Bono

Chapter Five

AN INSPIRING GLIDE

A cat is more a mystery to unravel than a problem to be solved.

Trailing after Lydia down West 47th Street was giving me plenty of time to admire the back of her brown bob. Young people have no idea how lustrous their hair is, and how fleeting that glossy growth.

As we filed past gleaming storefronts, I was grateful she was showing no signs of irritation at having to slow down for me.

If she’d paused for a second, I’d have caught up and pointed out a glorious mural set in stone. Art Deco’s glamorous modernity took the planet by storm in that gush of optimism between the world wars. Though the style originated in France, New York is its spiritual home with the Chrysler Building as its high temple.

“Can’t be far now,” she said over her shoulder.

We turned a corner to confront an impressive row of national flags drooping from their poles. Above them, vertical lines of a building soared seventy stories into the night.

“Rockefeller Center,” I said to Lydia, who had stopped to admire the sight.

But she wasn’t listening. She was staring down at the plaza below us—and the most famous ice rink in the world.

There was no mistaking the gilded statue of Prometheus. The classically proportioned beauty has starred in countless movies, usually under the giant Christmas tree, where couples discover their love is true after all.

Prometheus has been soaring almost horizontal in languorous majesty since 1934. In an impressive balancing act, he holds a clump of fire in his right hand while keeping a shawl draped over his man parts.

I looked down at the glistening rectangle of ice. Apart from a lonely Zamboni machine leaving a silvery trail in its wake, the rink was empty. Maybe we’d missed the show.

We went downstairs where a female guard ushered us through a gate beside the rink. A small group of people was huddled in the semidarkness. It was hard to make out facial features but at least half were older males, and they seemed welcoming. There was no sign of Michaela.

A man greeted us in the gentlemanly lilt of Gone with the Wind. Carrying a video camera in one gloved hand, he took my hand in the other and introduced himself as Gene. Our words emerged in a series of icy clouds that hovered in the night air as if they were reluctant to leave.

With relief I noticed Gene was wearing something that could pass as a ski cap, except it was considerably more finely woven and elegantly shaped than mine. Lydia pulled her collar up and tugged the headband over her ears.

“You’re just in time for Michaela’s solo,” he said.

Solo?

The ice took on a magical glow. Strains of Tchaikovsky struck up from an invisible source. Crowds gathered around the upper level of the plaza and peered over the rails.

As the music reached a crescendo, a woman spun onto the ice. She was wearing a crimson cloak and traditional Russian headgear worthy of a czarina. But it wasn’t Michaela. She was taller, more statuesque. As she smiled at the audience and spread her arms, her cloak parted to reveal a short, gold-trimmed dress.

The woman was probably older than me and had been dealt a similar genetic build. Yet she wasn’t hiding in loose knits in front of afternoon game shows. Watching her keep pace with the music in bold, rhythmical strides, I marveled at her grace and fitness. I tried to imagine myself inhabiting her body, how it felt to glide across the ice in full makeup, smiling and confident I wasn’t going to tumble in a humiliating heap. My right knee began to ache in sympathy.

Our group applauded as she completed a leisurely spin, bowed, and left the rink.

When the music stopped, a sprite in dainty white boots sailed onto the ice. Her pastel pink dress hung in folds from her waist and finished just above her knees. Streamers fluttered from her sleeves. With her petite figure and curly blond hair framed against Prometheus’s gold, she seemed to have sprung from another world.

“That’s Michaela!” I whispered, thudding Lydia’s jacket with my elbow.

Our group waited in respectful silence. Gene raised his camera as she floated through her routine like a bird riding a thermal wave.

The evening concluded with a group performance, faultless to the last twirl. We cheered from the sidelines alongside the women’s adoring male partners. Nobody in the group was under 40, yet the couples flung their arms around each other in what seemed genuine passion. Maybe the city’s water supply was laced with hormones. Whatever their secret, these women and their mates were demonstrating that the second half of life could be an inspiring glide.

Michaela stepped toward us, her coat belted up over her costume. With her glowing skin and zircon eyes, there was a hint of Marilyn Monroe about her. But anyone who mistook Michaela for a ditzy blonde would be in for a shock. I’d seen her dissect a manuscript with the coolheaded accuracy of a microsurgeon.

As we followed her and the group to a nearby bar, I felt the rest of my life was settled. I’d move to New York City and sign up for JoJo’s Cool Workout Class on Ice. Though JoJo Starbuck is an Olympic medalist, she instructs at all levels. When her students aren’t being ice princesses, they’re at day jobs in real estate, finance, law, and other professions. I’d soon learn to ignore the curious onlookers leaning over the rails under the flags, and sail across the rink with the ice dancer’s beatific smile.

My silhouette would take on the well-honed shape of a statue as I perfected the art of skating backward, spirals, hops, and maybe even jumps.

Over a glass of wine, Michaela described how she and her friends met at the skate house three or four mornings a week at 7 a.m., weather permitting. They’d help themselves to coffee and continental breakfast before starting their warm-up exercises.

In December before practice, they stopped and talked to the animal handlers walking the animals who live in Radio City Music Hall during the Christmas Spectacular. Sometimes, they were even invited to pet the camels because, as expected, New York City dromedaries were well mannered and clean.

In January, it was still dark when the class met. Little white lights sparkled in the trees around the plaza. As the sun rose over Saks Fifth Avenue, JoJo helped her students improve their skills and move their skating fantasies a bit closer to reality.

I couldn’t wait to get started. All I needed was skates and a $350 season ticket giving me unlimited time at the rink and a locker.

I’d only been there a few hours, but the vibrancy of the place was making me feel like a kid again.

Mingling with amiable strangers in the warmth of the bar, I watched crimson wine tumble into my glass. It was as if these people had been expecting me, and I was finally home. Lydia seemed happy, too. A striking blonde woman introduced herself as Karen Auerbach, the publicity director. She took Lydia aside to fill her in on the intricacies of the New York publishing scene.

It was an author’s dream to have Vida, Michaela, Karen and their team going to so much trouble arranging a raft of interviews and a special cat store event. Though grateful for their efforts, I was nervous how Cats & Daughters was going to be received in the United States. No doubt they were hoping to replicate the success of Cleo.

Anyone who thinks a writer is solely responsible for a publishing hit is clawing at the wrong scratching post. As far as I know, nobody sits at a window with a view over rolling hills and channels a best seller into the stores (most professional writers I’ve met have desks facing blank walls, anyway).

Some kind of magic has to happen to inspire a chain of talented people to invest their skill and enthusiasm in the project. From agents and editors to publicists, bookstore owners, and reviewers, a book passes through countless hands before it reaches the most important person of all—the reader. In all honesty, Cleo had been a glorious combination of luck and timing. A fluke. I was just a scribbler from the other side of the planet with a tendency to bump into furniture.

My phone vibrated against my hip inside my pocket.

Gr8 u have arrived safely. I’ve given Jonah his pill. On my way to work xxx.

It was such a measured message, so trusting and straightforward, I felt momentarily guilty. Still, if I was home right now, I’d be bent in front of the washing machine sorting whites from coloreds.

Though I raised the glass there was no need for alcohol. I was already intoxicated, drunk on New York. A slender woman with long hair moved toward us with the grace of a tiger. Her bright smile and dark eyes seemed familiar.

“Here’s to your foster cat!” Vida said, clinking her glass against mine.

Oh. The cat. I’d hoped they’d given up on that harebrained scheme. But no, Vida said she’d been in touch with the shelter and they were expecting us on Monday. When I explained we’d barely have time to settle into our apartment by then, Vida and Michaela looked crestfallen, as if a homeless cat was enduring hours of suffering because of my delay tactics.

I took a swig of wine and said Monday would be fine. Michaela’s face lit up like Times Square. She said she’d visit as soon as the cat had settled in.

Back in our hotel room two hours later, I was so tired I brushed my teeth with face cream.

When I was finally tucked into bed, I thought of Vida toasting our future foster cat. The only way I could survive the insane plan would be with a low maintenance animal.

Greg was always telling me about the power of visualization. Closing my eyes, I conjured up an image of a hefty tortoiseshell. A sedate female with a name like Mavis, my foster cat would have been recently orphaned after 18 years with her widowed librarian owner. Mavis’s interest in human contact would be limited to watching me spoon fish flakes onto a saucer. She would pass her days dozing on a window ledge while Lydia and I went on shopping safari in Saks Fifth Avenue. Unlike Jonah, Mavis would hardly notice when we arrived home, on account of deafness. She’d acknowledge our presence with an offhand flick of her tail. Mavis wouldn’t be unfriendly or destructive, just healthy, quiet, clean, and sane. I slipped into a milky bowl of Mavis dreams.