She smoothed out the fabric, traced the cord with her finger. He’d given her his silences, and she’d filled them with her fears. And perhaps it was true, what he’d said on the rooftop—they simply weren’t good for each other, and never had been.
But we could’ve tried harder, she thought. Both of us.
20.
Toby rode his bicycle through the Columbia campus, feeling as though he’d barged into a garden party.
Well-dressed young men and women walked past him on the paths, trailing conversation and laughter. All around were tall, vine-covered buildings of red brick and white granite, weathered bronze statues and marble benches. The central plaza was laid out with geometric precision, the bricks arranged in concentric squares of light and dark. Even the cheers from a nearby field seemed orderly and genteel. He braked at the top of the library steps, expecting the ground to heave beneath him and eject him onto Broadway, like a spat seed. But not a single head turned his way. His uniform and bicycle made him invisible here, just like everywhere else.
He wheeled his bicycle down the steps and past a lush green lawn where a group of young men played a lazy, peacocking game of football, and at last reached the Teachers College quadrangle. Administrative Office, a wooden sign said, with an arrow pointing to a building that faced 120th. Would anyone be here, on a Saturday? He knew that secretaries and clerks often had Saturdays and Sundays off, which felt like the very definition of luxury. He locked his bicycle to the rack, then mentally rehearsed his story, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
The hallway was framed in dark wood above and marble tile below. Portraits of patrician-looking men in dark robes frowned at him as he passed by. The door labeled Admissions Office stood ajar; he peered around it and saw a woman at a secretary’s desk. She was squinting at a ledger and taking notes, humming tunelessly. On the wall beside her were framed photographs in a neat grid: rows of young men and women, all wearing those same dark robes. The woman paused in her work to blow her nose, indelicately. It was clear she thought herself alone.
Well, nothing for it. He tucked his cap beneath his arm to hide the badge number and strode into the office. “Message, miss?”
The woman screeched so loudly that Toby nearly yelped, too.
“My word!” the woman gasped, one hand to her bosom. “For heaven’s sake—”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to—it’s just, I’m here for your message, miss. I was sent to collect one, at this number.” He looked to the corner of her desk, as though expecting to see a telegram blank waiting in its envelope.
The woman frowned. “There’s no message, young man.”
“There isn’t?” He glanced around in confusion. “Isn’t this Morningside four five eight five?”
“Yes, but no one rang the call-box. I’m the only one here.” Her tone was wary, and she examined him as though he might bite her. At once he realized: she thought he was pestering her deliberately, in the hopes that she’d give him a coin to go away.
“Well, that’s odd,” he said. He wanted to slink out of the room and vanish. “Wires got crossed, I guess. Sorry to bother you, miss.”
He half turned from the desk—but then hesitated. This was his one chance. If he didn’t take it, he might as well go home. He looked up at the photographs in their frames. “I don’t mean to be a pest,” he said, “but a friend of my ma’s went to college here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that so.”
“For Domestic Sciences, I think? Her name’s Chava Levy.”
And once again, the name worked its magic. The woman came alive, her suspicion falling away at once. “Oh! Do you know Mrs. Levy? Young man, I’ve been trying to contact her for months! We’re publishing a new alumni directory, and we simply have no information for her at all. I tried her landlady, but apparently she moved years ago and never left an address. Do you know how I can reach her?” Eagerly she took up a pen.
Caught out, Toby shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t, miss. My ma hasn’t heard from her in a while.”
The woman deflated slightly. “Oh, what a shame.”
“But I can tell my ma you’re looking for her, in case she comes to visit.”
“Well, thank you, young man. We were so impressed with her achievements here.” Like Thea Radzin, the woman was apparently unable to help herself. “Such an intelligent, well-spoken young woman. And—well, perhaps I pulled a few strings in her favor, but she certainly proved herself worthy of them.” She smiled at Toby. “You’re standing next to her, in fact.”
She pointed to a photograph on the wall beside him—and sure enough, there in the top row was Missus Chava, in robe and cap. Again, she was stooping slightly, not quite looking at the camera; again, every line of her face was exactly as he remembered. And even though the brass plaque on the frame read Culinary Science Class of 1912, she looked no older than the other women in the photo—none of whom, he’d wager, were over the age of twenty-five.
“Huh,” he said, and shivered deeply.
“Is something wrong?”
Toby reaffixed his smile. “I’ll be sure to tell my ma,” he told her. “And I’m sorry about that mix-up, with the call-box. Won’t happen again.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, I was going to send a telegram this afternoon,
