I thank my mother, Sarah L. Holmes, for bringing to me the beautiful “Muse.” Thank you, Susan Letzer Cole, my teacher, mentor, and catcher of all “typos” for breathing this sentiment into my soul:
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue;—William Shakespeare's Hamlet (3.2.1–3)
The Porter's Muse
Chapter 1
Bomber who Terrorized City Dead at 90
Dateline—May 23, 1994
Man responsible for explosions detonated throughout the City in the 1940s and 1950s, during a reign of terror provoked by a denied injury compensation claim, has died.
I used to be that little girl over there. Yes, the one sitting next to the handsome Army Private. They're not together. He's too young to be her father and not perturbed enough by her annoying habits to be her brother. He doesn't even notice her crinoline hem scratching against his pant leg or her right foot, switch-swinging with her left, kicking his calf. I notice. Who would put their child in a crinoline slip these days? It's 1994 and warming into summer outside.
You'd think she'd sit next to the boy on the bench across the aisle. He's alone, too. And since neither of them has a packed bag in their possession, they could easily figure out that they are there for the same reason and maybe wait together—if they weren't afraid that the others might notice.
It's Monday morning. Grand Central Station is buzzing with commuters, hurrying onto trains headed to work elsewhere or coming in to meet friends, families, or maybe lovers (some secretly).
That boy and girl over there are divorce babies, I can tell. They're waiting for Daddy and hoping for a sundae at the Oyster Bar, while their nervous fathers kick back a couple to relax during the short visit between them. Maybe they'll share a table, the girl, the boy, and their restless fathers.
The mothers are almost always invisible. Wherever they are, they're not far. Maybe shopping next door at Modell's or grabbing a burger at McDonald's. The visits are perfectly timed. They'll stream into the station just as their children are exchanging goodbye hugs with their exiled dads.
The trading back is very sanitary. These mothers and fathers never lock eyes or talk beyond cordial greetings, though their children hope they will. Maybe this time they'll get back together, they're thinking. At least I guess they are. It was that way for me. But it's not going to happen. Station visits tell a story of their own. Daddy has moved on, and Mommy hasn't gotten over where he's left to, to whom he's left to. So the children, barred from his new life, are relegated to well-timed visits in public places and sundaes, while perched on high stools at the Oyster Bar, if they're lucky enough to be dropped off at Grand Central, where fidgety fathers sedate themselves with ice-diluted alcohol in short glasses.
I should probably make my way up the ramp and to the platform. My train will be pulling out soon. Stamford. It's been awhile.