The Sentinel

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  “Do you like my flower? I grew it myself in my window box.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  He grabbed her by the hand. “Now, my dear, I have a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise?” She was concerned; she’d had more than enough surprises recently.

  “Yes, a lovely surprise. Come with me to my apartment.”

  She squeezed his hand gently. “No, thank you.”

  “Now Allison,” he said sternly.

  She interrupted. “I’ve had a very trying day and I don’t feel too well. Besides, I’ve just taken a tranquilizer and I’m a bit out of it. Maybe next time.”

  “I insist,” he demanded. “My surprise will make you feel a thousand times better. And it means a great deal to me!”

  “But…”

  He raised his hand. It was hopeless. The little man was not going to leave the apartment without her. There was nothing she could do, but say yes. And maybe his surprise would make her feel better. She shrugged.

  “Okay, but only for a few minutes.”

  He smiled, pleased with his success. He whipped his right hand from behind his back and produced a large top hat with a rumpled brim, which he proceeded to place gently on his head, tipped slightly to the side. She looked at his clothes.

  “Never mind these,” he said. “Just come as you are. You look lovely, simply smashing.”

  She smiled again. “By the way, thank you for the picture,” she said.

  “The picture? Oh, yes, the picture. My welcoming gift. But then it was somewhat presumptuous to assume you would like a picture of me in my Sunday best.”

  “Not at all. It’s absolutely adorable. I put it on the mantelpiece. Next to Herbert Hoover.”

  “Allison, you are most considerate. It warms an old man’s heart to be received this way.” He stared at the picture. “I do think that’s my better side, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, now!” he said, his grin receding into his weather-beaten face. “Let us go. My surprise is waiting.”

  She reached over, grabbed the door key off the convenient nail, shut the door and walked up the steep flights of stairs. The little man bounced joyfully, several steps behind her, humming an unidentifiable tune. They reached the fifth floor and stood in front of his door. At the base was a mat that read: Welcome. On the door was a Christmas wreath.

  “Allison,” he cried excitedly, “I want you to close your eyes and promise not to peek, until I tell you that you many!”

  “I promise,” she agreed reluctantly.

  “Stand right there,” he commanded. He opened the door, grabbed her arm, and pulled her over the threshold. “Now!” he yelled.

  She opened her eyes.

  Chazen’s living room was decorated for a celebration. Streamers hung from the ceiling; helium-filled balloons floated next to the walls.

  The living room was the same size as hers, except in the reverse, hers being an A apartment, his a B. There was no bedroom, only a sleeping alcove. The furnishings were dilapidated. Along the wall next to the entrance were bookshelves, partially filled with books, but mostly covered by tiny plants, which made up only a small part of Chazen’s collection. The apartment, apart from the furniture, resembled a botanical garden. In each of the corners and on either side of the kitchenette were baby palm trees that stretched from floor to ceiling, spreading their leaves and branches along the walls. Various shrubs were interspersed among the chairs and tables; almost everywhere stood flowerpots and boxes containing assortments of colorful plants. And raised above all others on a marble platform near the window was Chazen’s prize fern, an award winner, picked off a mountainside in the high Andes in central Peru, cultivated in New York under the most unfavorable conditions, but thriving under his care. Beneath the plant was an engraved plaque detailing the history and relevant characteristic of the prized Filicale. And there was another sign which warned Hands Off.

  “Surprise!” shouted Chazen, flinging a streamer into the air.

  Everyone turned to look at the new arrival.

  The large table in the middle of the room was covered with a white tablecloth. Scattered among the plates were noisemakers and party hats; there were several bottles of wine, some soda, and a large bowl filled with potato chips. In the center of the table was a big black and white birthday cake with seven candles, topped by fluffy, cone-shaped, tufts of sugar. Jezebel, bedecked in a tasseled birthday hat and red silk scarf, sat at the head of the rectangular table on an elevated chair facing the guests: three elderly women, a younger girl of about thirty and a man of thirty-five or perhaps forty.

  “It’s Jezebel’s birthday, so I thought we’d celebrate.”

  Chazen led Allison through the jungle to the table.

  “Here’s your hat, two noisemakers, some streamers, and your chair.”

  “Thank you,” Allsion said, smiling. She certainly had not expected this. A birthday party for a cat! Maybe Chazen was right, maybe his surprise would make her feel better.

  “Mortimer,” he cried.

  The bird chirped from high on a fern branch.

  “Come to Papa,” he commanded sternly.

  The bird fluttered its wings, flew off the shrub, and landed on his shoulder.

  “Say hello to Allison.”

  Mortimer arranged several feathers on his right wing and chirped at Allison with a dignified arch of the head befitting a host.

  “Hello, Mortimer,” she said awkwardly.

  “Good,” Chazen cried proudly. “I’ve been planning this party for a long time. Caught Jezebel completely by surprise, while she was shuffling in the litter. But I wouldn’t have considered it a success without you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Mr. Chazen,” Allison said appreciatively.

  Jezebel purred.

  “She says hello also, but for some reason she’s been reticent to speak the King’s English. I do think she has a cold. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “I want you to meet my other guests.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. Everyone, this is Allison Parker. She just rented apartment 3A.”

  Allison looked down the table.

  “This is Mrs. Clark from 4B,” Chazen continued, nodding at a woman of seventy, hunchbacked, gray-haired, wrinkled, and unsmiling.

  Allison looked at her closely; she couldn’t detect any makeup.

  “Happy to meet you,” said the old woman.

  Chazen continued; “Miss Emma Klotkin and her twin sister Lillian. They live in apartment 2B.”

  “Nice to meet you,” greeted Allison. She grabbed Emma Klotkin’s right hand, noted her size, the bosom that had been lost in the general accumulation of blubber, and the small eyes that peered out above her puffed cheeks.

  “My pleasure,” laughed Emma.

  Lillian was her “little sister.” And tiny compared to Emma. Emma was about five feet eight. Lillian five feet two. Emma weighed three hundred and fifty; Lillian two hundred and ten.

  Allison couldn’t help but smile, as she greeted tiny Lillian.

  “Glad to have you,” squealed Lillian. “Charles told me about you.” Lillian’s heavy New York inflection was strangely missing in her sister’s voice. Maybe they’d been raised separately. Or perhaps Emma had taken voice lessons.

  “Malcolm Stinnet,” stated the man at the end of the table. “The Klotkins’ cousin. This is my wife Rebecca.”

  Allison nodded. A strange couple. Mutt and Jeff, except that the taller of the two was Rebecca, by at least three inches. Malcolm wore a smart black tuxedo with a very wide bow tie that paralleled the generous brown mustache that twirled around the corners of his mouth in Zapatian fashion. There was something very English about him and she pictured him sitting behind the wheel of a Rolls Royce, chauffeur’s cap on head, eyes glued diligently to th
e road, ever mindful of his station and destiny.

  “How long have you been in the building?” asked Rebecca.

  “A little over a week,” replied Allison, watching Rebecca smile. The woman had bad teeth, discolored, and set poorly in place, yet there was something about her that was extremely feminine and attractive. “Which apartment do you live in?”

  “We don’t, at least not here,” answered Malcolm. “We live on the East Side in Murray Hill. Rebecca likes it better. It’s cleaner and safer.”

  “It seems safe here.”

  “Here, yes,” interrupted Rebecca, “but not towards Broadway, especially at night. Anyway, we visit our cousins so often, it seems like we live in the building.”

  Allison smiled. “Murray Hill’s a good place. I stayed there where I first came to New York.”

  “Where?”

  “On Lexington, between Thirty-seventh and Thirty-eighth. The big apartment.”

  “That’s not too far from us,” said Rebecca excitedly.

  Lillian twirled a noisemaker about her head, the cat coughed. The bird chirped.

  Allison placed the blue and gold party hat on her head. The rubber-band chinstrap barely fit around her jaw. It must have been fifteen years since she’d last worn one of these things. Maybe even longer. She looked in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall. She looked ridiculous, but no more so than the collection that sat around the table.

  She lifted a blower and placed the reed in her mouth. Looking over the frilled end, she noticed everyone staring at her. She stared back, unsure, then blew, sending out the long snaking arm with an ear-piercing buzz.

  Everyone clapped and cheered.

  “Some music to liven the party,” cried Chazen. He skipped to the nearby Victrola, vintage 1920, and placed a record on the turntable. After some vigorous cranking, the old rusted mechanism began to spin slowly, picking up velocity, until it had reached playing speed. He lifted the ancient metal arm, blew on the timeworn needle, and placed it down on the spinning disk. The speaker crackled with static.

  “The polka,” cried Chazen, his voice lilting. “I used to dance it at the Foxland Casino in the Bronx every Friday for ten years.”

  “I remember,” shouted Emma over the loud dance music. “Lillian and I used to go up there also. But it must have been some years later.”

  “It brings back memories,” added Lillian, who was bouncing in her seat to the rhythm of the music. “Everyone used to pile into the place at one time. Remember? The girls would sit on one side, the guys on the other.”

  “Then the music would start, any one of the three bands,” added Chazen.

  “Right! The girls would charge the guys and pull them out on the floor. Those polka bands were great. I really miss them.”

  “Those were the days,” said Chazen forlornly, as if the memory of his youth pained him. “It’s a shame we can’t relive them.”

  Allison looked at the old man sympathetically; she was touched. “They sound like they were good days,” she said.

  Chazen smiled and returned to the table. Jezebel lifted her head in short jerky movements, almost as if she too were keeping time the music, Chazen sat down next to her, puffed his chest with air and sang the first note in a series of off-key attempts at music. He buried his jaw in his neck and waved his arms in front of him like an operatic baritone. With a smile that stretched from one ear to the other, he recorded his self-satisfaction with his virtuoso performance.

  “Everybody sing,” Chazen declared between chords.

  Emma joined, her massive body producing loud, full notes. She too was off-key, though Chazen sounded worse. But together their contrasting dissonance produced a strange combination of sounds, certainly not melodious or harmonious, but interesting. Like a Stavinsky concerto.

  Cousin Malcom pounded his knife against the top of his wine glass and then danced in his chair, while his wife, Rebecca, spun in concentric circles behind him, trying, single-handed, to reproduce the effect of dozens of partying Bavarians.

  “What polka is this?” asked Malcolm.

  “The Beer Barrel,” Chazen replied.

  The enthusiasm was contagious. Chazen stood and beckoned and Allison responded to his outstretched hands by grabbing them securely and spinning onto the floor. Around and around they went; she was concerned lest he overtax himself, but, surprisingly, he was a good and a seemingly tireless dancer.

  Finally Allison pulled away to catch her breath. Looking about, she saw Mrs. Clark near the kitchen entrance, disinterested and exceedingly bored. Her complexion had waxed sallow, her lids drooped toward her crooked mouth, and her eyes glared.

  The intensity of the woman’s attention was disquieting. There was something familiar about her. She’d seen or met her before. But she couldn’t remember. One strange bird, she thought to herself and turned away.

  The record ended and everyone clapped. Chazen lifted the Victrola arm and removed the old warped disk from the turntable. He placed it to the side and grabbed a stack of possible selections. He nimbly thumbed through the pile and placed those that he liked on top of the little table next to the Victrola and those rejected back on the shelf.

  “I’d love to hear a tango,” cried Emma.

  “Tango!” bellowed Chazen. “Perfect! The dance of the caballeros. I remember Valentino dancing in Blood and Sand. He placed a new record on the turntable, reset the arm, and cranked the machine. It sputtered, coughed and vibrated; the turntable began to revolve and once again the room was filled with music. He sat down next to the cat, looked over his shoulder, and motioned Mrs. Clark to her seat. The woman hesitated, then walked to the table, glanced at him, and sat down.

  “Some champagne?” asked Chazen. He removed the open bottle of Piper Heidsieck from the ice bucket. Everyone enthusiastically cheered. He leaned over and filled Allison’s glass, then he stood and marched around the table like an experienced sommelier.

  “I propose a toast,” said Malcolm, as he rose from his chair, glass raised high over his head. “To Jezebel, may she have nine fruitful lives.”

  “To Jezebel,” they all responded, raising their glasses in unison. The cat purred, as if she’d understood that the toast was directed to her.

  “Emma, don’t you think it was nice of Allison to join us for Jezebel’s birthday?” prompted Lillian after sipping her champagne. Her sister nodded. “Allison, you must come down to our apartment sometime soon. I’d love you to try some of my cookies. Emma and I are expert cookie makers, as you can probably tell just by looking at us.” Emma laughed boisterously.

  “I would love to,” said Allison. She recalled the cake argument. “I love homemade cookies; my mother used to make them for me all the time.”

  “Good, it’s settled. You’ll come by tomorrow.”

  Chazen stood, turned the record over, and sat down again to the accompaniment of a different tango. He turned to Allison and lifted the champagne to his mouth. “Do you like my little party?” he asked.

  “Yes!” She glanced quickly at Miss. Clark, who sat with a noticeable frown on her face.

  “And hasn’t it made you feel better?”

  “Yes, it has. Much.”

  “Trust to Chazen!”

  She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed Chazen on the cheek.

  He jumped to his feet. “It’s time for the cake.”

  “Good!” cried Malcolm from the far end of the table, his eyes ravenously devouring the triple-decked birthday cake.

  Chazen quickly snatched the record off the Victrola and put it to the side on a pile of other records.

  “Happy birthday to you,” he screamed, then returned to the table and kissed Jezebel on top of her head. He pulled the cake toward him, whipped a cake knife from under his napkin, and cut deep into the frosting.

  “That’s the first black and white birthday cake I’ve ev
er seen!” said Allison, smiling.

  Mrs. Clark smacked her plate against the table.

  Allison turned.

  The idle table chatter ceased abruptly.

  The graying woman slowly unclenched her teeth, lifted her head and looked directly at Allison. “Black and white cat, black and white cake,” she said with directed animosity.

  What was that all about? Allison shrugged. A strange bird all right. Now, where did she know her from?

  Afterward, she lay in her darkened bedroom, half asleep. For two hours she twisted and turned, unable to get comfortable, unable to unwind. She’d had a little too much champagne and a little too much cake, all on top of a low-dose tranquilizer. Her head spun and her stomach ached. And when she finally fell asleep, she was taunted by nightmares. Chazen! Emma! Lillian! Malcolm! Rebecca! All dancing about singing Happy Birthday to the cat. What a terrible noise that had been!

  She dreamed of Mrs. Clark. Uncomfortable, she rolled in the bed, beginning to sweat, remembering the uneasiness she’d felt around the woman. She’d certainly try to avoid her, as she’d avoid the two lesbians. Yet, she couldn’t keep them out of her subconscious where she saw Gerde naked, full-breasted and suppliant, lying on her bed. And she envisioned Sandra gliding with ballerina like grace across their darkened bedroom to the bedside and with extended hands stoking her lover’s smooth skin.

  The tension continued to build. She writhed, her skin glistening with perspiration. The party. Mrs. Clark. The lesbians. He visions began to fuse, to revolve about one another, accompanied by continuous pounding and the sound of clashing metal.

  She sprang up in bed, awake, frightened. She felt her flesh contract about her body; her nightgown was soaking wet.

  The images were gone. But the noises remained. She listened carefully, flicked on the small reading light, and looked up at the ceiling. The pounding? Footsteps! She was positive and they were coming from an apartment that was supposedly empty and had been so for many years. She shivered and looked at her alarm clock. It was four fifteen in the morning.

  Someone was in a place where no one should have been, pacing back and forth, methodically, like a soldier on guard.