All Through The Night

4

They’re talking about me, Sondra thought as she hurried away. The townhouse she had been standing in front of was no longer under repair, as it had been before. There was no scaffolding to shield her today as she tried to decide what to do.

But what could she do? Certainly she couldn’t buy back that moment seven years ago when she had crossed the street, opened the stroller and left her baby on the rectory stoop. If only. If only, she thought. Then: Dear God, where can I turn? What happened to her? Who took my little girl? She fought back tears.

A cab with its light on was stopped in traffic. She raised her hand to signal the driver. “The Wyndham, on West Fifty-eighth between Fifth and Sixth,” she said as she got into the backseat.

“First visit to New York?” the cabbie asked.

“No.” But I haven’t been here in seven years, she thought. Her first visit had been when she was twelve and her grandfather brought her here from Chicago to a Midori concert at Carnegie Hall. He had brought her twice again after that. “Someday you will play on that stage,” he had promised her solemnly. “You have the gift. You can be as successful as she.”

A violinist whose hands had been limited by arthritis, cutting short his career, her grandfather had made his living as a music teacher and critic. And supported me, Sondra thought sadly-when he was sixty years old he took me in.

She had been only ten when her young parents had been killed in an accident. Granddad devoted himself to me, taught me everything he knew about music, she reminded herself. And he used every spare penny he could find to take me to hear the great violinists.

Her talent had earned her a full scholarship to the University of Birmingham, and it was there, in the spring of her freshman year, that she met Anthony del Torre, a pianist visiting the campus for a concert. What followed should never have happened.

How could I have told Granddad that I got involved with a man I knew was married? She asked herself now. I couldn’t have kept the baby. There was no money to pay for help. I had years of schooling ahead of me. And if I had told him what had happened, it would have broken his heart.

As the cab made its way through the slow traffic, Sondra thought back to that wrenching time. She thought about how she had saved money to come to New York, she remembered checking into a cheap hotel on November 30th, buying the baby clothes and diapers, the bottles and formula and stroller. She had located the hospital closest to the hotel and had planned to go to the emergency room when she went into labor. She would, of course, have to give a false name and address. But the baby had come so quickly on December 3rd; there had been no time to get to the hospital.

Early in the pregnancy, she had decided that New York was where she would leave the baby. She loved the city. From her very first visit there with her granddad, she knew that someday she would live in Manhattan. She had instantly felt at home there. On that first visit, her grandfather had taken her to St. Clement’s, the church he had attended throughout his boyhood. “Whenever I wanted a special favor, I would kneel in the pew nearest Bishop Santori’s picture and his chalice,” he told her. “From them I always received comfort. Sondra, I went there when I realized there was no hope for the stiffening fingers. That was the nearest I ever came to despair.”

In the several days before the baby was born, Sondra had slipped in and out of St. Clement’s; each time she had knelt in that pew. She had watched the clergymen there; she’d seen the kindness in the face of Monsignor Ferris and knew that she could trust him to find a good home for her baby.

Where is my baby now? Sondra wondered in despair. She’d been in agony since yesterday. As soon as she checked into the hotel, she had phoned the rectory and said she was a reporter following up on the story of the baby who had been left on the stoop of the rectory on December 3rd, seven years ago.

The astonishment in the secretary’s voice had warned her of what was to come. “A baby left at St. Clement’s?! I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’ve been here twenty years, and nothing like that has ever happened.”

The cab turned onto Central Park South. I used to daydream that maybe the people who adopted the baby were pushing her in her carriage here, along the park, Sondra thought, where the baby could see the horses and carriages.

Late yesterday afternoon she had gone to the public library and called up the microfilm of the New York newspapers of December 4th, seven years ago. The only reference to St. Clement’s that day was an article about a theft there, stating that the chalice of Bishop Santori, the founding pastor to whom many of the devout prayed, had been stolen.

That’s probably why the police were there when I called that night; that’s why the monsignor was outside, Sondra thought, her distress growing. And I believed it was because they’d found the baby.

Then who had taken the baby? She had left her in a paper shopping bag for added warmth. Maybe some kids had come by and pushed the stroller away and abandoned it, without ever realizing she was there. Suppose the baby had died of exposure. I’d go to prison, Sondra thought. What would that do to Granddad? He keeps telling me that all the sacrifices he’s made over the years have been worthwhile because of what I’ve become. He’s so proud that I’ll be playing a concert at Carnegie Hall on December 23rd. It’s what he always dreamed of-first for himself, and then for me.

The celebrity-studded charity affair would introduce her to the New York critics. Yo-Yo Ma, Plácido Domingo, Kathleen Battle, Emanuel Ax and the brilliant young violinist Sondra Lewis were the main attractions. She still could hardly believe it.

“We’re here, miss,” the cabbie said, an edge in his voice. With a start, Sondra realized that his irritation was due to the fact that he’d already told her that once.

“Oh, sorry.” The fare was $3.40. She fished in her wallet for a five-dollar bill. “That’s fine,” she said, opening the door and starting to get out.

“I don’t think you really wanted to give me a forty-five dollar tip, miss.”

Sondra looked at the fifty-dollar bill the cabbie was holding out to her. “Oh, thank you,” she stammered.

“That’s a big mistake, lady. Lucky for you I don’t take advantage of pretty young women.”

As Sondra exchanged the fifty for a five-dollar bill, she thought-too bad you weren’t around when I traded my baby for my grandfather’s good opinion of me and my own chance at success.