Amy’s bed without ever bothering to get her own, as if she knew in her deepest, blackest heart that Amy was not coming back.
They had plans to get jobs together. They were both artists, they both painted. Lily liked to paint people, she had a facility with faces and bodies. Amy liked to paint still life—chairs, pots, trees. They sketched together in Washington Square Park and in Union Square Park, and in Battery Park, and even in the homelessaddled, heroin-addled Tompkins Square Park. They sketched the nightlines of Broadway and Fifth Avenue and later painted inthe colors. But in many sketches, particularly of late, Lily had been noticing that while she continued to add color where color was needed, Amy left her own work black and white, gray, tonal, uncolored. There were no yellows of street lights, no reds of traffic signs, no blues of police cars. Amy’s night-time Statue of Liberty, night-time World Trade Center, night-time Empire State Building remained dark and colorless. One sketch was all black tones, and when Lily asked what that was, Amy replied that it was Times Square from Broadway at midnight. Where are the billboards, Lily asked. They’re always lit. It’s foggy , said Amy, sounding so empty. It’s a blackout. Can’t see them. Why was Lily remembering all that now?
She slept on the futon and remembered Amy, and when she woke up, Amy was so vivid as if she were still in bed sleeping.
And Lily cried.
The mattress came, the iron frame. She tipped the two Hispanic delivery guys twenty bucks for being young and flirty with her, showered, got dressed and went to work a double. After making one-hundred-and-seventy dollars, she took a cab back home. She paid ten bucks to take a cab home from work every night now, the days of no cabs long behind her. One evening it had occurred to her that if only she cashed in her 49, 45, 39, 24, 18, 1, she could have a limo and a driver waiting for her every night when she finished her shift as a diner waitress. Lily had laughed and walked home that night.
Tonight Spencer was waiting for her on the front stoop. “How long is that shift, anyway?” he said, closing his police notebook.
She couldn’t help a small smile. “Detective O’Malley, it’s nine thirty at night. Don’t you ever not work?”
“Not when I have a mother who calls me every day wanting to know if I’ve found her child,” said Spencer.
Lily stopped smiling and was silent. Silent or defeated. She made to move around him but he took her arm. “Why did you call me in the middle of the night, Lilianne?”
“I—” she stammered.
“Did you have something to tell me?”
“I just—I got worried about something.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember now.”
They sat down on the stoop. It was a New York night in July, still dusky out, still hot out.
“I’m not Miss Quinn anymore?”
“When Miss Quinn calls me in the middle of the night she automatically becomes a Lilianne. City regulation 517.”
When does Lilianne become a Lily? she wanted to ask but didn’t. It sounded too flirty.
Spencer said, “The Odessa Cafe on Avenue A and 7 th has very good stuffed cabbages, and I’m starved. Can I work and eat?”
“Will eating count as working?”
“Of course. Dining with witnesses. It’s called canvassing. Come. While you eat, you can try to remember what you were thinking about at four in the morning. But you know, don’t you, that if you’re calling me at that time of night, I’m going to think Amy has come back.”
“Unfortunately, no.” Lily struggled up from the stoop and saw he struggled with resisting helping her. She wanted to ask if she could call him Spencer. Seemed odd to be so formal. “You must see quite a bit on these mean streets, no?”
“Yes, especially in your neighborhood.”
“Did you say you drove a patrol car on the LIE before coming to New York?”
“Yes.”
“You went from being a traffic cop on the expressway to manning a special
They had plans to get jobs together. They were both artists, they both painted. Lily liked to paint people, she had a facility with faces and bodies. Amy liked to paint still life—chairs, pots, trees. They sketched together in Washington Square Park and in Union Square Park, and in Battery Park, and even in the homelessaddled, heroin-addled Tompkins Square Park. They sketched the nightlines of Broadway and Fifth Avenue and later painted inthe colors. But in many sketches, particularly of late, Lily had been noticing that while she continued to add color where color was needed, Amy left her own work black and white, gray, tonal, uncolored. There were no yellows of street lights, no reds of traffic signs, no blues of police cars. Amy’s night-time Statue of Liberty, night-time World Trade Center, night-time Empire State Building remained dark and colorless. One sketch was all black tones, and when Lily asked what that was, Amy replied that it was Times Square from Broadway at midnight. Where are the billboards, Lily asked. They’re always lit. It’s foggy , said Amy, sounding so empty. It’s a blackout. Can’t see them. Why was Lily remembering all that now?
She slept on the futon and remembered Amy, and when she woke up, Amy was so vivid as if she were still in bed sleeping.
And Lily cried.
The mattress came, the iron frame. She tipped the two Hispanic delivery guys twenty bucks for being young and flirty with her, showered, got dressed and went to work a double. After making one-hundred-and-seventy dollars, she took a cab back home. She paid ten bucks to take a cab home from work every night now, the days of no cabs long behind her. One evening it had occurred to her that if only she cashed in her 49, 45, 39, 24, 18, 1, she could have a limo and a driver waiting for her every night when she finished her shift as a diner waitress. Lily had laughed and walked home that night.
Tonight Spencer was waiting for her on the front stoop. “How long is that shift, anyway?” he said, closing his police notebook.
She couldn’t help a small smile. “Detective O’Malley, it’s nine thirty at night. Don’t you ever not work?”
“Not when I have a mother who calls me every day wanting to know if I’ve found her child,” said Spencer.
Lily stopped smiling and was silent. Silent or defeated. She made to move around him but he took her arm. “Why did you call me in the middle of the night, Lilianne?”
“I—” she stammered.
“Did you have something to tell me?”
“I just—I got worried about something.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember now.”
They sat down on the stoop. It was a New York night in July, still dusky out, still hot out.
“I’m not Miss Quinn anymore?”
“When Miss Quinn calls me in the middle of the night she automatically becomes a Lilianne. City regulation 517.”
When does Lilianne become a Lily? she wanted to ask but didn’t. It sounded too flirty.
Spencer said, “The Odessa Cafe on Avenue A and 7 th has very good stuffed cabbages, and I’m starved. Can I work and eat?”
“Will eating count as working?”
“Of course. Dining with witnesses. It’s called canvassing. Come. While you eat, you can try to remember what you were thinking about at four in the morning. But you know, don’t you, that if you’re calling me at that time of night, I’m going to think Amy has come back.”
“Unfortunately, no.” Lily struggled up from the stoop and saw he struggled with resisting helping her. She wanted to ask if she could call him Spencer. Seemed odd to be so formal. “You must see quite a bit on these mean streets, no?”
“Yes, especially in your neighborhood.”
“Did you say you drove a patrol car on the LIE before coming to New York?”
“Yes.”
“You went from being a traffic cop on the expressway to manning a special
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