Buffalo City Radio
“The weather tonight in Buffalo City, November 4, 1963 – brrrrrr. The time: seven and a half past 9… . It is seventeen Winter Wonderland degrees. Streets are covered with snow and wind is blowing at 50 miles per hour. It looks as if an unexpected storm has hit Buffalo City. Our reporters are trying to keep you informed as much as they can. Since schools are closed, ladies and gentlemen, please stay inside, avoiding this bleak weather… and stay tuned for tomorrow’s weather report at 5 am… and… make sure… have good signal… weather… unpredictable!” The radio turned into static.
Now, there really was nothing to do in the Wood household; servants ran back and forth, a German Shepard and a ragdoll cat slept near the fireplace, and… a Miss Angela Wood listened. Angela was listening to the weather report while drinking hot cocoa under several blankets and holding an unread book. Angela Woods, 14, was the richest and most comfortable teen in Buffalo City, New York. Her dad, a doctor, seemed to work 24/7 and her mom, an actress, traveled the world, starring in movies. So the servants usually took care of her, making her feel close to being a coddled orphan. She got everything a 14-year-old living in the early 60s wished for: expensive dresses, designer blue jeans, and extravagant blouses. However, after the recent weather report, Angela instantly felt… the opposite. She looked out the window and had to rub away the frost with her manicured fingers. The streets were layered with blankets of snow. Who knew the streets could look so white? It was hard to see the whole street, but you were able to see many patches of dense snow, on the branches, sills, and curbs from the almost full moon.
“Mademoiselle?” She quickly turned to the butler, Walter. “Sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Woods has asked if you did your homework. He is driving home, will be here momentarily,” said the emotionless yet assertive butler. Walter, the trusted man in the Wood household, wore a typical black tie and white shirt along with some black slacks, and on top of it all, a black tailcoat. Walter never celebrated his birthday or told anyone of his past life or even childhood. It seemed to Angela that his only purpose in life was to serve her.
“No… I uh… uh… am not sure what it is. Our class got out so early.” One might think that Angela held the top position in class because of her dad, but she was not very book-smart. She had trouble in math and Walter usually helped explain complicated concepts; though she did not excel in English essay writing, she loved to read mystery, fantasy, and romance. She loved to dive into another world where she could feel safe and not alone. Angela had books stacked on her desk, near the bed, and even in the bathroom for heaven’s sake!
“I told you, no homework on Friday nights. Can you please tell father that?”
Walter only sighed and held a note to Angela. “We got a letter from Ms. Jackson stating that she would like to extend and add onto the homework that was given today. Do you perhaps remember what that might be?”
“I told you already, I don’t know and I don’t care.” Angela heard her voice and suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Where had she learned to be so damn rude? Was it the recent weather report, was it the look on Walter’s face, was she in her own world, or was it possibly something else?
“Tomorrow you have to interview an orphan and then write a report on it. In the letter, Ms. Jackson gave you the exact person. Michelle Logan is her name. She lives in an orphanage just a mile away. She may seem aloof, but the note says she is a very bright and lovely girl. Also, Angela: your friend, Lisa Smith came by with this same assignment and told me the whole grade got this for an end-of-the-year project. Her group asks each participant to walk to the orphanage if they can, to prepare. She asks ‘Are you in?’”
“I… what walk? I don’t like English… and… and… orphans!” Her hands were clenched in a tight fist, and as she shouted, the hot chocolate emptied onto the Persian rug, waking up the dog and the cat.
“My, my Angela. What a mess you have made. What do you think Mr. Wood ought to say about this?” Walter said, shaking his head. “Mr. Wood made it clear to me that this assignment was – ”
“Enough with good grades! Enough with the assignments!”
“Angela! Why are you talking to Walter this way! What is going on with you tonight? Huh? And… and… what is this mess I came home to see!? Enough is enough! After a long day in the operating room working myself to the bone… to keep you fed! In return, I get a bratty child. Tomorrow you will go to – Walter, what is it? Ah yes, the orphanage to meet an orphan! Don’t worry, I already talked to your teacher, Angela.”
Angela had not expected him, her back to the door, and for most of her father’s screed, held her head low and locked her lips shut. She’d slowly turned towards him as he began the monologue. Now, seeing that he was finished, she wrinkled her nose and tried to counter back, but nothing came out. It was as if someone had taken her voice box out. What had happened? She wished she could change what she had said, but for some reason, for the first time in her life, she was unable to complain like normal.
“Sor… Sorry, father. I… .”
“Enough Angela, I can’t right now. Angela, please stop! My head hurts and I am starving.” She could see where this was heading, and she was not liking it. “Just go to bed. Now.” She knew it. She longed to protest against the idea but she knew she would only get in more trouble.
“Walter, is there mashed potatoes with duck confit, truffles, or foie gras with bruschetta, Baked Alaska for dessert? If not, just ask the cook to make a Tournedos à la bordelaise.”
“There’s duck daddy,, I didn’t eat it at all – ”
“Bed now!”
At breakfast, a rotten taste had formed in her mouth from the eggs Benedict which she tried to wash out with chamomile tea but failed. Giving up, she settled on just an English muffin.
The next morning Angela woke up at 10 a.m. to the sound of her radio clock. It was playing KDWB-AM channel 63, The Don Duchene Program: “Oh, here’s the big news from the Chevrolet Twins! Hi, this is Sterling O’Rick… We are out to double our volume. We are out to sell 300 brand-new ‘63 Chevys this month! And to do it, we’re ready to give fabulous deals twice the terms with 48 months to pay… twice the deals!” Angela slapped the radio off.
As her stomach grumbled, she walked down her street with her security detail, Novak. He was 6’6”, always wore black even if it was a holiday, and had only three strands of white hair on his bald head. Sometimes, Angela had a hard time understanding him because he had a Hungarian accent. Ever since Angela was four, Novak had always been her bodyguard. Having said that, out of all the guards, Angela Woods was the closest to him because he was the only security detail that did not obey every command.
While walking to the orphanage, one could assume that Angela was going to a semi-formal event. She was wearing a pair of her designer jeans with a yellow and blue sweater, and for shoes, Herculon boots. She was also wearing perfume, lip gloss, and had had her black hair beautifully made.
As Angela and Novak walked around the last corner, two houses away from where they were standing, they saw a big house made out of old schoolhouse-red bricks, with a big table and chair in the yard, with one or two children making snow forts, and toys splayed around in the snow. A muddy track led to the door, and a hinge of the back-door was broken, which made a squeaking sound as it slowly opened and closed by the wind, the pieces of falling wood on the stairs looking dangerous.
The closer Angela Woods got to the orphanage, the more of the horrid house and its tiny details came more and more into view: the mold or moss inside the bricks, the remaining spiderwebs, and the nails sticking out of the wooden stair boards. Novak knocked on the door that had paint peeling off, and a middle-aged, red-cheeked, malodorous woman with a rounded physique (it was as if she had kissed a tire pump and it had filled her up) answered the door. In the background, there was a sound of an old, battered down radio, antenna sticking out. Whenever someone would talk, the speaker would bounce up and down as if it was from the cartoon, Tom and Jerry. The noise echoed through the whole house and poured out the door. A doo-wop type song named ‘Walk Right In’ by the RoofTop singers was playing. It soon transitioned over to Don Duchene talking: “Last week the chart-topper, this week dethroned by… Deon Rubybaby the RoofTop singer with ‘Walk Right In’. This is The Welcome Back sound from Don Duchene. The Saturday, November fifth edition… .” then it was a mix between static and the voice glitching in and out.
“Yes, what do you need? Oh boy, not again. Wait just a minute.” The lady then waddled back to the kitchen counter. She turned off the radio, and drying her hands, came back to the entryway.
“Sorry, what do you need?”
“We had to come here for an end-of-the-year project. We have to interview someone called Michelle Logan,” Novak replied, in a low voice.
Ms. Adams opened the door wide and ushered them in. Once they got inside, unwashed grimy floors that smelled like mold on a piece of old bread, thin cheap cotton, suffused with the sweat of many people, and patches of water on the ceiling from the water pipes with the acrid scent of and mold and mildew throttled her nose: she felt sick.
“Who has to interview Michelle?”
“Angela Wood.”
“Hmm, why does this… Oh my, I am so sorry… hold on… hmm, that name sounds familiar… Angela Wood… no it was that… wait… I am so sorry it’s at the tip of my tongue… Oh I know who you are, you the daughter of Susan Wood, Angela Wood! It shows how much she loves you by living here, in Buffalo City instead of Hollywood or New York City, for we all know that small-town life is superior, right? Oh! That’s what it was: I saw you in the recent Buffalo City Times with your momma. She won an Oscar award, right?”
“Yes, I am the daughter of Susan Wood and she did win an Oscar! I am so happy you remember! Do you like her?”
“Are you kidding? She is my fave! I adore the simplicity of her outfits like her black dress and flats. I also love her chestnut hair. She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn, you know? Your mom taught me that the way you chose to act is more beautiful than what you wear per se.”
Angela’s heart warmed. “I… I am so glad you like her. I too admire my mom and one day I hope to be like her.”
“No worries…my name is Donna Adams and I manage the 91st Street Kids Home. Welcome. The children here call me Ms. Adams.”
“Oh my gosh, I almost forgot to ask. For my project, I am supposed to know the orphanage director’s name.”
“Donna Adams, as I just said, and at your service.”
“Oh, thanks.” Angela quickly scribbled it down on her notepad.
“I think Michelle is in her room. It is upstairs to the left, the smallest one, so it will be easy to find. Please take your time. Those poor children need someone to talk to other than me,” sighed Ms. Adams.
Angela walked up the stairs with Novak. When they got to the door it was quiet and dark.
“Oh, too bad. It looks like no one is there. We should probably… go… home… .” She paused, holding her breath, but having to breathe, whimpered, “Ugh, I can’t help it anymore! This house smells worse than my dog!” Then quickly cupped her hands over her mouth to restrict her breath.
“I am sorry, Mr. Wood said that you must see this through… .”
“I know, I know what he said.”
Angela reversed course and headed down. She was almost to the bottom when she bumped into Ms. Adams.
“Is everything alright? I heard screamin’. You done with your interview already?”
“No, it’s just that she is not there… .”
“My oh my! Children these days! Give you heart attacks for no reason! I believe Michelle is up there. Come with me now.” Angela stayed with her feet planted to the ground, but yet again, the guard pulled her up the stairs.
Finally, standing in the doorway, Angela found Michelle an arm’s length away. Her hair was matted and dirty, her blouse was thin and had holes, she barely had shoes, just thick socklike things. She was sleeping in a ball on the floor under a muddy sheet, clutching a piece of paper in her hands.
“I can’t believe I am doing this,” muttered Angela. She pinched her nose, closed her mouth, and lightly poked the little orphan with her hand. The orphan was startled; as though a rabbit, she scurried to the furthest corner.
Finally, when Novak settled Michelle onto a chair, and Angela a few feet apart from Michele’s bed, Ms. Adams had left.
“Let’s get this over with – I don’t want to be late for lunch. Just answer these few questions: one, just to check, what is your name? Wait, never mind, I know your name… .” Why was she being so mean?
“My name is Michelle Logan. I can answer and ask questions too. Why are you here? Also, what is your name?” Angela Wood was taken aback.
“Please sit down. Mr. Wood said if you did not lose your temper that you would go to O’Malley’s for an Irish Cream,” whispered Novak. She cleared her throat and continued.
“Sorry, my name is Angela. I had to come here for a project. How did you come here? What happened to your parents?”
“My mom recently passed away and cancer stole my dad’s life. That’s part of the reason I am here.” Michelle spoke quickly and monotonously.
“Sorry about that… .” Angela simply looked down and away. Then she looked back and scribbled it down as if nothing mattered. “How did your mom pass?”
Michelle swallowed and continued. “We used to live in Alabama. My dad was a lawyer and my mom was a math professor. My dad got really sick. So, we took him to the doctor’s office and we learned that he had lung cancer. Despite the surgery right after his diagnosis, he passed away a day later, leaving my mother heartbroken. My mom, who then worked double shifts at Auburn, seemed to be sick with grief. I was sent to live with Julie and Sid, my aunt and uncle in Buffalo City, New York, in June.”
She held out the piece of paper. Angela took it and read:
Dearest Shelly Logan, September 30, 1963
I am so sorry to tell you that I was a witness to your mother passing away last night at 10:54 p.m. on September 29, 1963. At around 5 o’clock, I saw your mother walking. Then out of the blue, a car zoomed around a corner and hit her. I called the ambulance, and then I went to visit her in the hospital to learn that she damaged her spinal cord very severely. The doctors also mentioned that her vital signs were weakening. I was sitting beside her – she told me to tell you if she died that she loves and misses you very much and that she was fighting for your future even if it hurt. I told her that that was nonsense because I knew she had gone through worse. But, before I knew it she was gone. I am so happy I was able to reach you and write to you.
I know that your father passed not long ago and I am so deeply sorry about your mother. Even I am having a hard time processing this and I can only imagine what you must be going through. If you need anything please call me. My daughter and I are always there for you and we know how you feel and our house is always open.
Yours truly,
Samantha and Mrs. Brown
“Since there were no legal documents saying that I could live with them, I was dumped at the 91st Street Orphanage. They told me I could come to visit, but I don’t understand why I even should.
Angela Wood was speechless. In the fragile atmosphere, one could hear the faint sound of static then again clearly the Don Duchene Program on KDWB-AM. “Well I tell you all KDWD listeners… pretty much cloudy, tornado forecast has been issued for portions of northern New York… thunderstorms with a few tornadoes, large hail, and locally damaging wind storms… 60 miles…” Then silence. All of a sudden, Angela felt like the night before. Feeble, scared, and… yet, warm.
“Michelle, would you like to have lunch at my house?”
“Yes, please. Angela.”
“Get your coat on!”