me.
“Do I know you?”
“I think your father knew my father. I’m Eddie Bennett’s daughter.”
“Eddie Bennett, I remember the name. My dad used to talk about him.”
“I met your father a few times when I was a little girl. I’m Chris.” I offered my hand and we shook.
“Pleased to meet you. What brings you down here today?”
“A couple of memories. I wonder if you could check something for me. I think there was a woman who worked here who lived on the west side in the Lincoln Center area that we used to meet when we went to the Thanksgiving Day parade. I don’t remember her name, but I wanted to see her again.”
“How old do you think she’d be?”
“I’d guess between sixty and seventy. I met her when I was five or six and not a very good judge of age.”
“You want to wait while I ask?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Be right back.” He picked up the rest of his sandwich and left the office.
I went to the outside window and looked out onto the street. Places that don’t change fascinate me. It must have something to do with the comfort of finding one’s way, the way you do in a house you’ve lived in for years. Night or day, you know the position of every piece of furniture, every door, every board that creaks and rug that trips you up. I have heard people complain about returning to scenes of their childhood or their most memorable experiences and being overwhelmed with disappointment. Buildings are gone, replaced with steel and glass, not the substances of mortal memory. But here time had stopped. Perhaps in another twenty-five years and a huge input of money, this area might become gentrified, replaced, converted into a park. I would not think about that today.
“Got it,” a voice behind me said, and I turned to see Mr. Jackman with a piece of paper in his hand.
“You do? Really?”
“Here she is, Betty Campbell. Name ring a bell?”
“I’m not sure.”
He handed me the address. “Amsterdam Avenue, right near Lincoln Center.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Well, not exactly, but one of the possibilities.
“Well, I hope you find her. She’s retired, lives by herself, I think. Nice woman. Worked here a long time. Your father died quite suddenly, didn’t he?”
“That’s what I remember. I think they came for me at school one day. It was a heart attack.”
“Shame. He was not only a nice guy, he was the kind of salesman everybody loves, customers and us. Man with thekind of sense of honor you don’t find in a lot of young people nowadays. He was a gem.”
“Thank you.”
“Is your mother still alive?”
“Unfortunately no. She died a few years after he did.”
“Well, you come from a nice family, Chris. You can be proud of them.”
We reminisced for a few minutes more and then I left One of the women came out of her office as I passed and said something about my father. She had known him only a couple of years but remembered him well. As I walked to the west side subway, I felt closer to my father than I had for years. Imagine a woman coming out to say a good word. It was a kindness I really appreciated, one that would stay with me.
I went down into the subway and rode uptown to find Betty Campbell.
—
I got off at Sixty-sixth Street, right under Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, and made my way to the street level, not certain where I wanted to be. Once outside, I took my bearings and walked a block west to Amsterdam Avenue. On the west side of the street a group of redbrick apartment houses ran the length of several blocks, although no street went through them. They’d been dressed up with greenery, that is, trees that would be green in the spring. So much of New York is concrete and brick that it always makes me feel good to see vegetation in brown earth.
With a little difficulty I found the entrance with Betty Campbell’s number and rang her bell. She answered in seconds with a loud “Hello?”
“Ms. Campbell, it’s
“Do I know you?”
“I think your father knew my father. I’m Eddie Bennett’s daughter.”
“Eddie Bennett, I remember the name. My dad used to talk about him.”
“I met your father a few times when I was a little girl. I’m Chris.” I offered my hand and we shook.
“Pleased to meet you. What brings you down here today?”
“A couple of memories. I wonder if you could check something for me. I think there was a woman who worked here who lived on the west side in the Lincoln Center area that we used to meet when we went to the Thanksgiving Day parade. I don’t remember her name, but I wanted to see her again.”
“How old do you think she’d be?”
“I’d guess between sixty and seventy. I met her when I was five or six and not a very good judge of age.”
“You want to wait while I ask?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Be right back.” He picked up the rest of his sandwich and left the office.
I went to the outside window and looked out onto the street. Places that don’t change fascinate me. It must have something to do with the comfort of finding one’s way, the way you do in a house you’ve lived in for years. Night or day, you know the position of every piece of furniture, every door, every board that creaks and rug that trips you up. I have heard people complain about returning to scenes of their childhood or their most memorable experiences and being overwhelmed with disappointment. Buildings are gone, replaced with steel and glass, not the substances of mortal memory. But here time had stopped. Perhaps in another twenty-five years and a huge input of money, this area might become gentrified, replaced, converted into a park. I would not think about that today.
“Got it,” a voice behind me said, and I turned to see Mr. Jackman with a piece of paper in his hand.
“You do? Really?”
“Here she is, Betty Campbell. Name ring a bell?”
“I’m not sure.”
He handed me the address. “Amsterdam Avenue, right near Lincoln Center.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” Well, not exactly, but one of the possibilities.
“Well, I hope you find her. She’s retired, lives by herself, I think. Nice woman. Worked here a long time. Your father died quite suddenly, didn’t he?”
“That’s what I remember. I think they came for me at school one day. It was a heart attack.”
“Shame. He was not only a nice guy, he was the kind of salesman everybody loves, customers and us. Man with thekind of sense of honor you don’t find in a lot of young people nowadays. He was a gem.”
“Thank you.”
“Is your mother still alive?”
“Unfortunately no. She died a few years after he did.”
“Well, you come from a nice family, Chris. You can be proud of them.”
We reminisced for a few minutes more and then I left One of the women came out of her office as I passed and said something about my father. She had known him only a couple of years but remembered him well. As I walked to the west side subway, I felt closer to my father than I had for years. Imagine a woman coming out to say a good word. It was a kindness I really appreciated, one that would stay with me.
I went down into the subway and rode uptown to find Betty Campbell.
—
I got off at Sixty-sixth Street, right under Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, and made my way to the street level, not certain where I wanted to be. Once outside, I took my bearings and walked a block west to Amsterdam Avenue. On the west side of the street a group of redbrick apartment houses ran the length of several blocks, although no street went through them. They’d been dressed up with greenery, that is, trees that would be green in the spring. So much of New York is concrete and brick that it always makes me feel good to see vegetation in brown earth.
With a little difficulty I found the entrance with Betty Campbell’s number and rang her bell. She answered in seconds with a loud “Hello?”
“Ms. Campbell, it’s
Similar Books
