Page 2 of City of Liars

Frantic, Susi scanned the courtyard, darting between groups of children, calling her sister’s name. She ran to the edge of the building...sure enough, there were Lily’s tiny boot prints, clear in the snow. They went to the edge of the curb, and then disappeared, erased by the chaos of 2nd Avenue’s traffic. Still, Susi called, louder and louder: “Lily. Lily!”

Her baby sister was everyone’s favorite. Susi’s responsibility. Surely, she had just wandered off. She had to be here somewhere.

But the city was a wolf, and a little girl like Lily its prey.

The wind wove through the ice-slick streets, speeding alongside the yellow taxicabs, leaving the slow-moving horses behind. It retraced its steps, crooning a long, regretful moan.

Inside a gilded Gramercy Park apartment, a woman wept, her daughter’s abandoned teddy bear clutched close to her chest. And two miles south, in a rat-infested tenement where the scent of chicken fat was surpassed only by the overwhelming reek of fear, another woman began to scream.

2

Liv - 2017

Stabbing my scallop with a fork, I fought the urge to plunge the tines into my dining companion instead. Surely, such a thing would stand up in court. In the past five minutes, he’d managed to demean our waiter, insult the gay couple to our right, bore me to death with the details of his job, and tell me far more than I wanted to know about his bodily functions. I didn’t care how much money he made, or how well our parents knew each other. The man’s politics disgusted me, and the glob of marinara that had besmirched his handlebar mustache since his second bite of pasta added insult to injury.

“The truth is, I find these constant protests to be a little much,” he mumbled through a mouthful of noodles, his gaze lingering on my cleavage. “All lives matter, you know? I was telling my podiatrist that just the other day.”

He gesticulated with his fork, sending a spray of sauce in my direction. I jerked back, barely salvaging the black silk dress my grandmother had loaned me for the occasion. The couple sitting next to us wasn’t so lucky; an errant noodle escaped, flying across the space between our tables and landing on the woman’s plate. She picked it off, eyes wide with horror, but my companion didn’t notice. He was too busy blathering about his podiatrist’s recommendation for the corn on his big toe.

I should never have let my mother talk me into this.

Mouthing an apology at the woman, I fantasized about muzzling Mustache Man with my napkin. That way, I’d be spared the sight of the marinara in his facial hair and I could enjoy my scallops for the next thirty seconds in silence.

Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven.

“He said to use an Epsom salt bath,” Mustache Man went on, taking a massive bite of his fourth dinner roll. “And a file. But I said⁠—”

Twenty-three. Twenty-two. Twenty-one.

“—who has the time to sit around that way?”

Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen.

“When I want to file something, I just tell my secretary. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

I forced a smile, envisioning him with the napkin clamped over his mouth, his mustachioed lips still moving beneath it.

Three. Two. One.

Riiiing!

Oh, thank God.

I twisted around, rummaging in my purse for my phone. “Hello? What? Oh. Oh no. You’re kidding. The emergency room? Yes, I’ll be right there. Wait, don’t hang up.”

I pushed back from the table, accidentally-on-purpose knocking a glass of ice water into Mustache Man’s lap. “Oh my God,” I babbled, snatching my purse off the back of the chair. “It’s my daughter…an emergency…I think she’s broken her arm.”

There was a squawk on the other end of the line, and Mustache Man’s eyes widened as he grabbed for his napkin. “Is she okay? Is that her? I didn’t realize you had a⁠—”

I wanted to retort that of course he hadn’t realized I had a daughter, since he’d done nothing but talk about himself for the past twenty minutes. But I was too busy slinging my purse over my shoulder and trying to cover for the squawk. “It’s Saturday night in the ER,” I said, tossing my napkin his way. “Chaotic, you know. Here, use this. I’m so sorry. About her arm. The water. Your politics. Really.”

He stood, the front of his pants soaking wet. I would’ve been tempted to giggle, if I wasn’t desperate to get the heck out of there. “I can drive you,” he offered.

“Oh! No, no, that’s fine. I’ve got it. You…stay here. Enjoy your meal. Dry off.” I dug a pack of tissues from my purse and dropped it on the table, along with a twenty. “I have to go.”

I sprinted from the restaurant, sparing one last glance for Mustache Man through the window. He was standing where I’d left him, staring mournfully after me, dabbing at his fly.

Around the corner, I slowed to a walk at last. “Holy cannoli, Tessa,” I said into the phone. “Thank you. You saved me.”