All of Us (ARC)

by A F Carter

ter with because you couldn’t bear another cold night on the 226

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  street? He’s a complete stranger to the Carolyn who wakes

  up the next morning. What’s more, he’s demanding sex and

  he’s not taking no for an answer. A deal is, after all, a deal.

  “Survival at its most basic level demands knowledge that

  can pass from one self to another. Where to get a free meal.

  A talent for begging. Instinctive avoidance of dangerous

  people and places. Where you can find a clean bathroom to

  empty your bowels.

  “You’re assaulted from time to time. There’s no avoiding

  it on the street, but you learn to minimize the damage. From time to time, one or another of the city’s social workers finds you shelter in a protected environment. But then you disappear for a month. Or forget the arrangement was ever made.”

  I stop long enough to smile. “I keep saying ‘you’ as if there were only one of us, when in fact we were closer to a tribe.

  We remained that way throughout our stay at Creedmoor

  and afterward, until our involuntary commitment to Brook-

  lyn Psychiatric, where we lived for almost a year.

  “We were a source of conflict on the medical side at

  Brooklyn Psychiatric. Psychologists urged group and indi-

  vidual therapy. Psychiatrists preferred obliteration through chemicals. Neither treatment was of any value, but still we

  benefited. We benefited by eating three reasonably nutri-

  tious meals each day, by sleeping each night in the same bed, by having our medical needs met. Including an ulcer on our

  right leg that had been open for a month.

  “By the time we encountered a hospital social worker

  named Evelyn Scaparelli, we were physically stable. We were

  also secure enough in our day-to-day survival to understand, 227

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  despite the antipsychotic meds, the opportunity she pre-

  sented. We were entitled by law, she explained, to benefits like disability, Medicaid, SNAP, and Section Eight. Put them all

  together, and it amounted to a stable life, a springboard if you will, a platform. But only if we became responsible enough

  to maintain it. Each of these benefits requires reauthoriza-

  tion, at which time documents have to be produced. Your lat-

  est bank statement, latest disability statement, SNAP benefit statement, a notarized application. For the average American, the process would be merely annoying. For Carolyn Grand

  and her merry band . . .

  “Victoria and I were born while Carolyn was in Brooklyn

  Psychiatric. Victoria won’t admit it, but I believe that what was left of Carolyn Grand deliberately created us. That’s

  how much it meant to come home at night, to lock the door

  behind you and know you were safe. The other selves, they

  could enjoy their shelter, but they could never have main-

  tained it. Me and Victoria, we did that. Against crazy odds at first but always stubbornly, obsessively. Always focused on a single goal. A locked door between us and the world, a door

  you could open and close, people you could let in or leave

  out. Keep in mind, Doctor, these were luxuries that Carolyn

  had never known.”

  Halberstam finally intervenes. “Why,” he asks, “are you telling me this? Why now?”

  “Because we want you to understand what the stakes are.

  For us, I mean. What it means to us when we read some-

  thing like this.”

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  I slip the top sheet from the manila envelope, work my

  way out of the submissive seat, walk over to his desk and lay the email we intercepted last night in his hand. He glances

  down, a sneer on his face, then blanches, his complexion

  turning bone white.

  “What do you think might happen,” I ask him, “if we

  stake out your office until Patricia shows up? What might

  happen if we give her this email?” I reach into the envelope and withdraw a second email, this the earliest, where he tells Zenia that Patricia has a rich daddy who molested her.

  “What do you think would happen if I run down Patri-

  cia’s father and show him the email labeling him a pedo-

  phile? How long before he files a malpractice suit? Hours?

  Minutes? Seconds?” I hesitate, a practiced comedian about to deliver a punch line. “You’re licensed by New York’s Department of Health. Imagine standing before one of their review

  boards, explaining why you passed on confidential infor-

  mation about a patient to your fucking guru. Or how you

  intend to seduce Patricia now that she’s lost enough weight

  to be attractive. Your license, your accreditations . . . out the window, Doctor. And we both know it.”

  Halberstam’s blues eyes close, but not before I register the panic. I watch him draw a long breath as he gathers what

  little courage he possesses. He’s going to bluff and I’m going to call. A long stay at a psychiatric hospital means the loss of our apartment. We’d have to start over and I haven’t the

  heart for the struggle.

  “You stole these somehow,” he says, his tone unsteady.

  “You invaded my privacy. I could send you to prison.”

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  “You’re right about the stealing, Doctor, and about us

  invading your privacy. And you’re also right about that invasion being a crime. But on the last part you’re not even close.

  Carolyn Grand’s a certified lunatic and they don’t send lunatics to prison. They send them to the looney bin, which is

  exactly where you want to send her anyway. Talk about lose-

  lose. This is lose-lose-lose, the last loser being you.” I slap the top of the desk. Something’s happening to us, even beyond

  the many threats. We’ve been cringing all our lives and we’re sick of it. We no longer hope to survive. We mean to survive.

  “You spelled out what we want in your emails. We want to

  be rid of you, of you and of all supervision. Simple as that.”

  I drop three more emails on his desk, then walk back to

  my chair and sit down. Last night, Bobby insisted that Hal-

  berstam’s life was entirely transactional. A series of deals from which he hoped to profit. If he found he couldn’t, he’d cut his losses and walk away. The cop was right, and I can

  read it in Halberstam’s eyes when he raises his head. He’s

  going to make the only move on the table.

  “You’ll have to admit, my evaluation of Carolyn Grand

  and her identities was dead on. You’re more than a match.

  In fact, you remind me of Zenia.” Having delivered the ulti-

  mate compliment, he steeples his fingers. “So, how shall we

  proceed?”

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  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ELENI

  We’re in a rowboat on the lake in Prospect Park.

  Bobby and me, with the rest of the gang, excepting

  Tina, hovering about. This is something new, the lack of

  privacy, the pack animal mentality. I don’t like it, but I can’t do anything about the situation. I couldn’t prevent Serena’s and Bobby’s inevitable coupling either. With Victoria next in line. We’re like infatuated teenagers, nobody stopping t
o ask what’s in it for Bobby. And I’m not coming from the same

  place as Kirk and Martha. I don’t think Bobby’s setting us up.

  No, I think he’s as crazy as we are. I don’t know why because I’m afraid to ask. I’m afraid to break the spell, to lose the lover I only just found.

  Why else would he put up with the chaos? If he weren’t

  crazy? Why would he accommodate himself to whoever

  showed up? At one point, Martha went into the kitchen to

  prepare dinner and Kirk returned. That left Bobby to cook

  the meal, which he cheerfully did. After dinner, he and Kirk watched a Yankees baseball game, both of them big-time fans.

  Bobby slept on the couch that night when I know he

  was hoping I’d arrive any minute. I wanted to, clad in a see-through body stocking, but I couldn’t.

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  We’re well into October now, with no sign of Alfred

  O’Neill. The consensus is that he’s fled the city. The weather is fine, the sky blue, the sun bright enough to dazzle, the

  leaves on the trees at the water’s edge still dark and green.

  I’m watching a family of geese a couple of hundred yards

  away while Bobby rows, his strokes languid enough to

  arouse. He approaches sex in much the same way, taking

  his time, reading my cues, all in that laid-back cop style. He claims my body talks to him. If so, I know what it’s saying: Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god.

  “It’s going to get rough now.” He sighs as he raises the

  oars, allowing the boat to drift. “Our squad commander,

  Lieutenant Ford, she’s feelin’ a lot of heat. That’s because police departments across the country live and die by their

  homicide clearance rates. And maybe some cases can’t be

  closed, but this one, according to the bosses at the Puzzle

  Palace, should have been a slam dunk.”

  “Let me guess, Ford’s transferring that heat to Detective

  Greco.”

  “Right, plus Homicide’s an elite unit. You earn your way

  up to Homicide and you can earn your way back down. Gre-

  co’s sweating, but he doesn’t have enough to make an arrest.

  Of you, O’Neill, or any of the other suspects.”

  “What about the DNA?”

  “Still out. But I uncovered another hooker down at the

  hotel who maybe saw you. She’s not sure, couldn’t swear in

  court, but it was probably you. That’s two now.”

  The words sting: I uncovered. I want to ask him how hard he worked to find her, how many hours stalking the halls of

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  the Golden Inn. A waste of time because I know the answer.

  He’ll do his job and let the cards fall where they may. I have to wonder what advice he offers Greco.

  “There’s some good news,” he continues. “We reviewed

  the footage from the security cameras near the entrance to

  your building. You didn’t come through that door, going in

  either direction, on the night your father was killed.”

  “You already told us that.”

  “I know, but that’s not the good news. You could have

  gone down the fire escape and through the alley to South

  Oxford Street without being seen. It wouldn’t be easy, but

  it’s still possible. Greco’s trying to sell that theory to the lieutenant, but she’s not buying. And if he can’t sell it to Ford, no prosecutor is likely to sell it to a jury. That’s the good news.”

  I let it go at that, my father’s death now seeming as remote as his life when he was safely behind bars. I watch Bobby

  drop the oars into the water, listen to the slap of the small waves against the side of the boat. There’s enough breeze to work its way through my hair. It teases my scalp as I’ve been teasing Bobby ever since we left the house. A quick touch, a laying of my hand on his shoulder, a smile that fades, slowly, into a promise. I lean forward now to caress the side of his face, but I’m interrupted by a tremendous squawking.

  Behind me, the geese leap up, wings beating frantically

  as they lift their bodies clear of the water. They run then, webbed feet slapping the surface until they finally rise, still calling to each other. Bobby waits until the din recedes, then tells me, “I won’t be around for a while. I’ve been ordered to keep away from you. By Lieutenant Ford, so it counts.”

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  “Does that mean someone ordered you to approach us in

  the first place?”

  “No, that was my own idea.” He brings the oars onto the

  boat and reaches for me. “What a woman you are,” he whis-

  pers. “I’m crazy for you.” Then I’m in his arms, our mouths

  locked together, my hands gathered at the back of his head,

  pulling him closer. But he lets me go just as suddenly as he reached out for me, his look darkening.

  “Make sure everyone understands, Eleni. First thing, if

  you see Greco’s face in the doorway, ask for a lawyer. Don’t wait.”

  “And that will bring everything to a stop?”

  “Probably not, but get it on the record, especially if there’s a neighbor close enough to hear.”

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  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  SERENA

  He comes for me two days later at ten o’clock in the

  night, Detective Greco by himself. I’m looking out

  the window when he pulls up, watching a steady rain spatter

  across the sidewalk and the street. Greco’s driving a black

  car, perfectly anonymous, backing it into a narrow parking

  space, stepping out, hustling through the rain, all business, the postman on his rounds. He rings our bell, the intercom,

  my first instinct to hide behind the couch, under the bed, in the closet, anywhere Daddy can’t find me. Because I’m all

  alone, my sisters and brother far distant, as though I’d made them up, imagined or dreamed them, our years together an

  extravagant hallucination.

  I press the buzzer, let Greco inside, stand by the door

  waiting for him to walk up the stairs. Our elevator stands

  idle on the first floor, three days awaiting a repairman who never comes, I hear Greco’s footfalls, heavy, plodding, steady, determined. He’s coming for me, I’m trapped, I search for

  my family again, but there’s no one, no one, no one.

  Then the door opens, and I’m looking into Greco’s tiny

  green eyes. He appears tired, shoulders slumped, a day’s

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  stubble making its way along his jowls to the collar of his

  shirt. “A few things we gotta clear up,” he tells me. “Down

  at the precinct.”

  “I don’t want to speak to you without a lawyer present.”

  I’m proud of myself. I remembered. But Greco’s ready

  for me. He shakes his head and says, “You’re not a suspect,

  Ms. Grand. You’re a person of interest. Lawyers are only for suspects.”

  Bobby warned us, but I’m still not ready, never will be, a

  coward to my bones and why am I put here to wage a battle

  I’ve always lost, never won? Why not Kirk or Eleni or Mar-

  tha? I have no fight in me.

  “I’d like to call a lawyer before we go, Detective.”

 
; “You’ll have plenty of time to do that at the station.” He

  glances at his watch. “This shouldn’t take long, so why don’t you just make it easy. If not, I’m gonna have to put you in

  handcuffs.”

  His voice tightens, as if he’s become angry, as if he’d like nothing more than to humiliate me—no point to saying us

  because there’s no us listening—and he’s hoping I’ll resist. I resist anyway, feebly, true, but still I do resist.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “You’re not even a suspect. You’re a person of interest.”

  “But I can’t call a lawyer?”

  He slides his hand beneath his jacket to a pair of hand-

  cuffs dangling from a belt loop. “Look, it’s not my intention to get nasty, but there’s a few things we have to resolve at the precinct and I’m parked by a hydrant. So, you pick, Ms.

  Grand. Cuffs or compliance.”

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  * * *

  The descent is deliberate, through the doors of the Eighty-

  Fourth Precinct, looking like a small school from the outside but suddenly a cop world, the wicked brought to justice, the virtuous irrelevant, go find yourself a guru, evil abides here and there’s only us cops to keep it contained. Cops swirl about us, cops and suspects, three women chained to a bench, a

  man in a corner who smells of urine and feces and death.

  I’m led through the lobby up the stairs to a deserted room,

  eight metal desks arranged in back-to-back pairs, a room to

  the side, glass fronted, three closed doors in the back, windows to the side of each. The light is dim and objects seems to float, but then Greco flicks the light switches to his left and my new world reveals itself: dreary, workaday, without

  inspiration. He leads me between the desks to the middle

  door in the back. No explanation given, he opens the door

  to a tiny room, a window that’s a mirror from inside, three

  chairs and a tiny desk, graffiti-covered cinderblock walls. I sit in the chair facing the window-mirror without being asked.

  “I just gotta set a few things up, then I’ll be back.” Greco lifts my purse from my lap. “Now, I didn’t search you for a

  weapon, which I really should of done, but I’m gonna have

  to look through your purse. Meanwhile, you try to relax. If

  you need anything, there’ll be someone outside.”

  Then he’s out the door, taking my purse and the cell