“Yes, oh entrancing one,” Albert said.
“This woman has come in here without permission.”
“Horrors!”
“She says she’s Nancy.”
“What?” To Nancy’s dismay, the young man, this Albert, looked up at her and let out a surprised little laugh. “She says she’s Nancy?”
“Nancy Kincaid?” Nancy said. She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Fernando Woodlawn’s personal assistant? Jesus, you guys! I don’t know what’s going on here but …” Then, as Martha and Albert gazed at her, she stopped. Two other people had come up behind them. A tall woman with tinted hair. A doughy blob of a man in a gray suit. They were standing on their toes, looking in at her over Martha’s and Albert’s shoulders. Nancy looked from one to the other, from one stare to the other. Her mouth was still open on her last word as the whole thing became clear to her. “Oh,” she said finally, drawing out the syllable. “Oh. Oh, very, very funny. Very funny, people.” And her cheeks really did turn scarlet now. She felt as if her whole body was blushing and she thought: Damn him! “All right,” she said. “Where is he? Where’s Fernando? What is this, like, some kind of trick he pulls every year at Halloween or something? Break in the new girl? Is he hiding under the desk or recording this or something? Come on. You got me. I’m humiliated, hooray. Enough is enough.”
She was trying hard to keep her composure, not to show how irritated and embarrassed she was. But this was something that truly bugged her about her ever-lovin’ boss. This sixteen-year-old jockstrap humor of his. The fact that she was an overprotected Catholic girl was just the big joke of the world to him. It was just so, so funny. Practically every day, he went out of his way to mention some bodily function or other in front of her. As if she’d never heard of it before. Then he’d shout out to everyone, “Look. Catholic School is blushing.” And, of course, that would make her blush. And then she was always supposed to laugh and roll her eyes and demonstrate that she could take a joke.
“You’ve had your fun,” she said now, controlling her voice. She was feeling hotter, more ridiculous, more annoyed by the moment. “You can all go back to Fernando and tell him I blushed and looked stupid, okay? Now I have a lot of work to do this morning, so if you don’t mind …”
But the people standing in the doorway said nothing. They answered her, all four of them, only with those gazes. Empty and unfathomable stares; stares in a waxwork; unwavering. Nancy felt herself tighten as it went on and on. She felt her whole body tighten with the frustration of it. The frustration—and something else. That clutch of fear again, that cold contraction in her stomach.
It all seems wrong somehow …
She swallowed. She put her hands on her hips. She was aware of the silence lengthening. She was aware of the whisper of traffic in the room. The faint Warren Street patter and shush coming in through the open window behind her. She was aware that she was just standing there, jutting her chin at the four of them as they confronted her. She could not think of anything else to say.
“What’s going on here?”
The voice broke the moment. It was a loud voice, deep and authoritative. The cluster of people at the door slowly gave way. A new arrival shouldered his way into the room between Martha and Albert.
Nancy cried out at the sight of him: “Oh!” She felt a great warm bath of relief. “Henry! Thank heavens!”
Henry Goldstein, the firm’s junior partner, was now standing just within the office. He was a short man, but broad-shouldered; well formed in his gray suit. He had a full head of silver hair and chiseled good looks that went with his voice: a look of authority. He was searching around him for an explanation. He turned to Nancy.
“Listen, Henry,” she said at once, “would you please get the Fernando Brigade here to curtail the sidesplitting hilarity and let me get to work? We’ve got the community meeting later today and Fernando’s gonna kill me if I don’t have his charts put together before lunchtime.”
She checked herself, kept herself from babbling on. She waited. Henry Goldstein lowered his brows at her. He cocked his head. “I’m sorry?” he said. Uncertainly, he glanced over his shoulder at Martha.
“She keeps saying she’s Nancy Kincaid,” said the black woman with a shrug. “She came in here without permission and now she says she’s Nancy and this is her office. She says she won’t leave.”
Slowly, Goldstein inclined his proud chin, as if to say: Ah, I see; I understand everything. He turned back to Nancy. She caught her breath as she saw the caution, the wariness that had now entered his hazel eyes.
“Henry …?” she started to say.
“Just take it easy, Miss,” Goldstein answered her. He held out his hands toward her.
To calm me! she thought. He’s trying to keep me calm!
“No one wants to hurt you,” he went on.
Nancy’s mouth fell open. She backed away from him. From all of them. All of them just kept staring at her. Martha with her blank brown eyes. Young Albert with his alert features. The tint-haired woman and the roly-poly man—their curious glares on her like spotlights.
What the hell is this?
She took another step back and felt the cool air from the window against her calves.
“No one wants to hurt you,” Goldstein repeated. “All we want is for you to step outside into the reception area. We can talk about everything out there. Okay?”
Nancy shook her head. “I don’t … I don’t … understand. I mean …” That muzziness—the feverish haze that had been with her all morning—it was rising inside her again. She felt as if her head were expanding. She blinked as her thoughts clouded. “I … I mean … Don’t you know me? Don’t, uh, don’t you know who I am?”
The stocky little Goldstein took a small step toward her. His hand stayed in front of him, to ward her off now too. “We can talk about all that right outside, Miss. Right outside in the waiting room. Okay? We’ll all talk about it together and figure it all out. No one wants to hurt you.”
Nancy put her hand to her forehead, trying to clear it.
“We’re all your friends,” Goldstein said.
Well, she thought wildly, that’s certainly reassuring.
Now Albert was coming forward also. He took a long, vigorous step around the far side of the gunmetal desk. “Watch out behind you now,” he said. “Don’t get too close to that window.”
“Look … Look, I’m a little confused, I … I don’t know what’s going on … I came in here, I … I mean …” She shook her head. The fog was filling her mind. She couldn’t stop it. I’m babbling, she thought. Stop babbling. “Look, I just, I’m feeling a little sick today or something … if you could just let me … If you could just …” She didn’t finish.
“No one’s going to hurt you,” said Goldstein, sliding toward her. “We’ll just take you outside.”
“Look, if you could just … I mean, I am Nancy Kincaid!” she said weakly.
Somehow, someone had moved right up beside her. She heard his voice, a new voice, a soft, warm voice, right at her elbow. “Hey,” he said, “this is ridiculous. Why don’t you just shoot him?”
Startled, she swung around to face him. “What do you mean, shoot him? I’m not just going to shoot him, how can I …?”
She stopped. No one was there. No one was standing there at all. There was only the file cabinet in the corner. The open window. The ledge out over Warren Street. The faint plash of traffic. The faint clatter of falling leaves in the park on Broadway. And no one …
Nancy stood where she was. For a long, long moment, she just stood: half turned; her mouth open. She stared at the file cabinet, at the window. Her eyes darted from one to the other, and to the wall, and to the floor, trying to find someone, anyone, anything, that might have just spoken to her.
A voice? The thought blinked in her mind like neon as she stared. A voice telling me to shoot him? Did I hear that? Oh shit. Oh, that is not good. That is not a good thing at all.
“M
artha,” Goldstein said. She heard him speaking to the secretary in slow, authoritative tones. “Martha, I want you to call the police. From my office. Right now. Right away.”
“Right.”
Slowly—still staring, still wide-eyed—Nancy (She was Nancy, damn it. Wasn’t she?) turned to face them again. Goldstein was closer to her now. Creeping up on the near side of her well-groomed desk. Albert was coming around the far side, edging toward her. There were more people in the doorway too and some out in the corridor, a whole audience of them. And there was Martha in her red dress. She was just turning to push her way into the crowd. Just tearing her fearful gaze away from Nancy and turning to push her way to the phone in Goldstein’s office. To call the police.
“That—That won’t be necessary,” Nancy heard herself whisper. She could barely squeeze the words out past the stricture in her throat. Her head had begun to throb again. All her thoughts seemed to have dissolved into a thick mist that hung over her mind, over everything. She swallowed hard, but her throat was dry. Her lips were dry and stiff. “That’s not necessary,” she said, a little louder.
Martha paused. She glanced doubtfully at Mr. Goldstein.
“I’ll … I’ll just go,” Nancy said quickly. She had to get out. She had to get some air, clear her thoughts. What the hell … What the hell …? “I’ll just … I’ll go, okay? Just let me go.” Shoot him?
Goldstein lifted a hand toward her. “Are you sure you don’t want us to call someone for you? I think you could use some help, Miss.”
Shoot him? “No, no, I’m …” She bit her lip, fighting back the tears. “I’m fine,” she said. She could not look at him. She looked at the desktop in front of her. She could not look at any of them, could not meet their eyes. “I’m just not feeling very well right now, I’m … I’m sorry. I … I don’t feel well.”
They were all looking at her. She knew they were all looking, staring at her. She felt naked in front of them. God! she thought. God, I mean … I mean: God! She reached out quickly, snatched her purse off the desktop. She clutched it to her chest as if for protection. “I’m just not feeling very well,” she said. “I’ll just go. That’s all. Please.”
She scuttled forward quickly. The crowd parted in front of her. Hell, they jumped out of her way, jumped to either side. They couldn’t leave the path clear fast enough. She hurried through them. She was vaguely aware that Goldstein was following her. That he and Albert had come around just behind her, on either side of her. They flanked her as she hurried out of the office. They escorted her down the corridor. Past the dingy offices behind their glass partitions. Past the photo of Fernando framed by the city. Out again through the low gate, through the reception area. With everyone behind her, everyone staring at her, watching her go.
What …? she kept thinking, as she hurried to the elevator, as she stared at the floor in front of her, as she clutched her purse. What …? What …?
Mr. Goldstein pressed the elevator button for her. She stood in front of the door, clutching her purse, her head bowed, like a supplicant with hat in hand. It took an unbearably long time for the elevator to arrive, and she thought, What …? What is it? What is happening here?
When the door finally slipped open, Nancy charged inside. She spun around, her back against the steel wall. They were all still there, just through the elevator door. They were all in the reception area and beyond it, behind the low gate. Goldstein and Albert and Martha in her red dress. They were all gazing at her as she cowered in her box. Those empty waxwork gazes fixed her. And she clutched her purse, praying that the door would close.
Then the door closed. Clapped shut. And Nancy’s knees buckled. She sagged, sticking her tongue out as her stomach roiled. She slid halfway to the floor. Then she crouched there, grimacing, staring into space and gritting her teeth as her eyes brimmed over with tears.
The elevator started down to the ground.
“What?” she whispered.
Then she coughed once, and started to cry.
Perkins staggered to the toilet. He grabbed the light-string next to him and yanked it. The bathroom’s bare bulb went on. Naked, Perkins stood above the toilet bowl. He squinted sleepily at his penis, waiting for the piss.
The bottom of the toilet bowl was covered with some sort of brown crud. It darkened the toilet water, so he could see his face reflected in it. The light from the bulb behind his head threw the reflected face into silhouette. Beams of light-bulb light radiated from the silhouette in a golden halo. His reflection looked Christlike, the beams fanning out from his shaggy hair.
Look, Ma, Perkins thought, I’m a demigod.
Then the piss broke from him. It splattered in the toilet water. The reflection was obliterated.
Perkins gave a soft snort as the stream of piss ran. He smiled with one corner of his mouth. Even through the haze of his hangover, he could see the poem in this: the reflected Christ-self pissed into oblivion. Even though his brain had turned to sand, he could tell the poem was good. He could feel it rising in him as he stared down into the bowl. Just a wordless rhythm, at first. Not a poem yet, just the sound, the beat of a poem. He felt it mushrooming up out of his chest as he pissed. He felt how white it was. He felt how it was spreading itself within him, spreading like wings, rising up out of him. He felt the words starting to clamber aboard, the rhythms becoming syllables.
There … he thought. There …
But already, the poem had begun to falter. It was dissolving. The wings were atomizing. The solid white of it was melting away.
And the stream of piss was faltering too. It pattered in the water loudly. Perkins tried to hold on to his poem, but it was no good. It plummeted. Dropped off the edge of him into nothingness. All of a sudden, it was just gone. He was empty inside. He sprayed the toilet water with a few last squirts.
Oh well, he thought casually. No more good poems for you, sonny boy.
But the truth was, it made him feel black and lonesome. Standing there naked on the mossy bathroom tile, his poem gone. It made him feel a huge, yearning, vasty lonesomeness. As if he were standing at the bottom of a canyon, searching amid the rocks for another soul on earth.
He took his dick in his hand and waggled a drop off it. From behind, he released some of the hangover gas twisting in his gut.
There had been no good poems for two years now, he thought. Two full years this month. There had been nothing worth publishing since the river house. Since Julia and the October evenings.
He reached down to flush the toilet. The water gushed away, though the weird brown stuff remained. He sighed. There were still some days when he thought it was kind of romantic to be a dissolute Village poet. Then there were days like this one: when he thought he was going to vomit until his ears bled. He twitched the string to turn off the bathroom bulb. Then, tugging one more bit of dribble off his pud, he stalked back into the other room.
Avis Best was there. She was just climbing in through the window, her baby under her arm. Perkins waved to her wearily, his eyes half closed. He made his way to the mattress on the floor. He flopped down on it with a groan.
By that time, Avis was standing by the window. She was staring around the room, her mouth open. Behind her, a line of blue sky showed through the bars of the fire escape. She held her baby on her hip. The baby played with her face as she stood there gaping.
“Jesus Christ, Perkins,” she said.
Perkins rolled onto his back on the bare mattress. He flung his arm over his eyes. He felt black and lonely and dry, his whole body stuffed with gritty sand. “Oh, Avis,” he said pitifully. His head hurt too and he was beginning to feel nauseous.
“Oh, really,” Avis said. “Do you mind telling me what you’re trying to do to yourself?”
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t remember. But it must be something really awful.”
“Sure looks like it.”
“I just hope I don’t deserve it.”
“Pah! Pah! Pah!” the baby cried out. He ha
d noticed the naked figure on the bed. He was twisting in his mother’s arms, straining toward the man, reaching out.
“All right.” Avis let out a breath. She started picking her way to the mattress through the mess. “Look at this place.” Even in the dim western light from the window, she could see it was a disaster.
It was just a studio, just the one large room. A subway map taped to the wall. A framed drawing of Whitman. A poster from the Keats House one of his girlfriends had brought him from Rome. There was a writing desk with a Spartan wooden chair. A dresser. A few canvas chairs, a couple of standing lamps. There was the mattress, bare on the floor.
But mostly, there were books. There were books everywhere, gray and dusty. Piles of them lined the walls, two deep, three deep, four. Stacks of them rose up at random in the center of the room like stalagmites. Books covered the desk and all the chairs. Even the bookshelf—Avis thought she remembered a small bookshelf here somewhere once—was buried now under the books.
And then there was the rest of it. His bedcovers splayed everywhere. His jeans over a chair back, his sweater over a tumbled mound of Dostoevskys. His underpants tied around a lamp.
Gimme a break, Avis thought sourly.
And bottles of Sam Adams beer lying in the gaps all around. Empty bottles made of brown glass: Wherever she looked, her eye fell on one. She bumped one with her toe as she reached the mattress, sent it rolling with a clink into an illustrated Quixote.
She lowered herself to the mattress, sat down next to Perkins. Perkins dropped his arm and gazed up at her pitiably. She tried to keep from glancing down at his nakedness, but she couldn’t help it. He was a sturdily built man with a hairy barrel chest and muscular arms. He wore his black hair long and had an angular face, pouched and lined at thirty-one. She found his eyes—his brown eyes—seductively miserable.
She placed the baby on his chest. He held the chunky little kid steady. The baby gave a big smile and pawed him. Perkins suddenly blew up his cheeks and the baby looked up at his mother in surprise and laughed.
The Animal Hour Page 3