Read Online Falling in Place by Ann Beattie - Free Book Online
Authors: Ann Beattie
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Domestic Fiction, Man-Woman Relationships, New York (N.Y.), Man-woman relationships—Fiction, New York (N.Y.) - Fiction
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and went to Battery Park and stood in line to buy a ticket for the boat ride to the Statue of Liberty. In spite of the sign posted to the left of the ticket window saying how long the ride was, the women in front of Cynthia kept debating whether it was a long ride or a short ride. One wanted to take the ride no matter what, but the other was hesitant. One wanted to stand in line, and the other didn’t know if they weren’t wasting time. Both looked at their watches. They had the same conversation twice before they got to the window and began to question the ticket seller. Going away with their tickets, both looked at their watches.
There was hardly any wait. The line was forming, the boat was there, and she got into the crowd. A lot of people had cameras. Cameras and children. On one of the benches a man in a Mouse-keteer hat sat playing his guitar and singing an off-key version of “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?”
On the boat, she went to the upper deck and sat at the far end of one of the benches. When the boat began to move, she got up and leaned against the railing, looking back at New York. She could see more and more of it, at first larger and larger, then suddenly smaller as the boat moved forward. It was cold and windy and sunny, and she missed Spangle. She kept watching the skyline. There was a feeling of power in going away from it.
She stared behind her the whole way out, and it was only at the last minute that she looked to her left and saw the Statue of Liberty. She didn’t get off. She sat there and looked all around, waiting for the ride back to begin. A few other people also stayed behind: a girl in her early twenties with a man in his fifties who kept pulling her sweater tighter over her chest, his fingers lingering on her small breasts as he adjusted the sweater; a man with a briefcase who tapped his thumb on the lock and never stopped staring at the Statue of Liberty; a young couple with an infant, who spoke in whispers, and a woman in a pink skirt slit halfway up her thigh and a thick, pale-pink sweater, who carried a small dog pressed against her chest. Passing Cynthia, she told the dog,
“Je suis très fatiguée.”
Sailing back to New York, Cynthia began to feel a little guilty. They wouldn’t have been able to get a substitute that late in the day, and she couldn’t understand why she had taken such a dislike to so many of the students. She thought that, in part, it might be jealousy. She had always thought that it might be nice to be an ordinary person with an ordinary mind—at best, their minds were ordinary. Spangle always said that that was just wishful thinking: People not worrying about errors in Shakespeare criticism were worried about their wash not coming out clean. And everyone was worried about Skylab.
A little boy sitting in back of Cynthia said quite clearly, “I want to be a car.”
The woman sitting next to Cynthia laughed quietly when the child spoke. She shifted a little farther away and put her headon the shoulder of the man next to her. He kissed her forehead. Cynthia pretended to be looking at the horizon. She had liked being alone for a while, but Spangle had been gone too long. She closed her eyes and made a wish: that when she got back to his apartment, there would be a letter from him saying that he was coming back on schedule. It was true that he drove her crazy in New York, making her look up and down and into windows, but he also pointed out cabs coming too fast, people talking to themselves that it was best to cross the street to avoid.
When the boat docked, Cynthia saw the man in the Mouse-keteer hat again, but this time he was lying on the grass on his stomach, guitar next to him like one person stretched next to another. She sat on a bench in Battery Park for quite a while, face turned toward the sun. Then she got up and walked toward the World Trade Center. She kept losing sight of it and had almost given up when she saw it ahead of her. She liked to
There was hardly any wait. The line was forming, the boat was there, and she got into the crowd. A lot of people had cameras. Cameras and children. On one of the benches a man in a Mouse-keteer hat sat playing his guitar and singing an off-key version of “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?”
On the boat, she went to the upper deck and sat at the far end of one of the benches. When the boat began to move, she got up and leaned against the railing, looking back at New York. She could see more and more of it, at first larger and larger, then suddenly smaller as the boat moved forward. It was cold and windy and sunny, and she missed Spangle. She kept watching the skyline. There was a feeling of power in going away from it.
She stared behind her the whole way out, and it was only at the last minute that she looked to her left and saw the Statue of Liberty. She didn’t get off. She sat there and looked all around, waiting for the ride back to begin. A few other people also stayed behind: a girl in her early twenties with a man in his fifties who kept pulling her sweater tighter over her chest, his fingers lingering on her small breasts as he adjusted the sweater; a man with a briefcase who tapped his thumb on the lock and never stopped staring at the Statue of Liberty; a young couple with an infant, who spoke in whispers, and a woman in a pink skirt slit halfway up her thigh and a thick, pale-pink sweater, who carried a small dog pressed against her chest. Passing Cynthia, she told the dog,
“Je suis très fatiguée.”
Sailing back to New York, Cynthia began to feel a little guilty. They wouldn’t have been able to get a substitute that late in the day, and she couldn’t understand why she had taken such a dislike to so many of the students. She thought that, in part, it might be jealousy. She had always thought that it might be nice to be an ordinary person with an ordinary mind—at best, their minds were ordinary. Spangle always said that that was just wishful thinking: People not worrying about errors in Shakespeare criticism were worried about their wash not coming out clean. And everyone was worried about Skylab.
A little boy sitting in back of Cynthia said quite clearly, “I want to be a car.”
The woman sitting next to Cynthia laughed quietly when the child spoke. She shifted a little farther away and put her headon the shoulder of the man next to her. He kissed her forehead. Cynthia pretended to be looking at the horizon. She had liked being alone for a while, but Spangle had been gone too long. She closed her eyes and made a wish: that when she got back to his apartment, there would be a letter from him saying that he was coming back on schedule. It was true that he drove her crazy in New York, making her look up and down and into windows, but he also pointed out cabs coming too fast, people talking to themselves that it was best to cross the street to avoid.
When the boat docked, Cynthia saw the man in the Mouse-keteer hat again, but this time he was lying on the grass on his stomach, guitar next to him like one person stretched next to another. She sat on a bench in Battery Park for quite a while, face turned toward the sun. Then she got up and walked toward the World Trade Center. She kept losing sight of it and had almost given up when she saw it ahead of her. She liked to
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