“You don’t believe that.”
“You’re making it obvious.”
“I can very well accept any religion. Unless my memory fails me, you’re the avowed atheist.”
“People change.”
“So it seems.”
She turned away. “I resent being cross-examined at a time like this. You’re in my bed, not in a courtroom.”
“I’m not cross-examining you.”
“You’ve been doing it all night. From the moment you stepped in the door.”
He sat up and laid his head on his knees. “Let’s cut it,” he said angrily. “I don’t want to argue over something this ridiculous.”
“You started it. I haven’t said a damn thing. All I did was put on an old crucifix my father gave me. So what?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry.” He reached out and touched the chain once again. “If you want to wear it, fine. Or go to church on Sunday, fine. I was just surprised.”
Surprised she thought to herself, as she realized that she’d been equally as surprised the day she’d retrieved the crucifix.
They stared at each other. There was little communication between their eyes. Then Allison grabbed the crucifix and leaned back into the pillows, looking away.
“Please close the light,” she said.
He continued to stare, unresponsive. She turned back to him and glared. Then she reached up and flicked the switch.
Very surprised, she thought to herself.
6
Allison raced up the stone staircase laden with packages of groceries purchased at the supermarket on Columbus, located right where Miss Logan had indicated. It had been a tiring day, even though it was still early afternoon, what with a trip down to Foley Square to see Michael begin a defense in criminal court, two hours at Cosmopolitan to inform all the fashion editors in person that she’d returned to New York, and finally, the supermarket, by far the worst part of the day, since she hated shopping with a passion.
The sun was shining brilliantly, the warm day having materialized unexpectedly in the midst of what had been an unusually bleak autumn. Since early October, the weather had been cold and wet, and that strange listlessness so characteristic of winter had enveloped the city. But not today. She was guardedly optimistic. There might still be an Indian summer after all.
She checked her mailbox and, finding nothing, stepped through the front door and over the soft woven carpet, which deadened the sound of her shoes on the otherwise cold and unprotected tile; she started to climb the staircase. Halfway up she stopped and shook the banister, a ritual she’d unfailingly observed, since the day she’d first entered the brownstone with Miss Logan. The banister didn’t move; it was still sturdy.
She climbed to the first-floor landing and started down the hall.
The door to apartment 2A stood ajar; a beam of light extended vertically into the hall. She stopped and curiously peered through the slit. She could see very little. Moving closer, she squeezed into the narrow space, pushed against the door, and edged it open, exposing the living room.
She stood motionless, reluctant to enter without an invitation.
“Hello, is anybody home?”
She waited for a response.
Nothing.
The apartment seemed empty. Stupid to leave the door open if it was; the tenants could return and find everything gone.
She stepped into the room and glanced at the furniture, which appeared well kept and well used. The air seemed terribly still, the room unsettlingly quiet. She blinked apprehensively and tilted her head. “Hello,” she repeated unsurely, tightening her grip on her packages. “Is anyone here?”
Continued silence.
She regretted her honesty. If she were a bit of a kleptomaniac, she could make off with some interesting floor pieces that would fit perfectly into her apartment, more so than into this eclectic setting. Just one granny lamp. Or the wicker chairs. Who would know? But then again the fire hadn’t set itself; the logs were intact, relatively new. Someone had just been in the apartment, probably had left for a few minutes, and would return soon.
She scanned the heavy window shutters. They immediately struck her as permanent and explained why in the week she’d been there, she’d never seen an unobstructed view from the outside.
“Is anybody home?” she repeated one last time, encouraged by the brightly burning fire that spit red-hot embers against a black fire screen.
Again, there was no answer.
She turned to leave.
Standing directly behind her was a woman. About five foot five. Wearing no makeup. Yet, her features were strikingly perfect, uncompromising in their presence.
Allison could not help but admire her.
Another woman stepped into the doorway. She was taller by perhaps one or two inches. She had very sharp features, accentuated by heavy makeup. Her skin seemed to cling to her bones, as if she’d had her face lifted. But she couldn’t have been that old. Allison’s first thought was thirty-five. Maybe thirty-eight. But no older. As soft as the other girl seemed, this one seemed hard.
Allison was puzzled. How had they come up behind her unnoticed? She studied them apprehensively, noted their nondescript though acceptably-styled clothing, then focused on their feet. Both were wearing black ballet slippers. She glanced at the paintings and posters she’d seen on the walls, some picturing ballerinas, others reproducing displays of royal ballet performances. And then back at the slippers. Ballerinas? Maybe that’s why she hadn’t heard them?
Embarrassed, she stammered, “I…uh…”
“How may we help you?” asked the taller woman, her voice cold and distant.
Allison shifted awkwardly.
“Speak up,” demanded the woman with little flexibility in her angular jaw, almost as if her words had been supplied by a ventriloquist standing unnoticed elsewhere in the room.
“I was carrying my packages up to my apartment…I just moved in…and I saw the door open, so I thought I’d introduce myself.” She paused, noted their lack of response, and added, “I assure you that I had no other intentions.”
She could barely get the words out of her mouth.
The two women, unsympathetic, continued to stare.
“My name’s Allison Parker,” she declared, which, in view of the tense confrontation, was a remarkable recollection.
The taller woman inched a step closer and stood eye to eye. Then she broke a slanted semi-smile. “You must forgive us,” she said, while moving past Allison and into the room.
The sudden change was surprising. Allison watched the slipper-clad feet cross the rug. There wasn’t a sound. She certainly was or at least had been a dancer.
“We don’t get too many visitors. I’m Gerde. The name is Norwegian.” She pointed to the other woman. “And that’s Sandra.”
Allison gestured toward Sandra, who remained silent and motionless.
“Do come in. You’ll find the place very comfortable.” Gerde removed her red scarf and placed it on the mantel. “Especially the fireplace. It’s warm and relaxing. And you’ll have some coffee with us.” She turned and waited for a response.
“Well, I shouldn’t…”
“No. I insist!”
Allison puckered her mouth to protest; she was uncomfortable. Even the words of invitation were spoken in a totally uninviting tone. But though she wanted to leave, she couldn’t. Something kept telling her to get acquainted with these obviously difficult people, if only to avoid another such uncomfortable incident.
“Hospitality is a virtue that one has little opportunity to exploit in New York,” said Gerde. “It runs against the grain of the city. People are too suspicious and jealous. And self-serving.” She paused, lifted a cigarette from a silver dish, and motioned toward Allison.
“I don’t smoke.”
Gerde nod
ded with an expression that indicated admiration. “Put your packages on the table and sit down,” she said, walking down the short hallway to the kitchen. “I put the coffee up a short while ago, so it should be ready. And I’m boiling some water, if you’d like tea.”
“Coffee will be fine,” said Allison. She sat down across from Sandra, who had moved to the faded brown couch.
“Have you met anyone else in the building?” Gerde asked.
“Yes, Mr. Chazen from upstairs. He dropped in to say hello two nights ago with his cat and bird.”
“A nice man.”
A nice man she thought to herself. They obviously hadn’t heard his opinion of them. “He mentioned you to me,” she added.
“I trust he said good things.”
“Of course.”
“We don’t spend too much time with neighbors. New York inhospitality, as I said before. People living right next door to you might just as well be living in Siberia. And I don’t wish to be exonerated; we’re just as guilty.”
“I don’t think things are that bad. Mr. Chazen’s visit proves otherwise right here in our own building.” She smiled. “It’s a matter of actively seeking communication.”
“How courageous,” Gerde observed with a note of sarcasm.
Allison frowned and turned to Sandra. “Have you lived her long?” she asked. She fidgeted, while waiting for a response. The girl sat frozen.
“Don’t be alarmed if Sandra doesn’t speak,” boomed the deep voice from the kitchen. “She never does except to me and only if we’re alone.”
Allison puzzled that one out, then sat back on the ottoman and resolved to forgo any attempt to communicate with the mute. She turned away from the girl to see Gerde reappear with a cluttered tray.
“Help yourself,” Gerde offered, as she set the tray on the glass table.
“Thank you.”
Gerde removed the dangling cigarette form her mouth and ground it into an ashtray. “I meant to ask you,” she said while coughing.
“Yes?” queried Allison.
“The crucifix you’re wearing. Where’d you get it?”
Allison looked down. The darn thing was exposed. She preferred to have it hang under her clothes. “From my family,” she replied.
“Where was it made?”
“I don’t know. It was a gift.” She placed it back beneath her sweater.
“It looks French.”
“It just might be. As I said, I don’t know.”
“I see,” said Gerde curtly. “I admire beautiful things, especially crucifixes.” She reached inside her blouse and removed one of her own, slightly larger than Allison’s and, by appearance, ancient, belonging to an era of more mystical opulence. “I acquired it in Hungary. It was made in the eleventh century by Slavic monks.”
Allison leaned forward. “I must be worth a fortune.”
“Perhaps, but more than monetarily, as you might guess. Are you religious?”
She paused, then answered, “No.”
“We are, so we find it difficult to reduce the meaning of a Christ to dollars and cents.”
Sandra nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry,” said Allison apologetically.
“There’s no need to be. Religious sentiment in this day and age in New York is like hospitality and the word neighbor. Virtually extinct.” She stared at Allison intently. The cross dangled from her neck.
“May I take some coffee?” Allison asked, nervously licking her lips.
“Of course. That’s what it’s there for.”
Allison leaned forward, selected a cup, poured the coffee, added a tablespoon of cream, and three lumps of sugar. Though her concentration focused on cup and urn, she kept one eye on the two women.
“We’ve lived here several years,” said Gerde, responding to Allison’s earlier question. “Three, or maybe it’s four now.”
“How nice,” Allison observed.
“Yes, how nice,” Gerde repeated slowly.
“Where’d you live before?”
“In Europe. Paris for nine fantastic years and before that in Oslo, where I was born.”
“I like Paris too,” Allison interjected.
“You do? That’s surprising. Most Americans don’t.”
“Why?”
“They find the city beautiful and the food excellent, but they don’t like the French.” Gerde paused, running her tongue over her lips. “And vice versa. You know the French are not particularly fond of Americans. Once de Gaulle had rekindled French nationalism, the inherent antagonism toward America surfaced. I saw this happen, while I was there.” Obviously proud of the fact that she’d been a witness to history, she leaned forward and poured a cup of coffee, no sugar, no cream. “But on the other hand, I can see why you’d like Paris. You’re a beautiful girl and Frenchmen are gallant.” She sipped from her cup and smiled. “The coffee is good,” she declared.
“Did you meet Sandra there?” asked Allison.
“No, she’s American. Never been to Europe.” Gerde glanced at her friend, who responded by nodding slightly. “I met her in New York soon after I arrived. She’d been living with a man for some time, who’d treated her very badly.” Gerde patted Sandra’s knee maternally. “I convinced her to get rid of him. She did, then she moved in with me here, and I’ve taken care of her since.” Gerde and Sandra exchanged furtive smiles, their lips hardly breaking.
Allison sipped her coffee, watching them intently, trying to gauge and comprehend the disturbing tenor of Gerde’s words and this seemingly unnatural interdependence.
“Men are sadistic,” cried Gerde with intensity.
Allison swallowed hard and countered, “I think that’s an immoderate generalization. Most of the men I know are gently and kind.”
Gerde’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” she said, a nebulous smile crossing her lips. “The gentleman who left here yesterday morning in a brown sport jacket, is he your boyfriend?”
Allison looked askance.
“Is he?” Gerde repeated.
“Yes.”
Gerde sipped her coffee slowly, eyes on Allison; then she placed the cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “He looks like an adequate lover.”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Allison declared.
Gerde lowered her eyes, a gesture, which feigned self-castigation. “Please excuse me again. I’m quite frank, but also forgetful of common etiquette.” She looked at Sandra and smiled, a strange grimace that stretched a pair of reluctant lips. “You see, Sandra and I are very open with one another and it has become a practice – or should I say a deeply ingrained habit.”
“I…uh…understand.” Allison, lost for words, tried to change the subject. “I like the way you have your apartment furnished. I also prefer a combination of various styles.”
“We’re glad you approve,” Gerde said, just as the telephone rang in the bedroom.
Gerde quickly excused herself, stood up, and went to answer it. Allison watched her lope across the room, then reluctantly turned back toward Sandra.
In the fleeting moment she’d looked away, there’d been a change in Sandra’s expression. It was now relaxed, her muscles loose, her lips parted and the blank expression now whispering a hint of life.
Allison examined Sandra’s face and body. Then she blanched. Sandra’s hand was inside her pants, massaging herself in a gentle circular motion. Her legs stiffened as the euphoria spread throughout her body. Harder and harder she rubbed, totally oblivious to Allison’s presence, totally absorbed in sexual ecstasy. Allison watched, both repulsed and fascinated. The girl’s breathing deepened; her lips shook violently. Sighing deeply, she reached orgasm.
Sandra withdrew her hand, inhaled deeply once, and then assumed her prior pose, as if what Allison had just seen had not happened. Again, she
was cold, distant, motionless.
Allison’s stomach churned. She stood, wanting to get out of the apartment quickly. But something pinned her to the ground, like the counteracting force of opposing gravities.
Gerde loped back to the room and sat on the couch next to Sandra.
“We’re quite proud of our apartment,” she said to Allison, who was still standing, mesmerized. Gerde had an amazing ability to seize upon unfinished conversations and questions after an interruption and continue as if the line had been unbroken. “It took us a long time to furnish it properly. No expense spared.”
“That’s the best way.” Allison sat down on the ottoman, curiosity superseding her desire to run from the apartment.
“You know,” Gerde continued, “we found many of these pieces lying about in the strangest places. If one keeps their eyes open, one can find veritable treasures.”
Allison and Gerde began to drink their coffee, while Sandra slowly sipped at a steaming cup of tea. Her efforts were an accommodation. Her interest in the tea was minimal. The conversation, whatever there was, died. All three just stared at one another.
Slowly, Sandra inched her way closer to Gerde and slid her hand down her side and into her roommate’s hand. Allison fidgeted nervously with her cup, spilling much of the coffee into the saucer. Again the silence. She watched the sensual movement of Sandra’s hand in Gerde’s, the intertwining of the fingers, and the pressing of the palms. Sandra’s entire body experienced another euphoric realization; the distant look disappeared, the sallow expression brightened. Gerde remained impassive. Sandra reached orgasm again.
“Do…what do you do for a living?” Allison was clutching.
“Nothing,” replied Gerde curtly.
“You must do something to earn money.”
Gerde shook her head, looked at her entwined hand, glanced back up at Allison, and tightened her grip, causing Sandra to wince in excitement.
Allison, now visibly disturbed, still tried to avoid the impending confrontation. “Then you must get quite bored. What do you do to keep busy?” she asked.
“We fondle each other.”
The Sentinel Page 6