DUMBO, Easter Sunday – 1982

“What do you use this table for when you aren’t entertaining guests?” asked Bernice.

“It’s a curating table. The prints we make are often large, and we need to check them for stray marks or fingerprints before the artist signs them. We made this table lower because it’s easier to sit. It can take hours.” Celeste passed the salad to Carl.

“Can I get another slice of ham too, Celeste?” Carl asked. “It must be weird to live and work in the same place. Short commute, though.”

“How do you get printing jobs? Do you advertise or something?” asked Joe.

“I had a job printing at a workshop in Manhattan when I was still in art school and met some artists there,” I said. “The first artist we worked with was this crazy French guy who had a dozen editions he needed to be completed. We printed them the first summer after graduating. It paid for the two presses, the building materials, the kitchen, and the bathroom fixtures.”

“We also get steady work from a teacher from the art school and an artist we met through his brother, who owns an art supply store,” said Celeste. “It’s all word of mouth.”

“Artists are big gossips,” I said. “We often meet potential clients at gallery openings in the city.”

“It seems chancy to me,” said Bernice.  

“It’s probably like sales in any business. You need to make the contacts, do what you promise, and deliver on time,” said Joe. “All you have is your reputation.”

 “Also, it’s so desolate in this neighborhood. I can’t imagine what it’s like being here at night.” Bernice placed her utensils across her empty plate with finality.

I held my breath, afraid Joe might mention the dead guy, but he said nothing.

A dead body under the bridge was a gruesome but apt metaphor for a city emerging from a terrible decade. Shocking as it was to see, I wasn’t all that surprised. I’d read thousands of New York families had fled to the suburbs driven by crime and high prices in the sixties. The city was falling apart, going downhill for a long time.

The Son of Sam serial killings between the summer of 1976 and 1977 brought the city’s spirit to a new low. People were afraid. As if that wasn’t enough, the blackout in July 1977 was followed by widespread looting throughout the city. I’d watched everything on TV from Texas with my bags packed for art school in Brooklyn. But I didn’t hesitate for a minute. I wanted to be here, even though the sidewalks glittered with broken glass for months. That September, Celeste and I started classes in Brooklyn and met each other shortly after.

 “Everyone done?” Celeste rose and headed for the kitchen with a pile of empty plates. “Who wants dessert?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I can’t wait for a bite of that apple pie I saw,” said Joe.

I grabbed the potato casserole and ham platter. Tina picked up the balance of the dishes and we all trooped to the kitchen. I started scraping plates.

“Ooh, real whipped cream” Tina eyed the bowl in the fridge. “You went all out, Celeste.”

“Think Mom is impressed?” Celeste rolled her eyes.

“If we can wrap this up before dark, it’ll be fine. Is it dangerous around here?”

“Lots of people in the building have been mugged. We almost were once. Please, don’t tell Mom.”

“What do you do to stay safe?” She kept her voice low.

“We go out together or use our bicycles to go into Brooklyn Heights, where all the stores are. We take the subway during the day. Lots of people have dogs. We might get one too.”

“Why do you live here?” Tina looked up at the high ceilings. “It’s cool, but…”

“Nicer neighborhoods cost a lot of money. We never would’ve been able to start our printing business in Manhattan. A place this size would cost ten times more. It’s a trade-off.”

“I hope it’s worth it.”

“We hope so too.” I handed Tina the plates and forks and carried the whipped cream.

I hoped the dead guy was the last of the terrible setbacks in the city and not a new trend. I needed to keep us safe. We should get a big dog soon. I dreaded telling Celeste what we’d seen. She headed for the table where everyone was waiting for the pie. 

The apple pie was a big hit, but there was no lingering over coffee. 

“We need to leave before dark,” said Bernice, standing. “But dinner was very good.”

 We walked back through the warehouse with her family and out to the car, which was fortunately unscathed. The goodbyes were quick. Carl and Tina hugged us and climbed into the backseat. Bernice stared out the front windshield, looking ahead, apparently out of questions for us. Joe shook my hand like we’d agreed on something, which, in a way, we had.