Introduction

 

It happened in another time, in the early seventies, when I was a young girl, just out of college.

My mother and father lived in San Francisco, I had gone to college in Michigan, and I was applying to a music school in New York. My transcript and my performance tape were good enough that the school had invited me to come to New York to audition-at my own expense, of course. I had saved enough money from my various part-time jobs-doing baby-sitting, tutoring, giving local kids music lessons, playing in a trio for weddings and parties, and waitressing-for the bus trip there (and enough for the bus trip back, if I didn't get in), but almost no money after that to live. I'm sure that my mother would have sent me a few dollars, had I asked, but the fact is that my mother was not at all well off, and she had used every spare penny to help me go to college, and I hated the thought of asking for more. Asking my father for money was completely out of the question: He never had any, and he never gave me any when he did. I told myself that I'd get myself to New York first and see how things worked out. I could always ask my mother for help later.

When I think back on it, I find it incredible that I got off the bus with nothing more than I could carry and the optimism and invulnerability and naiveté of youth. I had dozens of friends in a dozen cities, but none in New York. For that city, I only had the names of a few relatives I barely knew and friends-once-removed.

In some respects, I was impulsive and spontaneous. In other ways, I was organized and methodical. As I had prepared for my trip to New York, I had listed the names on a separate piece of paper, in alphabetical order, each with telephone number, address, and notes: who had given me their names, what their situations were, whether they might help me find a place to stay or a job. If none of the names on the list worked out, I had the phone number and address of the YWCA, where I could stay until I got settled.

A few days before I actually left for New York, I sat down at the telephone with my list. The first names on the list were Barbara and Steve Andrews, and I called their number.

The phone was answered on the sixth ring, just as I was getting ready to hang up. "Hello?" It was a woman's voice, sounding somewhat distracted.

"Is this Barbara Andrews?" I asked. In the background I heard what sounded like a mewing cat.

"Yes?" she replied, impatiently.

"My name is Nona Williamson. I'm a friend of Bill Ganz."

"Oh, yes," she said, her tone of voice changing completely. "He called us a week or two ago. He told us you might call. You have to-" The crying sound in the background got louder. "Just a minute." She muffled the receiver, but I still heard her shout "Steve! Do you need any help with her? Why is she crying?" I heard the sound of a man shouting in reply, but the words were unintelligible. When she unmuffled the receiver, the crying seemed to be subsiding. "Sorry."

"That's okay. If I caught you at a bad time-"

"No. That's okay. Bill said you need a place to stay for a little while?" She made it sound like a question.

"Well, I have an audition for a music school in New York and I don't really know anybody and I don't have a place to stay and Bill thought you might be able to help."

"He didn't speak to you after he called us? I told him we don't have a separate room for you or anything. We have a small loft that isn't air conditioned, and a three-month-old baby. But you're welcome to sleep on the couch for a few days, until you find something more permanent."

"I don't mean to put you out. I have a few more names, and I-"

"If you don't mind, we don't mind."

"Well, I really appreciate it. I promise not to stay more than a couple of days."

"When are you getting in?"

"Late Saturday afternoon. I'm taking the bus."

"We'll be around then. Give us a call when your bus gets in and we'll give you directions."

"Oh, great. I'll do that. Thanks a lot."

Chapter One

Saturday

 

Now, after an endless bus trip, I was actually there. I was, of course, terrified-of the immensity of New York City; of the audition; of the prospect of being accepted by the school; of the prospect of not being accepted; of my complete aloneness; and, more than anything else, of the unknown of my entire life waiting to unfold before me. But my terror did not deter me. I had been terrified before and had persevered, and would persevere again this time.

I had been warned about the Port Authority Bus Terminal, so as I looked for a telephone I kept tight hold on my suitcase, my purse, and my flute case.

"Hey, sweetie! First time in New York?" asked a tall man with long blond hair under a Beatles cap and the usual combination of tie-dye, denim, and army surplus. I glanced at his face. He wasn't bad-looking, with narrow gray eyes, and he needed a shave. He could have been anywhere from twenty to forty. He fell in step beside me; walking with that exaggerated bounce I called the hippie shuffle. "You know, New York can be a dangerous place for such a pretty girl." I could tell that I was smiling and blushing despite myself. "Can I help you with that? You got a place to stay?"

I pressed my lips together and shook my head, meaning to discourage him, but he misunderstood. "You got no place to go? Oh, sweetie! That's terrible! You wanna crash at my place?"

"No thank you."

"Hey, it's no problem. You can trust me. I'm Tim. What's your name?"

"I'm fine. Thank you. I have somewhere I'm going." I saw the bank of pay telephones across the vast lobby and headed toward them in what I hoped was a determined, purposeful manner.

"Oh yeah? You need a ride? My wheels are just outside. My chick Janey's waiting for me. You can ask her if it's okay."

Although I had never been to New York, I had had some experience being hit on before. Without stopping, I turned my head to look at him directly for the first time. "My husband is meeting me."

He was certain I was lying, but when he glanced down to my left hand, he saw a band on my ring finger. It was not a wedding band, but a ring my mother had given me. I had turned the small stone toward my palm automatically, as soon as I was aware of him approaching me.

"Where is he, then?"

"I have to call him," I said, nearing the telephone booths.

"If you were my wife, I'd be here waitin' for you." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Instead of letting her get hassled by guys at the bus station."

I stopped at an unoccupied telephone and put my suitcase on the floor between my legs. "That's enough," I said, no longer flattered and no longer amused. There was a man in a uniform about twenty yards away. I had no idea whether he was a New York City policeman or a private guard of some kind, but he had a gun belt. "If you don't leave me alone, I'll start screaming."

The hippie actually doffed his Beatles cap and bowed. "No need, sweetie. Welcome to the big city. I think you'll do just fine." Putting his hat back on his head, he turned and strolled back the way he had come, just as jauntily as if had just relieved me of my life savings, my hymen, and my self-respect. I lost sight of him in the crowd, and I turned toward the telephone, digging into my purse for my address book.

I put some money into the telephone and dialed the Andrews' number. At first, the call did not go through, but then I realized I had dialed the area code for Manhattan. When I dialed without the code, it rang.

After nine rings, as I was debating with myself between waiting and trying again versus trying another name on my list, Barbara answered the phone.

"Hello," she said, sounding hurried and distracted.

"This is Nona Williamson," I said, afraid that she wouldn't remember me, or would regret her offer. "I spoke to you a few days ago?"

"Hi, Nona!" she said, her voice changing to one of great warmth, as if we were close friends. "How was your trip?"

"Long and tedious," I said with a laugh. "But at least now it's over."

She gave me directions to their apartment. As it turned out, they lived in Chelsea. It was only about a mile away, and I treated myself to a taxicab.