Cutler - Midnight Whipsers Part 25

"So am I," she interrupted.

"Do I have the right number?" I asked.

"Who are you, one of his students?"

"Students? Yes, ma'am," I said. "And I'm supposed to have a lesson with him today."

"Well, I hope it's not until this afternoon," she said curtly.

"It is."

"Well what do you want?" she demanded. "Is he there now?" I asked.

"In body but not in spirit," she replied. She followed it with a laugh.

"Can I speak with him, please?"

"He's sort of indisposed at the moment. Call back in about . . an hour," she said.

"But . ."

She hung up before I could say another word.

At least I had the right Michael Sutton, I thought, and copied the address out of the phone book. Jefferson, who was sitting quietly and observing all the people and noise around him, looked up expectantly.

"All right," I said. "I've found him. Let's go find a taxicab."

"A taxicab? Okay," he replied with excitement.

I followed the signs that directed us to the 41st Street entrance. When we stepped out, we saw the line of taxicabs parked along the curb. The rain had stopped, but it was still very gray and dismal. The driver at the first cab moved toward us quickly. He was a tall, thin man with a thick brown mustache.

"You need a cab, miss?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Well you got one," he said, taking our bags and putting them into the trunk. "Get in," he said, nodding toward the rear seat. Jefferson slipped in quickly and immediately looked out the window on the other side. "Where to, miss?" the driver asked after he got in.

I told him the address.

"Oh, Greenwich Village, huh?" He turned on his meter and pulled out into the thick traffic as if we were the only vehicle on the street. Horns blared, people shouted, but he turned and accelerated with indifference after the light changed. In moments we were flying down the city street, both Jefferson and me holding on to the handles for dear life.

"Your first trip to New York City?" the driver asked us.

"Yes sir."

He laughed.

"Thought so. You looked pretty terrified when you first came out of the building. Don't worry. Just keep your nose out of other people's handkerchiefs,"

he said, "and you'll be all right."

"Ugh," Jefferson chortled.

The driver made a few turns, took us down a long street and then made another turn around a corner where there was a restaurant and a flower shop.

He drove slower and finally stopped. I gazed out the window at a row of old-looking buildings. Most had faded and worn-looking front doors with chipped stoops. The buildings themselves looked gray and dirty; the windows on the lower levels were streaked with dust and grime hardened after the rain.

"This is it," the driver said. "That'll be five forty."

I took out six dollars and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said and stepped out of the taxicab to get our suitcases.

"Which one is eight eighteen?" I asked, looking at the stoops.

"Numbers are a bit faded, but if you look closely, you'll see eight eighteen right in front of you, sweetheart." He got into his cab and drove off.

Jefferson and I stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the front door of the building in which my real father lived.

"Come on, Jefferson," I said, lifting my suitcase.

"I don't like it here," he complained. "It's ugly.

And where's the playground?" he asked, looking about.

"Just come along, Jefferson," I ordered and took his hand. Reluctantly, he lifted his little suitcase and followed me up the stoop to the front door. We walked into a small entryway. On the wall were boxes for mail and above each were the names of the tenants. I found the name Michael Sutton next to Apartment 3B. Just seeing the name made me so nervous I could barely move. Slowly, I opened the second dour and we entered the first floor. I saw the stairway on the right, but I didn't see an elevator.

"I don't want to walk upstairs. I'm tired," Jefferson moaned when I started us toward the steps.

"We have to," I said. "Soon you will be able to sleep in a bed."

I tugged him along and we began to climb up the stairs. When we reached the third floor, I stopped to look around. It was a dark, dingy corridor with only a small window at the far end. It looked as though no one ever washed the gla.s.s.

"It smells funny in here," Jefferson said, grimacing. It did smell musty and stale, but I didn't say anything. Instead, I went down the corridor until we stood before 3B. Then I took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer. I heard nothing, so I pressed it again. Again, there was no sound.

"Maybe it doesn't work," I muttered and knocked gently on the door. We listened for footsteps, but heard none.

"Maybe he's not home," Jefferson suggested.

"No, I just spoke to someone here," I insisted and knocked again, this time a lot harder. Moments later, the door was thrust open and we were facing a woman who had thrown on a man's faded blue robe.

Her bleached blond hair, with its thick dark roots showing, was unbrushed. She wore no makeup and had sleepy eyes. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.

"What?" she demanded.

"I'm here. . . we're here to see Michael Sutton,"

I explained.

"Are you the one who called a while ago?" she asked, stepping back with a look of annoyance. "Yes Ma'am."

"I told you . . ."

"Who the h.e.l.l is it?" we heard a man call.

"One of your prodigies, so anxious to become a star she has to wake us up," the woman replied.

"Come on in," she said. She first seemed to notice Jefferson. "You brought your little brother?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Baby-sitting, huh? What's with the suitcases?"

"Can we see Michael?" I asked. Jefferson was glaring up at her in awe. She gazed down at him, looked at me, shook her head and went into another room. I looked around the living room. Clothes were strewn about the sofa and chairs and there were dirty cups on the coffee table and some dirty dishes on a side table as well. The carpet was a faded brown with many stains and spots in it that looked like holes burned by cigarette ashes. Of to the right was an old piano, the stool so worn that it had lost most of its color. Sheet music was opened on the top of the piano and there was a gla.s.s with some liquid still in it on the piano as well. The yellow window shades were drawn almost to the bottom, permitting only a bit of gray light to enter.

Wearing a pair of old jeans and b.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt as he came out, my real father appeared. He was barefoot and looked like he had just rolled out of bed, too. His graying dark hair was long and wild, the strands pouring over his eyebrows and down his temples. His unshaven face was ashen and thin, almost gaunt, with his blue eyes dull from sleep. He slumped a bit so that his narrow shoulders turned slightly inward. As he stared at us, he tucked in his s.h.i.+rt.

My heart sank. This was far from the way I had imagined the mysterious man of my dreams. This man did not look like a debonair musical star. It was impossible to imagine him ever a celebrity. There was no strength in this face, no confidence and hope. This man looked drained, lost, empty. I couldn't believe those fingers would play piano or that weak mouth with the lips turned down in the corners could make pleasing musical sounds.

Where was the dark, silky hair and the elegant sapphire eyes my mother said would sparkle with an impish glint? Where were those broad shoulders?

He s.h.i.+fted his eyes from Jefferson to me and then put his hands on his hips.

"So?" he said. "What do you want?"

"This is Jefferson," I said, nodding at my little brother, "and my name is Christie." I waited a moment to see his reaction, but there was none.

"Yeah, so?" he said. "Someone sent you here for lessons?"

"No sir. I'm Christie Longchamp."

"Longchamp?" His eyes widened a bit and he scratched the back of his head. "Longchamp?"

"Yes sir. My mother's name was Dawn."

The woman who had greeted us at the door came up behind my father and leaned against the wall.

She was still smoking her cigarette.

"Dawn? You're . . ."

"Yes. I'm your daughter," I finally declared.

How strange it sounded and how odd it felt to tell this man he was my father. His eyes widened even more.

"Who'd she say she was?" the woman behind him asked with a tone of laughter in her voice.

"Quiet," he replied without looking back.

"You're little Christie? Sure, sure," he said, nodding and finally smiling. "One good look at you tells it.

You've got her face, all right. Well, well, well . . ." He straightened up a bit and brushed his hair back with the palms of his hands. "And this is your brother, eh?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe it. Wow." He shook his head and smiled. "Wow." He spun around on the woman behind him. "My daughter," he declared. "Not bad, eh?"

"Terrific," she said and flicked her cigarette ash to the floor.

"Well, what are you two doing here? I mean . . .

how did you get here?" he asked.

"We took the bus," I said.

"No kidding. All the way all by yourselves, huh? And your mother let you?" he asked.

"My mother . . . and father were killed in a fire," I replied as quickly as I could.

"Fire?" He shook his head. "What fire?"

"The hotel burned down and they were trapped in the bas.e.m.e.nt," I explained. Even now, talking about it brought heavy tears to my eyes, tears that blurred my vision.

"Well, I'll be. That's terrible," he said. "So there's no more hotel, huh?"

"My uncle is rebuilding it," I said. I couldn't imagine why that would be of any importance to him.

Why wasn't he more upset about what had happened to Mommy?

"Oh, sure. There must have been insurance. So .

your mother's . . gone." He shook his head and looked at the woman. "Why don't you put up some coffee?"

She smirked as if he had asked her to perform a major feat and reluctantly strutted toward the kitchen.

"That's er . . . that's er . . Catherine. She's a singer at one of the studios in town. Here," he said, moving toward the sofa to clear away some of the clothing, "have a seat. Tell me about yourself. How old are you now?" he asked as I moved Jefferson and myself to the sofa.

"I'm sixteen." How could he not remember how old I was? I wondered.

"Oh yeah, sure. And how old's . . ." He nodded toward Jefferson.

"Jefferson's nine," I said.

"Almost ten," he added.

"Well, that's a ripe old age," my father quipped, but Jefferson didn't smile. He simply stared up at him with that characteristic fixed glare of his that unnerved some people. My father laughed. Then he sat on the easy chair, not bothering to remove the skirt that had been draped over the back of it.

"So . . it must have been horrible for you guys .