Allison stared, her mouth open.
“Fondle! Caress!” Gerde was very direct, very curt, and very piqued.
Gerde leaned over and touched Sandra’s breast; Sandra’s body responded with convulsive jerks.
Allison shot to her feet. “I think I’d better be going,” she blurted. “I have to put away all the groceries and then I have an appointment.”
“I think it’s rather rude to eat and run,” said Gerde.
“First of all, I didn’t eat, I drank,” Allison blustered, flushing. “And how dare you call me rude! After this demonstration of sickness! Masturbation and lesbian fondling. Right in front of me!”
Gerde narrowed her eyes like a threatened cat. She slowly rose to her feet. “You little bitch,” she mouthed deliberately.
Allison rushed by her and began to gather her packages; the largest fell to the floor. She bent down to pick it up only to find Gerde’s foot pressing it against the ground. She grabbed Gerde’s leg and tried to move it off the bag. It wouldn’t budge. She pulled out the package, upsetting the woman, sending her sprawling to the rug. Gerde struggled to her feet and grabbed Allison by the hair. Allison dropped her packages and grasped Gerde’s wrist, digging in her nails. Gerde winced, painfully, then released her hold.
Allison ran to the door, threw it open, and stumbled into the hall. When Gerde followed, Allison pressed against the rail, and turned to defend herself.
Suddenly, Gerde stopped, her eyes turning to the third-floor staircase. Allison jerked her head in that direction. Charles Chazen stood at the base of the stairs stroking Jezebel. Mortimer hopped from shoulder to shoulder, chirping frantically. Gone was the pleasant smile. His shriveled face was impassive, the old eyes strangely dilated.
Gerde trembled. Quickly, without looking at Allison, she stepped back into the apartment and closed the door.
Allison swayed, exhausted, her breathing almost convulsive.
“I warned you! Yes, I did. From now on, you should avoid them. They’re evil.” The little man stepped off the staircase and took Allison gently by the hand. “Now come, I’ll walk you up to your apartment.”
Allison followed Chazen up the staircase. He said nothing, neither did she. Thoughts raced through her mind. About Gerde. About Chazen. Why did Gerde stop the way she had when she saw the old man? She was obviously afraid of him. Why? She didn’t know. She didn’t ask.
“I suggest you take two aspirin and get some sleep,” Mr. Chazen advised, as he watched Allison fumble for her key. “Sleep would be most therapeutic. Tsk, tsk, what a terrible incident. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Listen to Chazen from now on.”
Allison nodded, as she inserted the key into the lock. “Thank you. I don’t know what I…”
“Don’t mention it. Just get some sleep.”
She kissed the old man on the cheek and closed her door.
7
She had difficulty falling asleep that night. Gerde and Sandra had seen to that. She lay in bed for hours, afraid to close her eyes. Afraid to dream. She knew she reacted badly to nightmares; she’d known that since her childhood. In fact, there was nothing she feared more. And she had a feeling that…well, she wasn’t sure, but she sensed the same kind of dizziness that she’d experienced so often as a child, the dizziness that had invariably preceded a night of terror.
She tried everything. First, she sipped tea, then hot milk. Then she took a hot bath. Nothing relaxed her. She tried to read, but she was so nervous, she couldn’t hold the book steady and it fell to the floor. She wondered if the two women below had heard the sound. And what were they doing? Were they in bed together making love? She cringed, got up from the bed to retrieve the book, and placed it on the night table. She bent down, her hands extended, her head swimming, then fell to her knees and buried her face in the blankets. If only the dizziness would go away. She was so tired. All she wanted was some sleep, just like she’d wanted so many times, when as a child, she’d knelt in a similar position, her nerves shattered. She lifted her head slightly and clasped her hands in front of her. The position was strange; it had been years since she’d crouched this way.
“Angel of God,” she prayed. “My Guardian Dear, To whom God’s love, commits me here, Ever this day be at my side.” She stopped abruptly. This was ridiculous. She was twenty-six years old. She hadn’t been in a church in seven years. And what good would this stupid little chant do?
“To light, to guard, to rule, to guide. Amen,” she concluded.
Soon, she was asleep.
The alarm had buzzed at ten. Five and a half hours of sleep. Her head ached, her eyelids were heavy, and her face was drained of color. But she hadn’t dreamed. She smiled, as she moved the bright green toothbrush over her gleaming teeth. No banshees. No monsters. No horrors. No matter how bad the night before had been, the fact that she’d not dreamed made it quickly fade from her mind.
She left the apartment at eleven fifteen, giving herself just enough time to hail a cab, scoot downtown, and join Michael for an early lunch. She raced down the third-floor staircase, portfolio in one hand, duffel bag in the other, and stopped at the base. Apartment 2A was ten feet away, the door closed; she walked slowly, measuring the length of each step. Carefully placing her feet so as not to make any noise. Carefully watching the door. Would it be like this every time she had to pass? Maybe, but she was primarily concerned with this one time, the morning after.
Having crossed the ten feet without so much as a squeak, she stopped, listening for any evidence of life. There was none; she felt relieved. A small bead of perspiration rolled down her check. She wiped it away, walked to the top of the landing, started down the staircase, tested the banister, and halted abruptly at the sound of rustling below.
The basement door opened. Out stepped Charles Chazen, catless, birdless, holding a large box awkwardly between his two hands and chin.
She walked down the stairs to meet him.
He chugged around the banister post. “Good morning!” he cried. “Lovely morning.”
“How are you?”
“Fine, my dear. And yourself? Have you forgotten about yesterday’s unfortunate incident?”
She hesitated, then answered, “Yes.”
“Good. So be it.” He started up the staircase. “It’s nippy outside. I think I might have gotten a chill this morning. Be sure to keep your jacket on.”
“I will.”
He fidgeted. “Can’t talk now. I’m very busy.”
“Spring cleaning?”
“No. I’ll tell you about it later.”
She stepped onto the hall floor, as he raced upward.
“Mr. Chazen?”
He stopped and pivoted. “Yes?”
“I’d like to ask you something.”
“Quickly. Quickly.”
She bit her lip. “Why was that woman so frightened of you?”
The smile disappeared; his eye glinted. “Evil, I said.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said sternly.
“Evil.”
“But –”
He put down the box, raised his arm, and curled his hand into a fist. His cheeks reddened. “I gave them this before,” he said, shaking his hand like a pummeling hammer, “and I shall smite them again, if they bother my friends.”
She looked at him queerly. “I see,” she said.
“Stay away from them. Tsk, tsk.” The smile returned to his face. He leaned over and picked up the box. “I must be off. Speak to you later.”
He sauntered up the stairs.
Moments later, she emerged from the building, hailed a cab and joined Michael – on time.
“Sounds familiar, a bull dyke and her lover,” Michael said, his mouth full of ice cream. “When you walk into the lion’s den and play with the cubs, be prepared to get bitten.”
“That’s a lousy analogy.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t play with any cubs.”
“All right, but you know what I mean. You know how vicious a dyke can be if provoked.”
“Yes.”
“Just stay out of that apartment and keep away from them and you shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“It’s not just them that bothers me. It’s what happened in the hall. You had to have been there to have seen Gerde’s reaction when she saw the old man. I never saw anyone register so much fear. And I can’t begin to figure out why.”
“You said the old man told you they were evil. Maybe he’s had it out with them already.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s logical.”
“Yes, but…”
“But?”
She thought for a moment. “I met him in the hall this morning. He said he gave them this.” She shook her fist to illustrate.
“There you have it. He beat the shit out of them. And if that’s the case, no wonder the woman was frightened.”
“I don’t know. There’s something more.”
“Allison!”
“What?”
“Just Allison,” he said, focusing his eyes on her severely.
“Okay, I promise. I won’t dwell on it. You’re probably right anyway.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He laughed.
She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get out of here.”
“What time is it?”
“Twelve forty-five.”
“I have to go too. I have to finish a brief.” He motioned for the waiter.
“Want me to help later?”
“No.”
“What about the trial?”
“Adjourned until tomorrow.”
“You’ll win.”
Michael smiled. “Why don’t you go ahead. I’ll wait to pay the check.”
“Okay.” She leaned across the table and kissed him very gently on the forehead. “I love you,” she said softly.
He nodded affectionately.
She grabbed her portfolio and duffel and stood up. “Did you call the phone company for me?”
“I forgot.”
“Michael, please. I’ve got to get a phone into that apartment.”
“All right. I’ll call this afternoon.” He paused and thought for a moment. “But only if you promise to forget about last night and leave those two women alone.”
“I promise.” She blew him a kiss and hurried out of the restaurant.
“We’re about ready to start,” said the pencil-thin fashion coordinator with the clipboard. “Is anybody unsure of the order of appearance?” She poked her hairpiece nervously with a nineteen-cent Bic, as she waited for a reply. “Then I trust everything will go like clockwork.”
Allison adjusted her pants suit and took a quick sip from the cup of coffee that she’d placed in front of the dressing mirror. She was surprised she’d gotten there on time. In fact, she hadn’t even wanted to do the job as it had been two years since she’d done runway work and walking a runway was not her favorite thing. But she’d promised her agency that she’d participate, and it was for charity, so she was there.
She was ready.
“Allison, please.”
Allison stepped through a curtain and closed her eyes to avoid the blinding flare of the high-powered spotlights. She heard a few whispers and the high-pitched voice of the announcer. Then, opening her lids, she squinted. Five or six seconds passed in whiteness as her eyes adjusted. She slowly moved about the stage and eventually disappeared behind the curtain, then hustled into the dressing room, tore off her outfit, changed clothes, and went back in time to make her second entrance.
“Allison again, this time wearing a floor-length chamois dress,” lisped the announcer.
Allison walked onto the runway again and turned about in place. A sharp pain jolted her head. She stumbled slightly, but retained her balance and continued to walk in front of the crowd. She was dizzy again. Perhaps it was the recurrence of last night’s disability. Or maybe the lack of sleep. Certainly, the tension.
Then the rush, the lack of sensation in her arms and legs. And a new terror appeared: the loss of sight and sound.
She stood in the middle of the stage, unable to move. The faces in the audience blurred; her vision darkened. She reached out. Into a long dark room. She walked. Faster. Faster. She heard a mumbling, something unintelligible. She listened. Then the image and sounds faded and she fell to the ground before the horrified audience.
8
“The white pills are supposed to relax me,” said Allison. She held the receiver against her shoulder, closed the folding door, and waited for Michael’s response. Damn the phone company, she thought to herself angrily. If they’d installed her phone as promised, she wouldn’t have had to search the streets for nearly half an hour in order to find a street phone that was working. The one on the corner of Eighty-ninth Street was out of order, someone having broken the mechanism, while trying to pry loose the coin box. The nearest in service was six blocs uptown on Columbus Avenue. Expectedly, it too had been battered. The casing was dotted by deep gouges and long scratches and the coin return was stuffed with Baby Ruth candy wrappers, cemented in place by a foul-smelling clump of red licorice. But, fortunately, it had survived.
“The others are just sleeping pills,” Allison replied to Michael’s next question.
She’d spent the last six hours in Roosevelt Hospital, where she’d been taken after her collapse. They’d run a series of tests. Primarily neurological and vascular. Apart from a slightly elevated blood pressure, the results were negative. She was released, given medication, and advised to consult a neurologist, if there was a repetition of the incident.
Instead of going to the apartment, she’d located the phone booth, told Michael of the seizure, and now stood jiggling the door, trying to close out the cold air.
“I’ll be all right. You don’t have to come.” She listened intently, then added, “Yesterday’s episode didn’t help!”
No, it hadn’t, obviously. Gerde and Sandra had contributed to the tensions that had caused the blackout. Hadn’t the incident kept her up much of the night? Surely, that was enough. She listened again, while trying to reconstruct the impressions she’d had just prior to her collapse. The dizziness and darkness. The long room that stretched into eternity. The noises. It made no sense.
“I’ll call you if I don’t feel all right,” Allison concluded. She placed the receiver on its hook, stepped out onto the darkened street, turned downtown, and walked along the rows of middle-income housing that had sprouted like mushrooms during the past few years, fertilized by federal subsidies.
She alternately counted the rows of lighted windows and the slabs of concrete that skidded under her feet, until she turned off Columbus onto Eighty-ninth Street and walked into the darkness.
A note was taped to her door. She pulled it off. It was the bill from Slapen’s Appliance Mart. Her television had arrived.
Excited, she entered the apartment.
There it stood, twenty-four inches’ worth, full color, attractive frame, nestled right into the space she’d marked against the wall.
She tossed her jacket on the sofa, walked into the kitchen, and turned on the water. She placed two vials on the sink, one with a white top, the other blue. The white one was marked Tranquilizer and listed elaborate instructions. The other was marked Sleeping Pills. She read the tranquilizer label carefully, removed an oval pill, popped it her tongue, then filled her mouth with water. She’d never been good with pills. Unsympathetically, it squeezed down her throat.
She placed the covered vials on the Formica counter and returned to the living room.
Kneeling in front of the console, she turned on the set and adjusted the color. Then,
standing with her eyes glued to the screens, she unbuttoned her long-sleeved blouse and exchanged it for a white tee shirt that lay on the sofa. She examined herself in the mirror, approved the change, noted that her breasts looked extremely full under the tight-fitting pullover, and smiled as she caught the reflected image on the television screen.
She sat on the sofa to watch. That seemed like a good way to spend the evening. At least she knew the ending would be happy. And this had not been a very happy day.
She placed her feet on the hassock; she was exhausted. She licked her lips with a sensual swipe of the tongue; she was beginning to feel the effect of the pills. The images on the screen blurred; their movements slowed.
Then the doorbell rang. She jumped to her feet. She knew it wasn’t Michael; he was working late, and it was no one else from outside. If it had been, they would have buzzed to get in. Chazen? The two lesbians? The other neighbors?
“Who is it?” she asked loudly, as she approached the door. There was no response. She bit her nails nervously. “Who’s there?” she repeated. Silence. She paced back and forth in front of the door, the ticking of the large grandfather clocks counterpointing the thump of her footsteps, her shadow mimicking her progress.
“It’s me,” came the high-pitched voice.
“Mr. Chazen?”
“Yes, of course.”
She caught her breath, relieved. She opened the door, careful to keep the safety chain on. Peeping out through the opening, she saw a little man dressed in a rumpled black tuxedo. It was Chazen. Jezebel and Mortimer were markedly absent.
“Come, come, open the chain, so I can come in.”
She slipped off the chain catch; Chazen stepped in.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asked.
“I’m not nervous,” she replied.
“You are,” he scolded.
“Well, yesterday’s experience…”
“Oh, that,” Chazen snickered. interrupting. “Forget it ever happened.”
She smiled. “That’s a lovely outfit you have on, Mr. Chazen.”
“Yes it is.” He adjusted the old-fashioned bow tie that hung loosely from his neck and pressed the front of his jacket to smooth out the rumples.
The Sentinel Page 7