Nikos. Not so quickly

maybe, but in the end wouldn’t it be just the same?

Sylvie reached across the iron rail for the glass of water beside her hospital bed, thinking
and

now he’ll have the proof.
And, she alone, with a baby to care for, no home, perhaps penniless,

she’d end up back here on Eastern Boulevard, standing in line at Home Relief.

A burst of crackling noise shattered Sylvie’s forebodings. More firecrackers, only this time

they sounded as if they were right outside, in the alley below her window.

Despair pressed down on her. Sylvie yearned with all her heart to fly away from here, to rub

out everything that had happened and to start all over again. She glanced over at Angie,

peacefully asleep.
Oh, what I would give to trade places with you.

[26] But her body’s needs overpowered her intense longing, and Sylvie closed her eyes, and

slept.

She dreamed of her wedding day.

She and Gerald standing under the silk-embroidered huppah that had been in his family for

generations. He and Estelle, his first wife, had been married under it ... but she wouldn’t let even

that thought spoil this wonderful moment. Gerald could not have loved Estelle as he loved her.

He hadn’t exactly told her so, but he’d shown it in so many ways.

Sylvie, trembling with happiness, looked over at him. Gerald stood tall in his dark tuxedo, his

face filled with love as he gazed at her.

She could hear the cantor chanting, crooning, even wailing a little. And the ancient melodies

soothed her, bringing her back to the little shul on Intervale Avenue where she went with Mama

on Rosh Hashanah. Gerald raised her veil, bringing a cup of wine to her lips. It was thick and

sweet, so sweet it burned her throat, making her gag.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

A horrible thickness clogged her throat, her nostrils, each breath sending a spurt of pain into

her lungs.

It was hot. Suffocating. Why was it so hot?

Then she saw.

The huppah was on fire! Orange flames licked up the gilded support poles. Sparks rained from

the canopy. Desperate, she reached to throw her arms around Gerald, but he’d evaporated into the

smoke.

Time stopped. She couldn’t move. She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth no

sound would come out.

Sylvie awoke with a start. Her tongue felt as if it were made of flannel. Her eyes and nose

stung. The air was thick and dirty. There was a horrible smell, like burning rubber, or one of

those awful chemical factories.

She pulled herself up with effort, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The warped

linoleum beneath felt warm under her feet. The air seemed to grow thicker. She coughed, lungs

burning.

Air. She had to get some air. She lurched to the window, ignoring the pain between her legs,

and tugged to raise it up as far as it would go. But it was stuck, wouldn’t budge. The thing was

ancient as the rest of the building, fossilized beneath layers of paint.

[27] Then she saw—black smoke billowing from the floor below, a finger of orange flame

shooting up. Fire! No dream, this was really happening.

Sylvie, stunned, knew she had to move, run. Had to wake the others. And get out.

She snatched the pillow from her bed and held it over her face to filter some of the choking

smoke. She staggered over and shook Angie. Angie moaned groggily, but wouldn’t open her

eyes.

“Wake up!” Sylvie screamed. “Fire!”

The other women were awakened by her shouts, were scrambling out of bed, hurrying as best

they could into the hallway.

Sylvie gripped Angie’s shoulders and shook her with as much strength as she could muster.

But her roommate only uttered a deep moan and rolled back onto the pillow. Sylvie struggled to

lift her and drag her out of the bed, but Angie felt like a granite block. Someone else would have

to come and help.

Sylvie, half-choking, terrified, aching all over, made herself rush from the room. There was

something she had to do.

The corridor was a nightmarish scene all its own. Patients in gowns pushing each other,

screaming, others screaming from their beds, making Sylvie think of Picasso’s
Guernica
or some

mad surrealist painting. A gurney shot past, wheeled by a white-faced nurse. Smoke clotted the

air, tearing at her lungs. A fit of coughing doubled her, sent tears streaming from her stinging

eyes.

She heard the faint pulsing wail of a fire engine. It sounded far away. Too far.

The nursery, she must get to the nursery.

Sylvie thought only of her baby as she staggered down the corridor, following the arrow

pointing the way to the nursery. She must let nothing happen to her, no matter what.

She stumbled, a hard smacking pain in her wrists, knees, but she picked herself up, and forced

her legs to move. She seemed to be moving in slow motion. So weak. And between her legs it

hurt so.

There, up ahead, a glimmer through the haze of smoke. The long window looking into the

nursery. She sobbed with relief. But something was wrong. It looked deserted, the rows of

bassinets empty. Sylvie blinked to clear her streaming eyes. No, there was still someone. A young

nun she recognized from the delivery room.

Sylvie pushed her way through the door.

[28] The young nurse glanced up briefly, her face pinched, a mask of terror. She was

frantically wrapping a squalling infant in a wet sheet. Sylvie saw the name on the bassinet:

SANTINI. Angie’s baby. Nearby, hers, the one marked ROSEN.

Empty. Her heart froze.

She clutched at the sister’s arm. “My baby ...”

“The babies are safe,” the nurse rasped, coughing. “They’ve all been taken down. This is the

last one.”

Relief crashed through Sylvie, leaving her trembling. Then she remembered about Angie.

“Mrs. Santini,” she gasped. “I couldn’t wake her. Please. You have to help her. I’ll take the

baby.”

“Wait.” The nurse snatched up a pair of scissors and snipped off the beaded ID bracelet about

the infant’s tiny ivory wrist. Beads scattered, pinging off the linoleum floor. “Porcelain,” she

choked. “Absorbs heat ... might burn ...”

Sylvie saw there were other beads from other bracelets scattered about the floor, the counter.

One, a tiny pink cube imprinted with a black “R,” winked up at her from a starched fold in the

young sister’s sleeve.

Sylvie reached out, took the damp bundle in her arms. Feeling her strength surge back with the

warm weight of the infant against her breast, her palm supporting the tiny wobbly head.

Relentlessly, Sylvie fought her way back through the thickening haze, past the deserted nurse’s

station, toward the stairwell.

Turn the corner. There. Just ahead. She wrenched open the door marked EXIT. And threw

herself back.

The stairwell was engulfed in flames. She heard a high shrill scream and realized it was hers.

Dear God, where
now?

She remembered the windows. They opened out onto fire escape platforms, the old-fashioned

kind with stairs that zigzagged down the side of the building.

Sylvie hurried into the nearest room, gently lowering the baby onto a bed. She struggled to

raise the window. But it wasn’t budging. Then she heard a crack—a sound like a gunshot—and

the window jerked up. Sylvie, weak with relief, snatched the baby up. She pulled a chair to the

sill and carefully, slowly stepped up onto it.

[29] And looked down.

Five stories below, the street swam dizzily into view. Strange, how light it seemed, more like

day than night. Insect-sized people scurrying about. Fire engines angled like toy trucks along the

curb. The sidewalk a snake pit of hoses.

Everything seemed to tilt sharply, and she felt as if she were going to fall. Sylvie closed her

eyes and took a deep breath.

No. Don’t look down. Just move.

Sylvie stepped out onto the platform, the iron slats warm and rough beneath her bare soles, and

began inching her way down the stairs, gripping the iron handrail with one hand while she braced

the baby with the other. The stairs seemed perilously steep, making her legs and arms go rubbery

with terror.

How would she ever make it down five stories? What if she were to fall, or drop the baby?

No. No, she couldn’t think that. She mustn’t.

Coughing, her eyes stinging, Sylvie groped her way down, scraping and bruising her feet as she

scrabbled for purchase.

She had just reached the fourth-floor platform when the air rocked with a deafening explosion,

and the fire escape shook violently. Sylvie froze. She darted a glance upward and saw flames

shoot from the window above her. Shattered glass rained down, pinging off the fire escape.

Something glanced her shoulder with a hard, stinging blow.

Sylvie screamed, terrified and in pain. Something warm trickled down her shoulder blade. She

felt her muscles go slack, her insides turn to water. Numbness crept through her. She willed

herself to move, but found she couldn’t. She absolutely
couldn’t.

Time seemed to stop, and the heat grew stronger, seeming to sear her through her nightgown.

Oh dear God, was this the end, would they both die while she stood frozen like Lot’s wife?

Then the baby stirred against her. A tiny hand thrust free of the blanket, seemed to search the

air until it found her cheek. Featherlike fingers fluttered against her mouth.

Tears gathered in Sylvie’s throat.
Oh, stupid body. Move, dammit. For this baby if not for

yourself. MOVE!

Somehow she forced her limbs to unlock; she forced herself to go on.

[30] Sylvie wasn’t aware she’d reached the bottom until strong hands grasped her about the

waist, lifting her free. Her feet touched pavement. It felt so blessedly solid. Voices came in a

rush. Hands everywhere. Guiding her. Supporting her.

Pulsing red dome lights stabbed at her eyes. Loud voices bellowing orders through

megaphones seemed to follow her as she and the men helping her wove their way past the tangle

of canvas hoses and fire-fighting equipment.

She felt disconnected, unreal. Stretchers floated past, ghostlike. Firemen in grimy yellow

turnouts bellowed at one another above the roar of the hydrants, their blackened faces contorted,

like gargoyles’.

“... some damn kids playing with firecrackers ... ,” she heard one of them say.