The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Tyler fixes me in a strange stare, his eyes sliding down my form in a way that makes me cross my arms over my chest. Then he grins, and jogs off backward with a wave. Wes and I wave back.

“It’s dark,” Wes remarks, and he sounds nervous. “Are you sure you want to go into the park now?”

I can’t help but laugh at him. First, at his idea of dark. The night lights here are so harsh and glaring that I can see every divot on his nose.

“What do you think’s going to happen?” I chide him. “You afraid the boys from the Bowery will come cut your watch fob? Come on. Walk with me.”

Wes laughs, too, perhaps realizing that whatever he might fear for himself, I, at least, have nothing to fear in the Central Park tonight.

My fear waits for me tomorrow.

There are street signs on the lampposts, a splendid invention. They tell us that we are on the corner of Seventy-Second Street and Park Avenue. Imagine, the city reaches this far uptown.

I take Wes by the hand and lead him west. The streetlights mark our way as friendly and safe, and there’s even a sliver of moon overhead. There’s almost no one about. This quarter seems rich enough that I imagine everyone has a country seat where they retreat in the summer, avoiding the cholera. Perhaps up by the Bronck’s. I knew a girl whose parents had a house nearby where I imagine we are, when it was hilly countryside shot through here and there with streams and apple trees. I wonder if she knows her country house is paved over and gone.

Wes allows me to pull him along, holding my hand pressed between both of his as if he’s afraid I’m going to float away. His hands are hot around mine.

“So,” Wes says.

“Hmmmm?” I ask. I’m enjoying the walk, staring up at the bright-lit windows. Here and there I spy silhouettes of people behind the curtains. I like that I can see them, and they don’t know I’m here.

“Tell me about this Herschel guy,” he tries to say it lightly.

I glance at him, and he’s looking at me with naked eyes. I have to be careful, how this unfolds.

“Well,” I say slowly. “What do you want to know?”

“How long have you known him?” Wes struggles to get the words out.

“We met when I was fifteen,” I say.

“How old are you now?”

I laugh. “Why, seventeen, I should think. Depending how you count.”

“Really?” He’s surprised, but I can’t tell why.

“Why, how old are you?” I ask.

“Nineteen,” he says, his voice sounding kind of strangled.

“Herschel’s nineteen, too,” I say.

The afternoon I wandered into his uncle’s dry goods store by mistake, having gotten lost and missed the store two blocks over that Mother wanted me to visit, I must’ve lounged on the counter talking with him for over an hour. His uncle was sick that day, so he was running the store by himself. I’d never seen a boy with brown eyes as heavily fringed as his. And he was funny. He had this way of talking, this order to his words that made light of everything I said. I was laughing so hard my ribs hurt, and my cheeks got sore from smiling. I coiled a curl around my finger and leaned forward, and when I saw his gaze accidently slip to the lace at my chest, a thrill thundered through me so hard that I couldn’t breathe.

He looked away immediately, and sold me some thread.

His hands were shaking.

I came back the next day.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to.

He tried to explain. That it had nothing to do with me, but that it would be impossible. His family would never allow it. I must see how impossible it would be.

I didn’t care.

The first time we sneaked out together was two weeks later. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was supposed to be home with a fever. Mother, Papa, Beatrice, Ed, and Lottie were all at church, and Winston was up in Seneca. Our house was empty, and I rattled around in it, pacing the floors, chewing the nail off my thumb, wearing a path in the leftover scrubbing sand.

Then, I left. It was the middle of the day, autumn.

I forgot my hat.