Joan Is Okay(6)

Two years younger than me, Madeline had just turned thirty-four. Pivotal year for women, the reproductive window coming to a close, and since she didn’t know yet if kids were in her future, she had frozen ten eggs. Did you? she asked me. I hadn’t. Not too late, she said. But only if I wanted to, and should she eventually decide against kids, I could have her eggs.

But then my kids might be blond, I said.

Right, she said. Kids are a risk.

I thought of how open Madeline had become after just one hug. What would happen after two?

In trying to help me fill my days, she asked about my interests, any hobbies like listening to music or reading, making art. I could visit a museum or fly to a tropical island or adopt a whole windowsill of plants.

All great ideas, but none that sparked initiative. I wasn’t a creative or tropical person. Plants were hard to read and museums required too much reading.

So, what do you like?

I considered that question and finally said being on my feet for many hours at time.

Then go for a walk, she suggested. Get some exercise.

That sparked. I dressed and went out. I started circling the block in a clockwise fashion.



* * *



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MY NEIGHBORHOOD WAS STRANGE in that it was at the intersection of three others: Harlem, Columbia University, and the Upper West Side. There was a mix of Montessori day cares and bodegas, gleaming multimillion-dollar condos two blocks away from huge brown buildings for lower-income tenants. During summer, the area was loud. People played music from their car subwoofers and set off fireworks at night. Sometimes the fireworks could sound like cherry bombs, because they were cherry bombs. And every day, a gang of motorbikes zipped by, neon yellow with purple stripes, a patriotic three-wheeler ATV in red, white, and blue. If I was home during the day, I would hear at least an hour of car horns from any of the one-way side streets clogged by a double-parked van. Occasionally there was crime, stolen packages, removed car batteries, a domestic fight dragged out into the street, drawing a crowd. Every few years, a drive-by shooting happened, targeted and aimed at one person. The death would make that evening’s news and the street would be silent, only to recover the morning after.

So, the area had some danger to it, though I’d never felt unsafe. The area was also changing, with old, full residences being torn down to make room for more luxury condos and retail spots that stayed empty for months.

I walked up to the cathedral that was by the hospital and an avenue away from Morningside Park. Unfinished and one of the largest in the world, the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine had Gothic towers and arched buttresses, enormous slabs of granite and limestone, that shot up into the sky and were streaked with brown. By its main gate hung a large sign about peacocks. The church was home to three peacocks that freely explored the grounds. do not feed, said the sign in all caps. do not pet.

When it started to drizzle, then pour, I turned back around.

My own residential building was distinguished-looking. A classic prewar ten-story, thirty-six-unit, and built the same year the Titanic sank. The entrance had an enormous black awning with ornate black crests all around. The awning was the width of the sidewalk and, from a distance, reminded me of a comically long brim on a comically tall cap. Building amenities included a twenty-four-hour doorman, and the weekday one, the head doorman, who called tenants Ms., Mrs., Mr., called me Ms. Joanna. I liked that name; I didn’t mind being her. But since the day that I left for China, I felt new friction between us. In the lobby that day, he saw me with my small suitcase and said I looked particularly well. Where’s the vacation? he asked. Where’s the beach?

I told him about my father, which prompted him to take off his captain’s hat and hold it solemnly against his chest. I’d never seen the doorman hatless and learned in that moment that he was bald.

Ms. Joanna, what a terrible thing to lose a father so young.

I said I wasn’t that young.

Devastating. I’m very sorry.

I said he didn’t need to apologize; how could he have known?

An awkward five minutes went by. Then my airport car came and I got in.

After my return, to avoid more awkward interactions with the doorman, I’d been entering and exiting the building through the back door with no awning. But what I had forgotten was the doorman’s security camera access and his attention to details. Six four, 210 pounds, he was waiting for me in the back and stood up to acknowledge me. Polite and well spoken. But I often wished that he was polite and well spoken to someone else and I could just admire from the side.

How was your day, Ms. Joanna?

Mail came. I believe there are some things for you.

So unfortunate that you are now wet. I should have told you about the rain. I should’ve lent you my umbrella.

May I lend you my umbrella next time?

May I update you about thunderstorms?

May I walk you to the elevators?

He walked me to the elevators while I pressed myself against the marble wall of the lobby, wishing to be absorbed. He told me that I shouldn’t do that. I shouldn’t wipe myself against stone surfaces like some cleaning cloth but instead should walk with confidence and purpose.

May I push the call button for you?

May I hold open the door?

He pushed the call button for me and, when the elevator came, held open the door. I thanked him and slid into the far left corner, folding my shoulders in. He told me that that position wouldn’t do. I had to stand in the middle of the elevator like the important person that I was, like men and movie stars do when they get into elevators, going up, all the way up to the penthouse suite. (Our building didn’t have a penthouse; gym and laundry were on the top floor.)