Walter Falls
Page 15
CHAPTER 15
I’ve been in my apartment a week now and mark my time by the familiarity of sounds: the footsteps of the fat man overhead as he shuffles across his floor; water running through the pipes whenever a toilet’s flushed; the comings and goings of other tenants; my radiator in a full convulsive hiss; the creaks and clangs and mélange of voices through the walls. Even the silence in between is recognizable, and when I wake now in the night—lonely and thinking of Gee—I no longer fumble about and wonder where I am, but sense instantly my emplacement.
Myrian comes each morning and evening to check on me. I appreciate her kindness and how generous she is even after Janus informed her of who I am. She brings me groceries, fruits and chips, assorted juice and soft drinks, lunch meats in white butcher shop paper, whiskey and ketchup, mayonnaise and fresh wheat bread for which I pay her, and insist, “Please, take some for yourself.” Already she’s helped unpack my books, my clothes and dishes, and arranged for a friend to sell me a second table on which I now have my phone, my notes, and pens. Despite her friendship with Tod, she remains sensitive to my needs, knows that I’m helpless and requiring of her care. (That I set aside money to pay off Tod’s debt makes her clemency easier, I’m sure, though I wasn’t the one to inform her of my gesture and we’ve yet to talk of it in detail.) In our conversations, Myrian is patient while I try to explain what brought me here. My account proves a poor narrative however, with no smooth transition from middle to end, and often I do nothing but show her the snapshot in my wallet of Gee and Rea. She stands beside me then for as long as I require, until I sigh and put the picture back.
Janus’s friendship with Tod complicates our involvement a bit more, though he, too, is generous by nature and makes every effort to be kind. That first afternoon as I broke down and was rescued by Myrian, Janus checked my heart, my eyes, and throat and pulse. He asked questions about my history, inquired as to the drugs I was given and continued to take, discussed my current discomforts and the symptoms of my attack, and after arranging to have my records forwarded to his clinic, retrieved a B12 supplement from his bag and gave me a shot. He then grabbed my coat, and pulling Myrian’s red knit cap down over my head, dragged me out into the street where he paced me twice around the block, his own fractured shuffle countered by my weight against his hip.
I find myself quieted in his presence, and appreciate how he continues to monitor my condition though he otherwise keeps a cordial distance. I wish we might sit and talk of something other than my health and while I don’t force this on him, I remain hopeful. There’s something in his stoic poise which intrigues me, the way his injured body seems to add rather than diminish from his grace and strength, how his eyes are set deep and dark like warm stones cast into a gentle pool. One morning, I asked Myrian about the accident that caused the damage to Janus’s leg, eye, and hand, and rather than answer, she replied, “That was before we met,” and said nothing else.
Yesterday, as Myrian worked the evening shift at the Appetency Café, Janus knocked on my door just after nine p.m. and inquired how I was getting on. I invited him in, offered him some tea, and assuming he’d come straight from the clinic, a sandwich with the meats and bread Myrian brought. “I want to thank you for checking in on me this way,” I said.
“You’ve only been out of the hospital a short while.”
“Still, my own doctors aren’t as conscientious. They haven’t once called. Plus, I know your friendship with Tod makes this awkward.”
“My relationship with Tod has nothing to do with whether or not I look in on you.”
“All the same.”
“If you’re doing all right then,” he stood a few feet inside the door, watching me in the kitchen. “No dizzy spells? No odd pains?”
“None at all.”
“And you’re getting outside?”
“I go for short walks.”
“Good. If there’s nothing else you need then.”
“What about your sandwich?” I held the plate in Janus’s direction, and after a moment he accepted. We went into the front room where he sat in the near chair, his head turning slowly as he surveyed the scene in front of him as if my presence remained a riddle. Seeing him this way, I decided to confess my own confusion, and said, “To tell the truth, I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here either.”
Janus stopped eating and glanced at me. “Aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, of course,” I cleared my throat, went back to the kitchen where I added a splash of whiskey to my tea. Janus eyed me from his chair and, holding out his cup, requested a bit of the same. I returned and sat on the couch where I asked about Tod and whatever he might have said about the situation. “I’m afraid we spoke in confidence,” Janus answered.
“Sure. I understand. I realize you’re friends. But Gee,” I said. “Did he say anything about my wife?”
Janus drank from his cup, his left hand with smashed fingers bent inward balancing his drink in the permanent curl of his forefinger and thumb. His reluctance to answer was frustrating and yet his air remained charitable, his eyes—as always—carried a note of sympathy. I stared at the floor, then up again, and with a further note of confession, said, “The thing of it is, I never expected any of this. And I sure as hell don’t know what to do now.”
Janus set his tea and whiskey down and for the first time I could remember asked me a question that did not concern my health. “What do you want to happen?”
I slid forward on the cushions of the couch, my shoulders curved and the arch of my back bowed, and answered in terms of recovery—both physical and otherwise; about perspective, yes; and the possibility of redemption, why not?—until all my words ran together and I tossed up my hands and admitted, “I don’t know. It’s one big blur. I thought I’d have it figured out by now, but I’ve been here a week and barely left my room and look at me. My first day and I collapsed and what does that tell you? Look how I rushed down here, all spastic and stumbling. Look how unfit and pathetic I showed up.”
Janus smiled and leaning toward me, close enough that I could see the measure of consolation in his eyes, said, “How one arrives is never so important.” The largess of his statement wasn’t lost on me, the kindness and willingness to encourage me greatly appreciated, and comforted, I nodded and answered then, “Yes, of course.”
Myrian sits on the couch inside Janus’s apartment, fresh from her shift at the Appetency Café and with Janus beside her, the book he’s reading, The Deltoid Pumpkin Seed by John McPhee, now closed. His apartment is smaller, a studio with only two rooms plus the bath. The main room is arranged neatly with newspapers stacked in wooden crates to the left of the door, books and journals, articles clipped or copied from select publications placed inside three separate sets of shelves. “A Painting of Pears”—in homage to Josef Albers—by Myrian Cale, hangs on the front wall. The couch is an ancient piece of furniture purchased third hand years ago—flat brown cushions, tortoise-shell tacks, and thick wooden legs—with a metal standing lamp and dark steamer trunk stationed nearby. “So? Myrian asks. “He seems OK?”
“He’s fine.”
“I’m glad you kept him company.”
“I stuck my head in, he made me a sandwich.”
“I think it’s sweet,” she leans against his shoulder, touches the curl of hair dangling behind his ear. “I wouldn’t have expected, but I like him.”
“He’s likeable enough in his neutered state.”
“Janus,” she slaps at the side of his head. “He’s been in the hospital, not to the vet’s.”
“Renton General,” he winks, and barks, “Aarf, aarf, aarf!”
“You’re incorrigible,” she slides away, laughs, and adds, “I think he’s truly sorry about what happened.”
“Perhaps.”
“Everyone makes mistakes. Not everyone’s remorseful.”
Janus sets his book down on the floor, brings his bad leg up onto the couch, and massages the ache in his calf. He considers Myria
n’s comment, wonders if it’s worth remarking further, then says, “He wants his wife back. This is what feeds his contrition.”
“That’s alright. At least he’s not defending what he did.”
“It’s true.”
“And don’t you think his being here proves something?”
Again, “Perhaps.”
Myrian frowns. “You’d be more sympathetic if Tod wasn’t involved.”
“My sympathy isn’t the point.”
“I think he regrets more than losing his wife.”
“I do, too.”
“Then why are you being so hard on him?”
“I’m not,” Janus rubs further down his leg, toward his ankle and foot. The light from the lamp falls over his right shoulder, finds its way to Myrian who sits with her hands in her lap. Janus studies her profile, speaks softly while explaining his opinion of Walter. “He’s obviously come here looking for a way to unburden himself. That’s fine. I don’t see anything wrong with it, but when he starts asking questions.”
“You don’t think he has a right to ask?”
“Sure I do. That doesn’t mean it’s my place to answer.”
“But don’t you think it makes a difference whether or not they’re sleeping together?”
“In terms of what Walter did? As for what’s justified and what isn’t? I don’t know. I can’t answer that.”
“Oh really?” Myrian reaches for Janus’s bent hand, kisses the crushed knuckles while staring over the top, and says, “Since when?”
CHAPTER 16
Next door to Myrian’s apartment, Martin Kulpepper stands with his ear pressed and head turned like a dog to a whistle, listening as best he can. In the early evening, in the morning, and again late at night, he hopes to catch her laughing—how he loves the sound!—and otherwise settles for the sweet inflection of her voice as it echoes nearby. His devotion to the auditory tapestry, the notes and chords that compose her sonance, her phone calls and visits from friends, how she sings to the radio, and speaks with old Janus Kelly is constant and Martin never tires of listening to Myrian’s voice transmitted through the wall.
Several crates of photographs and a sampling of glossy picture magazines are placed about the room. At twenty-seven, Martin is a thin vole-like creature with a long nose, dark grey eyes, small pointed ears, and a patchy moustache. (Last year, before moving into Myrian’s building, he rented a room at the Red Sky Motel where the sounds through the walls were more feral and kept him up late at night.) He came from Boston to take a new position as a claims adjuster at Great Mercantile Insurance, certain untoward events leading him to Renton, where he looked forward to getting a fresh start. Working the files for GMI paid the bills, but Martin’s real ambition was photography and he spent all his free time trolling the streets with his old Mamiya, snapping pictures and sending his best shots to newspapers and magazines, which rejected his efforts as a matter of course.
While still living in Boston, on his way to work each morning, Martin ate breakfast at Abelman’s Diner where Donna Neilbrite waited tables on the early shift. A pretty girl, slightly shy with narrow shoulders and smooth, pale arms so thin they seemed without bones, Martin was amazed by Donna’s ability to manage the heavy trays; her movements more natural somehow when set beneath the weight, for she looked otherwise confused—like a quill tossed about in a high wind—when nothing of substance was there to hold her down. Martin hesitated several weeks, then finally invited her to dinner. They began dating and he took her with him as he shot photographs of the city at night. He brought her to his apartment where she looked through his pictures and listened to him talk about such things as color fidelity, ISO ratings, focal lengths, apertures and shutter speeds, exposure and parallax compensating projected framelines. They made love with the lights on; Martin said he liked to look at her, to keep her there in front of his eyes like a photograph by Kith Tsang. Eager to please, attracted to the sweet insistence of his passion, Donna was comforted by his attentiveness, secure within his single-mindedness—for she believed serious men were less inclined to deviate in their commitment than those otherwise undevoted boys—which in turn inspired her sense of trust.
When he asked her to pose for him then, she agreed. He shot her first while she worked at the diner, and later in more intimate detail; partial and complete nudes as Martin was eager to try. That fall, he approached her with the suggestion that she assist him in taking his vision to a higher plane, and pose for him alongside two male graduate students who’d already agreed to the shoot. Donna hesitated, until the weight of Martin’s persuasion settled over her and she felt safe again in his assurance that, “There’s nothing wrong, really. It’s all for art.”
That night, the apartment was lit by lamps stocked with bright white bulbs. A blanket was laid out in the center of the floor, the old beige couch pushed to the side. Martin posed his models in studied frames, managed and monitored shadow and light, and only as the first roll of film was shot did he loosen the reins. Stationed behind his camera, eager to observe where things went on their own, he no longer orchestrated the scene, and setting the shudder speed accordingly, encouraged Donna to “Go with it,” while pouring whiskey for her and the boys who exposed and opened and guided her down.
Afterward, with the two students gone and Martin disappearing into his darkroom—a closet with one narrow table, two pans of chemicals and water, a clothesline and clips—Donna sat in the front room, still slightly drunk and wearing Martin’s brown terry-cloth robe. She finished her cigarette, then went off to shower, rubbing her body where the boys’ hands had been, rinsing her mouth, and cleaning herself between her legs. Warm water disappeared down the drain. She shut off the shower, and wrapped once more inside the brown robe, returned to the front room. The light from beneath the door of Martin’s closet let her know he’d finished developing what shots he wished to review that night, and refolding the blanket while pulling the furniture back around, she felt desperately in need of reassurance. She was not so naive as to think life was ever simple enough to be explained one way and not another, and still she hoped—just this once—what happened would remain consistent with her faith.
Anxious then, her arms threatening to float up above her head if she didn’t find something else to weigh them down, she reached for the handle on Martin’s darkroom door. Involved as he was however, still standing before the pictures he’d developed, his right hand gliding while his eyes devoured the images of the three bodies entangled, he didn’t hear her and only as Donna called out, the fragile wires holding her together becoming dissevered as she stumbled back into the hall, did Martin spin around in full exposure to the glory of his art.
A whiskey glass broke on the hardwood as Donna rushed through the front room, sharp slivers slicing her bare feet as Martin bent quickly to pull up his jeans and run after her. He caught hold of her sleeve, but the robe parted easily and she slid free, naked again and gliding on an invisible tide toward the window. Untethered, stumbling still as her hands came up and appeared for all the world to be preparing her for flight, she crashed against the pane of glass, shattering it as the shards cut deep into her flesh, her wrists and belly stained at once with a mix of tissue and a dark outpouring of blood.
Angry, Martin wrapped Donna’s arms tight in towels, then called for an ambulance which came ten minutes later; her coloring so pale by then she looked for all the world like a porcelain doll. How they managed to save her, to sew her veins and fill her once again with blood, then dope her so she couldn’t decide their effort was futile and slip away for good, was a sign—Martin believed—of better things to come. He hid the photographs before the ambulance arrived, and to those who required an explanation, said that Donna tripped on her way from bed to retrieve a drink in the kitchen. Her nakedness resolved, he repeated for everyone who chose to listen, “It was an accident, that’s all.”
Donna left town and went to stay in Scarsdale with her mother. Restless, convinced the photographs were his
finest work yet and determined to place them with a gallery outside the city, Martin blamed Donna for retarding his career and being a much too sensitive and narrow-minded girl. The bloodstain on the floor of his apartment made him uncomfortable nonetheless, and thinking perhaps it might be time for a change of scene, he made a number of calls. When an opening in Adjustment and Fraud at GMI came up and his supervisor at Boston Peneltone Insurance provided a strong recommendation, he eagerly drove the 400 miles to Renton, where he arrived on a crisp winter day.
His room at the Red Sky Motel was small and poorly insulated and he planned to hunt for a cheap apartment as soon as he had enough cash. He did not think of Donna much anymore, did not call or write, and felt it best to leave the past dead. The couple next door were a loud and libidinous pair, full of pranks and uproar, and intrigued by the short, murine-faced man with the fancy old camera, they invited him in for a drink and to regale them with his art.
Two days after my conversation with Janus, Myrian invited me to keep her company as she painted the front wall at Peterson’s Pancake House. I was feeling slightly better, my fever more sporadic and my aches less severe, though I was still weak and times I thought of Gee and Rea brought me as close as ever to despair.
We left early in the morning, all of Myrian’s supplies—her paints and pastels and dozens of old brushes, the drop cloth and tin of turpentine, sketch pad, charcoal, and several buckets and pans—already stowed away in Janus’s old car. I dressed in warm slacks, a flannel shirt and sweater, a blue down jacket, brown gloves, and black buckle boots that Janus loaned me. Myrian monitored my exertion as we arrived at Peterson’s and began to unpack. I was given the empty buckets and brushes to carry first, and once the drop cloth, awkward and surprisingly heavy, and the remaining paints and pans were unloaded, I rested from my effort in one of the wooden chairs.