The Reflection Read Online Free Page B

him, from overheard conversations. I knew that he lived on Sutton Place, just around the corner from my apartment. I knew that he worked in insurance, that he had a son, and that his son was blond-haired. I knew that he was separated from his wife, who lived somewhere in Brooklyn. I knew a dozen other facts—trivial or otherwise—without ever having exchanged a word with him. I wondered how I’d spent so many hours in that diner.
    A few blocks later, I grabbed a couple of hot dogs from a street vendor and wolfed them down as I walked along, unsure of where I was going or what I was doing. I picked up a copy of the
Times
, then found myself drifting down into the subway on Fifty-Seventh, boarding a train heading downtown. It, too, was full of Saturday shoppers, but I managed to find a seat and leafed through the newspaper. The front page was given over to Truman’s announcement that the Russians had detonated an atom bomb. Inside, a morbid opinion piece said that lower Manhattan, with its tall buildings crammed into such a small area, was now a perfect target. I turned to the back of the paper, and scanned down the list of names in the obituary column. Seeing her name in black and white might have changed things, but there was no mention of Abby.
    I’d had a half-formed plan to go down to the Village, but when I finally looked up from the paper, I realized I’d missed the stop. Eventually I got off at East Broadway. Not a neighborhood I knew, but as soon as I emerged onto the street, I realized why I’d ended up there. It was near where I’d been last night. God knows why I was retracing my steps, but that was what I seemed to be doing.
    I walked down to Manhattan Bridge to orient myself. Thenafter an hour or so of wandering about, I found Esterhazy’s street. At first, I wasn’t sure I had the right place. It was bustling and animated, filled with stalls and street peddlers, whereas last night it had been deserted, sinister—another feeling altogether. It puzzled me, but finding Esterhazy’s building settled the question. The broken stair on the stoop: I’d almost fallen over it the night before. And there it was again.
    I hung about opposite, smoking a cigarette, at a loss as to what I was doing there. I was watching Esterhazy’s building, but I was thinking about Abby. Just as at home, in the apartment I’d briefly shared with Abby, I’d been thinking about Esterhazy. What shook me was the thought that in all these years, I could have simply picked up the phone and asked her to meet me for a drink. She’d have said yes, I was sure of it. I could imagine it so easily now. The initial surprise in her voice when she picks up my call. The coolness. Then finally a cautious agreement to meet me for an hour, no more, somewhere on the Upper West Side where she lived. We meet. It’s awkward. But once she understands that I’m calm, that I don’t want anything from her, we both relax a bit. Talk about our lives. She shows some interest in my work. Says she’ll send me tickets to her current show. I shake my head, say: “It’s nice of you to offer, but …” and then before I know it, the hour is up. After the first few difficult minutes, it had gone by so quickly. “I have to go now,” she says. We get out of our booth. Outside the bar, we stand looking at each other for a long moment. Finally I say, “I’m glad you came. Give my regards to Jeff.” She nods, says: “I’m glad I came too.” I say: “I’ll always want the best for you.” She nods, kisses me on the cheek, and that’s that. I won’t see her again, not ever again, unless by accident. But I’ll be able to go on. I’ll no longer be stuck in this state of suspension.
    I stood there on the street corner, lost in my fantasy, almostin tears. Missed opportunities: they were so peculiarly desolating. Even if I’d phoned her and she’d rebuffed me, I could have written her a note. Saying that I wanted nothing from her, only the best for