The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

I didn’t even wear a shawl.

I went and stood outside his uncle’s shop, staring in the window. His back was to me, he was putting something away on a high shelf, but he felt me there, watching him. I saw his back stiffen, and he turned. He stared back at me, into me, with those fringed eyes. Without a word, he came outside, locked up, and we stole away. I came home disheveled, with leaves clinging to my dress, and everyone wondering where I’d gotten to. But I think my mother knew.

I glance at Wes. He’s waiting for me to tell him something, but I can see in his earnest, boyish face this isn’t what he wants to hear.

We pause at the avenue crossing, watching the yellow horseless carriages go sailing by, and the sign over our head reads MADISON. Like Maddie. I smile, thinking about that strange, angry sort-of-sister. I wonder if that’s where she got the name that she really wanted. And Cinders! Like Cinderella. I wish I’d thought of it.

“Annie?” Wes says. “Are you all right?”

This corner, where we’re standing, used to have a small wooden house, with a grassy hillside behind it dotted with sheep. I don’t know how I know this with such certainty, but I do. I can see it, without seeing it. Like I can see the impression it left behind. It’s there, underneath the surface of the buildings and asphalt. They’d trade with travelers rolling on cartback down to the city from Hartford or Boston. And even this far inland, their yard was ringed with crushed oyster shells.

Wes pulls on my hand, bringing me back to myself.

“Am I?” I ask him.

He squeezes my hand and we hurry across the street, the lamps on the landaus throwing him into stark relief in the dark. His shadow stretches long against the stone walls of the buildings as we pass them. His shadow moves alone.

Fifth Avenue, when we reach it, is awash with carriages and people, the urgent rush that I’m used to. The carriages come equipped with horns, replacing—or sometimes adding to—the shouts of drivers scattering passersby out of the way. I feel a jolt of excitement, seeing the black outline of the trees against the night sky across the avenue.

“They’ve been talking about this, you know,” I say to Wes, marveling. “I heard Papa and some gentlemen from the committee.”

“About what?” Wes asks.

“About having a park,” I say. “There’s no parks, where I live. Have you noticed that?”

“I never really thought about it,” Wes says, sounding surprised. “Why not?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. But on hot days, like this, it means we all go to the waterfront.”

“Really?” He makes a face.

“Oh yes. The sailors and ropemakers all hate it, because we’re underfoot, and the boys steal things to sell at the pawnshops. When the sun is hot and bright, like it was today, it makes a corona around your head, if you stare at yourself in the river. A halo, that follows you wherever you move. Have you ever done that?” I ask him.

“Yes,” Wes says softly.

The carriages all stop at once, following the command of some complex system of lamps, and we dash hand in hand across the street, running for no reason.

It’s cooler when we reach the park, and the darkness makes me feel safe. I can tell the opposite is true of Wes, though. Anxiety vibrates in him like an over-tuned fiddle string.

“How did you meet him?” Wes presses me.

“At his uncle’s store,” I say without looking at him. I feel him stiffen next to me, with a new awkward hitch in his walk.

“So, is he, like, your boyfriend or something?” Wes asks.