by Ron Savage
Well. One question. “What’s…your name,” she asked.
“Edward,” said Snatch, the first name that came to mind.
“I’m Dora.”
“Will you wait with me, Dora?”
“My employer, he’s…he’s a doctor.”
“Only a moment.”
In less than five minutes, Snatch lifted himself from the cobblestone alley, Dora bracing his left arm, her expression a mix of concern and amazement. He bent the leg and gave it weight.
She insisted the doctor examine him. Snatch didn’t object. The thought of losing her hadn’t been an option.
The home where Dora worked as a housekeeper was a thirty-two room mansion on Fourth Street, between Delancey and Cypress, the residence of Philip Syng Physick. According to Dora, her employer had single-handedly abolished a yellow fever epidemic about twenty years ago—1792 or three, she thought. Snatch found him to be an annoying little man with bad skin and a worse personality, who refused to believe his leg had been broken. Instead of crippling Physick—his first choice—he’d gone into the doctor’s mind and worked an invitation to stay in the mansion.
The servants quarters.
Two rooms from Dora.
Who could’ve conceived it? This profound obsession. They spent their days walking the streets of Philadelphia; Dora, her arm looped through his, showing off her city, attending to his curiosity about men and women. And at last, that night in his room, revealing himself in a matter-of-fact way: as Dora searched for fire to light the candles, Snatch had waved his hand, wicks and fireplace smoldered into flame. He never forgot the knowing look on her face, the half-smile. Their shadows covered the ceiling, walls and floor. He watched her white cotton nightgown fall to her ankles; gazed at her naked body, the skin tinted with flickering gold, a beauty that pulled the air from him.
What were these crimes, exactly, the ones his friend couldn’t bear?
Dora had become pregnant.
Why didn’t you admit your jealousy, Benjamin? I just wanted to see my son, to hold the boy, to tell his mother how much I loved her.
Instead, Snatch had been cast down. The abyss. He did go back to Philadelphia—many years later—and he sat next to Dora’s grave for days.
The child was an old man by that time. Or dead.
…my son.
TWO
1977
Philadelphia
I
Nobody ever went to school on the first real spring day, right?
Well…hardly anybody.
Simon had caught the subway at Broad and Olney, heading toward Center City, figuring he’d spend a couple of hours hanging out, maybe at the Ben Franklin Institute with all that neat-as-crap science stuff. The giant heart was totally amazing, like you could walk through the thing and sit there and look at the blood.
No kidding. Hear it, too.
thudie-thud
thudie-thud
Every twelve-year-old kid he knew went downtown alone, or maybe with a couple of other kids, everyone but him—pretty embarrassing. His mother had this protection number going on. Her favorite saying was, You’ll poke your eye out, Sy. Didn’t matter with what. Take Saturday night, for instance. His cousin Eileen slept over, and they were batting one another with pillows—you know, like pillows—and his obsessing mother yelled from the living room, Enough, you two, you’ll poke your eyes out! How do you do that with a dumb pillow, for God’s sake?
Take a Valium; get a life.
The subway clattered and rocked, moving away from the station slowly, then picking up speed and entering the tunnel.
Simon had seated himself in the last car, staring out the window, the glass with the blackness of the tunnel reflecting a pale, thin face and stringy brown hair that went past his shoulders. Spaghetti hair. An additional motherly concern, Stop hiding in your spaghetti hair. Look at my child, the boy HIDES in his hair. What’s the problem, Sy? The world won’t bite you. And to Simon’s father, He has no friends, Max. Who’s he got? That fat one, Virgil What’s-His-Name, and Eileen? It’s not NORmal. We’re raising a recluse. The boy’s simply NOT well-rounded.
He saw another reflection, a girl close to his age, maybe a year older, sitting across the aisle; the two of them, the only passengers.
She met Simon’s glance with a quick nervous smile, and he immediately gazed down at the floor.
The boy HIDES…
Really nice looking, he thought, feeling his mouth go dry.
The girl wore a gray parochial uniform—maybe Little Flower in West Philly—her hair curled, teased, sprayed, peroxide yellow and dark roots; eyeliner framing green eyes. Yeah, had to be West Philly. And fourteen, easy.
He glanced up, again.
“They’re gonna kill me, “ she said, fingering a strand of hair. “I stayed over my girlfriend’s last night and like I’m amazingly late.”
Simon felt his upper lip sticking to his teeth, so he nodded.
The boy’s NOT well-rounded.
Even after she told him her name—Mary Kathleen—leaving a reciprocal though unfilled pause for his own introduction; even after she said that, yes, she actually did attend Little Flower, he barely managed a couple of uh-huhs.
Uh-huh. What’s the problem, Sy?
Uh-huh. The world won’t bite you.
Who cared.
West Philly girls had conversations by themselves. This was a known fact. You could say, “Hey, look, my arm just dropped off,” and they’d sit there, like critically examining their nails or something, talking blah blah blah, and you might as well be invisible.
We’re raising a recluse.
He has no friends, Max.
Simon had concluded that living in the world was probably not a whole lot different thanliving at home. And being alone seemed preferable to invisibility, most of his spare time spent drawing or painting, especially DC Comics heroes like Green Lantern and Superman. He’d planned to live in New York and get a job with DC, maybe after his eighteenth birthday, a secret shared only with Virgil.
That fat one…
Simon looked up as the girl on the subway crossed her legs, pretty calves, though a bit on the skinny side, but her knees were perfect, pale white and no scars.
Mary Kathleen was studying him. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirteen,” he muttered, adding a hopefully impressive extra year, hearing dry lips popping away from his teeth.
“You cutting today, or what?”
“Yeah.”
“God, I’m so psychic.”
The subway stopped at Fairmount; two boys got on, fifteen or sixteen, Simon guessed, not that he gave a crap, both laughing, one slapping the other one on the back, and they slumped into the seats opposite Mary Kathleen, who turned her head from them, pretending indifference. When the taller, older boy began making an audible kissing noise—his friend snickering—she stood and walked, gracefully, aristocratically, sitting beside Simon and taking his hand. But Mary Kathleen ignored him, too. She crossed her legs again, her left flattie clicking against her bare heel. Simon felt the cool dampness of her palm; felt the air around him grow thick and warm. She smelled like sugar cookies.
I don’t need this, he thought. Should’ve gone to school. They’re gonna hurt us, and Miss Little Flower couldn’t care less about whose hand she’s holdin’. God, mother’ll ground me ‘til I’m thirty…if I don’t die. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“…some morning pussy,” the older one said, standing.
“Hey, Alvin, what’re you doin’, man?”
“Shut the fuck up, Bud. Just because you’re a faggot—”
“Don’t be bothering the girl, man.”
“Blow me,” said Alvin, grabbing his crotch. He stared at Mary Kathleen. “Or maybe she’d like to blow me. Whatdaya say? You wanna blow me?”
Simon saw Mary Kathleen’s cheeks bloom red.
Aww, God…
Aww, crap…
You don’t owe this girl shit.
Do NOT get into the guy�
��s business.
Alvin looked at Simon. “You don’t have a problem with your girlfriend givin’ me a friendly blow job, do’ya?”
Repeat: do NOT get into—
“Yo, Asshole, I’m talkin’ to you.”
The teenager was perhaps five-ten, six feet—taller than Simon by at least five inches and nothing to mess with—huge shoulders, his black hair long and greased back, the beginnings of a beard on his chin.
Get out at the next stop. Wait for the doors to close, that whooshing sound, then run. ForGET the girl. You don’t mean anything to her.
Alvin grinned, crooked front teeth, mossy green about the gums; and the boy leaned in, Simon smelling the odor of cigarettes, noticing the zits that speckled his forehead.
“You scared, asshole?”
No answer.
A narrow steel blade popped up from the top of the kid’s fist. He put its tip to Simon’s throat. “What ‘bout now?” Alvin said quietly. “…scared now?”
Simon felt Mary Kathleen’s grip tighten. He couldn’t find a breath, his heart kicked at his chest.
Don’t say anything. The guy’ll lose interest.
“C’mere, Bud,” the boy called to the other one, eyes never leaving Simon. “You keep the knife on the little asshole while I introduce myself to the girlfriend.”
“Hey, man, I don’t know you.”
“Get the fuck over here!”
Bud did what he was told, standing behind Alvin, scanning the empty car, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, a younger kid, thirteen or fourteen.
He’s just as scared as me, Simon thought. Tell him, Bud, tell him this stuff’s crazy. I wanna get downtown, that’s all.
Bud took the knife, holding it level to Simon’s throat, fingers trembling slightly, concentrating on the blade. He seemed embarrassed.
Mary Kathleen darted up, her cheeks spotted with dark tears from mascara. She dodged Alvin, hurrying toward the closed double doors, the boy following her.
Simon saw the windows start to reflect a hazy yellow light as the subway sped toward Spring Gardens, the next station. They won’t do anything when we stop. Too many people. He had about thirty seconds until the car reached the station; until that whoosh before the doors opened.
“The guy’s nuts,” Simon whispered.
“Shut up,” Bud whispered back. A drop of sweat trickled down his round, smooth face, pausing at the edge of his chin, falling away. “You just shut up, alright?”
…twenty seconds…
Simon felt a rage begin pumping the veins in his neck, heating even the rims of his ears.
All I want to DO is go downtown.
I don’t give a shit about the girl; and I don’t give a shit about YOU and your moron friend. It’s MY goddamn day.
…fifteen seconds…
The point of the blade pricked the skin under his throat. A tiny rivulet of blood rolled along the knife and the boy’s fist.
…five seconds…
MY day…
He shoved his knee into Bud’s crotch hard and fast. The kid dropped the knife, folding up with a groan; then Simon thrust both feet at his shoulders, sending him flying backward, colliding against the moron friend, the two of them sprawling on the floor as the subway doors whooshed open.
Mary Kathleen stared at Simon, her face smeared with mascara tears, the look a mix of gratitude and relief. He saw slim fingers grip the collar of her uniform. The hand pulled her gently from the car.
The double doors closed.
Hey, wait a minute…
…WAIT.
A man stood next to Mary Kathleen on the dimly lighted platform, straight white hair an inch above his shoulders, a brown cloak covering his tall body—six feet, perhaps a few inches taller—and he smiled at Simon, an expression of…what?…kindness? No. Coolness. That was it: like absolute coolness.
And his shape seemed to dissolve.
The man just…
…disappeared.
Here and gone.
Simon watched Mary Kathleen alone on the platform as the car rattled its way into the tunnel and the glass doors turned black. He sat there, dazed, not believing what he’d seen.
The guy just disappeared.
Jesus. How do you DO that?
The two boys had started getting up from the floor, Alvin pushing Bud with the flat of his hand. “You got a goddamn problem, Buddy.”
Simon reached near his left foot and grabbed the knife.
“Wasn’t my fault,” said Bud, brushing the dust from the knees of his jeans. “You need to stop that macho shit, man.”
Alvin looked at Simon. “Gimme the knife.”
“Take a seat.”
“Or what?”
“I cut you.”
The boys didn’t move.
They seemed to be evaluating the situation. Simon felt oddly quiet inside himself, a peacefulness. He knew he’d cut them, if it came to that. The image of the man on the platform hadn’t left his mind; the face, especially.
Bud was the first to sit.
“C’mon, Alvin,” the kid said. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“…asshole,” Alvin muttered, but sat beside his friend, the two of them across the aisle from Simon.
Bud gazed down at his thick small hands. “What’re you gonna do?”
“Get off at the next stop,” said Simon.
“Maybe we’ll join you,” said Alvin, a threatening tone.
“No. You and him are stayin’.”
“Or what?” He said again.
“Guess.”
Alvin did a little snorting noise. “You ain’t cuttin’ on nobody.”
“Leave him alone,” Bud said. Then to Simon, “I’m staying, don’t worry. Alvin’s staying, too. Right, Alvin?”
No answer.
“Right, Alvin?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Simon nodded; stared out the dark window.
The older boy suddenly leaped on him—Moron, the Terrible— clutching his throat. He heard Bud yelling, What the hell’s wrong with you? Jesus, man, RELAX. What the hell’s wrong with—Simon slashed at the kid’s hand. Blood filled the wound, a thin red line on his knuckles.
Alvin squealed, “You cut me!”
“Sit down.”
“You fuckin’ cut me!” The boy looked disbelievingly at the blood; mumbling, “…I’m bleeding, for Christ’s sake.”
“Hey, man, the guy told you to sit,” said Bud.
Simon tossed Alvin a white handkerchief from the back pocket of his khakis. No “thank you”, no nothing, of course, but the moron used it to wrap the wound, sinking down in the seat near his friend.
Should’ve gone to school, Simon thought. The image of the man returned, the one who’d pulled Mary Kathleen from the closing doors…
…and disappeared.
He remembered the eyes, their gentleness, a comforting feeling, the way the gaze seemed to melt through his chest.
Weird, you know.
Truly weird.
Then Simon heard somebody whisper at the far end of the subway car. He glanced in that direction. The man was standing there, long fingers grasping one of the aluminum safety poles, white hair glistening under the bright light, his brown, calf-length cloak draped about him.
“I bring you news,” the man whispered again.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” said Bud.
“You don’t see him?”
II
The Franklin Institute on North 20th was close to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the museum immortalized not by its paintings but by Sylvester Stallone; and this, just last year, Stallone running the steps two at a time, dancing and leaping, arms raised in an imaginary victory, the soon-to-be heavyweight champion of the world, if only in the movies.
Simon and his father also danced on those steps. Thousands of others had done the same, probably; none like Max, though, his big hands flaying the air and belly shaking.
No shame in my game.
God, h
ow he loved that movie.
Warm spring air enveloped him, a perfect May day. Daffodils in a sea of vivid yellow lined Fairmont Park, and the boys on the subway seemed a dark fading dream. Everything put right…
…except the man.
Simon wondered why he hadn’t been afraid. People don’t just appear and disappear. But instead of fear, he felt a…well…a good feeling. Peace. Or reassurance, or something. Another thing: before the guy in the cloak did his little dissolving trick for the second time, he’d said, “You’re not so wicked.”
Was that the message the man had brought him? Isn’t that what he’d announced? I bring you news.
Not much of a bulletin.
You’re not so wicked.
Simon ran up the Institute steps, taking them by twos—wrong building, but in an á la Rocky mode—entering the enormous marble rotunda, earthy browns and white. A fist-sized wire cord attached to the high ceiling rotated lazily, passing through a large, round hole in the floor. Simon peered down; saw the other end hooked to a steel sphere that was moving in a steady circle.
Get rid of the knife…
He noticed an orange plastic trash can next to the admissions booth. Across the room, a group of fifth or sixth graders huddled about their teacher, perhaps twenty kids; she, a tall, slim black woman who kept saying, “Look at me, please. Arnold, are you listening? All eyes here,” this followed with a clap of her hands that echoed off the marble walls.
Simon dropped the knife into the plastic receptacle.
“May I help you, young man?”
The middle-aged woman behind the glass gave him a forced It’s-My-Job smile, a smear of bright red lipstick on her front tooth. Her name-tag read, Hanna.
“I’d like to see the heart,” he said.
“Eight-fifty.”
Simon pushed a roll of quarters under the glass. “That’s ten dollars. I counted it myself.”
Hanna considered him, then a suspicious glance at the quarters, probably deciding if he was the sort of boy she could trust.
Though better in his art classes than math, yesterday he’d counted the quarters twice on the dining room table. When the woman finally relinquished the ticket and his change—her hand going no farther than the edge of the mouse-hole in the glass, puffy fingers, nails the same bright red as her lipstick—Simon stuffed the ticket and change into his khakis.