Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk(45)

“Forgive me,” she says. “I wasn’t trying to spy, but I couldn’t help overhearing. That’s a shame about them not having room. But, if it’s not too brazen, my family is about to be seated for our 8:30 reservation, and we have an extra spot.”

I track her gesturing hand to a party of four others: a bespectacled man I take to be her husband, another middle-aged couple, and a copper-haired girl of maybe ten or eleven. “My goodness,” I say, “That’s very kind, but you can’t really want an elderly stranger to impose on your holiday.”

“Oh, but we can, though. My name is Kathy,” she says, and she extends a hand to shake.

“Mine is Lillian.”

“Well, there you have it. We’re not strangers anymore.”

The young girl wanders over, friendly and quizzical. “Listen,” Kathy says, “I should probably mention right away—just because I’ll be thinking about it all night—that my mother was supposed to join us tonight. Penny’s grandmother,” she says, squeezing the girl’s shoulder. “But she’s in the hospital with pneumonia and couldn’t make it.”

“Oh no,” I say. “I’m very sorry to hear that. How is she doing?”

“Well, at her age there’s no such thing as a minor illness, but the doctor says she’ll be fine. It’s sad, though, to be away from people you love on New Year’s Eve. I hope you don’t think it’s strange that I asked you to join us.”

“Not at all. It does seem a waste to throw away a choice seat at Delmonico’s and a chance to get to know one another,” I say. “You’ve convinced me. It’s an honor to join.”

I check my coat, and the hostess leads us back to a table set for six. She rests a hand on my back as she hands me my menu, her eyes bright with something: sadness, gladness, relief, apology. I smile at her.

As we sit, I admire Kathy’s grace: the way her invitation was laced not with pity, but with sympathy, and maybe also with need. Kathy introduces me to her husband and to the other couple, her brother and his wife. She encourages me to sit between her and Penny, who shakes my hand with bright politeness.

“What brings you to Delmonico’s tonight?” says Kathy.

“This is my mulligan. A chance to try again and get it right, since the last time I was here, I didn’t quite.”

“Oh dear,” says Kathy. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“No, no,” I say, not wanting to burden her. “Just a mistaken steak order.”

The waiter comes to take our drink requests, and I ask for water, no ice, as it’s already cold enough. “You’ll have some wine with us, won’t you, Lillian?” says Kathy.

“Only the tiniest drop. I strolled down here, and it’s important to stay hydrated.”

“I wish my mother understood that. She must be about your age, and she’s forever dehydrating.”

“You’re supposed to drink eight glasses of water a day,” says Penny. “We learned that in school.”

“My granddaughter Lily told me that same fact last week when she was visiting for Christmas,” I say. “I think you’d like her.”

“If she’s like you,” says Penny, “I think I probably would.”

“Medium rare,” I say, when the waiter comes back to ask what we want for dinner, satisfied with my accuracy this time.

When the food arrives, I’ve almost forgotten that I’ve just made the acquaintance of Kathy and her family. They live in Brooklyn, but they love the whole city and regret its decline in the same way that I do.

“But we’re not going to leave,” says Kathy. “For one thing, the pleasant people have to stay and balance out the cruel ones. And for another, it can’t keep on this way.”

“This Subway Vigilante,” says her husband. “He’s got to be New York City hitting bottom. We’ve held out this long. It’s going to go back up from here.”

“I hope you’re right,” I say. “And I think you are. I read an article the other day. About gentrification, of all things.”

“I read that, too,” says Kathy. “What’s in a name?”

“That’s from Romeo and Juliet,” says Penny.

“Right you are, Penny,” I say. “Longtime residents call the neighborhood the Lower East Side. But real estate agents are renaming it the East Village to draw in new renters, so they won’t be afraid of the rough reputation. So says the article.”

“The part that floored me,” says Kathy, “was when they quoted that one woman in her sixties who’d been there forever: $115 a month in a rent-controlled apartment. She said these young kids who moved in upstairs from her pay $700 a month for the same amount of space!”

“Ridiculous,” says her husband. “But of course those kids call it the East Village, not the Lower East Side.”

“So much is in a name,” says Penny.

We chat about the things New Yorkers chat about—the constant low-grade lunacy of life in the city—but I am surprised to find, and I think they are too, that our stories emphasize the serendipitous, even the magical. Our tone is that of conspirators, as though we are afraid to be overheard speaking fondly of a city that conventional wisdom declares beyond hope. My long walks, I discover, have provided a rich reserve of encounters with odd, enthusiastic, decent people; I hadn’t realized that I have these stories until someone asked to hear them.