The Sixth Station(27)
It picked up after one ring. Sadowski had moved to the edge of his seat in the chair directly across from me. He was trying to listen in, I was certain of it.
“Hello, Ms. Russo,” came the voice on the other end of the phone.
Jackpot! I had gotten the number right after all. “Ms. Wright-Lewis?” I wasn’t sure if it was her secretary or the woman herself.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“If I may ask where ‘here’ is?”
“Rhinebeck, New York.”
“I thought you—”
She cut me off. “Do you know Rhinebeck?”
“Yes, I do. About ninety miles north of the city up on the Taconic…”
It may as well have been in Europe if it meant getting out of this insanely cordoned-off city. How the hell was she in the USA?
“I’m in Rhinecliff, actually. Tiny little village next to Rhinebeck. You need to drive up to see me,” she commanded.
“Well, I’m in Midtown Manhattan right now,” I explained. “It’s like a city under siege. It is a city under siege actually.…”
“Yes. I know that,” she said quietly, her voice urgent. “Still, I need to see you. Today. It’s about ben Yusef. He’s not who you think he is, and he’s not the one who should be on trial. When can you be here?”
She left the reporter part of me no choice.
“I’ll try my best, Ms. Wright-Lewis. But besides the city being cordoned off, you know, ever since what happened to me yesterday, I’m kind of under siege myself. I can’t go anywhere without being mobbed or followed. But if it’s that important…”
“Yes, it is that important.” A pause. “Here’s the address. Have you a pen?”
“Hold on a sec,” I said, reaching for my pen. “What’s the address please?”
“It’s Twenty Grinnell Street, Rhinecliff, New York,” she answered. “When may I expect you, Ms. Russo?”
“Well, like I said, Midtown is cordoned off, and I can’t get to my car, which is parked in the garage under my apartment building, because my street is closed to traffic.…”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said.
Man! “I will certainly do my best,” I answered. “But I think I might be like a hippie trying to get to Woodstock back in the day.”
I don’t know if she heard that or not, because I realized that she was no longer on the line. Nonetheless I said, “Hello? Ms. Wright-Lewis? Hello?” Nothing.
“That’s odd,” I said to Father Sadowski. “She wants to see me and she wants me to drive to Rhinecliff. How in hell am I supposed to do that? I couldn’t get my car out of my building garage if I were Jesus Himself.”
“I have a car,” he offered, “but it’s parked in Harlem. Cheaper there.”
I thought about it a minute and said, “I guess I could take the subway to Harlem … but I’m sure the goons are waiting for me, though.…”
His eyes twinkled. “They aren’t waiting for a couple of priests walking on Forty-eighth and Lexington,” he said. “Sit tight a minute.”
Sadowski left me sitting there and went out the rectory door, which led, I presumed, into the Church of the Holy Family proper. He returned about a half hour later dressed in his blacks with starched clerical collar and requisite big black priest shoes.
He was holding a dry-cleaning bag in one hand and a beat-up shopping bag in the other.
“I figured the priest thing was too corny,” he offered, handing me the bag. “So I lifted one of the nun’s habits. Some of the young nuns like to dress up. Makes them feel more … I don’t know. Anyway, you can slip the whole habit over your regular clothes.”
“Me as a nun? The church might collapse,” I said.
“We should get a move on,” he urged, ignoring my quip.
I slipped the nun’s garment over my head and stepped into the bathroom, where I scrubbed my face clean, slipped on the black stacked heels, which were somehow exactly my size, then some black sheer panty hose (Isn’t panty hose how I got into this mess? I thought) and a pair of horrible no-prescription-lens granny sunglasses, and slipped my jeans back on. The last item I attempted was the starched wimple. I tried keeping the hard white vinyl headband in place on my forehead while I pulled on the veil, but then realized the veil came first. I tucked in all my hair and was happy to see Velcro tabs at the back that would keep the damned thing from falling off.
“Voilà!” I said, happily emerging from the bathroom with a curtsy.
“Dear God,” Sadowski said. “Put on your rosary, Sister!”