A Voice of Baltimore Feature, an excerpt from
First-time novelist Margo Christie’s
second work — Memory Motel —
a novel in progress
set in mid-20th Century Charm City
By Margo Christie
I stayed in New York that Easter weekend after all, though not in the loft above my aunt’s club like I wanted.
After returning to the loft to find her husband dead, Aunt Gen checked us into the Piccadilly Hotel. She ordered club sandwiches delivered to the room, then returned to the loft to report Uncle Gus’s death without taking a single bite of hers.
Never again did we speak of Paris. Dreamy as I’d gotten dropping a coin into a Times Square fortune-telling machine to see if my trip abroad would come true, it no longer mattered after she took her leave and I perched on the windowsill, gazing 12 stories down at the bright lights and ceaseless flow of Broadway.
“Paris has nothing on this City That Never Sleeps,” I thought. I was born in New York. With Uncle Gus gone, I might just return, live with Auntie and be her helper and companion. I felt horrible thinking this — so willing was I to jump into a dead man’s shoes — but I’d never seen Broadway from such a thrilling vantage point before.
I was in bed but awake, thinking of what I might say to convince Daddy and Mom to let me stay, when Aunt Gen returned, stepped out of her shoes and crawled, fully clothed, into the twin bed opposite mine.
In the morning, over toast and coffee in the café off the hotel lobby, she said, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the club, but I couldn’t rise to the occasion of showing off anything. I hope the hotel didn’t disappoint you.”
I shrugged, unable to admit that it thrilled me last night and thrilled me still. I could’ve lingered in that café for hours, watching tourists gawk at the sheer height of the hotel, feeling apart from them by virtue of a birth certificate.
“I’m off from school this week, Aunt Gen. Maybe I could stay with you, help you take care of things.”