by Sam Munson
7
I like winter. I like the cold. I like the monochrome sky. I like the festive secrecy that attends the season. Holiday parties, for example. I like nothing better. Supervised or anarchic. “I didn’t end up winning. I think of it as a learning experience.” So said Mary Agnes Ravapinto. Everyone called her Maggie. A contraction. “A learning experience,” I said. “That actually sounded pretty lame,” said Maggie, “I just meant that losing isn’t this catastrophe everybody’s always making it out to be.” She was talking about her failure in a third-grade spelling bee. Wearing a yellow dress and a white kerchief in her hair. We were standing in the kitchen of Simon Canary’s parents’ apartment. I was doing that thing where you lean against a wall on one arm while you’re talking to a girl. I’d seen it in a movie. I was glad Maggie was talking about spelling bees. Helped distract me. She’d taken off her green blouse and black bra the first time I hooked up with her. Olive skin. Dark, small, slightly cockeyed nipples. Areolae crumpled with the cold. In a spare bedroom in this apartment. I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I listened to her.
“So what’s new in the world of Michael Wood,” she said. That stumped me. I learned to fly. I met a group of weirdos who hang out in a secret basement and tried to kill me. Hob Callahan is one of them, actually, so he’s got that going for him: kind of a conversation stopper. Yet I didn’t want to lie. So I said, “I had to go pay tribute to Coach Madigan’s mother last week. She made cookies.” “Oh, cookies,” said Maggie. “Last time it was brownies, right? I hear they’re not fit for human consumption.” “She’s just an old lady,” I said, “she actually has snow-white hair.” Maggie went to Holy Agony. Which is a sister school to Saint Cyprian’s. So she knew about Coach Madigan and his helpless mother. When I was little, a boy, I thought “sister school” meant where your sisters went, since so many of my classmates had sisters at Holy Agony. This I also told Maggie. “Man, little kids are so literal,” she said, “it’s crazy that you grow up and figure out metaphors.” She had a red cup. I had a blue one. We clashed them together and drank. She had wine. It stained her tongue and lips. I was drinking tequila and pretending to enjoy it. That’s what Simon had managed to obtain. He was not a genius host. His parents both traveled a lot for their jobs—they were architects, he explained once, “but not for people”—and he lived in this massive apartment on Fifth and Ninety-Seventh. Top floor. Walls of windows. He had parties before major school vacations. He was not an indiscriminate weekend rager. Before Christmas, Easter, and the advent of summer we all at Saint Cyprian’s relied on him. You could see the great darkness of the park from his living room. Streetlamps. Bundled-up joggers beside the wall. Cop cars flashing their red-and-blue lights on the transverse.
“Hey, you think there’s a deck of cards,” I said. This part I could tell her. “People,” she said, “usually have one in their junk drawer.” Turned out to be true in the case of the Canaries, fancy architects though they were. We found loose batteries, twine, twenty or thirty blank keys, an orange rubber fingertip puppet of a grinning monster, and a deck of cards. “Okay, watch this,” I said. I shot the cards from my left hand to my right. Then back again. I fanned them open and closed. Theatrics, Erzmund called this. I riffle-shuffled them seven times. I’d had to practice this less than I’d guessed I would have to. Even making the cards arc hand to hand I mastered with relative ease. I showed her THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. With all the patter Erzmund advises. “In this way,” I said, “I demonstrate the unconquerable desire of the low to rise.” “Spooky,” said Maggie. Then I showed her CALLING MR. ASQUITH. A more serious sleight than THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. You need a handkerchief. Maggie took my request in stride and unbound her hair. “You sound like a guy at a carnival,” she said. CALLING MR. ASQUITH involves extensive narration. You have to tell, says Erzmund, a brief story about England on the eve of the First World War. You then ask an audience member to pick a card. Maggie chose. She was about to speak, say its name. Before she could, I instructed her to slip it back into the deck. After that, you shift it to the top (there’s a two-handed move for that) and palm it, wrap the deck up in the kerchief while going on with your story—“It was a time of great need for England,” I said, “the right man for the top job was nowhere to be found”—and leave an extra fold to hold the palmed card. It’s much harder than it sounds. If it fails, it looks atrocious. It worked, now: I said, “Calling Mr. Asquith,” and gave the kerchief a series of light shakes. When you do it right, the card the audience member picked seems to force its way up from the deck through the cloth of the handkerchief. I did it right. Sweat lined my brow but I did it right.
“Do you,” said Maggie, “like mind if I have that back.” I didn’t know what she meant at first. “I just don’t want to get any blood on it,” she said. Warmth on my upper lip. “Cool trick, though,” she said. Walked out of the kitchen, binding the cloth once more around her shining, tawny hair. Not what I’d expected. I grabbed a paper towel and cleaned my lip. I slipped the deck into my jacket pocket. The Canaries did not need it. I finished my tequila. Poured another. Drink and be merry, as the saying goes.
The party in full swing. “Wood,” called Simon Canary as I crossed his living room. “Great job on this one, man,” I said. A girl I didn’t know, tubby and blond, was dancing by herself in a corner. “Yo, check out Miss Piggy,” said Simon. He wasn’t wrong. The girl was wearing pink: sweater and skirt. It wasn’t even late enough to be dancing. “Did you hear about Gilder,” said Simon, “apparently he fended off these four guys. They tried to mug him. He kicked their asses.” I could tell from the way Simon said guys that Gilder had made the assailants black in his fake story. “Well, there you go,” I said. Simon pushed his long hair back behind his ears. He reeked, already, of weed. “You wanna smoke,” he said. He said this ten minutes into any conversation outside school. “I’m good,” I said. Over his shoulder, through the glass doors to his enormous terrace, I saw Maggie’s white kerchief shining. “Rock on,” said Simon. I told him I would.
Outside, bitter gusts. They moved the corners of Maggie’s kerchief. She’d put on her coat: bright blue. She was smoking. A regular cigarette. I had a bundle of Hob’s brand. I wasn’t sure about smoking them in front of strangers. She heard me approach. I was not at that time a master of stealth. “Listen,” she said, before I had said anything. She had her hands raised. As though in self-defense. “Okay,” I said. “It’s generally my experience,” she said, “that coked-up football players call you a slut behind your back.” “It’s not from coke,” I said. “Come on,” she said, “you still have a blood mustache and you’re going to stand there and lie to my face?” “It really isn’t, I don’t even smoke weed,” I said. Technically true. Vincent never mentioned anything about weed in the cigarettes he made. “Pipe tobacco, eyebright, rose petal. Other things. I learned it from my mother,” he’d told me. Maggie stopped talking. I waited to see if she would buy this. With the truth, you never know how it’s going to be received.
“Well,” said Maggie, “you’re still a huge nerd for trying that magic trick.” The truth wins out. Though not often. “I never pretended to be anything other than a nerd,” I said, “even though I play football. So it’s more like spiritual nerddom.” “You’re just digging your grave deeper,” said Maggie. She was starting to grin. She’d opened up her stance. Both good signs. “Card tricks. What am I, seven? You pedophile,” she said. I laughed. She was nakedly grinning. “At least I have a hobby,” I said. “That’s disgusting,” she said, and now she was laughing too. “Seriously though, how does it work,” she said. “Everybody asks me that,” I said. Nobody had ever asked me that. She was the third person I’d ever shown a sleight to. “I see I’m just an entry on your list,” she said. “More like I’m on your list,” I said. I had moved close enough to her to feel the warmth of her exposed neck. Flushed. From drinking. I think I was too. If two people have big, beaky noses, which both Maggie and I did, it makes it awkwa
rd to figure out how to start kissing. Her lips and tongue tasted like wine and ash. I worried that mine tasted like blood. She didn’t say anything.
My phone vibrated. I didn’t answer. “Maybe we should go inside,” I said. She nodded. She’d gotten quiet the last time, too. I didn’t mind. I like silence. She led me through the Canaries’ apartment. Simon was standing with Frank Santone and Peter Neal, and this kid from Nigeria called Wilton Opuwei. They were all taking hits from Simon’s famous bong, which was made of rose-pink glass. He called it the Optimist’s Bong. Coughing and howling with laughter. “Oh my god that is quite fine,” said Wilton. Maggie tightened her grip on my fingers. Down a hall. Dark and quiet. We leaned against the wall, our faces pressed into each other’s neck. I was drunk off the shitty tequila. Drink of innocence. Not in a bad way. Just the first celestial tinges of intoxication. “Hey,” she said, “we’re wasting time here.” At the end of the hall a dim, square room with one window, in which the moon shone. An eye, clear and stern. It was cold. Our breath even fogged. “Why is it so cold,” she said. “Man, rich people hate paying their bills,” I said, “I guess.” “Everyone forgets to pay what they owe,” she said, “it’s convenient like that.”
Her coat zipper stuck. I had to force it. “This cost me three months of saving up,” she said. “I won’t tear it,” I said, “my zippers get stuck all the time. I’m an expert.” I was. The door even had a lock button. A daybed stood against the wall with the window, its gray cushion and bolster whitened by moonlight. “Take it off,” she said. I did. My jacket. My shirt. She was unbuttoning her dress and thumbing down her tights. The moonlight whitened her skin. I covered my smile. “Don’t stare,” she said. My phone vibrated. I didn’t answer. “A man with an active social life, I see,” she said, and sat on the daybed. Arms spread along its bolster. “You look like you’re about to interview me for a job,” I said. “Maybe I am,” she said. She wore nothing now except grass-green underwear. I knelt at her feet to slide them off. I brushed my lips against her knee. She parted her thighs and pressed on the crown of my head. Four warm fingertips. “You owe me,” she said. “That’s true,” I said. Her handkerchief a white, white flag. I had never gone down on a girl before. I did not want her to know. “You’ve never gone down on anyone before, have you,” she said. “Nope,” I said. “Well, it’s not a mystery,” she said. That’s when the pounding began. On the door. Maggie grabbed a tasseled taupe blanket and wrapped her torso. Her shins and shoulders bare, her hair brushing her clavicles. More moonlight. I couldn’t stop looking. “See who it is,” she said. The knob shook. I dragged my shirt on. I said, “No one home.”
“More wit,” said the pounder. It was Alabama. I could tell by the dark-toned voice. “Can we reschedule this,” I said. “Nuh-uh,” said Alabama, “we need to talk.” “Would it be at all possible,” I said, “I mean, can you just come back later.” “An acquaintance,” said Maggie. “Who’s in there with you,” grated Alabama, “how could you do this to me.” Maggie had already redonned her dress. “Wait wait wait,” I said. “Fuck you, wait wait wait,” she said. “Is it that blond hussy,” Alabama said, “or the tennis player with the shapely thighs?” “Get out of my way,” said Maggie. I had to let go of the cold knob to let her pass. Alabama barged in. The door edge caught Maggie’s supraorbital ridge. “You shameless harlot,” said Alabama. “You really are disgusting,” said Maggie. Covering one eye. I’d expected a more visible show of pain. Even winced in sympathy. Although that science says you can’t help. Her stoicism impressed me. “He totally is,” said Alabama, “he’s a pervert of the first order.” “I had a really excellent time,” I told Maggie. I meant it. Way too late. Long gone. She turned at the hall’s end. Into the light and noise of the main party. Binding up her hair. Certain gestures you’ll always recall. “How did you get in here,” I said. “How do you think,” she said, “she’s hot, by the way. I would never have guessed.”
8
Snow. That’s the first thing I saw in the street. It had started to snow. “We’re going to that store,” I said. “Incorrect,” said Hob. He didn’t explain further. Neither did Alabama. “I didn’t even know you were coming to this party,” I told Hob. “I thought I should make my presence felt, for a few minutes at least,” he said. “Wood was just about to get laid, if you can believe it,” said Alabama.
She could make me blush. No one wants to blush. You feel weak. She had on a leather jacket and leather boots. Both about the color of her hair. When she moved, the hem of her jacket rode up and I saw the gun butt above the waistband of her jeans. Snow scraped my cheeks. “You’re armed,” I said. “Do they teach you anything else at that school other than mastering the obvious,” said Alabama. “No, actually,” said Hob. “She’s going to have a shiner, too,” said Alabama, “you better hope she doesn’t tell anyone you hit her.” “That would be sort of in keeping with the way things went back there generally,” I said, “you have to admit.” I explained about the door. “She’s never done anything ridiculous,” said Hob, “that I’ve seen. And her school is even worse than ours where the ridiculous is concerned.” “Oh, so now she’s some noble character,” said Alabama. Two crows took off from a snow-dusted mailbox. “It’s getting bad,” said Hob, “I’m glad we’re doing this tonight.” “I like you guys so I hope you won’t be offended if I say I had other plans,” I said. Hob released his odd, high laugh. He was hammered. “They only count as plans if they have a shot at working,” said Alabama. She was dead sober.
She made us stop to buy tangerines at the fruit store near the subway at Ninety-Sixth. Full of white light and the blazing colors of leaves and rinds. The guys who owned it were Turkish. A father and son. My mother bought fruit there. The blueberries for her pancakes. “Do you want,” Alabama said. I took one. “I don’t dig citrus fruits,” said Hob. “Who doesn’t dig citrus fruits,” I said. “This guy,” he said, and indicated himself with his thumbs. Even Alabama laughed. I ate my tangerine on the platform. The juice stung my cuticles. Cold air poured over my cheeks. A crack in the infrastructure. A snowflake or two. “Look at that,” said Hob, “they survived.” The train thundered in. As it slowed, Alabama tipped a salute to the conductor. Don’t hassle him: I was about to speak. But he responded, jerking his head backward. “Last car,” said Hob. When we reached the doors, I saw Charthouse waiting inside. “Logistical perfection,” he said, “we all strive for it.” He carried a black canvas bag in his left hand and the badger-head cane in his right. I could still smell Maggie’s perfume. Vincent sat behind him, legs extended, fanning open and closed a fresh deck of blue-back cards. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said when he saw me, “the daring young man on the flying trapeze.” “What is that supposed to mean,” I said. “You’re losing focus,” Charthouse said. And thus we got under way.
Between Spring and Canal, the car lights went out and the ventilation stopped roaring. Hob and Vincent stood by the rear door. The inset door window showed an endless vista of rails and glaring lights. They were throwing cards. “That can of seltzer,” said Vincent, and whipped his arm floorward with a grunt. The card whistled as it cut air. The discarded can of seltzer sang when the card struck. “An overhand motion makes you look unprofessional,” said Hob. Vincent gave him the deck. “Nature of things,” said Vincent. “You have to cave to your elders and betters.” “Dr. W.,” said Hob. He meant the ad for Dr. Waldengarten, dermatologist, near the opposite end of the car. He threw. He hit the doctor’s greasy, bland grin. Still whitely visible in the dimness. “So we’re tied,” said Vincent. The brakes shrilled. I lurched in my seat. Vincent fell on his hands. The cards splashed. “Due to a signal malfunction at Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall, we are currently experiencing delays on the four, five, and six lines,” the conductor droned over the speakers. “Come on, really,” I said. “Calm down,” said Hob. “Signs and wonders,” said Charthouse, rising from his seat. Alabama said, “Wood here’s just got blue balls, captain.” “Don’t we all, one way a
nd another,” said Charthouse. He trotted to the rear door, stepping on cards. “I just bought that deck,” said Vincent. “It’s two fifty,” said Charthouse as he opened the rear door. “Or it used to be.” A steel rod glinted in his hand.
“You don’t know what inflation is these days,” said Vincent. “Questions of monetary policy do not concern me,” said Charthouse. He handed Vincent a flashlight from the black bag. He gave us all flashlights. “Get moving,” said Charthouse. I did. I stumbled when I reached the track bed. My flashlight beam danced across the ties. One palm spattered a puddle of runoff. Scuttering and quiet cries. Rats or mice. “We appreciate your patience”: the conductor, again. You could hear the announcement outside the car as the light flickered back on and the train started to move. “Is this safe,” I said. “As long as we don’t dick around here too long, no question,” said Charthouse. The tunnel air didn’t stink. I assumed it would. Charthouse and Alabama light-scanned the walls. “Bingo,” said Alabama. Her cone of light showed an even deeper darkness. A black doorway. “Up and at ’em,” said Charthouse. We had to climb again, onto the access path. This time I didn’t stumble. Only enough room to stand single file. The door opened inward. More darkness. The air pouring out colder. “No need to be afraid,” said Vincent, “I’m right here.” Through a tight smile. I thought about punching him. Cracking him across the mouth with the barrel of the flashlight I’d retrieved. Industrial. Or a cop flashlight, maybe. I assumed Alabama would shoot me if I did. Instead I said: “That’s okay with me.” “Positive thinking,” said Charthouse, “is what I and others like to see.”