Suspension by Robert Westfield

Author:Robert Westfield
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2006-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

I HOPED I WAS on the right train. I couldn’t ask anyone; I was over-stimulated by the morning and all the faces on the claustrophobic, speeding 2 train. I stared at the map, trying to remember Sonia’s stop, but she lived somewhere in the middle of a spaghetti tangle of subway routes that were marked in dark gray, blue, red, orange, brown, two different shades of green and, most confusingly, three lines of the exact same color yellow. Talk about codes. Trains sped in all directions, connecting at points, running parallel, overlapping and passing one another; some carried on straight, others made sharp turns or curving swirls. This was a new map with all sorts of station closures, ferry lines, and service changes. The 1 was now going to Brooklyn. Where was the 3? What happened to the D? There was also a new line—the W! How could they have added trains after the eleventh? Deep breaths, deep breaths. I noticed that in this section of the map, the black dots representing the local stops on the 2 line were half hidden beneath the green of the 4 and 5, proof that even the graphic designers were overwhelmed by this area. A woman asked me if I needed help, but my voice was buried so deep inside me, she couldn’t hear a word I said, so she smiled and returned to her paper. It was the name for one of these half-hidden dots that I recognized as Sonia’s stop, and I came out of the station at Eastern Parkway with a headache.

At the sight of the museum, I remembered how carsick I was the last time I was here. The air felt good as I crossed to the sidewalk and walked past the long row of apartment buildings facing the Botanical Garden. I looked forward to hearing Sonia’s shock when I announced myself and asked for her help. I couldn’t wait to be sitting safely inside and planned to ask if she knew anything about Rod and his summer after high school. I stepped into her building’s glass foyer, pressed the button for her apartment, heard the antiquated mechanical drone, and waited. Only then did it occur to me that it was the middle of the day—I’d been living a timeless existence for months—and Sonia was likely to be “hunting rent” in Manhattan, so I was doubly excited to hear static crackle from the speaker.

“Hello?”

“Sonia, it’s Andy. I’m out. I’m out of my apartment.”

There was a pause. “Good. Thank you.”

“Sonia?” After a prolonged wait, I buzzed again. Nothing. I buzzed once more.

“Hello?”

“It’s still Andy. Buzz me in.” Silence. “I need to talk with you. Something very, very important has come up.” More silence. “Sonia, come on.”

“Yes, someday, okay?”

“Are you all right?” She didn’t sound like herself.

“Okay. You go now. Thank you. Good-bye.”

In my mind flashed the image of Sonia with her wrists taped together, a gun pressed to her temple, and a man in business casual, reeking of cologne, standing behind her.

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