Weekend Away
A writer’s weekend away in New York City doesn’t unfold quite as planned. Between an extravagant impulse purchase, a strange encounter in the Yale Club library, and a stubborn case of writer’s block, the trip offers more intrigue than inspiration. But when she reaches for an old trick to awaken her imagination, someone from her past comes rushing back into focus. The getaway may be ending, but a darker story is just beginning to take shape.
NICOLE JEFFORDS FICTION
My husband and I recently spent a weekend in New York City, our hometown. We had planned to go to exhibits, take a walk on the High Line, wander around the city, but instead we sat in the library of the Yale Club, where we were staying, and read. Neither of us felt energetic. To us the city we had known all our lives seemed dirty, noisy, draining and we didn’t feel like being out in it. Perhaps we just wanted a reprieve from our busy lives in Austin, the city we had moved to thirty odd years ago. Perhaps we just wanted to rest. As always, I was plotting my next story – or rather, trying to figure out what my next story would be. But my mind, usually brimming with ideas, was utterly blank. I had been cranking out back-to-back stories for quite a while now and badly needed a break.
My biggest accomplishment on our weekend away was buying a pair of shoes.
Yes, that’s right. I had brought a pair of Dansko sneakers with me, thinking the arch support and rubber soles would be great for walking around the city; but after a few blocks I realized I was wrong. My feet were killing me. So I went to Saks Fifth Avenue and took the elevator to the eighth floor. The first pair of shoes I saw were on a display table positioned right up front. Thick brown ugly sandals with wide straps and rubber platform soles about four inches tall. Price tag: $1000.
I’d never bought shoes that expensive and decided to try them on. Big mistake because once they were on my feet, I wasn’t gonna take them off. OMG they were comfortable! I handed my credit card to the sales person, not thinking twice about it. But he came back to me, saying my account had insufficient funds to cover the sale.
What?! My face burned red. As an older woman with snow white hair twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of my neck, this was embarrassing.
But again, I wasn’t taking those shoes off. Instead I called my husband, whom I knew was happily ensconced with a book in the Yale Club library.
I guess it was a matter of “happy wife, happy life” because my husband walked the half mile to Saks and bought them for me. So that made the trip worth it. I could buzz the streets pain free, if I wanted. (I didn’t. All I really wanted to do was hang out and read.)
The second notable thing that happened – or rather that I observed – that weekend had to do with a very handsome man, also reading in a comfortable chair in the Yale Club library. He was fifty-ish and dressed in an expensive-looking charcoal gray suit. He had a full head of hair, same color as the suit. What was troubling about him was that, without making a sound, he flailed around on his chair, arms and legs thrashing as if he were having a seizure. The librarian, who sat at a majestic desk in the front corner of the library, paid no notice. Nor did anyone else. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as the man writhed uncontrollably, arms and legs jerking in all directions. I really wanted to know what was wrong with him, but of course couldn’t ask. So I stopped watching and did my best to put him out of my mind.
Hours later we saw him again, only this time he was moving normally, not a single issue with arms or legs. Still in his well-cut suit, he looked like a wealthy hedge fund guy, or perhaps some sort of statesman. I suppose he had taken his meds, but why hadn’t he taken them earlier to avoid the spectacle of his body writhing around in such an alarming manner?
I’ll never know the answer, but the whole thing piqued my imagination. Maybe a story here? I wondered.
But no, I was on a writing break and didn’t have the energy to mess around with this particular story.
I’d have to find something else. But my mind was blank.
Then I used an old trick: Did I have any enemies? Who was someone I truly hated?
The only answer I could come up with was Donald Trump, but I’d already written a number of stories about him.
My mind lurched around until it settled on someone who’d done me wrong many years before, a person I’d known when my children were little and we were living in Brooklyn, a person I’d buried as far down in my subconscious as I could because … well, she had violated me and I couldn’t stand to even think of her.
In that moment the lights went on. Her name was Isadora Bassett and I was going to vilify her.
Stay tuned.