Stones From a Garden

When I was accepted into grad school, things moved pretty quickly.

The Present Ex and I had been living together for almost two years. We had broken up during this time and spent many painful months living together in our tiny one bedroom on the 5th Floor of 336 E. 95th Street and had only recently reconciled and gotten back together.

Now, with the prospect of moving to New Jersey for three years or so, everything was in disarray and there was no time to think about it.

My parents bought me a 1990 Silver Honda Civic. I spent weekends traveling to the Edison/Metuchen/New Brunswick area looking for apartments with a friend. We finally found a huge two bedroom, one and a half bathroom, full dining room, recently renovated for about $1000 a month. Insane. New Jersey.

Present Ex couldn't find a place. He spent some time commuting and some time crashing on friends' couches.

Chloe went to live with my parents as I wouldn't have the time to take care of her and pets weren't allowed. Present Ex worked crazy hair dresser hours and would never be around. She would be safe in South Jersey.

Movers were called. Clothes and sentiment were packed up.

Some of these clothes had recently been unpacked when Present Ex and I were separated and he found out that I went out on a date. Dancing at 1984 at the Pyramid Club in the East Village. I came home tired and sweaty to five huge garbage bags in the hallway filled with my clothes and Present Ex sitting on the couch smoking. "Get out", his first words to me. A huge screaming match followed. Chloe hid under the bed. Present Ex threw a glass of water at me (the water not the glass) when I turned my back on him.

I loved this tiny apartment. I was sad to leave it and afraid of the unknown in New Jersey. But I needed to do this for me. And off I went, leading the movers in my Honda Civic, down the NJ Turnpike and to Edison, NJ. Present Ex went off to work and I'd pick him up at the train station later.

It all happened so quickly and I was in a state of denial that I never said goodbye to a neighborhood that had been my home.

And then, Chloe died. A victim of a one in a million reaction to a yearly shot, she quickly succumbed to anemia. I was in Italy when it happened.

And I needed to say goodbye for real.

My boss asked me to go around the Upper East Side and ask stores to put the poster for the revival of Fiddler on the Roof in their windows. I guess Upper East Side automatically suggests Jews who go to the theater?

First stop, our first apartment on 72nd Street. I stood across the street for a while and just looked at the building. The hallway walls were still painted that awful, dull institutional green. I crossed the street and peered in the front door. I could see the mailboxes, the steps up to the higher floors, and there -- in the back -- the door to our apartment. I remember Chloe running down that hallway after we had been on a vacation to Florida for a week. I remember carrying bags and bags of groceries -- so many that my hands were hurt, twisted and red -- because we were trying to save money and cook more. I remember my excitement as I rollerbladed down the hallway on my way to the new apartment on 95th street.

And so off to 95th I went, up York. This neighborhood that so many people deride was beautiful to me. We didn't live in the high rises but we could still see the sky. And walk to the river.

As I entered the East 90s the streets became a little tougher, a little dirtier and much more like home. The projects on 1st Ave loomed over me and it seemed like the same people were hanging out on the benches in front. I stopped in the deli where I often ran out to buy OJ on Sunday mornings; it was as filthy and disgusting as ever.

My dad would always park on 94th street and take the stones from a garden and put them in his car for the huge rock wall he had constructed around his house in New Jersey. "Dad, you can't take those." I tried to explain. "They're part of the building."
He would look at me, laugh and say, "They're just lying there." I gave up.

95th Street was strangely industrial. There was a garage or two close to the corner. Hogs and Heifers sandwiched between 95th and 96th, although I'd never been in friends had ventured in during parties at our place.

And finally I was there in front of 336 E. 95th clutching a pile of Fiddler on the Roof posters with tears in my eyes. Unsure of what I had done, punishing myself for the things I hadn't done and completely uncertain of what was to come.

I imagined Present Ex bounding through the doors being pulled by Chloe. I imagined walking up the short staircase, pulling out my keys and going into the elevator and up to the 5th floor and smelling gravy cooking on the stove, Chloe scratching on the door because she knew I was there.

I remember how much we hated the countertop in the closet-sized kitchen so went to the hardware store and bought green-marble contact paper to cover it up. I remember telling Mom that story and her asking seriously, "Are there hardware stores in New York? I've never seen any."

I cursed my imagination. And I said goodbye. But it's never really goodbye if it's living inside of you. And as I walked up the hill to the 6 train stop on 96th street I was forced to remember walking Chloe up this same path every night to meet Present Ex on his way home from work. Memories everywhere.