Sliver Of Truth

I’ve always been attractive-not hot, not gorgeous, but pretty enough to get along, not so beautiful as to attract undue attention. Weirdly, I’ve always been grateful for this. I was never one to wish I looked like the girls in the Victoria’s Secret catalog, with their jutting bones and vamping eyes, or the models on magazine covers, with their airbrushed beauty. I never primped or starved or strutted for male attention-attempts I’ve always found to be somewhat sad and desperate in other women. My mother always said, “You are the one to do the choosing, dear. Not the one who waits to be chosen.” She knew something that most women don’t seem to know anymore, that an awareness of your own worth is the most attractive quality in the world. That a woman centered and secure in her own power need never starve herself or subject herself to self-mutilating surgeries, may not even choose to hide her grays. She’ll always have the kind of beauty that age and changing fads can’t touch.

My mother also said, “If you do things to cheapen yourself, men will think they can have you cheaply and then discard you.” These things included dyeing my hair, getting a henna tattoo, wearing midriff tops and fishnet stockings. Even when I resented these restrictions, even as I railed against them, I think I heard the truth in what she was saying. I was thinking about this because of the leering glances I drew on the street with my new platinum-blond hair peeking out of my cap. I wasn’t used to being leered at on the street, really. I mean, this is New York, and there’s always some lowlife catcalling or making a disgusting noise as you pass. But the most I might get from the average man is a quick glance or a smile. As I walked up Broadway toward the subway, men stared at me with odd looks and disrespectful grins. I walked faster and had to keep myself from running my hand through my hair. Was it the blond hair dye? Or was there something about me now that showed my fear and desperation?

I jogged down the stairs into the Times Square station and waited for the 1 or the 9. When a train came, I got on and walked through the cars to find the emptiest one, then sunk into a seat on the far end in the corner and closed my eyes.

I felt someone sit next to me and I scooched over toward the wall, kept my eyes shut.

“It’s an interesting look for you. A little bit Madonna, the Vogue years.”

I opened my eyes. Jake with an amused smile. I didn’t know whether to slap him or hug him. I opted for the latter. He held me tight, as tight as I held him.

“I’m sorry,” he said into my ear with a low whisper. “I’m sorry.”

We got off the train at 191st Street and found a Cuban coffee shop in the bustle of the busy Inwood neighborhood. It’s the tip of Manhattan, not quite the Bronx but close enough. The train is elevated here and the streets a grimy mix of mom-and-pop restaurants and Laundromats, bodegas and apartment buildings. It’s a fairly safe working-class area but close enough to the bad stuff that liquor stores are gated, their clerks behind bulletproof glass. There’s a heavily Latino influence in this area, which means the coffee is fantastic and the aromas of roast pork, rice and beans, and garlic are in the air.

We found a table toward the back, and I took off my ridiculous glasses.

“They think you killed Esme,” I said.

“And you’re wanted for questioning in the murder of that Times assistant,” he answered, “and escaping NYPD custody.”

He seemed tired and pale but his eyes were bright. There was an edginess to him that was unfamiliar. The waitress came and we ordered café con leche and Cuban toast.

“I wasn’t anywhere near Esme Gray yesterday,” he said. “Last time I saw her was when I confronted her about Max.”

“What about the blood in the studio?”

He shook his head. “I came back to the studio last night, hoping you’d meet me. The door was open. I knew I hadn’t left it open, so I slipped into Tompkins Square Park. I thought I’d stop you before you went upstairs, but I looked away for a second, and when I saw you, you were moving so fast, I didn’t get to you in time. I was about to follow you in when I saw the feds making their move. I hung back. Eventually I saw you leave with one of them. I bolted.”

“You could have called,” I said sullenly. “I’ve been sick about you. I left about a hundred messages.”

He held up his cell phone. “Battery’s dead. And I knew they’ve been watching you and your phone. I figured it was better if I just tried to tag you on the street somewhere.”

I nodded, looked down at the table. I noticed that he didn’t seem surprised about the blood in the studio, that he didn’t ask any questions about what else I had seen there or what the feds (if that’s what they were) had found. I didn’t ask him why he wasn’t even curious.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said, lifting his hand to my hair. “Why’d you do that to yourself? You should just turn yourself in. This is crazy.”