by T E. D Klein
All day he has plotted the man's progress toward the city; he's traced him every mile of the way. He has charted the woman's reaction, has catalogued her every mood and sigh, down to the tiniest flutter of her heart. Nonetheless, he has been careless; in all his calculations he's neglected to take one small factor into account. The air is warmer, ever so slightly warmer, than he's anticipated: less than a degree, perhaps, but enough to make a difference. He knows that even on a cooler day, when men and women are brought together – human beings being human – anything might happen. What the two of them upstairs might regard as consummation will, to him, mean catastrophe; a lifetime of planning may come to nothing in the space of a single gasp, a sudden cry of pain. And possibly that very thing has already occurred.
In which case, of course, the two will have to die.
But even if he has arrived in time, there is a second problem, no less urgent, created by the unexpected heat: a problem, in a sense, of waste disposal…
It hadn't seemed important at the start – merely a question of temporary storage – but thanks to the weather it is now approaching an emergency. He cannot put it off any longer; there is no more time to lose. He simply has to get the man and woman out of the apartment. If they chance too near that couch… well, it might prove rather nasty for them all.
Nasty indeed. That's just how he is feeling at the moment. But after the woman has buzzed him inside and he's passed through into the hallway, his face remains frozen in its customary smile. Even here, someone may be watching; you can never be too sure.
Only when he finds himself within the familiar confines of the elevator, safe amid the privacy of its battered metal walls, does he allow the mask to slip. As the door scrapes shut and the little car lurches skyward, the smile drops away and his lips curl back in a snarl of animal fury. Teeth gnashing with a sound like grinding stones, features contorted almost beyond recognition, he shakes his tiny fists in the air, and all the evening's pent-up rage comes bursting out of him in a frenzy of noise and spit and flying limbs. Like one possessed he flings himself about the car, fists lashing out to beat against its walls; walls and floor reverberate with the pounding of his shoes, and the little car rocks back and forth as if a swarm of maddened bees were trapped inside.
At last, on the fifth floor, when the car has come to rest, its doors slide open on the plump, unassuming figure of an old man. He stands there looking cheerful and composed, if a trifle winded, and his eyes twinkle with impish good humor as he steps into the hall and makes for the apartment at the end. Mopping his brow with a small white handkerchief, he blinks amiably at the heat, fixes his smile in place, and rings the bell.
Voices are coming from the living room. He cocks his little head to hear and sniffs the air that flows beneath the door. No, there is no question about it: he will have to get them out of there, away from that accursed couch, and soon – before they open it and find what is hidden inside. Flesh, even when suitably prepared, does tend to smell so in warm weather.
I was going to answer the door, but Carol beat me to it. Never saw a girl get dressed so fast.
In her own screwed-up way she probably felt guilty about my being there, because she proceeded to make a totally unnecessary fuss over Rosie – what a wonderful surprise this was, how much she'd been wanting to get the two of us together, etc., etc.
Can't say I was especially pleased to see him again, considering his rotten timing – in fact, I spent several minutes silently cursing him -but I have to admit the guy seems inoffensive enough (though I could do without the lisp and the mincing little walk). He was all smiles, from the moment he waltzed through the door, amp; despite his age he appeared to be constantly in motion, sniffing around the room like an overgrown pink puppy; you could almost see him wagging his little tail.
I thanked him, of course, for that crazy deck of cards – hadn't yet gotten around to writing the thank-you note, and now I won't have to – amp; must admit the old guy showed a rather flattering interest in my work. Exchanged chitchat about film courses, grad school, the plight of Ph. D. s, but I got the impression it was mainly for Carol's benefit. He seemed pathetically attached to her; in fact, the only time he looked a little hurt was when Carol said she was surprised to see him. He just couldn't understand it; had she forgotten about their dinner date tonight? Apparently she had, or at least that's what she claimed. She acted very embarrassed, apologized amp; all, but behind his back she shrugged at me and shook her head. Maybe Rosie's the forgetful one.
Anyway, we decided to make it a threesome for dinner. Playing the proper hostess, Carol asked us if we wanted to have a glass of wine before going out. I certainly could have used one by that time, preferably ice cold, the way I was feeling, but Rosie said he was famished and seemed eager to get away.
Outside, it was already dark – one of those hot, smelly New York nights when the streets echo with mambo music amp; drums. There was violence in the air, even more than usual, amp; everyone seemed to be out on the sidewalk dancing or drinking or waiting for something to happen. On nights like that, in Puerto Rican neighborhoods like Carol's, you can almost imagine you're in the tropics. The sound makes you impatient, it's hard to concentrate on things. Not such a bad feeling, really, though it has its scary side. I can see why so many people I know retreat to Fire Island or the Hamptons for the summer; I can also see why, if I were a bit younger amp; poorer, stuck in the city with nothing to lose, I'd be tempted to bash somebody's brains out with a tire iron. As it was, my impulses were somewhat more humane; I felt like pulling Carol out of the glare of the streetlamps amp; making love to her all night. I'd even have been willing to go back up to that stuffy little apartment with the roaches amp; the heat.
Must admit, there's something about her poverty that appeals to me. It's sort of a turn-on to think that, little as I have, I could really be a help to her financially.
It took us some time to decide on a restaurant, since Rosie kept suggesting all sorts of obscure, outlandish places on the other side of town. Maybe he was trying to impress us. Finally we settled on Harvey's; it's just a few blocks east, amp; they never rush you. Carol amp; I made do with omelets – with her crazy notions about food, she seems destined to remain a cheap date – while old Rosie wolfed down a filet mignon half the size of his head.
Dinner was excellent, though we were interrupted in the middle by a very brief brownout; Carol says New York's had a lot of them this year. All of a sudden the entire room went dark, but it only lasted a few seconds before the lights came back on. Still, I was grateful for the candle on the table.
I'm not sure just why, but Carol excused herself right after that, amp; when she sat down again she was looking sort of distant amp; hardly spoke for the rest of the meal. I wondered if somehow she'd been rattled by the lights going out, or if it was something I'd said, but I think now that she was probably just feeling a touch of embarrassment – amp; maybe even, in some weird Catholic way, remorse – over what had gone on back in the apartment. Only natural, I guess; when you've opened up too much to another person, you sometimes tend to backtrack a bit as compensation. Just the same, I do wish she hadn't turned quite so cold.
Rosie offered to foot the bill, as I knew he would, but he amp; I ended up splitting the total between us. Which meant that I sort of got taken. Afterward I expected him to call it a night, amp; was looking forward to some time alone with Carol, but no such luck; it seems our Rosie is something of a night person. He insisted Carol and I accompany him to this old West Chelsea bar he knew about – drinks on him, at least – amp; it turned out to be way the hell over on Eleventh Avenue, practically knee-deep in the Hudson. At the rate he walked, with his stubby little legs, we must have killed a good half hour just getting there.
The place wasn't anything special, but nevertheless we stayed for a couple of rounds. Toward the end Rosie started getting all sentimental over his childhood out in the country somewhere, amp; we more or less let him run on. Hard to picture him as a farm bo
y.
We didn't get back to Carol's till after midnight. By this time, I think, Carol would've been as relieved as I'd have been to see the last of Rosie, but he mumbled something in this pitiable little voice about being 'close to exhaustion,' amp; quick as a catechism she was asking him up for coffee.
As soon as we stepped out of the elevator, Carol said she smelled something funny, amp; after a moment I smelled it too. We all braced ourselves as she unlocked the door to her apartment, amp; sure enough, that's where it was coming from. Held my breath amp; ran into the kitchen, where I noticed that the pilot light had gone out amp; that the rusting old hulk of a stove in there was hissing like a snake. It had probably been leaking for hours, amp; the entire apartment was filled with gas. If any of us had lit a match the whole place would have gone up.
Rosie amp; I opened all the windows while Carol went downstairs to wake the super. He turned out to be a grumpy old Cuban who acted as if the entire thing were Carol's fault. He took one look amp; said a pipe had broken somewhere above the shutoff valve. He'd have to get some men to fix it in the morning.
Rosie insisted on putting us up at his place. So there we were, piling into a taxi at one thirty A.M. amp; heading uptown, Carol fussing about her stove but maybe just as relieved that everything had worked out this way, amp; me cursing to myself, while Rosie, all unaware, beamed at us from the front seat.
He lives in one of those ugly old buildings off Riverside Drive, way up in the hundreds near Columbia. The apartment itself is really much too big for him – two huge bedrooms, high ceilings with plasterwork and ornamental molding – amp; thanks to rent control the old bastard probably pays next to nothing for it. He told us he'd been living there for more than thirty years, but he certainly hasn't done much with the place. The kitchen was pleasant enough – all china-ware, teacups, amp; painted little trays, like the haunt of some dotty old lady – but the rest of the place barely looked lived in. Nothing on the walls but a few framed art prints – calendar stuff – and a crude, obscene-looking kid's drawing he said was by a little boy he knew. For someone who's traveled as much as he claims, he doesn't seem to have acquired anything very interesting; you certainly can't accuse him of being a materialist. The only books I came across were the usual bestseller-type things – I'm OK, You're OK, How to Be Your Own Best Friend – amp; a few dusty Victorian sets that you see in old ladies' parlors amp; no one ever looks at anymore. Carol seemed a bit disappointed; I guess she'd been expecting a museum.
Rosie apologized for the place's looking so 'spartan' amp; said something about not being home much. Until a year or two ago, apparently, he spent most of his time abroad or in the library – 'sometimes both,' he said. I kept picturing libraries amp; reading rooms all around the world, and in each of them, somewhere in the corner, that same wizened little face.
By then the two of us were close to dropping off, amp; I could see exactly what was coming; in fact, I should have seen it the moment that buzzer sounded back in Carol's apartment. Somehow, without meaning to, I had cast myself in the dumbest role of all: I was the horny but thwarted lover in one of those exasperating Howard Hawks comedies, condemned to spend the night alone. And sure enough, Rosie proceeded to stick me on a sofa in the anteroom adjoining his, with Carol in the spare room amp; his own fat little self parked neatly between us.
So I had to go to bed celibate again, with a premature hangover, a bad mood, amp; a useless hard-on. I couldn't get my mind off Carol -the sight of her half out of those flimsy white Woolworth's panties, looking like a skinny little farm child with her small ass amp; slim white thighs amp; solemn expression, but also incredibly sexy. Boy, do I want her badly.
Somehow, despite it all, I slept without a single dream amp; got up feeling just as lousy. Rosie was puttering around making breakfast amp; whistling some tuneless little song – he looked awful; I think he'd taken out his false teeth – but Carol was more distant than ever. Later, as we rode downtown together on the subway, she seemed preoccupied with her apartment amp; her job. Clearly it was time to say goodbye. So I got off at Forty-Second Street, sat through half a porn film called The Coming Thing, amp; took the bus back here to Poroth Farm.
Book Five: The White Ceremony
Then there are the Ceremonies, which are all of them important, but some are more delightful than others.
Machen, The White People
July Seventh
Just as well that Jeremy was gone. Carol needed time to get her thoughts in order. That he'd had her so worked up last night, that she'd been naked, exposed before him, and so obviously excited, ready to yield – somehow it all seemed far more intimate than if they'd actually gone to bed together. And to think that, the entire time, he'd had his own pants on! The whole thing was just too embarrassing. It almost made her angry.
It also made her angry to return to her apartment and find the gas still on. 'Couldn't the men fix it?' she asked the superintendent, who stood grumpily in his first-floor doorway with a Spanish station on the radio behind him and something spicy frying in the kitchen.
'They comin' round this afternoon sometime,' he said, impatient to return to his meal. 'These guys, they're very busy. You come back tonight, everything be fixed.'
'You mean they haven't been here yet?' said Carol. 'That's funny, somebody's sure been up there.'
Back upstairs, careful not to breathe in the vicinity of the kitchen, she looked around. No, she had obviously been wrong; she could find nothing out of place, nothing missing or stolen (not that there was anything worth stealing, she reminded herself), no real sign that anyone had been here since last night. The sunlight streamed harmlessly through the open windows; the apartment still reeked of gas, and she was reluctant to stay more than a minute or two. Idly she straightened up the stack of papers in her bedroom, more of Rosie's articles to plod through. Myths of the Cherokee (Washington, 1900). Description of a Singular Aboriginal Race Inhabiting the Summit of the Neilgherry Hills (London, 1832). They would be here when she got back; it was nice hot to have to look at them now. She would change her clothes, go off to work, and try to forget everything that had happened last night.
Holding her breath, she entered the kitchen, rinsed out a few glasses – no sense letting the repairman think she kept a dirty house – and wiped off the counter. In the living room she fastened back the curtains, wondering if it was safe to leave the old TV set unguarded, and decided that no one would want it anyway. If those workmen took anything, she could report them somewhere. She noticed several strands of black hair on the rug near the foot of the couch. There's always something of Rochelle's here, she thought, as she picked them up between two fingers and released them out the window. They drifted downward on the summer breeze, floating like a spiderweb.
The library, despite the heat, was unchanged from the day before; she felt as if she'd never left. There were fewer grad students this time of year, but their elders, those pale wraiths who haunted the long tables and magazine racks each day, took no notice of the season; they had no beaches or resorts to flee to when the weather grew warm. There were the usual piles of ragged-looking books to put away, and she did so silently for most of the afternoon, but her mind wasn't on her work. She was dunking of her apartment: of the super – how rude some men were, they certainly did what they pleased! – and of Jeremy, who'd made her feel so vulnerable. Was he laughing over her right this minute? Did he think of her at all? Maybe to him she was just another conquest. And she was, she told herself, there was no sense denying it; she had been conquered last night. She thought of Rosie – and quickly pushed the thought from her mind. He was the one man who treated her kindly; she didn't want to think about what she had seen in the restaurant last night, it was too ugly…
Later, as she patrolled the aisles of the children's section, she was almost able to put the restaurant incident from her mind. Mrs Schumann was reading Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales to a story group at the table in the corner. Carol passed by from time to time on he
r rounds and caught the tale in snatches: 'The Girl Who Trod on a Loaf.' No doubt the little monsters had specifically asked for that one. It was the most repellently bloody-minded of the lot: a little girl who pulled the wings off flies, and her bizarre punishment, standing helpless and frozen while these same insects crawled over her face and body.
She was glad to see that two little boys, at least, were having no part of such sick fantasies. They were crouched before the bottom shelf of the biology section, a shelf that, Carol knew, contained some junior-level health and medical texts. Strolling round the floor, she passed them twice; they appeared to be engrossed in an oversize anatomy book, their small, intense faces studying something hidden by its covers. Carol surmised, from the way one of them glanced guiltily over his shoulder at her the second time she walked by, that the two were searching for nude pictures; it was a common preoccupation among the children who used the library. The bank of fans atop the bookshelves hummed, and Mrs Schumann's voice continued to drone across the room, echoing like a memory.
On Carol's third round she noticed that the thinner of the two boys was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the other kneeling. She was debating whether to direct them to chairs – their pants were going to be filthy when they got up – when suddenly the larger of the two made a little dip of his head and fell forward onto the other boy, clutching him in a furious hug. In a second they were rolling over on the floor, grunting with exertion and tearing at one another's faces, the book tossed aside. Carol was bigger than they were – as the assistant supervisor had once reminded her – but not so much bigger that she was able to tear the two apart. She ran for Mrs Schumann, who stood up from the reading circle like some great plump monster rising from a pool, and together they managed to separate the two combatants. They were brothers, it turned out, fighting not over the volume on the floor but over a small pocketknife which each claimed as his own. The fight ended with the knife in Mrs Schumann's desk drawer, permanently confiscated, and the two boys warned not to set foot inside the library again without a note from their mother – a note which, both women knew, would never be produced.