She stood still and looked toward the east wing because that’s where it was happening. And then she walked slowly toward it, Leon following on little rat feet.
Luther was leaning over Fat, who was lying on some cushions, totally freaked out and sweating like a horse while smelling like an ox. Luther kept caressing Fat’s face with a damp washcloth, hoping feebly to bring him around, but making no progress whatsoever. Fat was out of it, off somewhere, riding a bummer and muttering incoherently about earth and sky and fire and ice. And Tiger could only guess at what dark things fluttered about in his damp head.
Luther looked up and saw her. He got to his feet and handed the cloth to Leon, indicating with a nod that Leon was to take the next shift. Leon concurred.
Luther took Tiger aside. She was still holding tightly to the big bag of groceries, as if it were a part of her, her baby. She looked into Luther’s face, waiting for an explanation while fearing the worst. Luther tried to take the bag from her arms but couldn’t. “What is it?” she asked.
Luther was icy. He pointed to the west wing. “Go inside.”
“Luther—what?”
He was very short with her. “Shut up. Get inside…He overdosed.”
“On what?”
“I don’t know. Lavoris.” He yanked the bag from her arms and set it down on a table.
She spoke with an uncharacteristic lack of emotion. He had put her through so many hoops that she no longer had any emotion available for purposes of display. She was totally uninvolved with the words that came out of her. “What do we do?”
“We wait.”
“You don’t really know what to do, do you?”
“If you like, we can pray.” There was a bite to his answer, a strong hint for her to back off.
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor?”
“Yes. About three years ago.” Again, his answer came out dripping with acid. Gone was his usual levity. And Tiger could see the signal flag go up the hoist: “Don’t bug me.”
She watched as he turned his back on her and went back to Fat. He took the cloth from Leon, and kneeling alongside Fat, he attended the pudgy fellow with an unmistakable tenderness. “Come on, Fat. Come on, fella.”
She came over and stood above him. “You’re good with busted things.” He said nothing. She took another moment and reintroduced the question because logic was demanding it. “Shouldn’t we call a doctor?”
He never looked up. “A doctor’ll put him in jail…Will you shut up!”
The cruel pragmatism of his reaction meant that he wasn’t to be questioned further on the matter. So she walked to the farthest corner of the west wing and sat down in an almost fetal position, but in a spot where she could observe all the action if she chose to look.
Luther’s voice was a light-year away. “Come on home, Fat. Come on in.” He was patting Fat’s face with his big cushion of a hand. “Fun is fun, Fat—so come on in. Luther to Fat, Luther to Fat. Come in, Fat, Over.”
But Fat showed not the smallest inclination of coming in for a landing. He was up there alone, flying blind, his instrument panel wigwagging, little bulbs flicking on and off, bells gonging, buzzers sounding. Tiger knew that he was perilously close to death. That Fat might die was a dreadful enough thought. Yet somehow Tiger could accept that. Because dying is where everyone is headed. Living is what gets them there, but dying is the eventual and unalterable destination. Also, isn’t there a solace to dying? To most people, doesn’t dying mean conclusion to agony, finale to travail, novocain on the half shell? Wasn’t the real anguish, if one is of a sensitive nature, reserved for the survivors of any particular dying? After all, there has to be a general tidying up, a lid tacked to the box, a hymn, some assuaging chants, a good-bye, a couple of tears, and a few shovelfuls of dirt. In this case, however, there’d be something else. Police.
Luther would be arrested, of course. And she along with him. Unless an invisible derrick could sneak in and cart Fat’s zeppelin remains across that last river without anyone’s getting wind of it. Bail would be required. Not for Leon. Leon would be shot trying to escape. But bail would be a possibility for Luther and Tiger because, really, your honor, we’re not bad kids, just misunderstood and unhappy. But who will put up my bail? said the Little Red Hen. Hi, Dad—it’s Janice. Yes, I’m calling from New York City. Yeah, the Big Apple. Listen, Dad? Can you send some money—I’m in a bit of a jam. Oh, fifty thousand dollars should do. But you’ll get it back, Daddy, I swear, every quid of it.
Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay,
Do you ken John Peel at the break of day…
It was the high school choir again, mostly girls, sounding a lot better than they had in that god-forsaken auditorium. Practice makes perfect, girls. Keep up the good work, girls. Oh, pooh on you, Miss Nenner with the laughing baton.
The statuette of Cupid and Psyche stood on a nearby table, looking quite like a religious talisman that had been placed there to lend meaning to Fat’s passing. The night was dragging on, a gimpy snail with miles to go, miles to go. Tick-tock, oy-vey. Withdrawal. Introspection. Recollection and trauma. And once again, Tiger was up to her pretty ass in a goulash of time and events.
MOTHER: “Janice, this is very serious. Very. I don’t know what’s on your mind. If you can’t handle intermediate algebra, how do you expect to go on in life?”
Only small movements in the east wing. Luther and Fat. Leon bringing new and cooler cloths. When will the fever break? Tear up your petticoats, ladies, and we’ll use them as bandages. And get the children back to the wagons? Ready whenever you are, C.B. Action. Sound.
CHORUS: (Miss Nenner, bless her, conducting):
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you.
Away, you rolling river,
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you.
Away I’m bound to go
’Cross the wide Missouri.
BRIAN: “Baby, sooner, or later, we have to. That’s why I got the station wagon. Janice? Jesus Christ, Janice—what the hell you doing? Jesus Christ, Janice—that’s my hockey stick!” Huffing, puffing. Womanhood. Yay!
MOTHER: “You what? You lost your what? With who? Brian who? Janice, do you realize I’m your mother!”
Passage of time. A clearing up of the skin. Yay, Clearasil. Dullness. Predictability. Conformity. A parlor car to college. Here’s your beanie, here’s your room; here’s your bucket, here’s your broom. Study. Be something. Don’t disappoint. Write often. Straitjackets and tethers. Careful thought. A decision.
DADDY (long distance): “It wasn’t easy to send you to Smith. We made sacrifices, Janice. We denied ourselves. And now you tell us you’re dropping out? Well, let me tell you—Janice? Janice!…Operator? Operator!”
“Tiger? Tiger?” Luther.
Tiger moved her face, and the early sun was on it, ending the morass, silencing the pitifully small voices of an insignificant but demiheroic life.
Cupid and Psyche cast a long shadow across the floor. It ended on Luther, who was standing above her, pushing out that immense and thoroughly irresistible smile. “It’s okay. Fat’s okay. But we lost the baby.”
She didn’t laugh. It was work enough to get her heart going.
“Come on, Tiger. Fat made it.”
She was out of control of herself, totally. And she found herself getting up without having to rely on his extended hamhock. “I didn’t.”
He gave her a funny look. “What?”
She was resolute. She had crossed over. She didn’t want it anymore. She was preparing her closing comments. “You’re all fine. You’ve got your…thing. I’m the fish out of water.”
“Stay calm. Cool, baby.”
“I’m calm. I’m cool, baby. I just don’t belong.” She went about the gathering of her things. Her valise with the Smith sticker yawned open, ready to travel. Her clothes fairly flew, of their own power, into the valise. The wounded ballet dancer, she’d take that, too. In it went. “Luther, I am so tired of all my false exits…”
<
br /> “Don’t be silly.”
“I have to go.”
“Don’t be silly!” The second time he said it he shouted it. Then he subsided and laughed at himself for his outburst. “Tiger. Hey, peace. I’m sorry. I’m upset. This…hasn’t been a picnic.” His arms were around her, sweeping her in. “I’m very tired.”
“I’m sorry for that. But I’m not your moll or your accomplice anymore. I’m your…ex.” He’d had it coming to him for so long. And she had to state it boldly if she was to believe it herself. Her belongings were about as packed as they’d ever be. She had difficulty closing her oafish bag, and Luther wasn’t about to help, so she sat on it until it gave up and rigor mortis set in. It whumped closed, and she snapped the lock to keep it that way. Locks were snapping all about her that night—that morning. She felt as though she were in an old news photograph as she picked up the valise—“Refugees fleeing Pnompenh before Cong onslaught. UP Wire Photo.”
Luther spoke with an odd control that was just one note short of rage. “I promise—they’ll both be out of here by morning.”
She faced him, trying to get through to him, once and for all, and for final. “Luther, they’re not the issue. I am.”
“No. Don’t be silly.”
She felt a thumping internal pressure. She was having trouble breathing again. He was doing it to her again—refusing to see or listen. Her lungs were wheezing inside her like a tired old bellows. “Luther, please—I don’t want to panic, but I can’t breathe in here. I’m all right outside, but I can’t breathe in here.” She picked up her bag again and made for the door. Movement helped her bellows pump. But it was like pushing a dying fish through water, forcing the current through its open mouth so that, perhaps, it could last a bit longer.
He stood in her way, but not as a barrier. His arms were spread helplessly. He was so futile she could cry. “Tiger—I love you.”
She stood in front of him, feeling as though she were a kid running away from home. She wanted to stay but she had committed herself. “You bring me down, Luther. You really do. And the deeper I go, the harder it is for me to breathe. It’s a warning. You’re going to kill me. I have to go. Gee. I’m sorry—” She turned sideways, the better to squeeze past him, and he didn’t stop her. She went down the stairs as well as she could. But it was an accordion in her chest, no longer just a bellows. An accordion filled with milk and featuring a slow leak. She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare. She just dragged her valise hammeringly against the stairs and the guardrails. Some of her clothing was pushing out as if it didn’t want to go. But she’d be damned if she’d let a chemise screw up her escape.
She heard him up there on the landing as she clambered down. “Where you gonna go?”
“Away.”
“Where do I reach you?”
“You don’t.” She kept going. As fast as she could. His crazy voice following her down every step of the way.
“I’ll get you for this! Nobody bugs out on me! Your days are numbered, Moose Garvey! You think you’ll get away?”
She kept going. Going, going. Her valise battered again at the banister railings, a clumsy kid rattling a stick along a fence.
“The squeeze is on, fink!” His voice was big and frightening. “You won’t be able to move without wondering if you’re backing into a shiv!”
She kept thinking—never stop, never stop! He isn’t my problem anymore, anymore!
“I’ll hound you down, Moose! I’ll get you for this! There’ll be no place to hide! No door strong enough to keep me out!”
The bag kept knocking until it finally gave way, flying open and spewing its contents, twenty years of girl, every which way. But she was at the bottom, even as some of the pink things came wafting down at her. She gathered them like butterflies and stuffed them hastily back into the bag. Back, panties; back, stockings; on, sweaters; on, Vixen.
There were no more sounds from above. Nothing. But she was afraid to look. The air came hard to her. Her throat was a narrowing funnel. She had to get to the street.
The thick object blurred past her, missing her head by what—a foot? It landed with an elephantine whump and broke immediately in half, separating Cupid from Psyche forever, except for his one hand upon her heart. That remained. Symbolism, symbolism.
She shut the valise as best she could, which meant that it really wasn’t shut at all, just carried under one arm and held shut with the other. She slammed it hard against the vestibule door, utilizing it as a battering ram. The door blasted open and slammed back at her before she could pass beyond it. She recoiled hard against the doorframe, and her shoulder began to pang instantly. But it didn’t stop her. She bounced back and was through the doorway in seconds.
She reached the street and ran, opening up the distance between herself and the building, half fearing that a large rubber band tied about her waist would shortly snap her all the way back, squash against Luther’s chest.
She kept going, filling her lungs with air, making noises like a panting fox, but never looking back.
Behind her, so far back that he was out of sight in the creeping dawn, Luther stood on the top stone step of the building. He screamed into the murky ocher. “Yeah! Run, Moose! Run, run, run! Keep running, Moose! And try to hide! Hide, Moose! Hide, hide, hide!”
She ran, the air clearer, her valise no longer filled with rocks. His voice receded. It was farther and farther away, screaming, back there, frightening and pitiful and unreal. “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!”
She ran. It was very late. No one on the street. No one to see and attest that this episode in her life had ever really happened. Just that voice, a primal caterwauling, trailing her far longer than it should have. “Tiger…”
Run, Janice, run. See the dopey girl run.
14
The Marshal House YWCA accepted Tiger, even at that irreverent early morning hour. They gave her Room 1224. 1224, she thought. Christmas Eve. It must have meant something. She would have preferred 1123, her birthday. But if you can’t have your own, Christ’s ain’t bad.
Anyway, there she was, back with the Establishment. The YWCA. Wild. It was the first place that had occurred to her. Maybe because it had a pool. But more nearly because, from her earliest days, it meant haven. Her room was basic puritan. Unemotional furniture, framed prints of the flowers of six Eastern states, and the smell of a dentist’s waiting room.
It all had had an instantaneous soothing effect on her. Familiarity calming the soul. Recognition reducing the apprehension. And it was suddenly as though the years between her father’s house and the Marshal House YWCA had never happened. She had merely stepped, remarkably, from her own little bedroom with the white curtains into another just like it. And in the process she had obliterated Smith, and Luther, and pot, and pain.
She went immediately to sleep on clean percale. No nightmare, no dragon. Only once did she awaken, and that because the names of the Seven Dwarfs had come to her in a flash. “Humpty, Blitzen, Agamemnon, Greed, Lust, Avarice, and Costello.” She woke up laughing after perhaps but two hours’ sleep. Yet it had been a caressingly beautiful sleep. She stretched and yawned, and marched straightaway into a shower that actually worked. Water, the temperature of which you could truly regulate. No more the big swing from solid scald to frigid freeze if the tenant upstairs flushed the john or ran a glass of water.
She sang, even washed her hair, and considered going home. She did that only because she knew that she had that option and that she owed it to her parents to give it at least one little thought. Which she did, and then dismissed.
She wrapped herself in a big white towel and sang “Born Free.” Before meeting Luther, she had been a reasonably modest girl, an only child painfully inexperienced in what went on outside of Daddy’s domain. As “lovers” she had had: Brian Morgan (once). Paul Emhardt (twice, both awful). Richard Butler (once, and better forgotten). And Buzz Maples (six? no, seven). Therefore, prior to hooking up with Luther, she had had…four men (if you wanted
to call them that) for a total of eleven times. Eleven times out, including a stumbling loss of virginity. Eleven times during which she had experienced a torrid half orgasm (thank you, Buzz Maples, and your magic finger). As a result of these trysts, she had, by her count, brought on three male orgasms (Buzz Maples again, bless him) and caused semi-impotence four times (Brian Morgan, one; Paul Emhardt, both times; and Richard Butler, one—but for all time). She had carried that little scorecard around in her head until she met Luther, at which time all previous records tumbled and new heights of ecstasy were scaled that were without number and beyond counting.
That she was thinking once again of the former assaults and invasions of her person convinced Tiger not only that her life as a sexual creation was not over, but that it had, by all that was reasonable, barely begun. Thanks to Luther, she could climax. Good. She’d be forever grateful to him for that, and not to Women’s Lib. But Luther was passé, sperm over the dam, and new men lay ahead. Perhaps a baker’s dozen of them were lining up for her years to come. Stouthearted men, erect, devout, and passionate. And somewhere among them was Captain Perfect, a man with minimal hang-ups and maximum charm. She would marry Captain Perfect and would be as faithful as possible under the circumstances, taking on only an occasional lover just to keep her loins in shape. One of these men would be a marvelous accident, Mister Hello. He’d say “hello.” She’d say “hello.” And they’d end up, without another word, in the Royal Suite of the St. Regis, making wild love within mahogany walls with sconces and purple drapes looking on. Then they’d both go back to their own worlds and never try to reach each other again. Except—maybe once, they’d bump into each other in Abercrombie & Fitch. But they’d both be with their children and would only smile like old friends and then pass in the night.
A Glimpse of Tiger Page 9