Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,52
far, but no, it’s not that, but what is it?
Enough. Enough. Lift the tray. Don’t blow it now. So nice. That smile from Gloria. The beautiful flowers.
Out.
Now.
Go.
She steps into the living room and stops, frozen. They are gone, all of them, gone. She almost drops the tray. The rattle of the spoons as they slide against the edge. Not a single one there, not even Gloria. How can it be? How did they disappear so suddenly? Like a bad childhood joke, as if they might spring out of the closets any moment, or pop up from behind the sofa, a row of carnival faces to throw water balloons at.
It is, for an instant, as if she has dreamed them into being. That they have come to her, unasked, and then they have stolen away.
She lays the tray down on the table. The teapot slides and a little bubble of tea spurts out. The handbags are there and a single cigarette still burns in the ashtray.
It is then that she hears the voices, and she chides herself. Of course. How silly of me. The bang of the back door and then the upper roof door in the wind. She must have left it open, they must have felt the breeze.
Down along the corridor. The shapes beyond the upper doorway. She climbs the final few steps, joins them on the roof, all of them leaning out over the wall, looking south. Nothing to see, of course, just a haze and the cupola at the top of the New York General Building.
—No sign of him?
She knows of course that there could not be, even on the clearest of days, but it is nice to have the women turn to her in unison and shake their heads, no.
—We can try the radio, she says, sliding in behind them. It might be on a news report.
—Good idea, says Jacqueline.
—Oh, no, says Janet. I’d rather not.
—Me neither, says Marcia.
—Probably won’t be on the news.
—Not yet, anyway.
—I don’t think so.
They remain a moment, looking south, as if they might still be able to conjure him up.
—Coffee, ladies? A little tea?
—Lord, says Gloria with a wink, I thought you’d never ask.
—A nibble of something, yes.
—Calm our nerves?
—Yes, yes.
—Okay, Marcia?
—Downstairs?
—Mercy, yes. It’s hotter than a July bride up here.
The women guide Marcia back down the inside stairs, through the maid’s door, into the living room once more, with Janet on one arm, Jacqueline on the other, Gloria behind.
In the armchair ashtray, the cigarette has burned down to the quick, like a man about to break and fall. Claire puts it out. She watches as the women scrunch up tight on the sofa, arms around one another. Enough chairs? How could she have made such a mistake? Should she bring out the beanbag chair from Joshua’s room? Put it on the floor so that her body can spread itself out in his old impression?
This walking man, she can’t shake him. The bubble of discontent in her mind. She is being ungenerous, she knows, but she just can’t get rid of it. What if he hits somebody down below? She has heard that at night there are whole colonies of birds that fly into the World Trade Center buildings, their glass reflection. The bash and fall. Will the walker thump with them?
Snap to. Enough.
Pull your mind together. Pick up all the feathers. Guide them gently back into the air.
—The bagels are in the bag there, Claire. And there’s doughnuts too.
—Lovely. Thanks.
The small niceties.
—Dearest Lord, look at those!
—Oh, my word.
—I’m fat enough.
—Oh, stop. I only wish I had your figure.
—Take it and run, says Gloria. Bet it spills over!
—No, no, you have a lovely figure. Fabulous.
—Come on!
—I must say, truly.
And a hush around the room for the little white lie. A pullback from the food. They glance at one another. An unfolding of seconds. A siren outside the window. The static broken and thoughts taking shape in their minds, like water in a pitcher.
—So, says Janet, reaching for a bagel. Not to be morbid or anything …