Seventh Avenue

by Norman Bogner

  “So? What’s on your mind?”

  “I thought we might go out and have an early dinner or something.”

  “Do you like seafood?”

  “Love it.”

  “We could go to Lundy’s then. It’s only about a ten-minute ride.”

  “Where’s the baby?”

  “Sleeping. She always has a nap in the afternoon. That’s all she seems to do, eat, sleep and dirty her diapers. You didn’t come from - by the way, where do you live?”

  “Williamsburg . . . by the Bridge. We get a pretty fair flow of traffic and dirty windows and the smell of fog. Otherwise, it’s a slum.”

  “Then why don’t you move?”

  “Maybe I will. It’s only temporary, but at the time it was all I could afford.”

  “Well, you didn’t come from Williamsburg, which sounds pretty enchanting, just to hear me tell you about Lorna’s routine.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Well, let’s not have a rehash of last night. Friends, yes, but the other . . .”

  Jay took a long pull from his drink and observed the room, which was smallish, but because it had been painted white appeared larger. The furniture, a three-piece affair covered in a heavy tweed material, was functional but without interest. A mantelpiece over a simulated fireplace supported a china cat, a pair of copper ashtrays with beveled edges, two metal soldiers with beards and red uniforms, and a weathervane clock designed not to work and which no doubt had been won in a Coney Island shooting gallery. The only item he found attractive was the figurine lamp on the walnut barrel side table: a Dutch peasant girl with a green jacket, which must’ve come from Gimbels’ antique department, looking, or so he thought, for a missing wooden clog. He visualized them both living in Marty’s apartment without Marty, driving a white Packard convertible.

  “Do you think you’d ever divorce your husband?”

  “You sound like a census taker.”

  “Answer me, please?”

  “You’re really too big for this room. Herb’s a good five or six inches shorter than you. How tall are you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’d say about six-foot-two: a perfect home wrecker. Well, Jay Blackman, what do you want me to say? That I could be mad about you if I planned to get rid of my short, slightly balding husband who travels half the year?”

  “You should’ve been a lawyer.”

  “What do we do about my baby?”

  “Can’t you be serious for a minute?”

  “I could, but I don’t propose to be. What’s the point” - she swallowed her drink and tilted the bottle again – “we’ll just be making more trouble for ourselves than we could ever get out of.”

  He moved closer, seized her shoulders and she fell into his lap. Her hair trailed on the floor and much to his annoyance she stared at the ceiling. Her ears were small and pierced. He kissed her lightly on the lobe, and when she didn’t pull away as he expected her to, he put his tongue in her ear and ran his fingers along her neck.

  “Counting my skin pores? It gets monotonous . . . there’re so many of them.” She stretched out her legs and let them dangle on the arm of the settee, and her shoes dropped off. He kissed her on the neck, and she moaned slightly; he wasn’t certain if it was excitement or boredom and his hand skimmed along her smooth thighs. He was surprised that she had not put on stockings. His hand seemed to be traveling light years and at last when he touched her she jerked away. Like an acrobat, she sprang to her feet and stood in front of him, her face red and her eyes violent. He touched her hand reflexively and sadly.

  “We’re not fifteen years old, and this isn’t the back row of the local movie house,” she said. She rushed out of the room, and he got up to follow her. He found himself in a pink room, dominated by an enormous dressing table running the length of the wall, a bedspread of wild silk, embroidered with initials that were illegible, and a white quilted housecoat hanging outside a closet that seemed to be illustrated by an oriental herbalist. She lay on the bed with her back to the door, and he made his entry silently. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying. She dug her nails into the plum-colored carpet.

  “I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is . . .”

  “Then for Christ sake stop treating me like I was a piece of merchandise that anybody could touch. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t find you attractive, but stop forcing me. It’s got to come from in here” - she pressed her hand against her heart – “and I don’t know. I’m pretty confused. Yesterday you were some character who insulted me for no reason when I was feeling very sorry for myself because I knew I wasn’t going to get the job, and then you walk into my life at a party and I see that you’ve got a nice side and that you’re an unhappy man who’s probably making some woman awfully miserable.”

  He sat down on the bed beside her and stroked her back. Suddenly she turned round, glared at him with unmistakable hatred, and reached for his head and pulled him close to her. He was too frightened to move. She lifted up her sweater, undid her brassiere, and pushed his head under her sweater so that he was in complete darkness.

  His astonishment gave way to discomposure; he had never lost his balance so completely with a woman. He listened to her uneven, chortled breathing as her breasts swelled. She pushed his head away after a few minutes, and he sat on the floor next to a pair of furry green slippers. He could not bear watching as she removed her clothes, carefully folding her sweater and hanging her skirt on a hanger; he was frightened of having his orgasm. She stood before him only in a pair of white panties, and he was overcome by an emotion so foreign and exalted that he almost choked. He loved her, and he was appalled by the realization that he had reduced his stature and confessed to a weakness. She stood over him, swaying from side to side, her face dispassionate, yet submissive, her chalk white skin, slightly freckled, exuding a sweetness and fragrance that drew him to her. He wanted to say something, but could not.

  She glared down at him angrily with tears streaming down her cheeks like little bubbles, then bit his lip. He sat there mystified, impervious to pain and thought, a victim of his own passion. He had slumped down lower and with effort lifted himself on his haunches like a jackal. He lowered her panties, and there was an explosion of red hair, and his mouth went to her. She pulled his arms, and he got to his feet as she moved to the bed. He couldn’t remember how his clothes came off, whether she had removed them or he had torn them off and he only became conscious of them when he looked over her shoulder and noticed a pile of rumpled clothing lying by the side of the bed. His body had constricted and he was aware that she was lying on her side with her mouth on him, her head as though on a guillotine that decapitated and re-embodied in the same knifelike motion, and that he was climaxing, agonizingly, and she would not release him. He pleaded with her to stop, but she ignored him, stopping at last of her own accord when he went limp and screamed.

  He grabbed her by the throat, and she said: “I’m dead.”

  “Dead?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Slowly he released his grip on her. “I love you, don’t you understand?”

  “It’ll be like death . . . your love,” she said. “You’ll destroy my life.”

  “I won’t,” he protested.

  “What do you think we’ve done already? It’s less than human.”

  “It’s only human.”

  “My little girl is in the next room and I let you come into my home and I let you destroy what I’ve got - in my own husband’s bed.”

  “You didn’t have anything, but now you have.”

  “Oh, Christ, what’s the use? I’m not talking about the morality of what you’ve made me do - what I wanted to do,” she added. “I’m talking about the wreckage that you can’t see yet. But it’s there, right in front of us.”

  “I want to marry you.”

  “You’ve said that already, but I’m not prepared to give up my life for you.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Why?’” she shou
ted. “Is this the sort of thing you want to build a relation on? What do you plan for me? A little two-room apartment somewhere convenient so that you don’t have to travel too far and can visit me, drop your load, then go home and have dinner with your wife? I hate you. If by some crazy mischance I should ever fall in love with you, I’ll hate you for what you’ve done to me.”

  “You’re crazy. I don’t want a fast screw, then good luck, goodbye. I want you to be my wife and have my children.”

  “This is getting stupid and repetitious. We’re both married, and we’ve got ties.”

  He tried to think of a solution, but nothing occurred to him, and he felt mentally depleted. When he turned to her, he saw her adjusting her brassiere from a squatting position on the pillow. He reached out and squeezed her arm so that the strap slipped down. He forced her down beside him. She did her best to pull away, but he would not ease his grip until he was on top of her. When he let her go, her arm was black and blue, and she could hardly raise it. Her eyes remained closed and he kissed her breasts. She opened her eyes slowly.

  “Do it! You’re torturing me.”

  They spent the night together, and Jay in his agony and joy could not leave her alone for more than an hour. She fed the baby and returned to him.

  An alarm clock woke them at seven in the morning and the day, February twenty-first, 1937, was the happiest of Jay’s life. The wintery sun sent a spoke of light into the room, which illuminated her red hair and bored into her closed eyes. When she opened them with a faint fluttering, she saw him propped up on an elbow, smoking and smiling. She held up her face, and he came to her and kissed her.

  “God help us both,” she said wearily, “I love you.”

  Jay drove Eva to work, then went back downtown through the stream of traffic to his store. He hoped that Rhoda would not be there, and yet when he went into the shop, which was already filled with early morning customers, he became vaguely alarmed by her absence. A short fat woman with spectacles attached to a silver chain attacked him with a kiss when she saw him. She brimmed with happiness and her short body stretched to reach his cheek. He didn’t much care for physical affection from his staff, but Helen was his star saleslady and he couldn’t pull away without offending her.

  “A boy, you lucky man. Eight pounds, four ounces,” she exclaimed, slobbering over him. “Your mother rang us from the hospital and said would you go straight back.”

  He was overcome. A mixture of relief and shock and his hands trembled. He felt grateful to his mother for saving him from the ignominy of arriving without knowing about the baby. His staff left their customers and gathered round, congratulating him, and he felt small and cheap.

  “We’ve all chipped in to buy you something for the baby. A carriage, a genuine English one that they call a perambulator. It’s better than a carriage,” Helen said proudly, and was seconded by the girls.

  “Yeah, what do you think?”

  “It’s a perambulator.”

  “Such a big boy.”

  “What’re you gonna call him?”

  “You better get back to the hospital!”

  This came at him all at once, and he hardly knew what to reply. He threw up his arms.

  “Don’t worry about the store today, Mr. Jay, we’ll see that things go smoothly,” Helen cried.

  “Thanks,” Jay said in a strained and croaking voice. “You shouldn’t have spent so much money . . . Honestly it must have cost a fortune.”

  “You’re a good boss,” Helen replied. “The best one I ever worked for, a decent man. How could any of us have done less? So we’re just showing our appreciation.”

  “I better get moving.”

  “Give Rhoda and the baby our love,” several voices called after him.

  He got back in his car, took a pull from the bottle of rye that Eva insisted that he take with him, as her mother might wonder about it. He shoved the key in the ignition and began to blubber, uncontrollably. It seemed impossible to reconcile his new feeling for Eva with the experience of fatherhood; the two jarred each other in his mind. If only he could be on his way to the hospital to see Eva . . . if only she had had his baby.

  He had regained his control when he walked down the corridor of the hospital, but inside him there was a sense of relentless anxiety. He stopped by a desk and gave his name to a tall Swedish nurse who was built like a weight lifter.

  “Just a see, Dr. Rosen wants to see you,” she said glumly, and he froze.

  “What about?”

  “I really wouldn’t know.” She glared at him impatiently.

  “Is the baby okay?” he asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter with you.”

  She picked up a telephone, whispered something into the receiver, and he heard Dr. Rosen paged over the public-address system. A thin wispy man with a mustache as long as a licorice stick, a loping gait, and bushy eyebrows that lived a life all their own, came up to the desk. He turned his stethoscope round his finger with the confident air of a snake charmer.

  “Yes, nurse?”

  “Mr. Blackmail” - she pointed a gnarled twig of an index finger at Jay, who stood looking out of the window at the airshaft.

  Dr. Rosen loped over to him.

  “We met, I think, once, when you brought your wife in for an examination.”

  “Uh-huh. How’s the baby?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Oh, no, he’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “Satisfactory. He’s a normal baby - good size - but I don’t want you to be alarmed when you see him.” Jay’s face lost its color, and he began to sweat. “He’s bad a bit of trouble breathing. But there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “How long will he have this trouble?”

  “It’s difficult to say. The resident pediatrician examined him and diagnosed it as a pulmonary infection. Has your wife had any shocks that you recall?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  Dr. Rosen shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, pressed his palm against the wall and said skeptically, “She had a fall of some kind last night, didn’t she?”

  Jay’s attitude altered from concern to “search me.” The doctor did not press the point. He realized that Jay was lying.

  “My wife mention anything?” he asked innocently.

  “No. But she had a laceration on her scalp. Your mother brought her in. I suppose you do a lot of traveling in your business. She said you were in Philadelphia.”

  “I move about,” Jay agreed.

  “Well, the baby was premature because of her fall.”

  “But he’s all right?”

  “He is.”

  “Can I see him now?”

  Dr. Rosen sneered ever so slightly and led Jay to the nursery. Through the glass window, Jay saw him, flat on his back, in a translucent tent that covered most of his body but revealed the face.

  “Your wife’s in room 238,” The doctor turned sharply and walked away.

  “Thanks a million for everything.”

  A nurse wearing a mask gave him a thumbs-up sign from behind the window, and tilted the small basket towards him. After a minute, she lowered it, and he reluctantly started in the direction indicated by an arrow on the wall. He rapped softly on the door of Rhoda’s room and waited. There was no reply from inside, and he pushed the door open and saw that she was sleeping. Five bouquets of flowers with cards attached were in vases around the room. He had forgotten to buy flowers and was just about to rush out to a florist to get some when Rhoda awoke. He was trapped. She had a drugged smile on her face, her eyes had deep brown rings under them, and her skin had a sallow shiny glaze.

  “I forgot to bring the flowers. They’re in the back of the car.”

  “That’s okay. Did you see him?”

  He wondered if he ought to say anything about the oxygen tent and she sensed his anxiety.

  “He’ll be okay. He just needs love.”

  Jay approached t
he bed and sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair with an uneven leg that made it wobble.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  She touched his hand lightly with the tips of her fingers.

  “You’re a man . . . you mustn’t lose your self-control. I guess I just got on your nerves. Things’ll be much better now. Your mother’s been wonderful to me. The superintendent called her, and she came over in a taxi. She’s told me all about the trouble with your father, and I think I understand you much better than I did before.”

  He went over to the sink in the corner and puked. Tears came into his eyes, and he washed his face with cold water.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “A bit . . .”

  “Have something light to eat . . . some boiled eggs. Your mother expects you for dinner tonight, so don’t disappoint her, okay, darling?”

  “Do you want to sleep?”

  She thought for a minute and realized that he wanted to leave.

  “I guess you have to get back to the store. They’ll be very busy and with both of us not there . . .”

  He gave her a light peck on the forehead and made for the door. She waved at him, and he strode morosely into the corridor. He passed the nursery and paused to catch another look at his son, but he could not see much even on tiptoe. The child was too far away. He walked about for a few minutes in the hope of finding a nurse who could go inside and hold the child up or push it closer to the window. The nurse at the desk was not there. The long corridor was poorly lighted and stretched to infinity. A vague, nagging worry crept up on him: could the baby really breathe in there? What would happen if something went wrong with the apparatus? Why weren’t there any nurses about? He trotted down the corridor, turned a corner and came up against a blank wall. Retracing his steps to the desk and still finding it unattended he ran back to the nursery. He shimmied up a small two-inch wooden platform that jutted out from the window, but he could not keep his balance. In a panic, he raced around the side, opened the door and tore in. His entrance disturbed some of the infants. Several whines created a chain reaction, and then all of them began an exacerbated caterwauling screech. All, except his. He bolted out of the room and shrieked for help, then went back inside. In desperation, he rocked the child’s crib. Through the glass, he saw Dr. Rosen and a nurse. The doctor came in, his face red, and his eyeballs popping out of his head.