JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY keeps unfolding. Take your time, read some more, and when the book is re-released next month, tell me if you want the installments to continue on-line.

§§

When Mike came in carrying a bag of bagels, Fran didn’t look up. She was reading in her pajamas, wearing bunny slippers, with her legs hanging over the edge of the white leather chair.

“You want coffee, milk, or orange juice with your bagel?” Mike asked her from the kitchen.

Fran unconsciously ran her fingers through her blond hair and marked her place on the page with her finger before she looked up. “Dad, this is a pretty rough play you’re in.”

Mike walked over to her and realized what she was reading. “I wasn’t ready for you see the script.”

“It was going to get nicer in the next couple of weeks?” Fran asked.

Mike sat down, plopping the bagel bag on the coffee table. “It’s a great role, Fran. Yeah, there’s some sex and violence, but it all fits the character. It’s theater, that’s all.”

“So, when were you going to tell me about it? After you picked up your Emmy Award?”

Mike returned to the kitchen and came back with napkins, glasses and juice.

“Sesame for me,” Fran said.

“I know.” Mike found his cinnamon-raisin with cream cheese, then opened the paper around the pumpernickel with butter and salmon. The last was the sesame, toasted, dry.

Fran moistened her forefinger and dabbed up sesame seeds from the paper under the bagel. “It’s warm. Good,” she said, taking a bite. “I’ve seen worse in the movies, you know. I’m not a baby.”

Mike shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve kept myself from cursing in front of you and Sherri for almost 18 years. How’s it going to feel when you hear your dad say the ‘f-word’ in public while he wiggles his hips lasciviously?”

Fran swallowed and smiled, “You think you’ll blush up there on stage?”

Mike didn’t wait. He blushed there in front of his daughter and tried to cover it up by pouring orange juice into two of the glasses.

“Okay. Finish reading the script and tell me what you think of it. I’ve already memorized ¼ of my lines. Well, not memorized, but I’ve gotten familiar with them. I have to have it all down by the end of the month.” He took a gulp of juice.

“You’ll have to stop blushing before I bring my friends to the theater,” Fran said, taking another bite.

“Who’s blushing?” Sherri said, padding in from the bedroom, “and why? I smelled my bagel.” She sat down next to her dad, leaning her head against him. Her eyes drooped shut and her hair bushed over her face.

Mike put his arm around his daughter and kissed the top of her head. “No one’s blushing, sweetheart.” He sent an evil eye in Fran’s direction. “I was asking Fran if she was willing to do the Statue of Liberty thing again this year.”

Fran groaned. “Dad, do I have to? My picture ended up on the internet last year.”

Sherri wrapped her arm around her father’s waist, smiling with her eyes closed, “That was so great. Everyone could tell it was you.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t have on a mask or anything. That’s it. Dad, we can wear masks this year. I’ll do it if I can be incognito.”

Each year since Mike had bought the Liberty Tax Service franchise, Fran and he put on Lady Liberty costumes and paraded up and down 2nd Avenue in front of the business, handing out brochures for the tax season. The first year, their picture had ended up in the business section of the New York Times, a human-interest feature about family-run businesses. The story had launched his company better than a million dollars of advertising could have done. Since then, it had been a father-daughter tradition.

“Your mom will complain about you doing it,” he said.

“Like always,” Sherri added.

Mike hung his head. “So, if you don’t want to, I’ll understand. I realize you’re growing up and have other things to do,” he said in the most pitiful, hang-dog voice he could muster.

Fran groaned and threw her crunched-up bagel paper at him. “One more year, Dad. That’s it. Next year, I’ll be at college, and you’ll have to hire one of your actor friends.”

“No way,” Mike said. “I’m not spending money on Lady Liberty. Your sister is going to apprentice the position this year. Right, Sherri?”

That made Sherri’s eyes pop open. “Who, me? On the street? Promoting U.S. taxes? No way.”

Mike poked his finger in Sherri’s ribs, making her squirm. “Not U.S. taxes. You’d be promoting your father being able to pay the bills. Bills like, let’s see, like expensive bagels with salmon instead of plain cream cheese.”

Sherri sat up straight and reached for the remaining paper-wrapped bagel.

“Besides, Sherri,” Fran said, “I was the same age as you when I started. You’ll be the darling of the neighborhood, just like I was.”

 Sherri glared at her sister. If she’d been wider awake, she’d have found a comeback to say. Instead, she took a bite that made her swoon with pleasure.

“Seriously,” Mike said, “It’ll be great. I want us out there every weekend during February and March.”

Fran poured herself another glass of juice. “You’ll have time, with all your rehearsals for On the Couch?”

Mike wished he didn’t have to work at a 9 to 5 job. The vision of an artist’s life danced in front of his eyes. He had bought Liberty Tax so he could be his own boss, make his own hours, do acting classes, auditions and roles without an employer docking his paycheck. It took money to live in New York, and until he made it big as an actor, he had to earn his keep as a CPA.

“When’s the play opening, Dad?” Sherri asked.

Mike glanced at Sherri. He didn’t want to talk about On the Couch. He hadn’t meant for Fran to read the script, and he needed a plan to keep his daughters from seeing the X-rated play.

“Dad’s not going to let you go to it,” Fran said.

“That’s not true,” Sherri asserted, looking at her dad.

“It’s not even a play yet. Who knows whether it’ll open? What I want to know is what size costume to order for you?” he said to Sherri, tickling her again so she fell to the side laughing.

Fran smirked at her father’s distraction tactic, and he shot back a glare. She redeemed herself by saying, “Maybe you could talk Dad into letting David wear a costume too, Sherri.”

Immediately, Sherri jumped up and down, crying, “Oh yes, Daddy. Yes. I’ll do it if David can do it too!”

§§

“Do it again,” Sharon said, lolling on her back. “Exactly that.” She sighed, and Joe stroked his fingernails slowly up her stomach. “You could do that for hours, and I wouldn’t stop you.”

Joe rested his chin against his fist, reviewing the curves and mounds on Sharon’s body, the line of wispy black hair running from the dip of her belly button down to her pubic hair. He never got tired of all the mysterious niches. Since Coco’s birth, Sharon’s body was different, not just fuller and fatter, but the muscles were different. Not flabbier, but different, as if she were a long-distance runner now instead of a sprinter.

Her nipples had grown harder and longer, blacker, bigger-around. The coconut-milk taste had disappeared a month after she’d stopped breast-feeding Coco, but he was still magnetized toward her breasts.

Sharon sighed again and swung herself around and rested her cheek against Joe’s left foot. She kissed his ankle and closed her eyes. They had all morning to make love. They didn’t have to leave for work until 10:00.

The luxurious murmurings and soothing touches shifted, and they moved toward a private world they shared. His lower jaw floated open and jutted forward as the roar in his ears shot heat to his belly, and Sharon grinned while she panted.

Joe collapsed, wiping his sweaty forehead with his forearm. Breathing hard, he wrapped his other arm around Sharon’s neck, pulling her close to whisper, “Did you hear me? I screamed. I swallowed it like always, but I screamed.”

“The perfect way to start the morning,” she replied.

Joe whispered again, letting his breath brush Sharon’s ear, “Five minutes. Let’s sleep just five minutes.”

After ten minutes, Sharon felt something tickling her arm. She flinched to make it stop. Then she felt it on her cheek. When she opened her eyes, she was staring into a pair of twinkling eyes the same color as her own, surrounded by milk-chocolate colored skin.

“Momma,” the toddler whispered. “Momma.”

Sharon’s eyes crinkled up in a smile. “Good morning, my sweetheart.” She reached out an arm, helping Coco wriggle up onto the bed. “Say good morning to Daddy.”

Sharon pulled a tee-shirt over her head, while Coco crawled over her to tickle Joe’s neck with her toddler fingers. When Joe opened one eye, Coco leaned down and touched her nose to his.

Suddenly, Joe gave a loud bark, the sound of a German shepherd dog facing a burglar, and Coco fell backwards laughing.

The three tickled and rolled, until Sharon announced, “I’m taking the first shower. Who wants to go with me?”

Coco sat up on her knees clapping her hands together. Sharon kissed Joe lightly on the lips and lifted the girl into her arms, heading to the bathroom.

Joe looked at the clock and called out, “I’ll have cereal ready when you get out.” They were supposed to meet Toulousa at the theater at 10:45. He flipped the sheet back to get out of bed.

§§

At the Triplex, Max was tapping his fingertips on the desk. “Of course, I understand Carolyn not being here.” He flapped one hand in the air, “I mean, she has a baby; she can’t come running into work. But Pete,” Max ran his fingers through his bushy hair, then picked up the phone. “I left two messages already at his house. School’s out. Where the hell is he?” Max dialed and listened.

Toulousa thought about baby Bert, having his start on the couch where she was sitting.

There was a tap on the office door, and Max slammed the receiver down and shouted, “Finally. Get in here, Pete.”

Joe and Sharon walked in, smiling.

Toulousa didn’t stand up to make the introductions. “Max, my brother Joe and Sharon.”

They went over to the desk, and Joe stuck out his hand for a shake. “Toulousa told us you might need help again today. So here we are.”

Max stood up to shake hands. “Sorry about yelling. I hear you saved the day yesterday. Sit down,” he added, pointing to the couch. Joe sat on the armrest and Sharon moved in next to Toulousa. Max rubbed his hands together. “And yeah, it looks like we’re several bricks short of a full load again today. You did the tickets,” he said pointing at Joe, then switched to Sharon, “and you the concessions?”

Joe nodded. “You had a full-house for each feature. We stayed busy.”

“I can tear tickets for a while, Max, so Sharon can get more experience with the popcorn counter,” Toulousa said. “If it’s okay with you, that is.”

Max’s hands flapped in the air. “What choice do I have? No offense, you two. I’m sure you’re great, but in 20 minutes, we got the holiday crowd coming, and we have to be ready.”

“They had lots of on-the-job training yesterday, Max,” Toulousa said. She let her eyes rove over the top of Max’s head for a couple of seconds. “If you like what they do today, they might be able to help fill in until Carolyn can get back.”

Max’s fingers swept through his thin hair. “How long do you figure that’s going to be?”

Toulousa guessed Carolyn needed three months to get straightened out with Bert, but Sharon jumped in before she could say anything, “Joe’s classes at NYU start up the beginning of February. I have a part-time job, but I usually have a morning schedule.”

Max pulled at his thick eyebrows. “So, you’re saying what?”

She smiled. “I’m saying, if you need us to work, we can arrange it. Maybe you want to take it day by day for a week?”

Max nodded, thinking these two seemed too good to be true. He wanted time to find the catch. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. Day by day for a while.” He reached in the desk drawer and handed some papers to Sharon. “You’ve got to fill out W-2s. I’m not paying you under the table.”

“I’m sure the taxes from their giant paychecks will put the U.S. government in the black,” Toulousa said dryly.

Max shot her a warning look.

“Just saying,” she said, backing down. “And me,” Toulousa said, cocking her head to the side and smoothing the fabric of her full green skirt, “how about if you give me Pete’s number and address. I’ll track him down and be back before the evening shows start.”

“You’ll drag Pete back? He better have a damn good excuse for not showing up or I’m going to can his ass.”

“I’m on the clock during the time it takes to find him. You’ll pay me, right?” Toulousa said, raising her chin and eyebrows, making her look like an empress giving orders to underlings.

Max smirked and nodded, agreeing to the bargain. Then he looked at Joe, “I’ll tear tickets.” He turned to Sharon and added, “When you need a break, you let me know. I’m great behind the counter.” He stood up, wiping his palms on his thighs, then said, “I’m unlocking the door. Let’s get to it.”

Toulousa put on her coat, hefted her purse onto her shoulder, and headed to the A train, leaving the Triplex to the others. She got off the subway at Dykeman Street at the northern tip of Manhattan, then walked south looking for 4247 Broadway. It was a six-story beige stone building like all the others in the neighborhood, facing Fort Tyron Park.

She rang the buzzer next to the name Turnbull.

§§

Marsha was still wearing her sweats and sneakers, but she’d washed her face and brushed her hair in the bathroom next to the cafeteria. When she walked back into Carolyn’s hospital room carrying a bowl of strawberry ice cream, the new mama was bent over, her hair covering her face, her big shoulders heaving with sobs. Marsha went toward Carolyn and leaned in to pat her back.

Without looking up, Carolyn turned her head and rested it against Marsha’s stomach while she imagined Lydia lying on the living room couch watching Quantum Leap, her grey wispy hair spread on a pillow, with her knotted hand around the remote control. Her mother’s fingers were like gnarled tree stumps, rough and spotted brown.

Lydia’s loud and overbearing voice reverberated in Carolyn’s memory. She grimaced through her tears, then she pictured the package of her mother’s bones lying somewhere in the same hospital where she and her baby were. She let out one long-lasting breath of a high-pitched moan.

Marsha maneuvered herself into the chair, setting the ice cream on the bedside table, and wrapped her arms around Carolyn awkwardly. Caring for flowers was easier than giving aid and comfort to a person, but she did her best.

She shifted and stroked Carolyn’s head, and murmured, “It’s going to be okay,” again and again.

Carolyn groaned and began crying again through swollen eyes. The feelings felt too big, too much to live through. How could she feel so much pain pushing through her? Her mother so suddenly gone – it felt as bad as when she went into labor with Bert. The blood and loss, the hope and loss, they were all mixed up in her mind. She stuttered through her teeth and thickened tongue and tried to stop crying.

“Just let it out,” Marsha said. She kept caressing Carolyn’s head, and the big woman started heaving with tears again.

After ten minutes, the vision of Lydia on a slab covered with a sheet transformed into an image of a tiny baby the color of mocha ice cream wriggling inside a blue blanket, and her crying eased up. She sat up, her shoulders slumped, and she looked in Marsha’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Carolyn said.

Marsha shook her head. “If you didn’t cry, you’d go crazy with all you’ve been through.”

They were silent for a few minutes. Then Carolyn gave a giant sigh, letting out every breath she’d held for the last three decades. “What am I going to do?” she asked, talking to the ghost of her mother.

The ghost didn’t respond, but Marsha was used to organizing, to researching, to taking actions and seeing accomplishments at work. Carolyn’s question seemed like a good one to her. Her brain sifted and calculated everything her neighbor was going through, and she said, “First, you have to put all your attention on recuperating here in the hospital. Second, keep working on your breast-feeding techniques.” Marsha smiled, and patted Carolyn’s hand before she went on. “That’s enough for you for right now. Would you like me to find out where your mother is in the hospital?”

Carolyn looked up gratefully, “Oh yes. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with…,” she couldn’t say the word, “to do about.…” She stopped.

Marsha knew what she meant. What do you do with a dead body? She figured they needed a funeral home to make arrangements, but she said, “I’ll find out that too. You’ll be okay here by yourself?” Carolyn nodded, and Marsha handed her the dish of melting strawberry ice cream, then went out to track down Lydia’s corpse. It was a chore she didn’t mind at all.