Last Call by Laura Pedersen Page A

convents when nuns take their vows.”
    Rosamond looks at him, obviously puzzled.
    “You know, to represent the groom’s side.” Hayden laughs out loud at his latest joke and so does Joey. “God, Cyrus will love that one when I tell him.”
    “Grandpa!”
says Joey.
    “What, you don’t think Cyrus and I agreed on a secret way to communicate so he could give me all the details after he died?”
    “Now stop it,” Rosamond chides him. Hayden has taken to regularly teasing her or engaging in some outrageous behavior intended to cause her to laugh, or else scold him, not unlike a schoolboy pulling the pigtails of the girl on whom he has a crush. Only Rosamond feels embarrassed by his attention, and even guilty about condoning some of his more racy remarks by giggling at them. However, as soon as Hayden’s interest is diverted, Rosamond finds herself subconsciously hoping it will soon find its way back to her.
    chapter fifteen
    A s they emerge from the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel in Manhattan, Rosamond opens the window and leans her head out in an effort to touch and taste New York City, and thereby internalize the pulsating atmosphere where dreams can come true and the truth can be elusive. Most of the structures—office buildings, town houses, corner stores, and restaurants—are the same as those she’s seen in Brooklyn. But like most people born in quiet places where the appearance of propriety at any cost is favored, Rosamond has always imagined that New York is a magical city. For almost twenty years she’d gazed at this commanding skyline from within the closed walls of the convent, and now here it is, right at the tips of her fingers. She reaches her arm out the window so that the palm of her hand can absorb the consecrated air as they turn up Broadway.
    Rosamond attempts to register every sensation at once—the man hawking newspapers to passing cars, a police cruiser with its red bubble swirling and siren blaring on the left, a school bus on the right with a red stop sign that swings out into the next lane of traffic. A school bus—could there really be children in a place like this? The news and movies of her childhood portrayed New York as the home of sailors, chorus girls, and mafia. It was the place where sultry heiresses posed in fancy nightclubs with long black cigarette holders, tossing off clever quips and come-hither looks to down-on-their-luck private detectives.
    Through a series of sharp turns Hayden maneuvers the car into an underground parking garage manned by fleet-footed attendants who dart about shouting and waving flags. As they dive into the headlong rush across the busy streets and crowded sidewalks Hayden automatically takes Joey’s elbow. Rosamond quickly grabs Hayden’s other arm, terrified that she’s going to be swallowed by the masses or fall into one of the gaping, steaming holes in the ground, barely cordoned off by a thin strip of flimsy orange tape.
    Hayden feels the small feminine hand around his biceps and a satisfied smile appears on his face, that of a strong, capable man protecting women and children in a dangerous world. For a moment he is reminded of taking his daughters trick-or-treating and how they’d come racing to the corner out of breath and terrified after having encountered a ghost or a witch, and find such relief in his mere presence, sometimes even leaping into his arms. It’s a heady experience to know that another living being is so dependent on you for safety and reassurance. It also makes a person strive to live up to those formidable expectations for as long as possible. Who doesn’t want to be viewed as having such heroic powers?
    Rosamond is astounded by Hayden’s self-assuredness in this madhouse of humanity. He effortlessly navigates their route and Joey stays close at his side, more curious and intrigued by his surroundings than fearful or anxious. If it were up to Joey they’d pause to take the flyers from every hawker, gaze into overdecorated