the place where the telly pictures were made and watch.
In the meantime, she and Bev drove around the city in the big white car. She giggled at the blond wig and big round sunglasses Bev wore. Though Bev didn’t smile much at first, Emma’s excitement soon distracted her. Emma liked watching the people rush along the sidewalks, jostling each other, streaming across intersections while horns blared. There were women in short skirts and high heels, their bouffant hairdos as steady as carved stones. There were others in denim and sandals, with their manes of hair hanging straight as rain down their backs. On the corners there were vendors selling hot dogs and soft drinks and ice cream which the pedestrians snapped up as the temperature soared outside the cool cocoon of the limo. There was a nervy aggression to the traffic that Emma didn’t understand but enjoyed.
Unruffled, and proper in his tan uniform and stiff-brimmed hat, the driver pulled to the curb. He didn’t think much of music himself, unless it was Frank Sinatra or Rosemary Clooney, but he was sure his two teenagers would go wild when he brought them home autographs at the end of his two-day job.
“Here we are, ma’am.”
“Oh.” A little dazed, Bev stared out the window.
“The Empire State Building,” he explained with a gesture toward the doors. “Would you like me to pick you up in an hour?”
“An hour,
yes.”
Bev took Emma’s hand firmly in hers when the driver opened the door. “Come on, Emma. Devastation’s not going to the top alone.”
There was a long, winding line, with wailing babies and whining children. They started at the end, two bodyguards silently falling in behind, and were soon swallowed up. A group of French students filed in seconds later, all carrying Macy’s shopping bags and talking in their fast, flowing language. Amid the mix of perfume, sweat, and wet diapers, Emma caught the dreamy aroma of pot. No one else seemed to notice or care. They were shuffled onto an elevator.
Long, stuffy minutes later, they were led off to wait again. She didn’t mind. As long as her hand was firmly caught in Bev’s, she could crane her neck and look at all the people. Bald heads, floppy hats, scraggly beards. When her neck got tired, she switched to shoes. Rope sandals, shiny wing tips, snowy white sneakers, and black pumps. Some people shuffled their feet, others tapped, a few shifted from side to side, but hardly a one was still.
When she grew tired of that, she just listened to the voices. She heard a group of girls arguing nearby. As teenagers, they had Emma’s immediate envy.
“Stevie Nimmons is the cutest,” one of the girls insisted. “He’s got big brown eyes and that groovy moustache.”
“Brian McAvoy,” another corrected. “He’s really fab.” To prove her point, she took a photo, cut from a fan magazine, out of her madras purse. A communal sigh went up as the girls crowded around it. “Every time I look at it, I just about die.”
They squealed, were glared at, then muffled giggles with their hands.
Both pleased and baffled, Emma looked up at Bev. “Those girls are talking about Da.”
“Ssh.” Bev was amused enough to want to relay the story to Brian, but she was also aware that she was wearing the wig and sunglasses for a reason. “I know they are, but we have to keep who we are a secret.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later,” she said, relieved when their turn at the elevators arrived.
Emma’s eyes widened when her ears popped as they had on the airplane. For a moment she was terrified that she would be sick again. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and wished desperately for her da.
She wished she hadn’t come. She wished she’d brought Charlie for comfort. And she prayed, as fervently as a three-year-old could, that she wouldn’t lose her wonderful breakfast all over her shiny new shoes.
Then the doors opened, and the dreadful swaying motion stopped. Everyone was laughing and talking and
In the meantime, she and Bev drove around the city in the big white car. She giggled at the blond wig and big round sunglasses Bev wore. Though Bev didn’t smile much at first, Emma’s excitement soon distracted her. Emma liked watching the people rush along the sidewalks, jostling each other, streaming across intersections while horns blared. There were women in short skirts and high heels, their bouffant hairdos as steady as carved stones. There were others in denim and sandals, with their manes of hair hanging straight as rain down their backs. On the corners there were vendors selling hot dogs and soft drinks and ice cream which the pedestrians snapped up as the temperature soared outside the cool cocoon of the limo. There was a nervy aggression to the traffic that Emma didn’t understand but enjoyed.
Unruffled, and proper in his tan uniform and stiff-brimmed hat, the driver pulled to the curb. He didn’t think much of music himself, unless it was Frank Sinatra or Rosemary Clooney, but he was sure his two teenagers would go wild when he brought them home autographs at the end of his two-day job.
“Here we are, ma’am.”
“Oh.” A little dazed, Bev stared out the window.
“The Empire State Building,” he explained with a gesture toward the doors. “Would you like me to pick you up in an hour?”
“An hour,
yes.”
Bev took Emma’s hand firmly in hers when the driver opened the door. “Come on, Emma. Devastation’s not going to the top alone.”
There was a long, winding line, with wailing babies and whining children. They started at the end, two bodyguards silently falling in behind, and were soon swallowed up. A group of French students filed in seconds later, all carrying Macy’s shopping bags and talking in their fast, flowing language. Amid the mix of perfume, sweat, and wet diapers, Emma caught the dreamy aroma of pot. No one else seemed to notice or care. They were shuffled onto an elevator.
Long, stuffy minutes later, they were led off to wait again. She didn’t mind. As long as her hand was firmly caught in Bev’s, she could crane her neck and look at all the people. Bald heads, floppy hats, scraggly beards. When her neck got tired, she switched to shoes. Rope sandals, shiny wing tips, snowy white sneakers, and black pumps. Some people shuffled their feet, others tapped, a few shifted from side to side, but hardly a one was still.
When she grew tired of that, she just listened to the voices. She heard a group of girls arguing nearby. As teenagers, they had Emma’s immediate envy.
“Stevie Nimmons is the cutest,” one of the girls insisted. “He’s got big brown eyes and that groovy moustache.”
“Brian McAvoy,” another corrected. “He’s really fab.” To prove her point, she took a photo, cut from a fan magazine, out of her madras purse. A communal sigh went up as the girls crowded around it. “Every time I look at it, I just about die.”
They squealed, were glared at, then muffled giggles with their hands.
Both pleased and baffled, Emma looked up at Bev. “Those girls are talking about Da.”
“Ssh.” Bev was amused enough to want to relay the story to Brian, but she was also aware that she was wearing the wig and sunglasses for a reason. “I know they are, but we have to keep who we are a secret.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later,” she said, relieved when their turn at the elevators arrived.
Emma’s eyes widened when her ears popped as they had on the airplane. For a moment she was terrified that she would be sick again. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and wished desperately for her da.
She wished she hadn’t come. She wished she’d brought Charlie for comfort. And she prayed, as fervently as a three-year-old could, that she wouldn’t lose her wonderful breakfast all over her shiny new shoes.
Then the doors opened, and the dreadful swaying motion stopped. Everyone was laughing and talking and
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