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He rolled his enormous bag out of the Port Authority to the curb of 8^th Avenue.  The city looked better than ever; it was a perfect April day.  He was about to hail a cab when he remembered that his sister had asked him to call when he reached the city.

            “Hey.”

            “How was the ride in?”

            “Great, I’m about to jump in a cab and head to Grandma and Grandpa’s”

            “Do they know you’re coming?”

            “Of course.”

            “Are you sure?  Because they didn’t say anything that sounded like they knew.”

            “Dad talked to them.”

            “You know you can’t trust Dad for these things; did you talk to them about it?”

            “I don’t know, I think so,” try as he might he could not, in retrospect, remember either grandparent referring to his impending stay, “I’m sure they must know.”

            “You can’t just show up.”

            “What should I do?  I’ll call them.”

            “They’re probably sleeping.”

            “Then I’ll try Dad.  I’ll call you back.”

            Neither phone answered.  He looked at the women passing by while he tried the numbers.  Dark clothed, smartly cut, pale girls.  One looked at him and her face soured as if she’d tasted something bitter.  He looked behind him to see what she could be looking at but nothing was there.  He flashed up to the mirror on the side of the building, angled down at the street.  Indistinctly, he could make out that his lips were moving.  He called his sister again.

            “What do you think I should do?”

            “Come stay here tonight and we’ll sort this out later.”

            He raised his hand for a cab and heard a shout.  He turned about and saw a line waiting at a taxi stand behind him.  He rolled his bag into the line, then soon after to the back of a cab.  The driver didn’t move so he hefted the duffel into the trunk and gave directions to his sister’s apartment in SoHo.

            He sat back to take in the city as it passed, marveling at how airy it seemed despite being so cramped.  It took him some time to notice, but an increasing number of pedestrians were looking into the cab to examine him.  They looked back at him; some curiously, some disapprovingly.  When the cab stopped there were more, but several would catch his eye and follow the cab as it passed.  He saw two pretty girls in conversation, then down the block he saw the same two girls.

            The cab stopped for an unusually long light at 35^th and Broadway.  On the sidewalk opposite the cab stood a man who looked to be Arab.  He wore dark glasses and a moustache.  The man was holding a small camcorder, pointing it at group of tall buildings.  He craned his neck to see which building it was, but he couldn’t see out the side window.  The camcorder turned until it pointed at him.  The man’s expression remained unchanged, nonexistent.  None of the other passersby were looking into the cab or at the man.  The lens pointed back at the building.  The light changed.  The lens darted back to the taxi and followed it out of sight. 

He closed his eyes and rubbed them. He looked only at the sky until they arrived.  He tipped the driver and pulled his duffel from the trunk.  He rolled it up the stairs to the entranceway.  He pushed the buzzer.  There was no response.  He tried another apartment, no response.  He knocked on the main door and found it open.  He walked to the foot of the stair, picked the duffel up with both hands and started to climb.  He reached the floor and put the bag down. 

The door was open.  The apartment was empty.  The decorations were gone from the door.  He rolled the duffel around the empty rooms and the freshly painted bone-white walls.  He entered the bedroom, placed the duffel where the pillows would be, lay down and went to sleep.