Blood Games

    After sleeping in late, they’d taken a subway to the Battery, gone over to the Statue of Liberty and stood in line for two hours before entering the statue. Abilene supposed that the climb to the top was the most tiring - and scary - part of their Big Apple adventure. After making their way up flight after flight of ‘normal’ stairs, they’d come to a circular staircase so steep and narrow that she had almost chickened out. Though Helen had muttered, ‘Oh my God,’ at the base of the twisting iron stairs, she’d gone ahead and started up, Abilene behind her. The singlefile line moved slowly upward. There were long pauses. The air was hot and stuffy. Abilene felt as if she were suffocating. She gasped for breath and blinked sweat from her eyes and wished she could turn back. There was no way to turn back. What happens to people who pass out trying this? she wondered. Is there a rescue team, or what?

    The iron railings, because of their steep angle, were so low at her sides that it seemed quite possible to tumble over one. Again and again, she imagined herself going dizzy, rolling over the left-hand rail, and plummeting straight down the center opening.

    If Helen can make it, I can, she kept telling herself. And at last she followed Helen into the crown. It had no openings. It had no fresh air. It was even hotter, stuffier than the stairway. All she wanted was out. Nudged on by those behind her, she filed past the tiny windows. Glanced through glass so dirty or scratched that it made a foggy blur of the harbor and the New York skyline. Kept on moving and started downward.

    The very best thing about the Statue of Liberty, she found, was escaping from it.

    While they rested in the park, Abilene had looked into Finley’s camera and said, ‘Now I know all about those “tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” They’re the poor slobs climbing to the top.’

    After the ferry ride back to the Battery, Vivian had suggested they walk over to the World Trade Center. ‘It’s only a few blocks from here.’

    ‘Kiss my sweaty butt,’ Helen had told her.

    ‘Thank you,’ Abilene had said.

    Skipping the World Trade Center, they’d taken the subway back into mid-town, gotten off at the wrong stop, and hiked for an hour before reaching the Hilton.

    A brief rest, a change of clothes, and they’d soon been off again. This time, to Greenwich Village for dinner and the Brecht play.

    They’d gotten off the subway at the Houston Street station.

    Then they’d gone exploring, wandering up and down narrow streets, going into clothes stores and bookshops, walking past sidewalk cafes, scanning menus in restaurant windows. Somehow, they’d found themselves across the street from a park. After checking her guidebook, Vivian had identified it as Washington Square.

    Joining a crowd at one end of the park, they’d spent a while watching a young man juggle machetes while riding a unicycle.

    Then they’d gone back to the maze of streets where they’d seen so many restaurants. Some of the eating places looked too crowded, others too formal, none just right. So they’d kept on walking, discovering streets they’d missed before, always on the lookout for a ‘neat place’ to have dinner.

    Helen was the one who found it.

    ‘My God!’ she’d gasped. ‘We’ve gotta eat here! We’ve gotta!’

    It was an Italian restaurant called ‘Grandpa’s.’ In the window near its entrance was taped a newspaper clipping: an article about the restaurant with a photograph of its owner.

    Its owner was Al Lewis, ‘Grandpa Munster’ from the old TV show.

    So in they’d gone, and Al Lewis had greeted them at the door. He wasn’t in costume. He wore trousers, a plaid shirt and a ball cap instead of his Munster outfit. But Helen had seemed no less excited about meeting him. She’d blushed and searched her purse for paper and shyly asked for his autograph.

    All through dinner, she’d stared at him.

    On their way out, Vivian stopped and asked him directions to the Dunsinane theater. While he’d explained how to get there, Helen had watched him in awestruck silence.

    ‘That was so great,’ she’d said when they were outside.

    ‘The high point of the trip, huh?’

    ‘Pretty near.’

    ‘Better than the Statue of Liberty?’

    She’d rolled her eyes upward and groaned.

    Mother Courage, with actors wandering into the audience and shouting in people’s faces, had seemed nearly as unnerving to Abilene as the winding staircase in the Statue. She was glad when it ended.

    ‘So where is the subway station?’ Helen asked.

    Finley grinned back at her. ‘It must’ve moved.’

    ‘It’s gotta be around here someplace.’ Vivian stopped at a corner, glanced at the street sign, and raised her guidebook close to her face.

    Abilene looked up at the sign and found herself grinning. ‘Hey, it’s Mulberry Street. And to think that I saw it.’

    ‘I don’t see it,’ Vivian murmured.

    ‘What?’ Cora asked.

    ‘Mulberry Street.’

    ‘And to think that I saw it,’ Abilene repeated.

    ‘What are you talking about, Hickok?’

    ‘Mulberry Street. Dr Seuss.’

    ‘Give us a break.’

    ‘I can’t find it on the map,’ Vivian said.