Chapter 2
Explosion Claims Life of Esteemed Pullman Porter
Dateline—December 2, 1955: Russell McNair Lamberton died of a heart attack after a bomb detonated in the lower-level men's room at Grand Central Terminal at approximately 5 p.m., yesterday evening. The Pullman Porter worked six years on the New Haven line and was freshening up after a long shift before a planned meeting with his daughter, Miss Isabelle Lamberton. The young negro woman, just sixteen, had been waiting on a nearby bench, located outside the Oyster Bar, minutes before the blast, when an older white male, described as having an unsteady gait but a pleasant disposition, asked for assistance walking up the ramp to the main lobby of the terminal to which the young woman agreed. Miss Lamberton, who was hysterical at the scene, credits the unidentified man with saving her life, while cursing whoever is responsible for the malicious act that took her father's.
I took a writing course at the New School in 1964. My first assignment, Write a story as it should have happened but didn't. That was the piece I wrote—my story as it should have been written but wasn't.
Russell McNair Lamberton was my father. On December 2, 1955, he walked into the lower-level men’s room at Grand Central, after his shift on the New Haven Line. I’d caught a glimpse of him and he of me as he cut across the corridor. We smiled at each other, but I’d decided beforehand to be patient enough to let him change his clothes before rushing to him.
He loved wearing crisp white shirts and cuffed pleated pants, hanging just-so above the rim of his shoe. And he wore fancy socks, typically blue and yellow argyle. He’d smell of fresh mint, and he’d slick his hair back with pomade but not so much to make it sticky. Sharp, everyone said of him. Sharp Lamberton.
The door was still closing behind him when a stout man, white, and not particularly handsome, walked up to me quite panicked. He needed help right away, he insisted. His five-o'clock was departing in less time than he could get himself up the ramp without some help keeping his balance. An arm and five minutes was all he needed, he assured me. I was happy to help. I knew I’d be waiting another ten or so.
I steadied the man with my right forearm, which he grasped most delicately, almost as if he wasn’t relying on it as much as he led me to think he might. We ambled up the ramp and to his platform in plenty of time. He thanked me with a quarter and suggested that I take it down to the drugstore a half block from the station and buy myself a nice cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. It struck me that he’d direct me into the cold to buy a warm drink when I could have stayed warm inside the terminal and made my purchase there, and I said so, politely.
“It’s worth the chill,” he said, as he lifted himself up the steps to the train.
“Will do,” I said back, sure that I wouldn’t.
Two trains were set to pull out of the station on the lower level. But the rush was moving up the ramp towards the central lobby. Hoards of swift walkers turned into stampeders, and it became evident that a riot was approaching, at least it felt that way. I kept getting shoved up the ramp as if intentionally. One woman grabbed my coat and pulled me in the direction of her fleeing. Another screamed, “Get out!”
I figured Russell McNair Lamberton was still in the men’s room. I was desperate to get to him and let him know that something horrible was happening in the terminal and that we had to get out of there. But that lady wouldn’t let go of me, even as I pulled and twisted violently to get away. We were at the top of the ramp before she released me. And I tried, again, to get to the lower level, but the police had taken control of the exodus and refused to let me forge against it. That’s when I realized it was my time to start screaming. Russell McNair Lamberton was nowhere in sight.
Chapter 3
No Injuries at Grand Central Terminal after Explosion. ‘Mad Bomber’ Suspected.
Dateline—December 3, 1956: Luckily, just one man was injured when a small device exploded in the lower level men’s room at Grand Central Terminal, yesterday. The unknown man is said to be a Negro porter, who works on the New Haven line. No reports of his condition.
The doctors claimed that the blast didn’t kill him. Heart attack. No reason to mention Russell McNair Lamberton’s death to the police, who were investigating the bomb incident at Grand Central, they said. The fact that Daddy was in the men’s room when the explosion happened was just a coincidence, they informed my mother. The only reason they’d even called her was because of the tattered photograph of her in his wallet, with the words my forever wife, and the address he’d refused to change on his driver’s license, even though he’d moved out two years earlier.
I thought Mother would tell the hospital staff that Russell McNair Lamberton had a new wife. But she didn’t. She was too busy playing Widow Lamberton.
“Sign here, please, Mrs. Lamberton.”
“Of course.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“He was such a young man.”
“And a wonderful father, too.”
“Who would you like us to release your husband’s body to?” they asked. That’s when Mother stopped playing Widow Lamberton.
“I’ll have his new wife contact you right away,” she quipped, while refusing to let go of Daddy’s personal belongings once the nurse realized she’d given them to her in error and reached to take them back.
I felt bad for the way Mother treated my father’s second wife, even though the woman had stolen him from us. The telephone conversation between them about his death was embarrassingly spiteful on Mother’s end and painfully mournful on the other woman’s.
“My husband that you stole is dead. Somebody needs to pick him up from the hospital.” Click against the sound of the woman’s wailing. Mother’s special brand of being cool and inhuman really paid off that time.
Mother and I, but mostly Mother, were barred from Daddy’s funeral. And, of course, she’d never grovel or be the folly of an awkward scene. So she decided we’d pop in at Daddy’s gravesite instead to say our goodbyes after the service but before his casket was lowered into the earth.
We hid ourselves behind a snow bank across from the cemetery, while the priest blessed father’s internment and mourners said their final farewells. I felt as if my freezing feet might break away from my ankles and I’d have to hobble to Daddy’s grave. Mother said the winter air was refreshing and the snow comforting. She is the Ice Queen. I suppose it made sense that she felt at home astride the crystal mound.