greasy lunches, smoking, drinking from bottles in paper bags. They all knew Fay. One directed us right to the hillock on the northern limit of the docking basin.
She was seated on the frozen ground, on folded newspapers. Next to her was a banged-up shopping cart filled with her possessions—or at least that’s what I assume they were. The sheer bulk of the cart’s contents was overwhelming. I didn’t study them very closely.
In fact, seeing Fay in another context, one might not have known immediately that she was one of the army of homeless. She was clean, quite presentable, but there was something discombobulated about her appearance nonetheless, and she wore a frightening amount of rouge. Her coat appeared to be a real fur, in decent shape, but upon closer inspection I could see that its collar had been taken from some other garment and haphazardly sewn on. On her feet were plush-lined bathroom slippers—odd enough in itself, considering the temperature—but under them were wildly mismatched men’s socks.
There was no question that Fay had known Lenny. The minute Tony flashed Dobrynin’s photograph, her eyes lit up in recognition. And in something else—love, perhaps. She took the photo and held it close to her cheek, almost cooing his name.
“Lenny! I’ve been waiting for him,” she said breathily. “Where
is
Lenny?”
We lied to Fay. Tony invented a story about Lenny’s having been hit by a car. We were old friends of Lenny’s, trying, he improvised, to gather some background information to help an attorney sue the driver of the automobile. Lenny would be well in a few months, Tony said. He was on the mend.
Fay’s distress at the news shamed me. But I couldn’t tell her the truth.
“I hope he gets back soon,” she finally said. “His babies are hungry. I don’t have the money to feed them.”
That one really stumped me.
“What babies are you talking about, Fay?” I managed to ask.
“
His
babies!” she replied brusquely. “He always gave me the money to buy food for them. Delicious food. Oh, he takes good care of those babies. Sends me over for the best stuff. Chicken Kiev’s their favorite.”
Basillio was taken with a violent coughing fit. He turned his back to us for a minute.
“Lenny gives me the money,” Fay continued, “and I go over to that Russian place to get their food.”
“You don’t . . . by any chance . . .” I asked haltingly, “mean . . . the Russian . . . Tea Room? On Fifty-seventh?”
“Yes,” she sniffed. “What do you think I mean? Grand food he gives them. And us, too. Lenny feeds us all. Now you just tell him those babies are hungry.”
When I asked her to take us to the babies, Fay was reluctant. “What for? You wanna hear ’em crying?”
A couple of our tens got her on her feet. Tony had handed me the money wordlessly, all the time shaking his head in wonderment.
We were led across the hillock, through one of the small stone tunnels that dot the park, and emerged in front of a large rock outcropping surrounded by an iron rail fence. Here we came to a halt.
“See any babies?” Tony asked me. “I don’t.”
Fay began to rummage around in her cart. At length she pulled out a huge stainless-steel spoon, something that I guessed they were still looking for at one soup kitchen or another.
She stepped up close to the fence and pulled the spoon noisily along the rails. It made quite a racket. She stepped away from the fence and smiled at us.
There was a blurry movement on the rocks on the other side of the fence, and then a big, battered tomcat came into view. He approached the fence slowly, as if each step were a hardship.
Then another cat appeared, this one a dingy calico. Then another. And another. They began to arrive in pairs after that. They kept coming and coming, in an unhappy procession. They all looked cranky and underfed. All expectant.
“See?” Fay said without satisfaction. “There’s all the hungry babies. See
She was seated on the frozen ground, on folded newspapers. Next to her was a banged-up shopping cart filled with her possessions—or at least that’s what I assume they were. The sheer bulk of the cart’s contents was overwhelming. I didn’t study them very closely.
In fact, seeing Fay in another context, one might not have known immediately that she was one of the army of homeless. She was clean, quite presentable, but there was something discombobulated about her appearance nonetheless, and she wore a frightening amount of rouge. Her coat appeared to be a real fur, in decent shape, but upon closer inspection I could see that its collar had been taken from some other garment and haphazardly sewn on. On her feet were plush-lined bathroom slippers—odd enough in itself, considering the temperature—but under them were wildly mismatched men’s socks.
There was no question that Fay had known Lenny. The minute Tony flashed Dobrynin’s photograph, her eyes lit up in recognition. And in something else—love, perhaps. She took the photo and held it close to her cheek, almost cooing his name.
“Lenny! I’ve been waiting for him,” she said breathily. “Where
is
Lenny?”
We lied to Fay. Tony invented a story about Lenny’s having been hit by a car. We were old friends of Lenny’s, trying, he improvised, to gather some background information to help an attorney sue the driver of the automobile. Lenny would be well in a few months, Tony said. He was on the mend.
Fay’s distress at the news shamed me. But I couldn’t tell her the truth.
“I hope he gets back soon,” she finally said. “His babies are hungry. I don’t have the money to feed them.”
That one really stumped me.
“What babies are you talking about, Fay?” I managed to ask.
“
His
babies!” she replied brusquely. “He always gave me the money to buy food for them. Delicious food. Oh, he takes good care of those babies. Sends me over for the best stuff. Chicken Kiev’s their favorite.”
Basillio was taken with a violent coughing fit. He turned his back to us for a minute.
“Lenny gives me the money,” Fay continued, “and I go over to that Russian place to get their food.”
“You don’t . . . by any chance . . .” I asked haltingly, “mean . . . the Russian . . . Tea Room? On Fifty-seventh?”
“Yes,” she sniffed. “What do you think I mean? Grand food he gives them. And us, too. Lenny feeds us all. Now you just tell him those babies are hungry.”
When I asked her to take us to the babies, Fay was reluctant. “What for? You wanna hear ’em crying?”
A couple of our tens got her on her feet. Tony had handed me the money wordlessly, all the time shaking his head in wonderment.
We were led across the hillock, through one of the small stone tunnels that dot the park, and emerged in front of a large rock outcropping surrounded by an iron rail fence. Here we came to a halt.
“See any babies?” Tony asked me. “I don’t.”
Fay began to rummage around in her cart. At length she pulled out a huge stainless-steel spoon, something that I guessed they were still looking for at one soup kitchen or another.
She stepped up close to the fence and pulled the spoon noisily along the rails. It made quite a racket. She stepped away from the fence and smiled at us.
There was a blurry movement on the rocks on the other side of the fence, and then a big, battered tomcat came into view. He approached the fence slowly, as if each step were a hardship.
Then another cat appeared, this one a dingy calico. Then another. And another. They began to arrive in pairs after that. They kept coming and coming, in an unhappy procession. They all looked cranky and underfed. All expectant.
“See?” Fay said without satisfaction. “There’s all the hungry babies. See
Similar Books
