Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

"Cutler's Cove."
    He nodded.
    "I'm from Brooklyn. That's Brooooklyn New York," he added, laughing. "The fifty-first state, and boy did I miss it."
    "Brooklyn's a state?" I wondered aloud. He laughed.
    "What's your name?" he asked.
    "Dawn."
    "Dawn, I'm Private First Class, Johnny Wilson. My friends call me Butch because of my haircut," he said, wiping his right palm over his closely cut hair. "I wore it like this even before I joined the army." I smiled at him and then noticed one of my blue bags go by.
    "Oh, my luggage!" I cried, reaching out in vain.
    "Hold on," Private Wilson said. He slipped around some people to my left and scooped out my bag.
    "Thank you," I said when he brought it back. "I have one more. I'd better keep my eyes on the luggage."
    He reached over and lifted his duffle bag out from between two black trunks. Then I saw my second bag. Once again, he stabbed into the pile and got it for me.
    "Thank you," I said.
    "Where are you heading, Dawn? Any place in Brooklyn?" he asked hopefully.
    "Oh no, I'm going to New York City," I said. He laughed again.
    "Brooklyn's in New York City. Don't you know your address?"
    "No. I'm being picked up," I explained. "By a taxi driver."
    "Oh, I see. Here, let me carry one of your bags to the gate for you," he offered and before I could say anything, he lifted it and started away. At the gate there was another crowd of people with many holding up signs with names written on them, just as Mrs. Levy had predicted. I searched and searched, but I didn't see my name. A lump came to choke my throat. What if no one was here for me because they got my flight mixed up? Everyone else seemed to know where he or she was going. Was I the only one arriving in New York for the first time?
    "There it is," Private Wilson said, pointing. I looked in the direction and saw a tall, dark-haired man who looked unshaven and tired and very bored standing with the card: DAWN CUTLER.
    "With a name like Dawn, that could only be for you," Private Wilson remarked. He led me forward. "Here she is," he announced.
    "Good," the taxi driver said. "I got my cab out front but there's an airport cop on my back. Let's get movin'," he said, hardly looking at me. He took both my suitcases and lunged forward.
    "Thank you," I said to the soldier. He smiled.
    "Have a good tour of duty, Dawn," he cried as I followed the lanky cab driver out of the airport. When I looked back, Private Wilson was gone, almost as if he had descended like some sort of protective angel to help me in a moment of need and then disappeared. For a few moments, I had felt secure, safe, even in this huge place with crowds and crowds of strangers. It was almost as if I had been with Jimmy again, with someone strong to look after me.
    As soon as the taxi driver and I burst out of the airport, I had to shade my eyes to see where I was going. The sun was that bright. But I was glad it was a warm, summer day. It made me feel hopeful, welcome. The taxi driver showed me co the cab, put my suitcases in the trunk, and opened the rear door.
    "Hop in," he said. A policeman was approaching rapidly, his face glum. "Yeah, yeah, I'm goin'," the taxi driver cried and moved around the car quickly to get behind the wheel.
    "They don't let you make a livin' here," he explained as he pulled away from the curb. "They're on your back, day and night." He drove so fast I had to hold onto the handle above the window, and then he came to a quick stop behind a line of cars. A moment later, he shot out of the line, found a space, and wove our cab in and out with an expertise that made me gasp. We nearly collided a number of times, but soon we were on open highway.
    "First time in New York?" he asked without turning around to look at me.
    "Yes."
    "Well I have heartburn every day, but I wouldn't live anywhere else. Know what I mean?"
    I didn't know if he was waiting for a reply or not.
    "Just live and let live and you'll be all right," he advised. "I'll tell you what I tell my own daughter—when you walk in the streets, keep your eyes straight ahead and don't listen to nobody. Know what I mean?" he asked again.
    "Yes, sir."
    "Aaa, you'll be all right. You look like a smart cookie and you're going to a nice neighborhood. When someone mugs you there, they're polite about it," he said. "They say, 'Excuse me, but do you have ten dollars?'
    He gazed into the rearview mirror and saw my look of shock.
    "Just kiddin'," he added, laughing.
    He turned on his radio and I gazed out