had the cabbie go back across Forty-fifth to the theater where Sweeney was showing and had him park it on the curb. I stood on the sidewalk, one foot still in the cab, and fended off people who wanted the cab. “I’m picking someone up. This cab is taken. I’ve already got this cab. Sorry. No, I don’t want to share this cab. I’m waiting for someone. Go away.”
I was beginning to question this endeavor when Millie finally appeared, looking very New York with her purse around one shoulder and her neck, her face very determined and purposeful.
“Millie!”
She turned, surprise on her face. “David. How did you get a cab?”
I waved my hands and shrugged. “Magic. Let me give you a lift.”
She came closer. “You don’t know which way I’m going.”
“So.”
“I’m staying down in the Village.”
“Close enough for government work. Get in.” I held the door for her and told the driver, “Sheridan Square.” I frowned. Close enough for government work. My dad used that phrase. I wondered what other things I did that were like my father.
Millie frowned. “Where is that?”
“It’s in the heart of the Village. It’s also near some really great restaurants. You hungry?”
“What is this? I thought we were just sharing a taxi.” She was smiling, though. “How much is the fare going to be? I was going to take the subway back. I didn’t exactly budget for a cab. I’d heard how impossible it is to get one after the theaters let out.”
“Well, it’s true. It felt like planet of the zombie taxi-seekers there while I waited for you.”
“You were waiting for me?” She looked nervous for a moment. “My mother told me not to talk to strangers. How much is the cab going to be?”
“Forget the cab. I offered a lift, not half a taxi. And I’m good for something to eat if you want.”
“Hmmm. Just how old are you, David?”
I blushed and looked at my watch. “In forty-seven minutes I’ll be eighteen.” I looked away from her, at the passing lights and sidewalks. I remembered the events surrounding my seventeenth birthday and shuddered.
“Oh. Well happy almost birthday.” She stared ahead. “You act older than that. You dress awfully nice and you don’t talk that young.”
I shrugged. “I read a great deal … and I can afford to dress like this.”
“You must have some job.”
I wondered what I was doing in this cab with this woman. Lonely. “I don’t have a job, Millie. I don’t need one.”
“Your parents are that rich?”
I thought about Dad, the skinflint, with his Cadillac and his bottle. “My dad does all right, but I don’t take anything from him. I have my own money—banking interests.”
“You don’t go to school and you don’t work? What do you do?”
I smiled without humor. “I read a lot.”
“You said that.”
“Well … it’s true.”
She looked out the window on the other side of the cab. Both her hands clutched tightly around her purse. Finally she turned back and said, “I ate before the show, but some cappuccino or espresso at one of those sidewalk cafés would be nice.”
A couple of days after the bank robbery, when my nerves had settled somewhat, I moved into the Gramercy Park hotel. This was nice for a while, but the atmosphere of the hotel and the size of the room got to me after a month.
I started looking for an apartment in the Village, first, but, even though I could afford things there, most of the places wanted references and ID and bank accounts—stuff I didn’t have. Finally I found a place in East Flatbush for half the money with half the hassle. I got a year’s lease and paid the landlord in postal money orders for the deposit and three months’ rent.
He seemed happy.
Shortly after I moved in, I did some minor repairs, added iron brackets on both sides of the doors to hold two-by-four drop bars, and walled up a walk-in closet off the hall. When I was done, it was just another blank wall, a room without an entrance.
Except to me, that is.
And, except for the odd pounding, which I was careful to do during the day while my downstairs neighbors were at work, nobody was the wiser since I’d jumped the materials directly into the apartment from a lumberyard in Yonkers. Nobody saw me carry the lengths of two-by-fours or Sheet-rock into the apartment.
I moved the money from the library after that, stacking it neatly on the shelves in the hidden closet and devoting an entire week to replacing the Chemical Bank paper straps with rubber bands and then burning the paper straps in the kitchen sink.
Before that, I just knew that I was going to show up at the library and find a policeman waiting for me. Now the worst I feared was the landlord coming in and wondering what I’d done with the closet.
Covering the wall so cleanly really did something for me. It wasn’t something I bought with money. It wasn’t something someone else did for me. It left me feeling good about myself.
I resolved to do more work with my hands in the future.
To furnish the apartment I bought only furniture that I could lift. If something was too big for me to lift, it had to break apart into liftable pieces. That way I could jump them directly to the apartment.
Most of my furniture purchases were bookshelves. Most of my other purchases were books.
Millie was in town for four more days. She let me follow her through several traditional New York sights—the Bronx Zoo, the Metropolitan Museum, the Empire State Building. I took her to see two more Broadway shows and to a dinner at Tavern on the Green. She accepted them reluctantly.
“You’re really sweet, David, but you’re three and a half years younger than me. I don’t like you spending money on me under false pretenses.”
We were walking in Central Park across the Sheep Meadow on our way to the mall. Kites, bright daubs of flitting pigment, tried to paint the sky. Bicyclists went by in clumps on the sidewalk on the other side of the fence.
“What’s false about it? First of all, I am not trying to create an implicit contract between the two of us. I have this money and I like spending time with you. The only thing I expect from it is the time itself. Time that I’m not alone. I wouldn’t mind something else, but I don’t expect to buy it.
“And this age thing is a crock of sexist shit. I’m surprised at you.”
She frowned. “What’s sexist about it?”
“If I were three years older than you, romantic involvement would be possible, even probable. Have you ever dated someone that much older than you?”
She blushed.
I went on. “I think it’s acceptable in society because older men have accumulated more worldly goods. Therefore they make better suitors. Perhaps that’s the original reason. Perhaps it’s that alpha male crap. Older bulls have survived longer, making their genes worth coveting. Aren’t you above those outdated factors? Are you going to let a male idea of what and who you should be make your choices for you?”
“Give me a break, David!”
I shrugged. “If you don’t want to spend the time with me for other reasons, just say so. Just don’t use that age thing.” I stared down at my feet and said in a quieter voice, “I have to put up with enough shit because of my age.”
She didn’t say anything for a long