Free Bob at the Plaza by R. Murphy Page B

other chorus members on the bus chartered for our time in Manhattan. Worried about the water level, I’d toyed briefly with the idea of cancelling my weekend away. The other members of the chorus talked me out of staying home, though. As Bev pointed out, I’d done everything I could to fight off the waters. Now my fate rested in the lap of the gods.
    My drive through the Pennsylvania mountains seemed a lot quieter without Bob nattering at my side, as he had last year. How I missed his nonsensical approach to life, brightening the day, distracting me from my worries. My time with David was lovely, but it didn’t have quite the same zing as my hours with Bob. I spent the drive pondering my retrieval strategy for him, and practicing our concert songs at the top of my lungs, which might explain some of the looks I got from my fellow motorists. And I must say, the forsythia throughout my route took my breath away. That bright pop of yellow smacked Old Man Winter right on the behind every time. The sight of each golden bough lightened the weight of the gray days I’d been carrying in my spirits.
    My niece Amy remained on campus and Katie and Bill were at work, so I let myself into their house after the long drive, brought my bags up to the guest bedroom, freshened up, and walked the mile over to Pop and Milly’s to stretch my legs. Dad was napping when I arrived, so Milly and I shared a quiet cup of tea in the kitchen and caught up on family doings. Eventually I heard the mechanical chair raising Dad from his reclining position, and I went into the living room to find him reaching for his walker and repositioning his plastic oxygen cord, which was simultaneously his salvation and the bane of his existence.
    Every time I saw Pop these days, it shocked me. Only recently had his hair become completely white—he hadn’t started graying until his mid-seventies—and his eyes, even after his many naps, always looked exhausted. Never much of a talker, Dad and I chatted for only a few minutes before getting down to our customary “Destroy Roz” Scrabble game. While we played, I described my upcoming weekend in enthusiastic detail, but nothing seemed to excite Dad any more.
    I washed the dishes after Milly’s healthy dinner, said my goodbyes, and then walked the mile back to Bill and Katie’s to join them for an after-dinner glass of wine.
    Wednesday passed in much the same fashion—walk to Pop and Milly’s, Scrabble, nap, dinner, back to Bill and Katie’s—and by Thursday morning I was more than ready for a little Manhattan vitality.

Chapter 7
    Once More unto the Breach
    Since the usual good-weather construction congested the ramp leading to the Lincoln Tunnel, bus schedules couldn’t be trusted. Bill suggested I take the train instead and he dropped me off at the station Thursday morning. I bought a cup of coffee at the upscale station café and studied my fellow early-morning commuters while I sipped.
    Virtually every woman wore black, and glossy manicures fluttered on fingers’ ends like exotic butterflies. Hairstyles were subdued and controlled, reflecting the professional women who sported them. The heels! My God, the heels! How do other women go through life with them, much less walk many city blocks in them? I’d be crippled if I had to wear them every day. The newspapers of my commuting days had been replaced by sleek and stylish electronic notepads. I felt like a dinosaur clutching my inky New York Times , wheeling my battered weekender suitcase behind me.
    A kind conductor hoisted my suitcase up the train car stairs when the train arrived and the mob of commuters packed into it. Once in the train cars, we eventually spread out, settling into the noxious orange seats.
    The train hummed toward Manhattan that bright spring morning, such a welcome change from the wet, cold weeks that had preceded it. We clicked through early-twentieth century suburbs filled with quaint Dutch colonials and prosperous split ranch