Page 11 of Upstate

We walked out together. The city night was street-lit, the hazy sky starless. A single stride took us from the bar’s entrance to the door for the apartments above it. I put my key in the lock. David brought me in for a parting hug. Resting my head against his shoulder, I envied his violin.

The wail of a passing ambulance chases away my memories of the past. My joints are stiff as Pinocchio’s as I clamber to my feet. Swallowing the remembered taste of Writers’ Tears, I call the super to come get the keys.

Down the block where the van’s parked, I settle my messenger bag on the passenger seat next to the fancy espresso machine David’s parents sent us as a wedding present. In the footwell, there’s a box of dry goods I cleared from the cupboard, some shelf-stable almond milk, and my last pound of fair-trade coffee beans. Coming around to the driver’s side, I climb behind the wheel and buckle in. Stacked behind me are all the things I’ve chosen to keep, including the tote of David’s band tees that I sealed up tight to retain his scent. The whiff of him that lingers in the van still brings me close to tears. It would be overwhelming now to hold those shirts to my nose. Eventually, though, a day will come when I’ll be ready to breathe him in. That’s when I’ll break the seal.

I cross the river that makes Manhattan an island and leave the city behind. Evening gives way to night by the time I spy the pair of new bridges that replaced the old Tappan Zee, their twinkling lights doubled by their reflected twins. It occurs to me I’ve made a similar pilgrimage before. Then, I was driving from Wisconsin to California in my dad’s pickup, the covered cab packed with everything I’d kept from the part of my life that ended when he died. Now I’m heading north to Schuywich, once again bringing with me only as much as will fit in a dead man’s vehicle.

I arrive in the dark, nearly missing the turn off Ridgetop Road into my own driveway. The yellowy porch light illuminates a package on my stoop. Leaving everything in the van for now, I open my unlocked front door and drag in the boxed foam mattress I ordered online to replace the one my husband and I shared. In the foyer, I find a set of keys atop a fruit basket from Eric, along with a note welcoming me home.

Home. What a strange notion, I think as I wander the house like a ghost, reacquainting myself with this place that’s now mine. The cross-stitched adage “Home is where the heart is” pops into my mind. If there’s any truth to that tired cliché, I rightly belong in a tomb.

Chapter 7

“A Woman’s Place” by Evelyn Cabot

Mademoiselle, November 1956

“Good for you, getting out of this rat race,” Mrs. Genovese said when I handed over the key to my tenement apartment. “Whatcha gonna do, get married or something?”

“Or something,” I replied succinctly, unwilling to add fuel to the fire of my landlady’s nosiness with the kindling of extraneous syllables.

“Well, I hope your fella treats you right, Miss Cabot. The only good thing my Enzo ever did for me was leave me this building when he died.” Mrs. Genovese dropped the key into a pocket of her sauce-stained apron, then stepped back to give my outfit a critical once-over. She was used to seeing me attired in the fashionably feminine clothes favored at a ladies’ magazine. That day, I’d traded my pencil skirt and lavaliere blouse for twill trousers and a collared cardigan. “Take my advice, honey. Don’t let yourself go just because you’ve hooked your catch. Every man’s born with a roving eye, and believe me, it don’t take much to turn his head.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Genovese,” I said, suppressing a smile at the depth of her misapprehension. There was no point in explaining I was dressed for my new life — a life that didn’t include a roving-eyed Enzo. The day had come for me to head upstate to the decrepit farmhouse whose deed carried no one’s name but my own.

The decommissioned Jeep I’d bought on the cheap was parked at the curb, looking like a prop out of The Grapes of Wrath with everything I owned tied down behind the driver’s seat. Suitcases teetered atop a rolled-up rug. A brass lamp was lashed to my favorite armchair. The dainty legs of a secretary desk stuck out the back. I was no Okie fleeing the Dust Bowl, though. Rather than being run off ruined land by some faceless corporation, I was headed toward lush acres that legally belonged to me. Instead of setting off in a desperate search for work, I was bringing mine with me in the form of a portable Smith-Corona and a subject worth writing about. I may have looked like a wretch who’d been evicted as I steered my jalopy through the cobbled streets of the West Village, but I felt like Nellie Bly setting out to encircle the world.

Was I afraid? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. I’m a girl who grew up scared of her own parents, the house where I was raised more battleground than refuge. The cringing child who dodged her father’s blows and her mother’s neglect lives on inside me, but I refuse to be ruled by her fears. If I let being scared stop me, I’d never have boarded a ship bound for Korea with exactly zero other females aboard. Did I have any idea what I was getting myself into? No, but if I were cowed by the unknown, I’d never have come to New York sight unseen for the guest editorship at Mlle. Will my move upstate lead to success? Well, I’m no fortune teller, but working my way through college and joining the Women Marines taught me success is something that’s earned, not given.

Here’s what I am sure of: Setting off for Schuywich is the first step in a new adventure, and adventure is what makes life worth living. Please don’t misunderstand me! I’m not suggesting a girl has to be the next Amelia Earhart to fulfill her potential. In fact, I’d count good mothering among life’s noblest, and bravest, undertakings. I’m the first to admit it’s easier to take risks when the only life depending on your choices is your own. As long as this life is in my hands, though, I’m determined to make the most of it. When I came to Manhattan three years ago, I was inspired by the soaring glass ceilings of Pennsylvania Station to set my sights high. Soon, I’ll be climbing a ladder to replace missing slates on the leaking roof of my 1800s farmhouse. I feel certain the view from there will be just as inspiring.

As much as I support Jane Jacobs’s efforts to save our city from Robert Moses’s wrecking ball, I can’t complain about the elevated highway that whisked me all the way to Tarrytown without encountering a single stoplight. With the Hudson River to my west and my compass direction north, I allowed myself a glance in the rearview mirror and a thought to all I was leaving behind. I’d turned down an assignment to cover this year’s Fashion-O-Rama at the Coliseum. I gave away my ticket to see Rosalind Russell onstage as Auntie Mame. I won’t be hearing Lucine Amara sing La Bohème at the Metropolitan Opera or witness Willie Mays send another home run flying out of the Polo Grounds. Leaving my voting district so soon before the election means I’ll have no say in who becomes our next president — though Eisenhower is such a shoo-in for a second term, he’s letting Richard Nixon do the campaigning for both of them.

As I paid the fifty-cent toll to cross the engineering marvel that is the new Tappan Zee Bridge, I reminded myself that I’ll be returning to Manhattan for regular editorial meetings at the magazine. There will be plenty of opportunities in my future for baseball games and Broadway shows and special assignments. Right now, though, my job is getting my old farmhouse ready for winter. For the next few months (and the coming installments of my column, too) upstate New York will be my whole world. What that world will be like and how I’ll fit into it is a mystery. Let’s find out together, shall we?

Chapter 8

I’m in the barn, posing Leaves of Grass like an Instagram influencer. Its green cover pops against the dark barnboard background. Gold lettering glows in the morning light that spills through the open door. A gooseneck lamp, angled just so, brightens the embossed berries. I take photos of the endpapers, the spine, and the title page, too, as well as that jaunty engraving of Walt Whitman himself. I compose a detailed description of the book, noting the excellent condition of the boards while admitting to light foxing on the paper, then upload the photos and description to the seller’s account I created on AbeBooks. After comparing my copy to other listings, I settle on a price of twenty thousand dollars. I can’t activate my storefront until the Department of Taxation issues the Certificate of Authority I applied for, but at least I’ve brought Red Barn Books one small step closer to the internet age.

“Okay,” I say, addressing myself to the thousands of books that surround me. “Who’s next?”

I wander through the barn, pulling books at random from the shelves. The penciled prices on their endpapers mostly range between ten and twenty dollars, but I have no idea if those prices were set five years ago or fifty. Even if some have gone up in value, it hardly seems worth the effort to list them online. Best to focus on the rare volumes and leather-bound sets displayed in glass-fronted cases near the bookshop’s entrance, I decide, shoving aside a stack of old Mademoiselle magazines to make room on the table for an 1891 Atlas of the Hudson River Valley from New York City to Troy. The work is slow and tedious. At this pace, I’ll be hiding out here for the coming decade, walls of books standing silent sentry over my solitude.

Sounds perfect, I think. I’ve been in Schuywich for three days and the only people who’ve set foot on my property were the guys from Spectrum who showed up in a bucket truck to run cable from the utility pole on Ridgetop Road through the gable vent in my attic. With a modem and router in the upstairs study, a booster in the kitchen, and another out in the barn, a dome of wi-fi now arches over me like Glinda’s magic bubble.

“Hello?”

I startle at the sound of a human voice. Rhonda’s arranged for a neighbor, Joe Sprague, to come by to mow my lawn, but the man standing in my shop’s doorway is no tractor-driving farmer. He’s gym-membership fit and nicely dressed in dark-wash jeans and a linen shirt, his high-priced sneakers popular on the streets of Manhattan, his barbered hair styled with a product that gleams in the sunlight.

“Hello,” I parrot back.

He points to his masked face. “Don’t you believe in . . . ?”

“Oh, sure, sorry.” I pull one from my pocket and loop it behind my ears. “Can I help you?”

“No, thanks.” He walks into the barn like he’s been invited and begins perusing the shelves while whistling a Sondheim tune. I’m about to ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing when I realize he’s a customer.

Rhonda mentioned Red Barn Books was known for opening its doors on the first of June, but since it’s been closed for five years, it never occurred to me anyone would still show up in person. Besides, is it even legal for me to be open? I think back to the governor’s last briefing. Schuywich sits in a county cleared for Phase One reopening, which allows for curbside service. Well, there are no curbs out here, but I suppose it’s okay to let one masked customer wander around a huge barn with a wide-open door.