sauntered lazily over to a nearby Dumpster and disappeared beneath it.
That was when I started running, and I didn’t stop until I got to Dartmouth Street. I had so much adrenaline coursing through me that I could have set some kind of record for the hundred-yard dash. And the stupid thing was, I hadn’t taken the back way to the house for reasons having to do with John Grady. I had chosen the back-alley route because I wanted to scope out the trash behind the multimillion-dollar brownstones.
You wouldn’t believe what some people in this neighborhood throw away. Not people from the families who’ve been here forever, but condo-dwelling entrepreneurs running lucrative startups, and wealthy international students whose parents have leased them a luxurious apartment, and who are so anxious to get out of town after graduation that they throw things away rather than pack them up for shipping. I’ve seen rugs, antique chairs in need of a bit of repair, sets of dishes, framed posters and paintings.
I hit the jackpot a couple of times, and I was now like one of those people who can’t resist buying scratch tickets, having won twenty-five dollars a decade or two ago. I suppose I was even a bit like my furry, opportunistic little friend. Though I do draw a distinction between scavenging leftover Thai take-out and rescuing from the trash two sterling silver candelabra from Firestone and Parsons. There had to be a story behind that particular find. Somebody must have been furious at someone else—their mother-in-law? a two-faced friend?—and in a grand, irrevocable gesture, had put a wedding gift or a family heirloom into the trash. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
It turned out to be lucky, my taking the back alley, because I didn’t even have to make up a lie to get in the front door. I had no sooner crossed Dartmouth Street than I caught sight of the man himself, or rather, the ghost himself. He was halfway down the next block of the alley, probably right behind Finny’s house. I walked toward him, but he didn’t notice me approaching. To my right and left, where the household help might once have sat outside on the shady brick stoops, escaping the heat of the basement kitchens and greeting those who were not welcome to use the buildings’ front entrances, were massive Mercedeses and BMWs squeezed into tiny parking spaces.
“Mr. Grady,” I said softly.
He looked up, startled. “Oh, my,” he said.
I smiled. “Do you remember me? My name is Anza. I was here the other day with Sylvia.”
“I do,” he said, bowing slightly.
He looked bewildered, but otherwise just as he had five days ago: benevolent, disheveled, lost. “I was hoping to find you,” I said.
“And I hoped that you would,” he responded. His brogue was rich and dulcet.
I glanced down at the box at his feet; it contained books that were obviously being discarded in preparation for the sale of the house.
“You were looking for your document,” I guessed.
He nodded.
“Can I help?” He wouldn’t have been able to lift the books out of the box. He wouldn’t have had the strength. “I’d be most grateful,” he said.
I slid the box toward the house and sat down on a low wall. A set of stairs led down into an enclosed rear courtyard, where a shed on the right ran the depth of the space. It was unusual to see one of these structures as it had always existed, from the time when horse-drawn wagons hauled coal through these alleyways and downstairs servants shoveled the weekly delivery into sheds off the kitchens. Few of the structures remained; most had been scrapped to make room for valuable off-street parking spaces or restored to add footage to ground-floor condos. Depending on who bought the Winslow house, this historical relic might be headed for a similar fate.
“Please, sit down,” I said.
He came over and sat down near me on the wall. I began taking books out of the box: mildewy old novels,
That was when I started running, and I didn’t stop until I got to Dartmouth Street. I had so much adrenaline coursing through me that I could have set some kind of record for the hundred-yard dash. And the stupid thing was, I hadn’t taken the back way to the house for reasons having to do with John Grady. I had chosen the back-alley route because I wanted to scope out the trash behind the multimillion-dollar brownstones.
You wouldn’t believe what some people in this neighborhood throw away. Not people from the families who’ve been here forever, but condo-dwelling entrepreneurs running lucrative startups, and wealthy international students whose parents have leased them a luxurious apartment, and who are so anxious to get out of town after graduation that they throw things away rather than pack them up for shipping. I’ve seen rugs, antique chairs in need of a bit of repair, sets of dishes, framed posters and paintings.
I hit the jackpot a couple of times, and I was now like one of those people who can’t resist buying scratch tickets, having won twenty-five dollars a decade or two ago. I suppose I was even a bit like my furry, opportunistic little friend. Though I do draw a distinction between scavenging leftover Thai take-out and rescuing from the trash two sterling silver candelabra from Firestone and Parsons. There had to be a story behind that particular find. Somebody must have been furious at someone else—their mother-in-law? a two-faced friend?—and in a grand, irrevocable gesture, had put a wedding gift or a family heirloom into the trash. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
It turned out to be lucky, my taking the back alley, because I didn’t even have to make up a lie to get in the front door. I had no sooner crossed Dartmouth Street than I caught sight of the man himself, or rather, the ghost himself. He was halfway down the next block of the alley, probably right behind Finny’s house. I walked toward him, but he didn’t notice me approaching. To my right and left, where the household help might once have sat outside on the shady brick stoops, escaping the heat of the basement kitchens and greeting those who were not welcome to use the buildings’ front entrances, were massive Mercedeses and BMWs squeezed into tiny parking spaces.
“Mr. Grady,” I said softly.
He looked up, startled. “Oh, my,” he said.
I smiled. “Do you remember me? My name is Anza. I was here the other day with Sylvia.”
“I do,” he said, bowing slightly.
He looked bewildered, but otherwise just as he had five days ago: benevolent, disheveled, lost. “I was hoping to find you,” I said.
“And I hoped that you would,” he responded. His brogue was rich and dulcet.
I glanced down at the box at his feet; it contained books that were obviously being discarded in preparation for the sale of the house.
“You were looking for your document,” I guessed.
He nodded.
“Can I help?” He wouldn’t have been able to lift the books out of the box. He wouldn’t have had the strength. “I’d be most grateful,” he said.
I slid the box toward the house and sat down on a low wall. A set of stairs led down into an enclosed rear courtyard, where a shed on the right ran the depth of the space. It was unusual to see one of these structures as it had always existed, from the time when horse-drawn wagons hauled coal through these alleyways and downstairs servants shoveled the weekly delivery into sheds off the kitchens. Few of the structures remained; most had been scrapped to make room for valuable off-street parking spaces or restored to add footage to ground-floor condos. Depending on who bought the Winslow house, this historical relic might be headed for a similar fate.
“Please, sit down,” I said.
He came over and sat down near me on the wall. I began taking books out of the box: mildewy old novels,
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