The Dollhouse(57)
Bird seemed pleasantly surprised when she showed up at the apartment and took him off to the park. During this time of day, the river of motion on the park’s main road was constant, with cyclists weaving around horse-drawn carriages, pedicabs, and spandex-clad joggers. Somehow, all the different speeds and methods of conveyance managed to work together. Every so often, a family of tourists on clunky rental bikes broke the trend by going clockwise, the mother looking panicked, the father grimacing, kids ducking their heads in embarrassment. The cyclists on road bikes, who considered themselves the top tier of park users, hollered out in annoyance as they whizzed by.
Today the park seemed to be filled with couples walking hand in hand. Before Griff, she’d dated several men, boys really. Some were charismatic at first, then grew tiresome. Or grew tired of her. But Griff was an adult, successful in his career and respected by the ma?tre d’s of the fancy restaurants he took her to.
One evening early in their relationship, they’d taken a leisurely stroll together past the Boathouse, the restaurant perched over the lake in the middle of Central Park. Griff admired the building out loud, and she admitted she’d never been inside. “Too many tourists,” she said, laughing. “Who else would be willing to pay so much for a tired piece of steak?”
“We are,” he answered, a boyish smile lighting his face. And with that, he dragged her through the double doors, and they drank two bottles of wine while watching the rowboats idling on the pond. A terrible thunderstorm sprang up, as if on cue, while they shared profiteroles for dessert. While the thunder roared and rain poured against the glass walls, he kissed her and told her he loved her.
He’d been the driving force in their relationship, and she was only too happy to enjoy his attention. Slowly, she gave up her identity, leaving her apartment and her job for what she assumed was the next step in her life. Marriage, supporting a husband who had political aspirations. Then he blew it all to bits.
She reached the terrace that overlooked the boat pond, with the restaurant off to the right, and the enormous angel sculpture spurting white water into Bethesda Fountain in the plaza below. A group of teenagers splashed each other with water and shrieked, the girls covering their heads, all black fingernails and long legs. One of the teens was louder than the others, more physical with the boys. Rose stared hard before she recognized the girl. One of Griff’s daughters.
Miranda had stared out at her every morning upon Rose’s waking, from the photo on top of their bedroom bureau. In it, taken several years ago, Miranda wore a salmon-colored silk dress with ruffles along the top. Rose had admired it for its retro feel, like the disco dresses from the seventies.
But today Miranda sported a T-shirt cut in horizontal strips, revealing a black bra underneath. Rose pulled her sun hat down low and moved along the balustrade until she could see the girl’s face. Her skin was pale and smooth and her hair cascaded down her back in thick curls, like a damsel in a romance novel. Even from this distance, Rose could tell her makeup was heavy, with thick black lines around her eyes and lips the color of blood. Griff must hate it. He’d never liked when Rose came home from work wearing pancake makeup from the broadcast. After a while, she’d been sure to take it off in her dressing room instead of waiting until she got home.
A couple holding hands wandered into the frame of her vision and it took a moment for her to realize it was Griff and Connie, coming from the direction of the Boathouse. She knelt down fast, under the pretense of petting Bird. He was panting and needed to be in the shade. She’d forgotten how close his tiny body was to the waves of heat emanating off the concrete sidewalk.
She crossed the street with the intention of heading south along Literary Walk, which was lined with shady elms. Anything to get away from the sight of Griff and Connie together. But as she passed the stairway that led to the tunnel underneath the Seventy-Second Street tranverse, she paused. Scooping up Bird, she took the stairs quickly, clutching the handrail. The tunnel had an arched ceiling, and was a coveted spot for street musicians who took advantage of its excellent acoustics, the sound reverberating around the tiled walls.
Today, the area was empty and dark, a perfect hiding spot. The column and the contrast in light kept Rose hidden from view.
Griff and Connie stopped in their tracks when they spotted Miranda. From Rose’s vantage point, the tension in their faces was palpable. They murmured to each other like spies working undercover, and then Connie called out to Miranda in a high, sharp voice. The girl turned her head in their direction and all animation fell from her face. Rage briefly crossed over her pretty features before disappearing. Griff’s low baritone carried across the plaza but not clearly enough for Rose to catch what he was saying. He let go of Connie’s hand and surreptitiously rubbed his palm on a pant leg.
Once Miranda stood before them, Connie put her hands on her hips and thrust her neck forward. She seemed to be berating Miranda, before Griff interrupted her with a dismissive motion of his hands.
Rose tried to tamp down the elation building up inside her. He’d only returned home out of guilt. And his attempt at reconciliation looked rather rocky.
They were coming undone, and Rose was embarrassed for all of them. For the daughter, who was probably confused by the coming and going of the adults in her life, and for Griff, who was a loving dad but unequipped to handle a daughter with a strong agenda of her own.
Without warning, Miranda threw her phone at Griff’s feet. It clattered to the ground, bouncing twice. She stared down at it for a second, stricken at what she’d done, then ran off. Connie’s face contorted with anguish, and Griff put a hand on her back, but the gesture was automatic, not driven by a need to comfort.