The Sentinel

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  “If I had one, it would be my pleasure, but I don’t. Who would I call?”

  Allison nodded sympathetically.

  Once again, he extended his hand. “Good night, my dear,” he said and then warned, “Eat and drink with moderation.”

  “Good night,” she answered affectionately.

  “I almost forgot.” He balanced the cat in the air. “Say good night, Jezebel.” The cat said nothing. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her tonight. Maybe she does have a cold.” He shook his head, shrugged, stepped out, and closed the door.

  She was alone again. She set the chain lock, turned the latch, then stepped away from the door and walked back across the rug to the table, where she sat, looked at the candles, which had already burned a quarter of the way down, and concluded that though utter confusion had reigned in Chazen’s head, she’d enjoyed his visit.

  She lifted a fork and began to tap it against a plate. Slowly, she brought the percussion into unison with the ticking of the clocks. She surveyed the elaborate setting before her. Suddenly, she stopped and leaned over the table. Next to the salt shaker was a small four-by-ten picture inside a simple, unadorned frame. She lifted it and bought it close. Chazen stared at her from the black and white glossy. He was dressed in a dated black tuxedo with a black bow time; he held a bouquet of roses in his hand. The picture was adorable; he was smiling. She held it away and then closer, gauging which way it looked better. Strangely, she hadn’t seen him leave it, nor had he said he was going to. Maybe it was a housewarming present. Maybe it was his calling card. Whatever, she liked it. She walked to the mantel and placed it squarely in the middle. When Chazen returned, he’d see it there and be pleased.

  Then she turned away, scowling. She was losing her patience. Where was Michael?

  5

  “Hysteria can make you physically ill,” Michael declared, after she’d finished describing the discomfort she’d experienced during the funeral.

  “I’m not the hysterical type!” she protested.

  He straightened the sleeves of his shirt and jiggled the polished gold cufflinks that read MSF, Michael Spencer Farmer. They were special. Fourteen-carat gold. A birthday present from Allison that past July. “Outwardly, no,” he agreed, “but we know better, don’t we?” He looked for her reaction.

  She sat back and watched the candlelight flicker against his sharp olive-toned features. His eyes were alive, deeply brown, almost hypnotic; his expression was intelligent, probing. He seemed open and reachable, yet between Charles Chazen’s exit and his arrival, she’d catechized herself into insensibility. Had he changed she’d asked over and over. Had she? Even as he’d stepped through the door, the questions had continued to gnaw at her. She’d greeted him silently. That was the best way to begin, she’d thought to herself. And realistically, she’d reasoned, she’d had every right to have been annoyed. He’d been an hour and a half late, after a week and a half of delay. He hadn’t deserved an affectionate welcome; he’d deserved indifference. So what if the indifference had also served to insulate her insecurities. But now, after an exchange of gifts, a tour of the apartment, a pleasant dinner, it appeared that her anxiety had eased. She’d started to feel reasonably comfortable and secure.

  “I’ve always found pressure to be very internalizing,” he declared. “You start to reject external stimuli and focus on your own minor discomforts to the point where they can become exaggerated into actual illnesses, or symptoms of imagined disorders.” He leaned forward and lifted a half-filled glass of wine, glancing at the cluttered table, which held the remnants of their dinner. “You could have had worse than migraines.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve been all right since you’ve returned?” he asked pensively.

  “Yes,” she said, passing over the brief episode at Jack Tucci’s. She glanced toward the windows and reminded herself that the far wall was still in desperate need of additional furniture. Tomorrow, after spending the night with Michael, she’d be in an extravagant mood, the proper mood for the proper acquisition.

  He leaned back and yawned, reclining his head as if his body had been dispossessed of its strength. He raised his hands and drew them over his face.

  “Tired?” she asked.

  “No, but contentedly high,” he admitted, stroking the wine bottle affectionately. “And emotionally drained.”

  “By what?”

  “The atmosphere, the candles in particular, the apartment.” He caught her smile in the corner of his eye. “And you. I’m not invulnerable, you know.”

  “I know,” she agreed. She grasped his hand. “I planned it this way. It takes a little extra effort to make you melt.”

  “How much?”

  “Very much.”

  He smiled. “You know me well.”

  “I’ve known you long.”

  He kissed her hand, the milk-soft skin. “Too long,” he finally said.

  “How long is that?” she asked.

  “Long enough for you to be able to manipulate my emotions.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “It seems you can.”

  They sat quietly. The clocks ticking. The fire crackling.

  “It’s strange,” Allison began. “From the moment I stepped off the plane, I couldn’t bear to think of home. But tonight I’ve been reliving the entire four months. And not uncomfortably.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Why?”

  “As you said, you’re comfortable. And I’m receptive.”

  She closed her eyes. “When I read your note. I was angry and disappointed. I’d built this grand illusion of reunion. Very romantic.”

  “And cathartic. All the tension would have dissipated quickly.”

  “Yes, but then you weren’t here.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no choice.”

  “Business,” she muttered resolutely.

  He nodded. “It might prove fortunate that I was away. It might have given you time to think, rather than dismiss.”

  “About what?”

  “Your life.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Coldly, he added, “The significance of your father’s death!”

  She then looked away, freezing. “I’ve done enough thinking!” There was a long pause. Then she cried, “It’s over!” She raised her arms over her head. Her eyes opened sharply; she smiled, displaying an intense self-satisfaction. “Over! All of it.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, sitting motionless. Then his mood began to darken; she could see the change settle over his face.

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked. The visual answer had prompted the question.

  “No,” he said.

  “One thing you’ve never been able to do, Michael, is lie to me. What’s wrong?”

  He glanced at her. “All of it?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand,” she countered.

  He stood, lifted his glass, walked unsurely to the fireplace, and jiggled the burning logs with the poker. He watched the embers rekindle and burn brightly. “It’s a good fire,” he said, then leaned down, threw in another log, and remained crouched for several minutes. She asked him what he was thinking. “Things,” he replied, “people and places and the key to your resurrection.” Her noticed here took of confusions. The clock behind him struck the hour, then the clock to his right repeated, about six seconds behind. He noted the discrepancy. “Your father is dead,” he declared intensely, almost as if the statement was revelatory. He paused. “I want you to answer a question.” He walked back to his chair, sat, and stared at her silently.

  “Ask it,” she said. She knew it was coming; she was surprised he hadn’t started to prod her earlier. She’d been prepared for it all evening.

 
“Why did you leave home?”

  She looked up questioningly.

  “You know what I mean!”

  She glanced about the room, avoiding his eyes. “I wanted to become a model, and New York was the best place for that.” She nervously toyed with her hair, her cheeks noticeably drained of their color.

  “We’ve been through that before.” He leaned forward. “I want to know the real reason. There was something else. A reason why you had to leave home. Why for seven years you never visited your family. Why you refused to let me go home with you in July. Should I go on?”

  “I wanted to become a model,” she repeated hypnotically.

  He sighed, frustrated. “Your father made your life miserable.”

  “Yes, you know that.”

  “And you left home because of it.”

  “If you insist.” She turned away. “All right. That helped make my decision to leave easier. I’ve admitted that before.”

  “There’s more. Something traumatic. And it’s time you told me.” He crumpled his napkin and threw it into the salad bowl. “Your father is dead now and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.” He paused, waiting for a response. She sat stone-faced, and he added, “Something made you frigid! We’ve been able to conquer the problem physically, but we’ve never really gotten at the source of the problem.”

  She bit hard into her lip. “For the thousandth time, I wanted to be a model,” she replied with strained softness, not quite understanding why she didn’t come out and tell him the real story, but then again, after lying for so long, the lies had assumed the status of truth. She winced; for the first time the inability to reveal hurt her. She owed him more after all he’d done to break the psychological noose that had choked her ability to enjoy normal relations with a man.

  “All right, if you won’t, you won’t,” he said.

  “I don’t understand why you keep badgering me about this.”

  “Yes, you do. Until you can tell me what happened, there’ll be something between us and there’ll be that slight doubt in your own mind that you’ve completely beaten your past. But until you’re ready, I’ll accept the fact that you wanted to be a model, but with the proviso that I really don’t accept it.”

  “Ever the lawyer,” she said, restating what she’d known for so long, that he rarely was able to engage in any conversation without becoming litigious.

  “It’s amazing that an attorney can look at a set of facts, put them together, add some salt and pepper, and then deduce that the main ingredient, the key to the entire entrée, is missing.”

  “Or invent something that isn’t there.” She lifted a stalk of celery and began to break it disgustedly into sections.

  “Never,” he sternly replied, sitting back in the chair and tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. “No speculation. Just pure deductive reasoning.”

  “And ninety per cent of the time over-analyzation.”

  “I don’t over-analyze.” He reached into his pocket, removed a thin filter-tipped cigar, placed it in his mouth, applied a match, and tilted back his chair. He stared at her, his right eyelid twitching, reflecting the tension, and then said, “I don’t like to see you lie to yourself.”

  “Michael, I…”

  “Yes? Say it.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” She stared defiantly. “Please, no more questions. No more pressure.”

  He sat back and stared again for several minutes. Then he grabbed her arm, his expression softening. “Forget I said anything,” he pleaded. But his tone still seemed accusatory.

  “Yes, Michael,” she replied. She looked away.

  “I mean it,” he said. He picked up the bottle of wine, tipped it to see if anything remained, then, disappointed, pivoted and ambled down the hall to the kitchen. He returned with a new bottle of Bordeaux and a corkscrew. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked, as he wrenched out the cork.

  “No,” she replied, refusing to glance at the grandfather clocks.

  He poured the wine. “Three o’clock, according to the clock on the right.” He grinned apologetically. “Approximately two fifty-nine and fifty-four seconds according to the one on the left.” He drank from his glass and fell silent.

  “I don’t know why, but I love you,” she whispered. She rose mechanically from her chair, walked to him, placed her arms around his neck, and sat gently on his lap. “Damn you!”

  His eyes glanced toward the bedroom; she stared, smiling with anticipation, then stood and walked toward the hallway.

  He gathered the wine glass and bottle, rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace to spread the burning logs so that they’d burn independently and die quickly. “Who’s this?” he asked. He removed a frame form the mantel.

  “Herbert Hoover’s brother.” She laughed.

  Looking closely at the glossy, he shook his head and observed, “Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t Hoover’s brother!”

  “That depends on the perspective of the viewer,” she answered, as she continued to pull at the buttons on her blouse.

  “Who is it?”

  “Charles Chazen.”

  He raised his brow.

  “My neighbor from upstairs. Apartment 5B. He stopped in with his cat and parakeet before you arrived.”

  Michael puzzled over the picture. “I saw a cat in the hall,” he stated, leaning against the mantel for support.

  She looked at him questioningly.

  “Black and white,” he asserted. “It was running up the stairs.”

  “That’s Jezebel,” she said. “I wonder why Chazen would let her run around the halls alone. He was very protective about her and the bird.”

  Michael shrugged.

  “I like him alot,” she said, remembering his clothes, walk, and manner.

  “How old?”

  “I’d guess about eighty, give or take four or five years.”

  “Lucid?” he asked.

  She shook her head pityingly.

  He looked at the picture sideways and upside down. “He looks like a prune.”

  She strode indignantly across the floor. “Very funny,” she chided. She grabbed the picture and held it up; the glass flickered with the reflecting dance of embers. “I think he’s kind of cute.”

  She placed the picture on the mantel.

  “He sat here for an hour giving me his whole life history. None of it made any sense. He was pathetic, a little old man with no one but his cat and bird and nothing to do but to sit around all day reminiscing.”

  “He’s better off than most.”

  “I never want to end up like that, to wake up in the morning with nothing to look forward to but the next bedtime. Or a conversation with my animals.” She reached over his shoulder and pulled a cameo off the marble mantel. “He thought this was Herbert Hoover. And I couldn’t convince him otherwise.” She ran her hands over the carved ivory. “In a way, I’m glad I failed.”

  He cupped his hand under her chin and kissed her on the bridge of her nose, “Why don’t we talk about him later?” he suggested. He began to unbutton his shirt.

  She smiled and followed him expectantly to the bedroom.

  The room was dark. He could see very little, as he stood facing himself in the full-length mirror that hung opposite the bed. The reflection was almost motionless, a combination of inert objects and dark, heavy shadows, only punctuated by the glimmer from one of the wall sconces and the graceful movement of her body. He watched, as she folded her blouse over the clothes horse to the right of the bed. Her figure never looked more sensuous and inviting than it did in the semi-darkness of the mirror.

  He pulled his shirt form his shoulders, placed the sleeves together, and threw it on the chair. Turning from the mirror, he walked to the window and grabbed the shade.

  “Don’t,” she said softly. “There’s no o
ne to see in.”

  Bending down, he looked out, nodded, and released the small metal ring.

  She lay down, rolled back onto the pillows, and smoothed the quilt that lay extended beneath her.

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  “Very.”

  He removed the last of his clothing, a pair of dark brown socks, and carefully found his way to the bed. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close, gently kissing her ears, and pressing against her breasts. Then he stopped. He switched on the reading light, reached out, and wrapped his fingers around the crucifix. “What’s this?” he asked, breathing heavily.

  “A crucifix.”

  “I know that. Where’d it come from?”

  She paused to catch her breath. “From my father’s room.”

  “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Since when?”

  “Since ever.” She paused, squinted at the shining bulb, reached up, and turned it off. “You don’t need light to speak to me.”

  “Allison, you never…”

  She interrupted. “I haven’t had much to do with it for the last few years. In fact, nothing at all.”

  “That’s self-evident.”

  “But I did as a child.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Michael, let’s drop it. We can discuss it another time.”

  He shook his head determinedly and repeated the question.

  “Let’s just say I began to not believe in it,” she answered, knowing he wouldn’t let it slide. She sighed audibly.

  “Does this have anything to do with your leaving home?”

  “No.” Her voice was soft, yet her annoyance unmistakable.

  “It doesn’t become you,” he said after a pause.

  She held the crucifix up and pressed it against her lips. “I think it looks just fine.”

  “It looks lovely. Catholicism doesn’t become you.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “I’m only voicing an opinion.”

  “Because you can’t admit the existence of anything that’s alien to you!”