That Magic Mischief (33 page)

She could take the Number 1 all the way to Brooklyn Heights, but then there was that twenty five minute walk home … and it was hot … and she hadn’t slept at all last night … and she’d been running around all day long … and … oh, the hell with it.

How quickly she was going to get a cab was another matter. She was practically in the suburbs, and taxi culture wasn’t really a part of the vibe on Broadway and 215th Street. She did a time check: 3:15 and all was well. Her flight wasn’t until 8:45, and she wasn’t planning on leaving the house until six, she hated hanging around airports, especially when she was nervous and anxious and excited … and disappointed that Jamie hadn’t called her after all.

She wandered to the curb, phone in hand, and rang her answering machine while she kept an eye out. Nothing. She yawned, and taking off her denim jacket, tied it around her waist. Leaning against a mailbox, she checked her list one more time. The laptop had been ready and she’d gotten a friendly send-off from the guys at Tecserve. She’d seen Kelli, still over the moon with the news that her play was moving uptown, all the way to Ninth Street, for an open-ended run. The German mime, Günter, seemed solid and reliable, and if she remembered correctly from the cast party, was a good dancer as well. She had her e-ticket, and now all she had to do was go home, pack
again
, and wait for Lorna and Maria Grazia to pick her up.

She checked to make sure that her phone was working by going over to a payphone and ringing herself.

I,
thought Annabelle,
am acting like a teenager
.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, nerves, and worry about Callie, but Annabelle’s belly tingled deliciously at the thought of that silly little kiss on the cheek. Maybe she hadn’t gotten any sleep because of that harmless little peck. Maybe if they had just gone a little bit further, everything would be all figured out and sorted and she could go off to Ireland with a clear conscience.

Maybe if they had just gotten it over with, she wouldn’t have spent the whole day in a haze, wondering what it would be like, how it would feel, to kiss Jamie properly. If that tiny, inconsequential smooch was any indication …

“Callie, if you’re out there somewhere, would you mind sending me a taxi? I really need to get home.”

A yellow cab peeled around the corner of 215th Street and screeched to a halt beside her before she’d even had the chance to raise her arm.

The driver looked dazed, and turned on his meter by rote. He didn’t even blink an eye when Annabelle shouted “Brooklyn, Carroll Gardens,” through the plexiglass. As the taxi tore away from the curb, she leaned her head back against the blue leatherette seat and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, they were well into the hundreds, passing by Columbia University’s lovely campus.
Ah, Columbia
, thought Annabelle fondly
, site of many a drunken revel and rebound
. The taxi cruised down Broadway, not a red light in sight, and they were soon passing Lincoln Center, the great fountain in the middle of the square playing host to idling New Yorkers and weary tourists. She’d only been in the place once, with Wilson, to see some opera or something. She couldn’t even remember which one it was, or what she had worn.

That
, she thought,
is a very good sign.

Times Square. Annabelle leaned forward, watching the lights shift and change and blink and flash, watched the churning crowds gather at every street corner, waved to the people queuing at TKTS for cheap seats for Broadway shows, heard the dissonant sounds of competing buskers and smiled up at the big screen, currently playing Dan Minnehan’s latest video.
Ah, coincidence
, thought Annabelle
. It’s a good omen, anyway.

The cabbie shifted over to Seventh Avenue, and as Annabelle gazed west, she could see flashes of the Hudson River, gleaming in the spring sunlight.
Goodbye, Macy’s
, she thought as they passed the retail giant’s flagship store.
Thanks for not sending me too many nasty letters when I couldn’t pay my charge card, junior year in college!

Goodbye, Madison Square Garden, where that wrestler guy had taken her to a monster truck rally.
What was I thinking?
She laughed to herself. “What was I thinking!” she yelled out the window, causing a bunch of Knicks fans to holler back in her wake. She laughed again, and the cabbie didn’t even blink an eye.

“Brooklyn?” he asked, “Where?”

“Carroll Gardens. Brooklyn Bridge to Court Street.”

“Okay, lady. Okay.”

Bye, bye Chelsea, goodbye Village, and The Riviera Café and Film Forum and The Ear Inn, goodbye, see ya, goodbye.

Goodbye, Wilson, she mused, without sadness or longing or anger. Goodbye to Wilson and to the Annabelle she’d been when she was with him, goodbye to Connecticut and New England and all those stuck-up girls who had made her feel like an interloper and the banker guys that had tried to hit on her when they got loaded. Goodbye to all those boring company dinners and tiresome bowling parties and who knew what else.

And, to be fair, goodbye to all those boat trips and barbecues and the nice meals by candlelight in new and trendy restaurants in Soho and to slumming it that time on Ludlow Street in Max Fish, drinking Michelob and making out at the bar at four o’clock in the morning.
Goodbye to all that
, thought Annabelle, fondly, easily, and finally.
Goodbye.

Canal Street: see ya! A circus of storefronts bursting with knock-off handbags and backpacks and watches and jewellery and sunglasses and DVDs and CDs and boom boxes and gym socks. Goodbye, Chinatown, and the roast ducks hanging in the window, and the little old ladies shoving all the youngsters out of the way, grappling for oranges at ten for a dollar, the fish stalls with their tanks of lobsters and slabs of silvery trout, the steam emitting from the endless array of lunch counters, restaurants, and noodle shops —

“Hey! I said Brooklyn Bridge!” Annabelle leaned forward and rapped on the glass.

“Manhattan Bridge, quicker, quicker,” said the cabbie, and Annabelle automatically deducted a dollar from his tip.

Oh, Brooklyn Bridge. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, she thought, and added the dollar back. As much as she loved driving over the beautiful span, it seemed even nicer right now to have a good, long look at it. It rose gracefully out of the bay, and the setting sunlight that gleamed off of Lower Manhattan gilded it delicately. Goodbye bridge … We stayed up all night once, Lorna and Maria Grazia and I, along with a crew of new and nervous freshman the last Saturday before the first term began, stayed up all night and then walked from college to you and crossed you halfway as the sun rose and we all sat down, huddled together in the early morning chill, talking about everything we knew about life, which, at eighteen, wasn’t as much as we thought it was.
Bye, bridge,
Annabelle thought, and felt a pang of homesickness already.

For simplicity’s sake, she had the cabbie leave her at the corner of Union Street, and she slowly walked the half block toward home.
I
, thought Annabelle
, am a bit of a homebody. I like having all my things in one place … and I haven’t a clue where I’m staying after the first few days, and if I’ll have to lug all my stuff with me everywhere we go, or if they’ll find me an apartment — flat — or something …

She locked her door behind her. It already seemed like she didn’t live there anymore. She’d reorganized her ‘office’ closet and packed up everything she could, including her desktop Mac, and in the process had discovered that she didn’t have as much stuff as she thought she had. Her framed photos and knick-knacks had been stored away, and her CDs had gone into Maria Grazia’s care. The bathroom was stripped down, and her towels were bundled into a box that now sat at the bottom of her bedroom closet. The hardest part was the empty corner that once was the site of her altar.

She’d lugged the broken-down sewing machine out into the street Thursday afternoon; by the early evening, someone had taken it. She’d wrapped up the candlesticks, and the other bits and pieces, but had tucked the altar cloth, the chunk of rose quartz, some incense, and a small ceramic bowl into her luggage. She could set up anywhere, really, and thought that would make a nice new age-y product: Porta-Shrine, the traveller’s sacred space in a bag! Why not?

It seemed pointless to moan that a Pooka who wasn’t even showing itself had yet again unpacked her bags. Annabelle stepped around the clothes and equipment that littered the floor and immediately tucked her e-ticket into her passport. She checked her phone again (nothing) and her email (nope) and figured it was time to let that go. If she was meant to see or hear from Jamie again, she would.

She sat down on her couch and started refolding her clothes. She picked up a sweater and the bulky wool still smelled of the sage she used to love to burn in this place. She held it to her face and breathed deep, and sat back. “Cal? I bet you can hear me. My flight is at 8:45, and I don’t know where you are, or what I have to do. I don’t know if you’re sulking or dead or what. I don’t see why we can’t make a try at loading you in my luggage or something. I have, technically, kissed Jamie Flynn and you are, technically, free to go.”

The silence that filled the flat was deafening. “Callie? I said I wished I could help you, and I know I didn’t do a very good job of it, but I’ll say it again: I wish I could help you. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I could just apologize for you, or take that necklace thing back for you, anything. If I could, I’d do it. I’d kiss Jamie Flynn properly if I had the chance!” She rose, and addressed the ceiling. “I would have liked to say goodbye in person, and to thank you in person too. I know you get all embarrassed and stuff, but I would like to say thanks face to face … ” Annabelle trailed off.
I
, she thought,
am a sentimental sap.
“If there is anything I can do, even at the eleventh hour, well, let me know.”

Annabelle went to check the bedroom, one more time. The closet was stuffed to the rafters on the left side, and she made sure that the boxes were well balanced and wouldn’t crash on poor Günter’s head. She’d left the right side clear, even though he’d assured her that he only had jeans, T-shirts, and leotards, and that they didn’t take up much space. She paused and looked at herself in the mirror that hung over her bureau.
That’s me
, she thought
, I’m back. I may even be more ‘me’ then I ever have been before.
She smiled at herself, and went back in to the front room to tackle the bags.

Everything had been packed up, and her luggage was very helpfully waiting for her by the door. Annabelle sat on her little couch and waited, in the gathering dusk, for the beginning that was right on the heels of this ending.

• • •

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here to see me off.” Annabelle kept hugging her friends as they prepared to get her and her bags into the car service Lorna had booked. It was a protracted event, as Maria Grazia was worriedly going through each case, ensuring that everything was in its place, and Lorna kept collapsing onto the little sofa.

“You got your ticket? You got your passport?” MG fussed.

“She’d shown it to you
five
times,” Lorna snapped, her eyes squeezed shut behind her dark glasses, in the grips of the most epic hangover of her life.

“I’m going to miss this place,” Annabelle said, as she gave up and sat down on a ‘dining room’ chair. Maria Grazia was going through her big backpack for the third time.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” Lorna wheezed.

“I — I don’t know.” Annabelle clutched her hands in her lap and fought the urge to say goodbye to her bedroom one last time.

“Oh, no, no you don’t, no projections or premonitions, please, and definitely not of an ominous nature!” Maria Grazia put her foot down. “Magical Pookas are one thing, but predictions of death and destruction are definitely not allowed.”

“No, nothing like that. I may want to stay on a bit, travel, I don’t know.” The plan was so new, it couldn’t even be precisely called a plan. Not at this point. Because, agent or no agent, how stupid would it be to move to Ireland permanently? Annabelle shook her head, and changed the subject.

“I hope Callie remembered to pack my toiletries properly. I had them all wrapped up in my underwear and tucked in shoes and things so they wouldn’t take up too much space. I double-checked her on the computer stuff, but I didn’t want to push it, in case she got insulted and unpacked it all again.” Annabelle sunk down a bit in her seat. “She was so high maintenance.”

“You’ll miss her,” Maria Grazia stated. “Now you have our phone numbers?”

“Maria Grazia! I
know
your phone number! All of them! Not even by heart anymore, they’re embedded in every strand of my DNA!”

“And you’ll call us when you get in, I don’t care what time it is, right, Lorna? Whatever time you get in, you call.”

“If you call me at any time that precedes nine o’clock in the morning,” Lorna groaned. “I will come over there and will
bloody
well kill you.”

“If you’d drink more water, you’d begin to rehydrate, and all the little cells in your body that are currently screaming in agony would relax and breathe once more.” Maria Grazia zipped up the backpack. “You call me, you leave a message, maybe the cell phone is best, but you call me, you hear me?” She leaned forward a fraction, and raised her voice. “You can call
me
, anytime, anywhere, if you need anything, honey, anything at all.”

“Stop
screaming
.” Lorna moaned.

“I’ll be fine. Maybe we should get all this stuff outside, wait for the car. Lorna looks like she needs some air.”

Maria Grazia picked up every single bag and hurried down the short corridor to the door. Lorna winced at the dull beam of sunlight that edged into the hall, and followed on behind.

Annabelle cast a last look around the place, already nothing at all like the home she’d built for herself, lovingly, over all those years, gently shut the door, and smoothly shot the bolt.