One Magic Moment

Summer 1975

Kathryn Gray smiled as she strolled down Fifth Avenue in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, a neighborhood she once called home. It had been nearly six years since the thirty year old brunette had done so, but many of the sights and sounds around her were as familiar as if it had been only yesterday. Sure, there were some new stores along the commercial thoroughfare, but many old landmarks remained. It was at Sixteenth and Fifth, however, that she came to a complete stop, taken by surprise by the municipal parking lot on that corner.

Growing up, this had been the 72nd Precinct, where two generations of Grays had served on the NYPD, her grandfather and an uncle. As a child, she had visited the three story station house, built back in the 1890s, many times for community events, and thankfully only once for a minor disorderly conduct infraction, born out of a graduation party that got a bit out of hand, at least in the view of some of the neighbors. That small blemish on her record had been erased by a desk sergeant who had worked with both older Grays.

'It was such a beautiful old building,' Kathryn thought as she again began walking, recalling a friend writing to her that it had been torn down a few years ago.

Two blocks further down, Kathryn again stopped, her attention drawn to an old candy store. It had been one of her happy places, where she'd pick up new comic books twice a week as well as enjoy the occasional egg creme. Her parents weren't exactly thrilled by her early obsession with comics but, since they eventually led her to a love of more complex books as well, they eventually relented. In fact, many of those 'outlandish stories' inspired her to create her own, and by the time she reached high school she'd filled several notebooks with details of magical realms and the characters who inhabited them. Notes which, with the encouragement of her English teacher, turned into a series of short stories. Tales which appeared, first in the school's literary magazine, then as part of a collection of promising authors put out by a major publishing house. Her first novel, Knights of the Last Dragon, made the bestsellers list when she was still in college.

It was the pending publication of her fourth novel in the series that had brought Kathryn from her home out in Stony Brook to lower Manhattan for an early morning meeting with her publisher to work out a few last details. Afterwards, she had declined an offer of lunch and, on a whim, decided to take the train into Brooklyn and visit the old neighborhood. Her last visit had been for her mother's funeral and she found herself feeling a bit nostalgic.

The sign etched on the plate glass window still said Petroski's, but Kathryn doubted old man Petroski still owned the place. After all, he'd been in his seventies when she'd been a regular customer, but it was still worth taking a look.

The store proved to be pretty much as she remembered, perhaps a little more run down, but still clean. The old rotating comic rack was still there, as well as one containing paperbacks -- most of them well out of date. Of those, one practically jumped out at her.

"Oh my God, I don't believe it," Kathryn said as she lifted the brightly colored book off the rack.

She stood there for a few long seconds, staring at the familiar cover illustration, running her fingers across the title. Finding a copy of her first novel here meant more to her than any other success.

"That is good book," a voice from behind her said, one just familiar enough for her to quickly turn in response to it.

There stood a much older, but still recognizable, Michal Petroski.

"That is very good book," he repeated, the inflection in his tone reflecting an almost paternal pride. "The girl who wrote that used to be my customer."

"Mr. Petroski, it's me, Kathryn, Kathryn Gray," she said, amazed that the old man still ran the place.

The bearded octogenarian stepped back and took a better look at the woman in the light blue dress. Recognition filled his eyes and he immediately surged forward, throwing his arms around Kathryn, wrapping her in a bear hug. That was immediately followed by a mix of Polish and English that Kathryn was hard pressed to follow, except for the part where she heard him say, "Sit, I make you egg cream."

As she sat at the tiny four stool counter, she watched with fond memories as the old man quickly mixed the drink, his face filled with a broad smile as he placed it in front of her. A smile that only grew as, after taking a taste, Kathryn said that it was better than she remembered.

"Picture, we must take picture," Michal said as he turned and, after rummaging through a large drawer in the cabinet behind him, produced a small Kodak Instamatic camera.

It occurred to Kathryn as the old man came back around the counter that a photograph with both of them would be better than just one of her alone. So she asked if there was anyone who could take it for them.

"You watch store, I be right back," Michal said after thinking about it for a moment.

By the time he was, he had a young, curly haired redhead with him. The girl looked to be in her early twenties and the food smock she wore read Deli Good, the name of the delicatessen next door, so the excited store owner hadn't to go far to find someone. A small nametag pinned over her left breast read Lynda.

Handing off the camera, Michal slipped next to Kathryn and wrapped his arm around her, again smiling proudly. The girl brought the camera up and looked into the small viewfinder, but then lowered it unexpectedly.

"You have a little ..." Lynda said to Kathryn, using an extended finger above her own upper lip to illustrate her meaning.

"Oh," Kathryn replied as she brought up her own hand and wiped away the egg cream mustache.

"Okay, that's good," Lynda said as she brought the camera back up.

Even though she was expecting it, the bright light of the flashcube caused Kathryn to blink, so Lynda suggested that they take another photo, just to be sure. Kathryn readily agreed, thinking that there was nothing more disappointing than getting that one-of-a-kind picture back from the drugstore and finding it hadn't come out as expected.

"There's only a few more shots on the roll," Lynda said, having had much the same thought, "so why don't I just finish it off?"

That they did, changing positions so that all the photos wouldn't be the same, then taking the last two outside in the sunlight, with the store's name in the backdrop. Once done, Michal excitedly took the camera back inside, saying that he'd drop off the film as soon as his grandson came back from making a delivery.

"Thanks for taking the photos, Lynda," Kathryn said. "I think it meant a lot to Mr. Petroski."

"Well, it's not every day that a local celebrity comes to visit," Lynda pointed out.

"I'm hardly a celebrity," Kathryn replied.

"Well, in my house you certainly were," Lynda said in turn.

Kathryn replied with a puzzled look.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" Lynda said.

Kathryn took a long hard look at the younger woman, trying to place her. The girl looked familiar, but not enough to place her.

"Should I?" Kathryn asked hesitantly.

"Probably not, I mean, I was, what, fourteen ... no, thirteen, the last time you saw me," Lynda offered. "And also back then it was Linda with an I."

Kathryn felt like an idiot; of course she would've been much younger. Suddenly, as if the proverbial lightbulb had gone off over her head, she placed the face and name.

"Linda Austin?" she said, the statement having just enough of the makings of a question to reflect that she wasn't totally sure.

"Lynda, with a Y," she corrected her, stressing a slight difference in pronunciation.

"I can't believe it, you're so..." Kathryn started to say, only to have Lynda cut her off.

"... grown up?" she suggested.

"Well, that too," Kathryn agreed, although beautiful was the word that first came to mind.

"Well, time has a way of doing that," Lynda pointed out.

Kathryn had attended grade and high school with Connie Austin, who was Lynda's older sister. They weren't best friends, but had still been close enough for Connie to have once tried to set her up with her brother Josh.

"Still, I should've recognized you," Kathryn said, thinking that at least Mr. Petroski had the excuse of age for not immediately recognizing her.

Then again, the attractive redhead standing before her was hardly the pudgy pig-tailed teen in braces that Kathryn remembered. Her hair had been brown like her older siblings back then, and certainly she hadn't had the shape she did now.

"How have you been?" Kathryn then asked.

"I'm fine," the younger woman replied, "and before you ask, Connie is also fine. Pregnant again, but fine."

It had been well over a year since Kathryn had last heard from her old classmate, and that had only been an exchange of Christmas cards. As far as actually getting together, they hadn't done that since Connie and her family had moved to the south end of New Jersey, down near the Delaware border, some four years before.

"Well, it's nice to see she's keeping busy," Kathryn smiled, thinking this would make number four. "And you?" she added, glancing in the direction of Lynda's left hand for any sign of a ring.

"Oh, no babies for me," Lynda replied as she lifted her hand to show it was bare. "No husband either. I value my independence too much."

Kathryn nodded her head, well understanding the sentiment.

"Lynda, I just realized, you're working," Kathryn said as, glancing in the direction of the delicatessen, she saw a young man looking at the two of them through the front window. "I don't want to get you in trouble with your boss."

"That's not really a problem, because I am the boss," Lynda grinned. "Been manager for almost two years now."

"Impressive," Kathryn replied, doing the math, and realizing that the younger woman would've been nineteen or twenty when that happened.

"Well, I had been working there since I was sixteen," Lynda said as if to explain her rapid rise. "You're right, though, I should get back to work. I have a large order that I need to get out, and I really don't trust my assistant to get it right. Especially since he's been watching us and wondering when I'm coming back instead of working on it. But he's the owner's nephew, so what can you do?"

"We really should catch up," Kathryn said, wondering why she said that since they really didn't have anything to catch up on. After all, it had been Connie she'd gone to school with, not Lynda.

"Well, I don't know what your plans are for the rest of the day, but if you're going to be around, why don't we have a drink after work?" Lynda unexpectedly suggested. "In fact, better yet, why don't you come over for dinner? I can't offer you anything spectacular, but I promise it'll at least be edible."

Kathryn had planned to hop the train down to the Atlantic Avenue Terminal and catch the 4:02 back to Stony Brook, but without thinking about it she told Lynda that she'd love to, asking if Lynda still lived at her parents' house on Twelfth Street.

"No, I have my own apartment up by the library," she answered as she took a small notepad from her smock. "Let me write down the address for you. Would six o'clock be okay?"

"Six would be fine," Kathryn said, thinking to herself that if the younger woman had her own place, she must be doing well.

-=-=-=-

With a few hours now to kill, Kathryn decided to extend her walk to cover more of the neighborhood. She headed up to Prospect Park, there to follow the low stone wall that bordered its perimeter. To people who paid the inflated price to live across from the urban oasis, the street beneath her was Prospect Park West, the name the street signs carried. To her, and just about anyone else who lived south of it, it was simply Ninth Ave.

As she walked, Kathryn recalled how, as kids, she and her friends used to walk on top of the stone barrier, until some police officer or park employee would yell at them to get off, saying that they were going to break their necks. There probably was some truth to that, she admitted, since the top of the wall was peaked rather than flat, and of a height just high enough to cause a serious injury if you fell the wrong way. Still, if she had been wearing sneakers instead of heels, she might've been willing to give it a go, despite the fact that she had on her favorite floral print.

She turned into the park at the Civil War Monument on Ninth Street, passing the playground where she and her friends had enjoyed afternoons climbing monkey bars and using the adult swings in a manner they were never designed for, standing on them instead of sitting, seeing who could go the highest. Both were now considered too dangerous for kids and had begun to be replaced by safer, if more boring, versions.

Turning around at the bandstand where she'd attended summer concerts, Kathryn exited the park and headed down Ninth Street in the direction she'd come from. The library was on Sixth Avenue, a stand-alone building built over forty years before. It was at the same reading tables that her parents and grandparents had once sat that many of the characters from her books were born. Lynda wished she had the time to go in and look around, but it was almost five-thirty and she didn't want to be late.

-=-=-=-

The address that Lynda had given her was on Sixth Avenue, between Ninth and Tenth Street, an apartment on the second floor of a three story walkup. Climbing the stairs, Kathryn quickly found 2L and rang the bell.

"Oh, am I too early?" Kathryn said as the door swung open to reveal Lynda still in her work clothes.

"Not at all," Lynda smiled as she stepped back to allow Kathryn to enter the apartment. "I'm the one who's running late."

"I could circle the block a few times," Kathryn offered with her own smile.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lynda laughed as she led Kathryn inside. "I just put dinner in the oven, it should be ready in about twenty minutes. I hope you like Chicken Marsala."

"Actually, I love it, but you didn't have to go to all that trouble," Kathryn replied.

"I didn't," the younger woman confessed. "I brought it home from the deli. I'm a good manager, but a horrible cook."

"That's fine," Kathryn replied, not having any great culinary skills of her own.

"I'm going to take a few minutes and change," Lynda said. "Would you mind setting the table? You'll find dishes in the cabinet over the sink."

"Not at all," Kathryn answered.

"I have an open bottle of wine in the fridge," Lynda added as she headed for what Kathryn assumed was the bedroom, "you'll find glasses in the cabinet on the left."

To Kathryn's surprise the room Lynda stepped into was the bathroom, not a bedroom, and a quick glance around the small apartment revealed that there didn't seem to even be a bedroom. In fact no other rooms at all, just a small section of the living room that had been sectioned off as a kitchenette. She would learn later that prior to the fifties, when it had been converted to living space, this was a storage room. With the exception of a few good pieces which Lynda must've brought from home, the furniture was the sort you'd buy at a hardware store and put together yourself. One piece the brunette did recognize was an old pull-out sofa that she remembered from the basement of the Austin house. During high school parties, couples used to try and lay claim to it as the most comfortable place to make out on.

The kitchen table was just large enough for two and only took a few minutes to set. Just long enough for Lynda to reappear.

Gone was the simple white dress blouse and black slacks that she'd worn under her work smock, replaced by a tight fitting light blue tank top and a yellow skirt. It was obvious that she wasn't wearing a bra under the former, bringing home the fact that "Little Lindy," as her parents once called her, had indeed grown up.

"Best part of my day is getting home and changing into something more comfortable," Lynda said as she headed for the refrigerator. "I wouldn't have lasted another hour in that bra."

A bit bustier than Lynda, Kathryn could well understand her feelings. There were times when, if she was going to spend the day at home writing, she barely dressed at all.

"You have a lovely apartment," Kathryn said. "It reminds me of my first place after college."

That was, of course, before fortune came knocking at her door.

"I know it's a bit small," Lynda pointed out, as she opened the door of the refrigerator, "but I'm hardly here most days. Besides, it's got a bed, shower and a place to cook. What more does a single gal need?"

Removing the previously mentioned bottle of wine and setting it on the table, Lynda motioned to the empty seat closest to Kathryn as she poured wine into both their glasses. Then she took the other seat and offered a small toast.

"The girls of Twelfth Street," she said, reaching out to tap the edge of her glass against Kathryn's.

"The girls of Twelfth Street," Kathryn echoed.

They both sampled the wine, agreeing it was very good. They shared a few more pleasantries, after which Kathryn explained what had brought her out from Long Island this morning. She also mentioned that she was considering moving back to the city.

"Back to Brooklyn?" Lynda inquired.

"No, Manhattan actually," Kathryn replied. "I was thinking somewhere around the West Village."

"Oh I love Manhattan," Lynda said, "The clubs there are so much better than the ones here in Brooklyn, at least the ones I like to go to."

Kathryn was about to ask what clubs she liked when the timer on the stove went off, causing a pause in the conversation as Lynda got up to remove the tin foiled dish from the oven, along with two other smaller containers that held mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables. As she doled out generous portions of each onto their plates, Kathryn topped off their wine glasses.

For a meal that had come from a delicatessen, Kathryn had to say it was pretty good. As was, to her surprise, the company that came with it. There was a lot of Connie in her younger sister, but some interesting differences as well. She had a much more inviting personality than her older sibling, one which just made you want to like her.

They cleared the table, then cleaned the dishes, laying them on the rack to dry. With no pots or bowls, it only took a few minutes. Lynda then suggested they take what was left of their wine into the living area.

As they sat on opposite ends of the small couch, Kathryn noticed a few framed photographs on a mantle. One was of Lynda and her parents, the second of her and her siblings. The third was of her alone, wearing a dark blue commencement gown.

"Didn't you go to Blessed Virgin?" Kathryn inquired, recalling as she did that their graduates wore white.

Blessed Virgin was the diocese's premier all girls' high school, which both Connie and Kathryn had attended, as had their mothers.

"I started there," Lynda replied, pausing to take a drink of her wine, "but I transferred to Cochrane just before the start of senior year."

Kathryn found that surprising. Cochrane was the neighborhood's public school, and while still considered good, didn't compare scholastically. Students who couldn't make the grade at the parochial school did transfer there, but usually in their freshman or sophomore year. Doing so as a senior was practically unheard of.

"Why would you leave Blessed Virgin?" Kathryn asked, her puzzlement showing on her face.

"Well, I really wasn't given much in the way of a choice," Lynda stated.

"I don't understand," Kathryn said.

"It was decided that my enrollment there had been a mistake," Lynda said. "That I wasn't Blessed Virgin material after all."