Following Polly Read online

“You look great.”

  “Ugh, I feel disgusting. You look great.”

  “Doesn’t she?” I tell her.

  “I am so glad you guys could come.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You should have heard us raving.”

  I lose track of who is saying what as I try to sneak past the three girls as they chat, presumably with Felisha Siskin.

  “May I take your coat?” a voice asks.

  “Sure,” I tell a man in a top hat. Oh God, I hope this isn’t a costume party.

  I hand him Diane Paynter’s coat as I try to find the Siskins’ food court.

  “You might want to take off your shoes,” Top Hat tells me as he stares at my sneakers. At first I think he is giving me some sort of imaginary makeover, but then I see a wall of shoes staring at me. I take mine off but Top Hat is still staring at me. Does he recognize me from the news? I see he looks down at my feet again. No, he’s not staring at my feet but rather my legs. My jeans have fallen back down to their rightful place, and I look ridiculous.

  “Can you remind me where the bathroom is?” I ask him.

  He tells me that I can use the second door on my left. I walk in a couple of steps, and I’m in the coolest apartment I’ve ever been in.

  Don’t get me wrong. Mother and Barnes live in a nice place, but their apartment is conventional. Expensive but conventional.

  The Siskins, it turns out, live in a loft. The apartment is brightly lit—I’m not sure of the source because I don’t see a light anywhere unless you count the picture-perfect fire taking place in the stone fireplace. The ceilings are tall—at least fourteen feet. If you look up, you see a balcony—not unlike the mezzanine at Macy’s. Clusters of people are on the balcony, disappearing occasionally into what must be bedrooms and closets. Every so often I hear a “Wow.” A few people ask to move in. The floor is a lightly stained wood. If I were the Siskins, I would not only forbid shoes on the floor, I would forbid feet altogether. The walls are also wood, but they have been stained a darker color. There are no hangings on the walls, rather there are television screens inlaid every few feet or so. All of the televisions are on. What are Kirsten and Toby talking about? How could they disparage a couple with this many televisions? If I weren’t a fugitive from justice, the Siskins would be my new best friends.

  CNN is blaring in the house.

  Please don’t switch to local news.

  I take a break from the tour and head to the bathroom. The walls, floor, and ceiling are marble. There is even a little television facing the toilet. I clean myself off a bit and remove my suede jacket and my pants. I look under the sink for a bag or something to put them in, but there is only a huge basket of potpourri. I wrap my clothes in a little ball and tuck them under my arm. Maybe I will give them to Top Hat.

  I exit the bathroom and a very blond man hands me a glass of champagne.

  “Roger.” He says it in such a way that I’m not sure if he is identifying himself or guessing my name.

  “Alice,” I say, wondering if I’ve already shared too much information.

  He lifts his champagne glass, imploring me to clink my glass against his. Roger’s furrowed face suggests several years of fierce acne. I’m not certain I want to drink. I haven’t eaten in days, I’m not a big drinker, and I’m on the lam. On the other hand, I’m hungry, and this is the closest thing I have to food. I take a sip, vowing to find the lamb meatballs within sixty seconds.

  “How do you know Justin and Felisha?”

  “Oh,” I take a gamble, “those guys.” I point with my chin in the general direction of the girls who got me in here.

  Roger pauses a little.

  “Don’t believe anything they say about me. I’m really a good guy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I’m uncurious about his past. “I’m starving.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Shall we?”

  Roger thinks we are on a date. I follow him to a table filled with delicious offerings. There’s roast suckling pig flanked with grilled vegetables and plantains, a wide assortment of sushi, cheese fondue, and a huge roast beef alongside a cluster of individual herb Yorkshire puddings. Some of the meat has been sliced, but the roast remains mostly intact. There is a huge carving knife resting comfortably in the cooked flesh. I think for a second about the knife that had been thrust into Polly Dawson, and her dead, silent body oozing blood. Someone went to serious lengths to kill her and then plant the weapon at my house. Who would want to kill Polly? Who would want to frame me? I’m distracted by a waitress who stands before me with a tray of lamb meatballs and a cup of toothpicks.

  “Would you like one?” She hands me a napkin.

  “Maybe I’ll just take two,” I say as I take three.

  I overhear one of the guests telling another that he’s been nervous on New Year’s Eve since the Egyptian guy bombed the Seattle airport a few years ago.

  I want to maintain limited visibility, so I struggle not to remind him that Ahmed Ressam was Algerian and didn’t bomb anything. He smuggled bombs into the Seattle airport in mid-December with the intention of blowing up LAX during the millennium celebration.

  “So?” Roger says.

  “So,” I say back, half expecting him to ask why I took three meatballs.

  “What are your resolutions?”

  “Oh,” I say, “I didn’t realize there would be a quiz.”

  “You have to earn the food somehow.”

  Oh, I earned it.

  “Well, I resolve to get myself out of this mess I got into this year.”

  “Anything else?”

  Anything else? Other than getting cleared from a slam-dunk murder charge and trying to stop living off my parents.

  “To be happy in my life.” I remember the studio audience clapping when someone on Oprah said it.

  I look around for more meatballs and remember Kirsten and Toby’s promise of Peking duck.

  “Do you want to hear mine?”

  “Hear mine what?”

  “My New Year’s resolutions.”

  “Oh, sure.” I can’t see the duck anywhere.

  “I’d like a new car.”

  “Isn’t that more of a wish than a resolution?”

  “Okay, then. I resolve to get a new car.”

  I see now why Kirsten and Toby were so reluctant to come to this party.

  “. . . and…” He is still talking. “I resolve to fall in love with a beautiful woman.” He pauses and whispers in my ear, “A very beautiful woman.”

  Sounds like another wish.

  “Well?” he asks back in his normal voice.

  “Well what?”

  “Well, what do you think of my New Year’s resolutions?”

  “Aim high,” I tell him. “Shall we eat some pig?”

  Roger puts his hand on my back. Despite his nettling presence, I feel protected by him. We stand around, not saying much. I glance at my surroundings. The others at the party aren’t big talkers, either. Everyone seems fixed on CNN. They’re more concerned with the hour than the news: There’s a full hour and twenty minutes until midnight. The guests are trying to mastermind a way to round off the rest of this year.

  “Couldn’t they just say it’s the New Year at eleven?” The voice is familiar. It’s Kirsten’s. Toby gives her a look and grabs her hand.

  Roger seems to have lost interest in me. He’s clinking glasses with another woman.

  I take another shot at the food table. I notice that the Siskins have also provided finger sandwiches. The first one I taste is filled with bacon, arugula, and egg. I taste another: It is steak and caramelized onion. I taste another: crab cake, this time. I’m in love with this food. I take another: It’s peanut butter and jelly.

  “I can’t believe they have peanut butter and jelly,” I mention to another woman at the table.

  “I believe Felisha is calling it peanut spread and chutney,” my comrade says.

  “It’s tasty,” I say as I sa
w myself a hefty piece of roast beef and add to it an especially large portion of Yorkshire pudding. I gather some sushi but have to plop it on top of the meat once I realize there is no more room on the plate.

  “How do you stay so thin?” the woman asks. I do admit that the enormous dress gives me an unexpected emaciated look.

  “I starved myself the last few days.”

  “Me too. I figured if I was going to stuff myself here, I would feel less guilty about ringing in the New Year.”

  “You look great,” I tell her. “Eat away.”

  “Thanks. By the way, I’m Jill.” I like her. She reminds me of Jean. Friendliness comes easily to her, and she’s unapologetically neurotic.

  “Alice.” Was that stupid to tell her my name? I already told Roger. If I tell her some other name, I may forget when she addresses me. The whole fugitive thing is new to me.

  “Are you friends with Felisha and Justin?” Jill asks me.

  “Not really.” I spy Toby and Kirsten, giggling, rushing out the door.

  “I’m more friends with Toby and Kirsten.” In a way I am telling the truth.

  “I haven’t seen them all night.”

  “Oh, I think Kirsten isn’t feeling so hot,” I confide.

  “Alice, none of us here feels well.” Jill looks over at our host Justin, who is sporting a velvet smoking jacket and polishing a cigar. Barnes has a disciple.

  I laugh.

  “I don’t know if you’re interested, but I’m starting a book club. Fiction. No men. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not a man-hater; they just don’t read the books and they still manage to take over the conversation. Any interest?”

  I’m interested, but under the circumstances…

  “Sure.” I blank as to how to lie my way out of this one.

  “Do you have a card or an e-mail or something?”

  “Oooh, my work doesn’t do that.”

  “Really, what kind of work are you in?”

  I look up at one of the televisions and there’s a report from Baghdad.

  “I’m in the army,” I say a little too loudly.

  “The army?” Jill asks thunderously, and it’s clear that Justin has heard.

  I pause. This can’t be good. There are going to be all sorts of questions about foreign policy and travel. I know nothing about either.

  “I’m in the Salvation Army.”

  “That makes more sense.”

  I look at my huge dress. Of course it does.

  “Did I just hear you say that you’re in the Salvation Army?” a voice from the balcony bellows.

  “Yes,” I say meekly. I’ve never had this much attention in my entire life.

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Felisha starts jumping up and down.

  She says it again.

  “Wait.” She runs away for a bit, and I look at another television. I see that the scroll at the bottom of the screen reports:

  Polly Dawson Murder Suspect on the Run in NYC: Extremely Dangerous

  At least they don’t show my face.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you people.” Felisha thrusts two enormous shopping bags in my general direction.

  I’m about to tell her that I don’t deal with the used clothes when it dawns on me that I could use them. I look at the crawl on CNN; it says something about a new breed of rubber tree.

  “I don’t know how much you guys will be able to use.” Felisha smiles; she has enormous teeth. “This is my old riding gear.”

  I look in one bag. There are new riding pants, a helmet, riding boots, and two plaid horse blankets.

  I mull over the homeless equestrians who are going to suffer as a result of my lies.

  I grab the bags.

  “I’m sure we will be able to put this to good use.”

  Felisha waves her ponytail at me in thanks.

  There’s a new story on TV. It says BREAKING NEWS LIVE FROM NEW YORK CITY. There is footage of the Fifty-ninth Street subway station.

  “Police are now trying to follow the tracks of Polly Dawson’s alleged murderer. She last used her MetroCard to get into this subway station.”

  The camera zooms in on the reporter going through the turnstile.

  “Police have determined the suspect’s last known whereabouts because of this little card.”

  The camera further zooms on a MetroCard.

  I see a familiar face on the screens; it’s Kovitz.

  “We are able to piece together the suspect’s whereabouts by reviewing her MetroCard history. A MetroCard which she bought with a credit card just like this one,” the reporter says.

  The camera zooms over to the MetroCard machine and zooms in on the credit-card slot. Suddenly a hand appears in front of a machine holding a Citi Card.

  This story is about me. Of course. My MetroCard. I paid with a credit card, and they can track me when I use it.

  They don’t have my Citi Card, though. The reporter’s using his. The story is powerful enough; they don’t have to stage a dramatization of my credit card.

  Roger comes over to our area and puts his arm around my shoulder.

  I shudder as I try to concentrate on the story.

  “I was just giving… ummmm…” Felisha looks at me for help.

  “Alice,” I assure her.

  “Alice. I was just giving Alice some toggery for the Salvation Army.”

  “The Salvation Army?” Roger looks confused; his grooves sink deeper into his face.

  “My job,” I say rather convincingly.

  “A do-gooder.” Roger squeezes me toward him. “I knew that about you.”

  I look up at the TV. There is footage of the entrance of the fifth precinct.

  “Once again we bring you live coverage of the escape of the very dangerous murder suspect Alice Teakle.”

  There’s Mother in front of the precinct: “This has all been a terrible mistake. Alice would never harm anyone.”

  Barnes is standing behind her, saying, “Alice led us to believe that she and Polly were working on a project together.”

  The crawl at the bottom indicates that it is two degrees Fahrenheit in New York City.

  The next shot is of Jean. “I’m not going to comment, but you guys are barking up the wrong tree.”

  They show Seminara, the officer who initially interviewed me. “Many sociopaths come off as harmless, and just because someone looks like a nice young lady doesn’t mean she can’t have the heart of a killer.”

  And then he adds, “The murder suspect is not charged with anything, so we need for the people not to panic.”

  The reporter says that Humphrey Dawson has placed a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for my capture. The story concludes with a pretty good drawing of me; the police were unable to take my picture before I escaped and I guess Mother didn’t turn anything over.

  “My oh my. The girl in that picture looks like you, except you are prettier.”

  “I’ve been hearing that all day,” I say as calmly as I can.

  “Hey, guys,” Roger screams to the room, “doesn’t that look like Alice?”

  No one looks at the TV. Roger doesn’t have much authority.

  I panic.

  I appeal to Roger’s ego.

  “So, Roger. Tell me what happened between you and—” I nod in the general direction of the three girls who got me in here and who have not separated since we got to the party.

  “It’s a long, long, long story,” Roger says, poised to start it from the very beginning.

  I glance around the room. I’ve been unobserved for quite a while, but now I distinctly feel the stares of some of my fellow revelers. Moreover, Roger’s proximity is making me ill.

  “I think I need some air,” I tell him.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” His reluctance to release me results in a revolting caress of my forearm.

  “No.”

  I gather my horse gear and head to the door. Top Hat is available, so I ask him for Diane Paynter’s coat, while I slip on m
y sneakers. He gives me the coat. I open the door and barrel down the stairs.

  “Alice, wait,” Roger hollers.

  “What?” I freeze up. Did I leave something behind?

  “I wanted to get your number,” he screams.

  “My phone is broken,” I yell.

  “Here’s my card.” Roger folds his card into an airplane and throws it down to me. “I still have to tell you that story,” he says hopefully.

  “Yeah.”

  I’m on the street. I have no money. And now I can’t use my MetroCard.

  I walk up Broadway. There are many pedestrians hunting for the hot party or the swinging bar. There’s a lot of pressure to ring in the New Year in a fabulous way—unless you’re on the run. I have other priorities. I just want to stay warm. It’s cold. Two degrees, according to CNN. My face is under a wind attack. As people exit their cars and step out of buildings, they gasp. I fight back and walk at a good clip. I create makeshift gloves by pulling the sleeves from my large dress down over my hands. I wear the helmet on my head. The bags of horse gear, though cumbersome, force me to expend more energy and keep up my body temperature.

  When I hit Union Square, I veer right to Park Avenue South. I know to stay away from the West Side. Too many cops trickling down from Times Square. I’m on Twenty-ninth and Park when the New Year begins. I can tell because I hear horns and screaming coming from the windows above me. I think about the Siskins, and wonder if their party will receive better reviews this year. It wasn’t awful. I liked Jill, and if I weren’t a murderess at large I would have liked to have joined her book club. I think of Roger and the path of pockmarks that dominate his face, and I wonder if he is clinking glasses with a woman, an interested one. I wonder if he’ll achieve his New Year’s resolution.

  I wonder if I’ll achieve mine.

  I reach the Grand Hyatt on Forty-second Street. It has an unsystematic, sprawling lobby. I land on a soft, cushy chair, unnoticed.

  It’s six A.M. when a member of the Grand Hyatt’s crack security team wakes me up.

  “Party’s over, miss, you’d better get home.”

  Home.

  Then the party would really be over. I trudge on up to Sixty-fifth Street and park myself outside of Charlie’s house. I wrap myself up in Felisha’s horse blanket; it doesn’t smell of horse. Phew. I leave my helmet on—good protection.