A Christmas Wish by Joseph Pittman Page B

eyes didn’t remain, as they were now as bright and alive as the sunshine that bathed the city. Janey’s natural glow illuminated our day, shot off the glass buildings and reflective windows. And she accomplished such a goal with the utterance of one simple word.
    â€œWow.”
    These streets never fail to amaze and capture the imagination, and pictures can only show so much of its wonder. Nothing does its sights and attractions justice like actually seeing it up close and personal. This town was, of course, New York City, with its magnificent skyscrapers and bustling throngs of people, the pace of a place that barely stops to catch its breath. I’d been dazzled when I first laid my eyes on its urban sprawl, and now came Janey’s turn. She was no less enraptured than I had been. I might have been keeping an eye on the road ahead of me, but for certain out of the corner of my other eye I stole a look at her face as the skyline came into view. Wonder gave way to awe, and for the present moment the problems that existed between us melted away, like hot water thrust on ice. Despite the anxiety I was feeling, there was no way I was going to ruin this trip for her.
    â€œWow,” she repeated.
    â€œPretty neat, huh?” I asked.
    â€œYou lived here?” Her tone was one of incredulity, and actually at this moment I had to admit I felt similarly. Had I really called this steel and glass mountain home? I had, and for several years. Those years, though, seemed to have taken place so long ago, before the land of the windmill had swallowed me up and lifted me out of a stark reality and into its wind-fueled fantasy.
    â€œYeah, I guess I did.”
    I hadn’t been back to Manhattan since August, since before the storm that had nearly destroyed the windmill and had changed us all, and the feeling that washed over me now was one of unfamiliarity. So much had changed. The place I’d once called home now looked as foreign as my parents’ new home. As though both my childhood and recent adult lives had been wiped away.
    We were driving along the FDR Highway, and at Ninety-sixth Street I took the exit ramp. Our first stop was on the Upper East Side, which I explained to Janey was where I used to live.
    â€œThat’s where John lives now, right?” she asked.
    â€œYou got that right.”
    We had eventually done a lot of talking on the two-plushour trip down the thruway. I told her about John Oliver, how he became my best friend way back in our college days and still was my best friend to this day. He was my last remaining link to the city. I told her, too, how supportive John had been during my crisis earlier this year—the bout with hepatitis that had debilitated me and the changes that had occurred at the offices of the Beckford Group, my employer, both of which had precipitated my sudden and unexpected departure from the city. Last spring, life had seemed about as bleak as a Dickens novel, and just as lengthy, too. Distraction from wounded memories was exactly what I needed today, and no doubt John would provide that with his good humor and juvenile antics.
    â€œYou’ll like him,” I said. “But he’s not as silly as me.”
    â€œNo one is,” she stated.
    â€œYeah? And you like me, right?”
    â€œMomma always said, ‘Don’t say yeah.’”
    â€œOops,” I replied.
    Janey giggled. “See? Silly. No grown-up says ‘oops.’ ”
    As much as the mood had shifted on the ride down, she seemed dubious at the idea of liking this stranger who held the envious title of Brian’s Best Friend. (My interpretation of how Janey saw certain things: Everything capitalized.)
    So we parked my battered car on Eighty-third Street, just down the block from the brick apartment building I’d once called home. It was Sunday afternoon, and there were plenty of spots available on the block. Some lucky Manhattanite would score tonight when