by Susan Israel
“Not any more.”
“He just told us he had some things in there that you wouldn’t give him access to. Were you two cohabiting?”
“Did you give him a set of keys so that he had free access to the building?”
“Sir, do you receive any mail at this address?”
“Excuse me,” I rap on the door jamb behind me. “But aren’t either of you going to ask why I wouldn’t let him in?”
“We had a lover’s quarrel a few nights ago,” Ivan says with a shrug. “No big deal.”
“Aces. And I still have the bruise to show for it.”
“She jumped backward and tripped.”
“He pushed me into the wall. Hard.”
The taller of the two officers turns his back on Ivan and gestures for me to follow him down the stairs. He stops me halfway. “Sit down. Relax. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.” He sits two steps up from me and smiles a tired smile, like he already knows my answers will be the same ones he’s heard a hundred times before. I glance down at the name tag pinned on his pocket. VINSON. I recite it silently and think of a word that sounds like it so I’ll remember it if I ever need to call the police again. “Did you call us to file a complaint about the other night?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him to get out then?”
“No.”
“So when did you tell him to vamoose?”
“I had the lock changed just today.”
“Did you tell him you were going to do this so he could clear out?”
“I was afraid to tell him. I didn’t think he’d leave if I told him beforehand. As it was, I had enough of a time scheduling the lock change for when he wouldn’t be here. He was here around lunchtime. I called to check my messages and he picked up. Wouldn’t say anything, but…”
“Delilah, what are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you say anything when I called earlier?”
“Because I couldn’t. I wasn’t here. I haven’t been since this morning. I just got here about a half hour before you did and waited on the stairs.”
“Liar,” I snarl at him.
“Must have been another of your bad connections,” he says with a shrug.
“Look,” Officer Vinson appeals to me, “you’re going to have to let him in to get his things. Officer Coolidge and I will be right here and make sure he just goes about his business and then leaves; nothing will happen to you, all right?”
I shrug. “I won’t be alone with him?”
“We’ll be right here.”
“You heard that?” I glare at Ivan as I open the door.
“Loud and clear. I’ve got to go move my car so I can put the stuff in my trunk. Okay if I double-park out there?”
“We’re not going to ticket you, but there’s no guarantee someone else won’t.”
“Well, can one of you watch my car while I’m packing stuff in here?”
I feel a chill go up my spine.
“Absolutely not,” Officer Vinson snaps at him. “Where do you think you are, the Water Club having a five course meal? We’re not providing valet service. Just hurry it up and leave.”
Officer Coolidge mumbles something about a “clothes job” into the radio mike clipped to the lapel of his jacket. I step aside to let the two officers in, but they stay by the door. Officer Coolidge keeps looking over his shoulder anticipating Ivan’s return. Officer Vinson looks at the array of locks on the door, then at me. “This the first time you’ve changed the locks on him?”
“First and last,” I say. “He’s not getting in here again.”
His grimace tells me he’s not buying it; he’s seen this program rerun so many times he knows all the lines by heart. When I hear the front door crash against the back stop, I flinch. Someone gallops up the stairs, and judging from the gait it’s not my next-door neighbor Mrs. Davidoff. Ivan barges past the two policemen carrying a corrugated cardboard box and drops it at my feet, then sets to work gathering his things. He darts from closet to closet to CD tree. Watching his choreography is dizzying. Just as he comes back from the bedroom, my voice mail chimes, an audible exclamation mark. “Looks like we’re all going to hear your messages, whether you want us to or not,” he says with a smirk. He looks over my shoulder at the two policemen. “She’s a popular girl.”
“I have nothing to hide,” I retort. “I’m putting this on speaker phone.”
“Hey, Delilah,” Sachi’s voice echoes through the room. “Did you kick the bastard out yet? I hope so. I’ve left Parsons for the day. Call me later if you need me.”
Ivan stops in his tracks and leers at me.
Beep.
The second call is a click. Ivan chuckles.
I back up to where Officer Vinson is standing. “I’ve been getting a lot of hang-ups lately,” I explain.
“You’ve become an expert on hang-ups, Delilah,” Ivan says, stretching his arm behind the desk to unplug the stereo.
Beep.
The third call is a click.
The fourth call is a click.
Beep.
Officer Vinson shifts the gum he’s been chewing from one side of his mouth to the other with an audible snap.
“You look good without your clothes on,” a male voice suddenly snarls. It’s muffled, but sounds familiar. So does the screech of static that follows. I gasp and back into Officer Vinson. He gently shoves me aside. The two officers approach my cell phone tentatively like they expect a suspect to pop out of it, but only a voice does. “You look good with them on too, but not half as good as you do naked. And I like the way you look at me when you’re doing that slow strip of yours, like you’re doing it just for me. One of these days, you will be, Delilah. Now that you finally dumped that tightass, it’ll be sooner than you think. I can’t wait.”
Beep.
Ivan’s face turns the color of the plaster I cast figures in. “Delilah, who is that?”
“I…I don’t know,” I stammer.
“That’s not the first time he’s called.” Ivan says. “I’ve heard that voice before. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who called your cell phone.” Ivan gives me a you-know-what-I-mean look, then looks over my shoulder at the officers and his face gets all crinkly with concern. This is his big chance to prove to them he’s not the bad guy. “I told her to report these calls and she didn’t take me seriously. Maybe now she will.”
“You spoke with him when he called?”
“Several times over the last week or so.”
“Why were you answering my phone,” I interject.
“What did he say?” Vinson asks, ignoring me.
“I began to get the sense that they…he and Delilah…were maybe more than casual acquaintances. Nothing he said, per se. But he sounded…urgent. Yeah, urgent, like it was of paramount importance that he speak with her. When I told her someone called, I teased her, said it was a secret admirer and she went into her big denial act, so I assumed it was more likely a not-so-secret admirer.”
Officer Coolidge alternately taps his knuckles on the metal back of a kitchen chair and looks at his watch. I turn to Officer Vinson and clear my throat. “I think he called me at work early this afternoon. I got a weird call. I thought it was him at first because he’s the only one who’s ever called me there.” I point to Ivan. “But it turned out not to be.”
“You don’t know who it was?”
I shake my head vehemently.
“Well, he knows who you are,” Officer Vinson says. “He knows your name and where you can be reached. This fellow here who you’re so terrified of is telling us this guy called you at home before; now you’re saying you think he called you at work. That, and he’s maybe the same one who’s been calling and hanging up on you in between. Did you report any of this to us?
“No.”
Officer Vinson looks skyward. “Well, if it happens again, I suggest you do. It helps to establish a paper trail of incidents like this just in case.”
“Just
in case of what?” Officer Vinson is starting to scare me more than the phone calls.
But not as much as Ivan. He edges closer and closer and suddenly drapes his arm around me. “I think you should have someone stay with you for a couple of days,” Ivan suggests huskily. “Make sure this nut doesn’t get any closer.”
I shake him off with a well-placed elbow jab to the ribs. “It sure as hell won’t be you.”
“Hey,” Officer Vinson taps his shoulder. “Keep your distance from her, okay?”
Ivan brushes him off. “Maybe Sachi will,” he suggests. “Call her.”
“I will.”
“Now. I don’t like the idea of you staying alone while this is going on.”
“When you leave.”
The two policemen are taking this all in, drinking it up like their evening coffee served light with lots of sugar. “Are you almost through over there?” Officer Vinson gestures toward the half-filled box near the stereo. Ivan turns around and looks surprised to see it, then smiles ruefully. “I just have a few more things to throw in,” he says. “You guys must have more important things to do than to stand around and watch me pack.” He turns back to me. “She’ll call you if she needs you. I think we’ll be all right now.”
Oh no, we won’t.
“We’ll stay until you’re through,” Officer Vinson says, “and hurry it up.” He gives me a look though that makes me feel like I’ve been shot. You’re worried about this guy? He could be one of us, a member of New York’s finest. Both officers look bored. Officer Coolidge yawns and wipes a tear away from the corner of his eye. Officer Vinson turns to me again. “Just a word of advice. You ought to think about pulling the shades if you’re parading around naked in here. You never know who can see in. You don’t want the whole world to see you in your birthday suit, do you?”
Ivan burns me with one of his smart-ass stares. If they only knew. All he says is, “That’s the last of it, I think.”
I wheel around defensively as he approaches me, the box tucked under his arm. A lavender sleeve hangs out of it. “You think! Take another look around while you’ve got the chance.”
He puts the box down and steps toward me. “Delilah…”
Officer Vinson deftly moves forward, ready to yank Ivan by the collar if he gets any closer. He immediately retreats and smiles sheepishly. See what a good guy I am? His face hardens again as he turns back to me. “If you get any more calls or messages like that…”
“I’ll call them.” I gesture to the two officers.
“And if you do get any messages like that again, save them,” Officer Vinson adds tersely.
The three men go down the stairs talking so amiably that I half-expect that when they get outside they’ll keep it up, maybe even over doughnuts. I watch from the window. Ivan pulls something out from under his windshield wiper. The two officers haven’t left yet; they loiter beside the cruiser a few minutes waiting for Ivan to pull out ahead of them before getting in and taking off. The minute they’re gone, the minute the street is quiet and dark, the first thing I do is pull the shades. Then my phone rings.
7
“Someone’s watching you.”
“That’s what the police think,” I tell Sachi. I don’t want to think about someone watching me.
What I expect from Sachi next is a lot of tell-me-everything questions. She likes to be in the know. What I’d like to know is how could she set me up for more trouble by leaving a voice mail message like that without knowing what’s going on. But I don’t get to say any more because what she says is, “They’re on the second shelf, next to the whipped cream.”
“Huh?” I suddenly realize she’s not alone. I hear a male voice in the background. This is a new development. When she left for the Cape last weekend, she was groaning about the dearth of men in her life. I haven’t been able to reach her since, not until now. No wonder. I can’t make out what he’s saying in the background, but what this is saying to me is that this isn’t a very good time to suggest a pajama party. Chances are that they’re not wearing any. “Anyway, Ivan’s got all his stuff out of here now, so he shouldn’t be bothering me any more, and I’m not sure what the phone call business is all about, but it’s just phone calls, you know?” Sachi doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if it’s because she’s contemplating what I’m saying or her lips are sealed, as in with a kiss. “I’m going to work in my studio tomorrow,” I tell her. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, right? I’ll probably be there around ten. I’ll call you sometime after that.”
“I gotta go. You be sure to call me if you need me,” she gasps before abruptly hanging up.
I’ll be sure to get no answer if I do.
I turn off the light. Even with the shades drawn, someone might be able to see my silhouette as I strip off my clothes, not slowly either, not tonight. I climb into bed and pat down the rumpled sheets. There’s still an indentation in the bed marking the last time Ivan slept here, and I can smell him. I’m lying here aching from the sudden shock of physical withdrawal, and my lower body is screeching I-want-him, oh God, how-I-want-him. It’s only his extremities I really want, his fingers rambling all over me, his legs entangled with mine as he thrusts deep inside me at first slowly, then fast, then faster. I crave the feeling of him on top of me, under me, side by side, the false sense of security that only a male body would provide right now and only to get me through the night. Great sex is the glue that bonds some people who would be better off being separate pieces. The only thing that’s going to put out my lights tonight is great sex, damn it, and the only way I’m going to have any is with what my college friends and I used to obliquely refer to when we were horny and boyfriendless as “Mr. Hand.” My fingers slide down between my thighs. Then the cell phone rings. I don’t answer.
8
Pummeling cool clay flesh onto a twisted metal skeleton releases my pent up frustration better than anything else I’ve ever tried. I don’t even want to stop long enough to take a sip of lukewarm coffee. Nobody else is here yet, no one except for Louise, the front desk receptionist, who looked at me funny when I strutted in and said, “Boy, you’re early.” The armatures lined up like soldiers in the studio border a new front facing the wall, behind which are winding alleys and tiny backyards. Sometimes I’m envious of painters like Morgan who have upstairs studios with windows that look out on the multicolor town houses that make MacDougal Alley look like a row of petits fours. But I know I would find it distracting day after day, particularly on bad days when the work isn’t going well. “Makes you feel like jumping out,” Morgan once told me, and I believe him. I have nothing to show for my efforts yet except terra cotta stains on my hands from kneading clay into the metal grooves of the armature. It looks like dried blood. I wipe them off on an old shirt and look at my watch.
There were several messages tacked to the bulletin board behind the coffee stand when I came in and I grabbed the ones with my name on them and put them on the work table. I notice that there’s a wad of notes there, clipped together like dollar bills. I spread them out in front of me. There’s a work assignment for Monday just a few blocks from here, another one Tuesday night in Brooklyn, there’s a message from Morgan that he wrote out himself reminding me again that I’m invited to his loft later this evening for a dinner Vittorio is preparing for their anniversary, and then there’s the one I’ve been waiting for, the biggie, confirming the December 1 date for my exhibition on Lafayette Street. My stomach feels like it’s fallen into a sinkhole. I can’t believe how far behind I am in my work. I glance at the other messages. Nothing from Sachi. There are two from Ivan telling me I can call him if I need him, if I get any more of ‘those calls,’ as if he knows I will. My palms start to sweat. At the bottom of the pile are four memos informing me only that a big question mark telephoned and will call again later. He won’t leave his name, the receptionist scrawled in bold black ink.
I yank a clump of clay from the armature and knead it in my hands until it takes on the form of a misshap
en head. I shoot at it with a neon-green water pistol and throw it on the floor and stomp on it, pick it up, throw it down, stomp on it again.
“Yeeeeeow!”
I grab a razor knife from the work table behind me and whirl around. Morgan shakes his head at me. “Hey, Delilah, I thought you swore off the high octane stuff and switched to decaf.”
I throw the knife on the floor too. “What I need is one-hundred proof!”
“In that case, I guess we can count on you to bring the booze tonight. You are coming, aren’t you?”
“Vittorio straightened out his work conflict?”
“He’ll be there with us, cara. He assured me in his own inimitable way. This will be a feast to die for.”
I show Morgan the most important message in the pile. “Look at this. My ‘Rome in One Day’ exhibit’s been moved up. I’m going to have to work more than seven days to finish it. More like forty days and forty nights”
“Starting tomorrow. You’ve simply got to come to our dinner party, Delilah.”
“Okay,” I agree. My stomach, when it crawls out of that sinkhole, will still need to be filled. “I might be a little late…”
“Don’t be too late. The food might be more than a little gone.”
“You want red wine or white?”
“Something that snaps, crackles, and pops and I don’t mean cereal. It’s our anniversary.”
I bend down to pick up the knife I dropped. Morgan pauses at the doorway and points at it. “Why’d you grab that when I came in?”
“I thought I was alone in here. I got scared.”
“I scared you? Poor baby.” Morgan comes over and wraps his long skinny arms around me and gives me a quick hug. It feels good but makes me want the kind of comforting I’d never get from Morgan. I flush when I think of last night, when I think of how I fantasized about Ivan being with me only after I knew he was gone and I was ‘safe.’ As if the devil I know is safer than the devil I don’t.
“I’m okay now,” I say. If I say it enough, maybe I really will be okay. Morgan seems convinced. He gives me a quick kiss and a wave. “See you at eightish,” he says, and he’s off. I’m left picking up the head of what’s going to be a Vestal Virgin and reshaping it. The clay feels cool and is more malleable. I get the same pleasure out of molding it that a Kentucky farm wife would from kneading dough to make high-rise bread. And hopefully from this exhibit I’ll get some recognition—that and, of course, a few bucks. That would please me immeasurably. The school isn’t pressuring me to accomplish this at breakneck speed; I’m on my own autobahn here. I asked for this, now I’ve got to deliver. And it’s not like I can suddenly quit modeling so that I can concentrate solely on this. I can’t afford to.