But somewhere along the way, he’d chosen to stop. He clings to this proof of his humanity as if it is the only thing that matters. Because it is.
“Well, that’s pretty damn fitting, for Manhattan.” He can feel the weight of her gaze. “You’ve got some weird feelings about that young man.”
Manny sighs a little. He’d been hoping she hadn’t gotten that, too. Some things should remain private, for God’s sake.
“Sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to get yanked into, I don’t know, a Vulcan mind-meld or whatever, so I didn’t think to, uh, not look. Hope you didn’t get any of me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.” She folds her arms and leans on her knees. Her legs are primly aligned, her skirt not at all rucked up; she is the picture of elegance in this ugly, wood-paneled old stairway. But that’s worry on her elegant face. “So, between us, I’m getting a bad feeling about what happens if and when all six of us finally get together. If that was a taste of it… I don’t think I want five other people in my head.”
Manny shrugs. He doesn’t, either, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that they must find one another, or die. “Maybe it won’t be so bad when we find the—the New York. Maybe he’ll… regulate it. Or something.”
“You’re very optimistic for a possible serial killer. I like that about you.”
It makes him laugh, which he apparently needed, because he feels much better. “How are you doing with all this, apart from existential dread?”
She shrugs, but he’s good at reading people. It must have been a professional skill for him once. She’s terrified, in her quietly elegant way. “I’d think about leaving—not that I want to, of course. New York is my home. Fought for this city all my life. But just to keep my father and my daughter out of the line of fire, you know? I’m doing this instead, for now, because seeing this through offers a possibility for both: help the city and keep my family safe. But if things get too tight…” She shrugs eloquently. “Not sure I love New York enough to die for it. Definitely don’t love it enough to sacrifice my family for it.”
“You said your daughter was fourteen.”
“Yep. Can’t nobody tell her nothing.” Brooklyn relaxes visibly with the change of subject, and smiles with fond exasperation. “Dad says she’s payback for all my lip when I was her age. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders, too. Just like her mama.”
Manny chuckles. He can’t remember whether he was mouthy growing up, but it’s nice to imagine that he might have been. “Anything I can do to help your family, I will.”
Her expression softens. Maybe she likes him a little more. “And I hope you get to become the person you actually want to be,” she says, which makes him blink. “This city will eat you alive, you know, if you let it. Don’t.”
Then she gets up, because Padmini is coming out of her apartment, still trying to stuff things into a backpack while Aishwarya hands her things she’s forgotten and bags of food. Brooklyn moves to help. While the women murmur and work together on getting the pack zipped, Manny chews on Brooklyn’s words. They feel like a warning of many things.
Then the women come down, and he gets up to take any baggage that Padmini will let him carry, which isn’t much, though Aishwarya readily plonks two filled reusable grocery bags on his arms and a tiffin stack into his hands. “Ready,” Padmini says, looking at them anxiously. “And, ah, I have dinner for us, if you want. Also, I called my supervisor and let him know I won’t be able to come in to my internship for the next few days. I now have the flu.” She coughs a little, experimentally. “You get a cough with the flu, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” says Manny, fighting a smile.
“Oh. Well, I did mention a fever of 110 and that I had my period, too. He’ll think I’m delirious from one or the other.”
“Get well soon,” Brooklyn says drily. “Let’s go, then.”
They catch a Lyft that carries them along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The nighttime cityscape of Manhattan is perfectly positioned for Manny to stare at for most of the drive, and he does so greedily, fascinated despite the knowledge that he is staring at himself. He’s a little overwhelmed by all of it: the bright, startling order of the highway, even as half of its drivers seem determined to run their own private speed races. The high-rises that loom over or alongside the highway, and the fleeting vignette glimpses he gets into other people’s lives: a couple arguing in front of an ugly painting of a boat; a roomful of people, which must be a dinner party; an old man pointing a remote at a TV with both hands and yelling. At one point their highway runs between two other highways, underneath a third, and alongside a service road that’s actually bigger. It’s madness. It’s amazing.
It’s nothing more than what any large city has… and yet it is more. Manny feels the pump and life of it. When he rolls down the window, he sticks his face out as much as the seat belt allows, and inhales the rushing air. (The driver gives him a skeptical look, but shrugs and says nothing.) He lets this breath out, and the wind gusts hard enough to shake the car a little, making the driver curse and Brooklyn clap a hand over her hair to keep it from being too messed up by the open window. She throws him a warning look, knowing full well what he’s been up to, and he smiles back apologetically.
He can’t help it, though. He is falling in love with a city, and men in love are not always considerate or wise.
When they arrive at the address Brooklyn has given the driver, it’s deep in a neighborhood that the map calls Bedford Stuyvesant. They emerge from the car to face a pair of brownstones, stately narrow things, which seem to have been similarly renovated and decorated. One is still in the traditional style, with an ironwork gate opening onto a stoop of steps; there’s even a historical landmark plaque beside its first-floor door. The other, however, has been modified: no steps, no gate, and the garden apartment door opens directly onto a pretty brick-lined and plant-strewn courtyard. The arched double-door entryway is much wider than that of the other brownstone, and its doors are more modern. Manny spots an automatic door-opener button to one side.
Padmini whistles. “This is very rich,” she says, admiring the building. Then, to Brooklyn: “You’re very rich.”
Brooklyn snorts, although she also stops on the sidewalk to let them gawk, plainly enjoying their admiration. And, Manny notes, she doesn’t deny the “rich” part. “We’ll be staying there,” she says, nodding to the traditional brownstone. “Unless either of you have issues with steps? My family lives in the accessible one; Dad uses a wheelchair. You’ll get a little fourteen-year-old attitude from my daughter, but if you don’t mind that, we can all crash there, too.”
“I’d love to meet your family, but steps are fine,” Manny says. Padmini agrees, so Brooklyn leads them up the steps of the traditional brownstone.
Inside, Padmini’s very rich gets compounded with and stylish. Someone’s renovated the place; original details like a fireplace (with a marble mantel!) and a carpeted, mahogany-bannistered stairwell have been joined by a modernist chandelier that looks like a frozen explosion, and trendy furniture that’s too visually striking to be entirely comfortable. Manny likes it anyway.