Page 1 of Someone Knows

CHAPTER

1

May 20th.The date printed at the top of the newspaper startles me, and I drop it like it’s a hot coal that’s burned my hands. It falls to the floor in a scattered array of ink-stained stories. The man behind the counter frowns.

“Sorry,” I offer as I bend, then do my best to shuffle the pages into order and place the paper back on top of theNew York Postpile before moving to the magazine rack.Sports Illustratedhas a racehorse on the cover. Mr. Hank, my old landlord, will like that, so I pluck it from the pile and head to the register to pay.

It’s the third time I’ve been reminded of the date since I woke up, and it’s only 4 p.m. Normally, when I’m teaching summer classes, like I am now, I only go in twice a week, so I don’t even know what day it is. But May 20th isn’t just any day, I suppose. It’s the twenty-year anniversary of the day I’llneverforget.

I leave the bodega and decide to walk the fifteen or so blocks to Mr. Hank’s assisted-living facility, rather than taking the subway. It’s beautiful out, and I still need to stop and pick up donuts. Plus, I don’t want to see him until I can clear my head. He’s struggling through dementia, so the last thing he needs is me bringing my anxiety for a visit. But my mind whirls as I walk, and not even the bright pinkblossoms of the magnolia tree in Union Square Park can soothe the melancholy that lingers in my heart.

I pass the High Note, the pub where I met Derek, the guy I used to hook up with before Sam, and look through the front window. Derek was a fireman. A few guys are sitting at the bar, probably firemen, too. They seem to occupy the place most evenings. I don’t have any desire to go in, but it gives me an idea, reminds me there’s a way to loosen the tight knot in my neck and take the edge off all the anxiety I feel today. So I reach into my pocket, pull out my cell, and type as I stroll past the bar.

Elizabeth:Up for hanging out tonight?

“Hanging out” sounds so much better thanfucking me until I can’t think straight anymore. But running five miles this morning didn’t clear my head, and I’m sure Sam won’t mind. He’s always been the initiator of our get-togethers and has mentioned more than once that I could reach out to him, too.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Park Manor Nursing Home. I still don’t feel great, but Sam’s enthusiastic response to my text has helped, smoothing the edges of my jangled nerves. He’s working tonight, though, so I won’t see him until tomorrow.

I check in with the nurse at the desk on the third floor, and she hits the button to unlock the door to the memory care unit. It’s easy to find Mr. Hank—he’s laughing uproariously at the television in the lounge. The hearty sound lifts my mood more than anything else today. As I approach, he catches sight of me, his eyes twinkling with recognition.

“Elizabeth!” he says. “C’mon over here, young lady.”

The warmth of his greeting thrills me. Despite the fact that he saved my life when I first moved to New York—two days shy of twenty years ago—by givingme a discount on rent and telling me where to look for a job, he sometimes can’t recall who I am now. I hurry over, give him a big hug, and offer the bag of donuts I picked up from his favorite street vendor. They’re chocolate, also his favorite—that’s one thing he never forgets.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” I smile, holding out the magazine and daily racing form I picked up at OTB earlier. “I shouldn’t encourage your habit, but I thought you might like these, too.”

Mr. Hank has been a gambler all of his life, mostly on the ponies. He can’t go outside without the assistance of an aide anymore, and he refuses to use anything but a landline phone, yet somehow he’s figured out how to create a FanDuel account on his iPad so he can bet ten dollars a day on horse races.

“You’re too good to me.” He pulls a chocolate donut from the bag and licks his lips. “You know,Iused to make chocolate donuts. Just like this. Only better, of course.”

I smile. “Of course. Your bakery was voted best donuts in New York City, eighteen years in a row.”

He takes a bite, chews slowly, and I can tell he’s savoring it.

“I was the only baker in my neighborhood to keep making them by hand after the donut machines came out.” Another bite. This time with a groan of happiness as he chews.

Mr. Hank looks good today. Not all that different on the outside from twenty years ago, though maybe some wrinkles have grown deeper. I wish I’d appreciated how special he was when I first moved here. Sure, I knew he was helping me—and I said thank you, and I truly was grateful—but you never realize how much you appreciate someone until they’re gone. Of course, he’s still here. Most of him, anyway.

“What block was your bakery on?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

He chews, polishing off the last bite of hisdonut, and something shifts in his eyes. He looks right at me and tilts his head. “What bakery?”

My heart sinks. “Oh, never mind. How was your donut?”

“Delicious. Want one?” He holds the bag out. “I made them myself. Hand-rolled, not by some machine.”

Usually, I’d say no. But he has such hope in his eyes, I can’t refuse. “I’d love one. Thank you.”

“How are your studies, missy?”

I smile, say something about how they’re going great, even though I’ve been the teacher for fifteen years now, not a student.

He nods. “I always knew you were a good one. Could tell from the moment I met you.”

My heart squeezes. He was the only one who thought that back then.

---