This Other Eden

by Michael Hemmingson

  “"Oh she might.”"

  He wasn’t tempted, even though his sex life with Ivy was practically non-existent. He hadn’t really thought about this until now: here in some crappy room in the asshole of New York smoking crack with three whores while a fourth sucked on Paul’s cock. He took some pictures. Paul smiled and waved to the camera.

  The excursion ended when Twenty and some of his buddies surrounded Edmond and Paul and demanded money.

  “"You don’t want to do this,”" Paul said.

  “"I have to do this, white boy,”" Twenty said. “"We sick of yo’ asses. Whada fuck’s up with you white boys? Gimme yo’ cash.”"

  “"Look,”" Paul said.

  “"You look,”" said Twenty, “"gimme yo’ money or me and my homies here gonna fuck yo’ shit up.”"

  Paul sighed and gave Twenty what he had; about a hundred bucks.

  “"All I have is this,”" and Edmond handed over a five and two ones.

  “"Whadda fuck?”" said Twenty. “"Gimme the camera.”"

  “"You don’t need a camera,”" Paul said.

  “"I can sell the shit,”" said Twenty.

  “"No,”" Edmond said.

  “"Let’s fuck em up,”" one of Twenty’s homies said.

  Paul roared like a Viking, lunged after Twenty’s crew. They all ran away except Twenty, saying: “"Crazy white fucker!”" Twenty tried to grab Edmond’s camera and Paul punched him on the side of the head. Twenty pulled out a small knife and stabbed Paul in the gut. Paul punched Twenty in the face, breaking Twenty’s nose. “"I want my money back,”" Paul said. Twenty dropped the cash and muttered something about revenge, and walked away with a defiant bounce.

  Paul touched his abdomen and said, “"Ouch.”"

  “"You okay?”"

  “"My jacket took most the blade. It’s just a flesh wound.”"

  Paul didn’t want to go to the police or the hospital. They took a cab to Paul’s apartment. The wound wasn’t deep and had stopped bleeding. Paul applied a small towel and gauze to himself and told Edmond he wanted to get drunk. Edmond needed a drink; he was still shaking. Paul brought out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. The two sat and drank and talked about their lives. Paul explained what happened to his older sister, how he searched for her in Hollywood and became acquainted with the whores. He almost told Edmond about what happened to Ivy, the guy who raped her - —it almost slipped out. He stopped himself. He couldn’t do it. He would betray Ivy if he did. Ivy was violated and there was no justice. He decided he had to do something about the injustice.

  “"I should go home,”" Edmond said.

  “"You should,”" Paul said; “"you have a very beautiful, very precious woman waiting for you at home.”"

  Looking at Ivy Sleeping

  Edmond thought she was so goddamn beautiful in a painful way; asleep or awake, he always felt this for her and this made him very sad because something wasn’t right between them.

  In the morning, Ivy asked, “"So what did you and Paul do last night?”"

  He said, “"Nothing really.”"

  Ivy said, “"Why don’t I believe that?

  Dreaming of Thailand

  Paul had looked up where Mark lived back when Ivy had confessed her pain to him. Just in case he does it again, Paul had told himself. Mark was not home. Paul waited, leaning against a tree, staying in the shadows. At three a.m., a drunk man in a suit and overcoat stumbled down the street, walked up to the building. Paul was watching. Paul approached the man.

  “"Hey there, hello.”"

  Mark turned. “"Hello.”"

  “"Excuse me, but are you Mark”"

  “"Do I know you”"

  Paul stood close. “"Are you Mark Gerrick”"

  Mark was drunk and was not afraid. “"Yeah, I am.”"

  “"That’s all I wanted to know,”" said Paul, “"I didn’t want to do what I am about to do to the wrong man.”"

  “"Do what, big guy”"

  “"This.”"

  Paul head-butted Mark Gerrick. Mark fell back. Paul punched Mark in the face, and then the chest. Mark went down. Paul threw Mark down the stairs and onto the pavement. He knelt down, his knee on Mark’s Chest.

  “"This is for Ivy,”" Paul said. He proceeded to break several fingers on Mark’s right hand, and then his left. He did this fast. Then he broke both of Mark’s wrists. Mark screamed loudly.

  “"Let’s see you make phone calls and sell junk bonds this way,”" Paul said. He grabbed Mark’s head and smashed it on the sidewalk twice. Mark’s eyed rolled into the back of his head and he was unconscious. Or dead. There was a lot of blood seeping out of his skull. People were looking out their windows. Paul got up and walked away, fast. He could hear sirens. Blood was on his hands. He kept them in his pockets and walked down the nearest subway entrance on the street.,

  In the morning, he flew to Thailand. Paul wanted to take Edmond to the special land “'where the girls are so young and pretty it’s baby pussy heaven.”' Paul had returned to Thailand many times since his first visit and his first book. Any time he could get a magazine or newspaper to foot the bill, he was on a jet. Ivy thought Edmond should go. —“"Yyou should expand your horizons, see the world,”" she’d said, although she’d never been out of the country herself.

  In Bangkok, Paul would take Edmond to all the bars where a man could find Thai whores. They would have fun. Edmond would learn that many of these girls usually didn’t make it past the age of twenty; they were either murdered or contracted AIDS. The whores would be cheap and resplendent and they would be happy and ignorant and only want sex all the time. Edmond would wake up in the middle of a hot sticky night with two girls sleeping under each arm; he would still be high from whatever it was he’d been smoking - —opium or a weird native plant that made him fuck like a bull. In the morning he would think it was all a dream because the girls were gone; then he’d discover the girls in the other room with Paul, one sucking Paul’s cock and the other licking Paul’s ass.

  “"You join us!”" the girls would say. “"Join us we have fun!”"

  Yes, that is what would have happened—and they would return to the United States, Edmond back to his beautiful, fragile woman and Paul back to his ugly, insipid loneliness.

  But Edmond didn’t go to Thailand; he didn’t go anywhere.

  Where He Was the Day it Happened

  Martin Tucker was in a hotel room two blocks away and having sex with a married woman when the first jet hit the World Trade Center. He looked up and said, “"What was that?”"

  The married woman, Sharon, said, “"Tuck?”"

  Some people called him Tuck.

  They both went to the window and looked. They were on the tenth floor of the downtown hotel with a good view of the World Trade Center.

  “"Something happened,”" Sharon said.

  She wanted to continue fucking but he wasn’t in the mood; when the second jet hit the WTC, he saw it. He was looking out the window and he saw it coming. Sharon was putting her black underwear back on. He witnessed the explosion and the fire. The hotel shook and Martin Tucker, who hadn’t felt fear in a very long time (he hadn’t even felt good in a long time) was terrified and worried and said, “"Sharon, get your clothes on,”" and they got the hell out of the hotel. When they were finally on the street, the WTC came crashing down and people were screaming among the smoke and dust and debris and human bodies and the pieces of human bodies flying in the air. Sharon let go of his hand and she ran; she ran away from him, probably back to her husband, Curtis.

  Martin was alone.

  ***

  Sharon had called his cell phone at eight a.m.

  “"I don’t have anything on my calendar this morning,”" she said.

  “"I don’t have to be in court until one,”" she said.

  “"Let’s get a hotel room and fuck all morning,”" she said.

  She was a lawyer, thirty-seven, married, having an affair. He was an editor, forty-one, divorced, and he didn’t have
anything pressing to do besides a sales meeting at three.

  He’d said, “"Sure.”"

  They’d gone to their favorite hotel downtown.

  “"You should just leave Curtis,”" Tucker had said when they were getting undressed.

  “"And do what?”" Sharon had said. “"Be with you?”"

  He’d shrugged.

  “"Somehow I don’t think you’re want to get back into a relationship,”" she’d said.

  “"You have a point.”"

  “"I like this arrangement.”"

  “"It’s a pretty good arrangement.”"

  He liked sneaking to hotel rooms in the morning and engaging in rough sex. That’s what they were doing when the first jet slammed into the WTC.

  ***

  ***

  So many people running and screaming reminded him of the Godzilla movies. He didn’t realize he was covered in soot until he looked at his hand and saw the gray.

  His cell phone rang.

  “"Daddy?”" his ten-year-old daughter’s voice said.

  “"Cassandra,”" he said.

  “"Daddy, what’s going on?”"

  “"Where are you?”" he asked.

  “"School.”" She was on her Nokia. He’d bought it for her ninth birthday. “"I’m leaving. I don’t want to stay here. I’m going to get a taxi and go home.”"

  “"You do that,”" he said. “"You go home.”"

  “"Will you come see me?”"

  “"I will,”" he said. “"I will immediately.”"

  ***

  He didn’t know what to do and he wasn’t quite sure where he was going; so much confusion and madness - car alarms going off, dust-covered frightened people running. A man sat on a curb and spoke in a thick Long Island accent:

  “"Oh my God oh my God oh my God.”"

  ***

  Tucker walked back to his office at the publishing company. His office was on the eighth floor. Radios were on; the news was coming in from all sources, even from Howard Stern. He thought that was funny.

  No one said hello to him; no one knew he’d stepped out. He went into his office and sat down. He looked at his desk and thought: ‘There’s too much paper in the world.’

  His assistant, Brenda Cavuto, walked in. Her mascara was smeared; the only times he ever saw her with smeared mascara was after he fucked her. He felt like crap. He knew he had no business going to bed with Brenda, a twenty-two-year-old woman with too many idealistic notions about the publishing industry. Many times he had hired young women fresh out of college, always knowing it was a bad idea because he was hiring them with the intent of fucking them. So he would fuck them, and the young women would go off and do something else; get married or an editorial jobs at another house.

  Brenda said, “"Tuck, where were you?”"

  “"The world is going crazy,”" he said.

  “"I’m scared.”"

  “"I know.”"

  “"Are you scared?”" she asked.

  “"I don’t know what I am,”" he said.

  “"Will you hold me?”" she said.

  “"Yes,”" he said, “"I will.”"

  She curled up in his lap. She was a heavy girl, or he was an old man who couldn’t hold a girl like he used to. He grabbed her legs; she pressed her face into his neck and cried mascara on his skin.

  ***

  It wasn’t easy to get a cab. Martin finally managed to hail one to take him to his former home on West End Avenue. He looked up at the building that he used to call home. Pieter, the Russian doorman, was there. Pieter was crying.

  “"Mr. Tucker,”" Pieter said. “"Mr. Tucker, you’re not supposed to be here, are you?”"

  “"How are you?”" Martin asked. “"What’s wrong?”"

  “"I was a soldier in Chechnya,”" Pieter said.

  “"Yes,”" Martin said.

  “"I came to America to get away from these kind of bad things,”" Pieter said. “"And now the shit has followed me here!”"

  “"Listen,”" Martin said, “"I need to see my daughter. Cassandra. Casey, you know. I told her I would.”"

  “"She came home half an hour ago.”"

  “"I know I’m not supposed to be here, Pieter...”"

  The doorman nodded. “"I understand. I understand very much.”"

  Cassandra was shaking. “"Oh Daddy,”" she went, and leapt into his arms, and buried her small face into his neck.

  “"Baby girl,”" he said, “"little one - it’s okay.”"

  He looked around. There was no sign of Francesca. He asked, “"Where’s your mother?”"

  “"I don’t know.”"

  Martin let Cassandra down, onto her feet. “"You don’t know?”"

  “"I’ve been trying to call her cell phone. She’s not answering.”"

  Martin didn’t know how he felt about this. Francesca wrote content for a big web site.

  “"Daddy?”"

  “"I’m sure she’s all right.”"

  “"Are you all right?”"

  He had to think about that.

  “"Yes,”" he said, “"I believe I am.”"

  They sat down in the living room and watched the news on TV. Every channel had coverage of the jets crashing into the WTC and the towers coming down. Cassandra held his hand, and every time she saw another shot of the plane smashing into a tower, she squeaked and tightened her grip.

  Martin didn’t know if it was a good idea, letting Cassandra watch the carnage. How could he keep it away from her? The whole world was watching, and his daughter had lived through the horror of his divorce.

  “"What the fuck, Tuck?”"

  Francesca had walked in, her hair sticking up, her eyes darting back and forth; she saw at Martin and Cassandra sitting together, holding hands.

  “"Mommy!”" Cassandra said, a scowl on her small face. “"Don’t be mean!”"

  “"What are you doing here, Tuck?”"

  He said, “"I’m glad you’re alive and well, too, Fran.”"

  “"What are you doing here,”" Francesca said, stamping her foot, “"what are you doing here, you’re not supposed to be here, you’re not supposed to even set foot in here unless it’s visitation day, and it’s not visitation day. This is against the court order, Tuck. What do I have to do? What do I have to do? Call the police?”"

  “"I think the police are busy right now.”"

  “"What?”"

  “"What? Don’t you know what’s going on?”"

  He pointed to the TV.

  “"Do I know what’s going on?”" Francesca said. “"Look at me! Just look at me! Of course I know what’s going on! What I want to know is what the hell gives you the idea that you can just come into my home! Like you still live here or something…”"

  Cassandra screamed, “"I asked him to come here!”"

  “"That’s not right,”" Francesca said to her daughter, “"you know that’s not right! You had no business asking this bastard to come here at a horrible time like this! I have friends who work in those buildings!”"

  Cassandra screamed again ran to her mother and said, “"You bad Mommy,!”" and punched her mother in the stomach. The girl put her weight into the swing. Francesca gasped and stepped three steps back. She looked like she’d been stabbed.

  Martin got between the two to avert any further violence.

  “"Enough,”" he said.

  “"Oh my God,”" Francesca said: very, very softly.

  “"I fucking hate you both,”" Cassandra said.

  ***

  Martin Tucker left the building. He said goodbye to Pieter the doorman, but Pieter was staring at the wall, listening to the news on a small portable radio. The air was thick with godlessness.

  He thought of Sharon. He hoped she was all right. He called her cell phone on his cell phone. It took five times; he kept hearing an electronic voice say: “"We’re sorry, but all circuits are busy.”"

  Sharon answered on the third ring.

  “"It’s me,”" he said.

  “"Hi,”" she said.


  “"Where are you?”"

  “"Home.”"

  “"Are you—okay?”"

  “"I’m in the bathroom.”" Her voice was low. “"Curtis is here.”"

  “"How is he?”"

  “"He knows.”"

  “"What’s that?”"

  “"I said he knows. About us. He always did. Who did I think I was fooling?”" she said.

  “"I’m the fool,”" she said.

  “"It’s all so crazy,”" he said. “"We saw it happen from the window.”"

  “"He said he still loved me.”"

  “"We had no idea...”"

  “"Despite what I did to him, he still loves me. He says he understands. How can he understand?”"

  “"A lot of people are dead.”"

  “"We can’t see each other, not after this,”" Sharon said. She hung up. He didn’t know it because he was watching the commotion across the street. Half a dozen men were pulling a cab driver from his car, —the driver was dark-skinned, wore a turban and a beard. The men were all blaming the driver. Martin ran over to the scene; he said, “"Wait, don’t,”" and someone said, “"What, you love these sand-niggers?”"

  Aand the cab driver with the turban was shrieking, “"Fuck you! Fuck you Americans! You had this coming!”" and

  Martin found himself kicking the cab driver. The cab driver was bleeding; his teeth were on the street.

  He hadn’t felt so good in months.

  Now That I Know What Happened, Could You Hold Me, Please, and

  Say tThis is Love?

  All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.

  ---Tolstoy

  I.

  I was between jobs and I felt just awful. Karin wasn't happy. We were surviving on her paychecks. It's not easy for two people to live on one income.

  I was sitting in my car, smoking a cigarette and sipping from a half-pint of Teacher's. The car was parked in the grocery store lot. Karin had given me two $20 bills and said, ""Go get us some groceries, enough for the week, so we won't starve to death."" She always sent me grocery shopping. I was good at finding the best bargains and stretching a buck.