by Sue Perry
Before Jenn acted, the bike messenger had two terrible choices—smash into the old gent and his door, or swerve into a crush of pedestrians. Jenn shoved the old gent's door closed and flattened herself against it. The bike whizzed past, just behind her, and the messenger pounded the bell in what I hoped but doubted was a thank you. Jenn retrieved the gent's cane from the asphalt, opened the door for him, kissed his bewildered forehead. "C'mon, we'll miss the light," she told us and we scooted across the street.
This wasn't the first time I'd seen sudden heroism from Jenn and I knew she wouldn't want to discuss it. Like I had a choice, was the most she would say.
Hernandez noted, "Excellent situational reflexes."
"Thank you," Jenn replied. And from then on, mutual regard bound them close no matter what their physical distance.
Body–slamming taxis takes a physical toll and by the time we got back to the Julian, Jenn needed to lay down. Hernandez and I left her on the couch and went to her cousin's in Fort Lee to fetch her stuff.
What had I been thinking, inviting Jenn to join me in a small abode with a single mirror in a lone bathroom? I'd shared an apartment with her once before, briefly. Every morning, she'd try on more outfits than I've ever owned, and strew the rejects for mortals to pick up. I never understood. To me, clothes exist to protect us from sunburn and indecent exposure charges. To Jenn, the union of garments is an art, practiced multiple times each day. For this visit to New York, Jenn had enough clothes to fill the Met.
Her suitcase was the size of a double–wide refrigerator and was packed with gold ingots. Hernandez and I wrestled the suitcase into my apartment and collapsed on either side of it. Jenn slept through our commotion, emitting precious wee snores. She looked worn out, a princess who'd fought too many dragons. I watched Hernandez watch her. He was curious, amused, and completely smitten. And he wasn't the only one. Leon stretched alongside Jenn, and Dizzy perched on her thighs.
When Jenn woke up, she and Hernandez went out to buy snacks for our slumber party that night, and I climbed out to the fire escape to catch up with the sentient lawn chair. As soon as I sat down, sensations washed through me and I experienced the world as the chair perceived it—dim shadowy views that changed from blue during day to charcoal at night; the chair couldn't see much but its senses of hearing and smell were acute. The chair showed me a chain of days and nights that seemed to be in chronological order, innocent at first. Ben in the chair... Kelly Joe... the upstairs kids... Leon... Synchronized steps goose–stepped down the alley and paused directly below this fire escape... Enormous rats followed. One bold fellow came to the bathroom window repeatedly and each visit grew more bold... The rat poised on the bathroom windowsill, headed inside, then suddenly Leon was there. When that huge cat pounced he was formidable. The rat got away but hadn't returned since...
The Entourage... The enormous rats... The Entourage... The rat at the window... The chair replayed those visits. I took this to mean they were related and important. "Tell me more about the window rat," I requested.
"'More about the window rat,'" Jenn quoted as she climbed out the bathroom window, tossing an observation to Hernandez, who stood behind her, "Nica has always talked to herself but she used to make sense."
"Maybe you had to hear the rest of the conversation," Hernandez said as he followed her onto the fire escape.
"Let's sit out here. You've got a view if you get the right angle." Jenn drooped over the side railing and peered in the direction of the Hudson.
"Rats on the fire escape might be a problem." I tried to alert Hernandez without mentioning 'my case' and pissing Jenn off. Assuming Jenn heard anyone who wasn't Hernandez. There was such spark between those two. Maybe I should stay in Frivolous Bedlam tonight and let them start a fire.
"Rats, New York, that's redundant," Jenn flopped next to my chair.
Around Jenn, Hernandez had a laugh that sounded surprised. He lowered himself to the fire escape below the bathroom window. "How many rats have you seen since you got here?" he asked, and we all started talking at once. New York rat stories. Everybody's got 'em. The light from the bathroom served as our campfire as we exchanged horror stories.
Our slumber party plans changed abruptly when our campfire light dimmed and Anwyl's shadow filled the space at the bathroom window. He reached outside to clap a hand on Hernandez' shoulder, ignoring Jenn and me.
"Well met. Come. We have much to attend." Just as abruptly, Anwyl was gone from the window and his voice carried back to us from deep in my apartment. "We must away."
Hernandez stood. His silhouette nodded in my direction then said to Jenn, "To be continued." He climbed inside the bathroom, his stance all soldier. He disappeared after his commander and in another moment we heard my front door slam.
"Who the fuck was that?" Jenn asked.
"That was Anwyl. My client. I told you about him."
"There really is an Anwyl," she said, like that made everything worse—if I was going to fabricate farfetched stories about Frames, apparently I should populate them with imaginary people. I swallowed a Gandhi pill and let it go.
"Do you think he'll be back tonight?" She wasn't asking about Anwyl.
"No real clue, but I doubt it."
"Shrug. For the best, maybe. We need to catch up, bitch."
With shrug Jenn referenced seventh grade, when we found it important to hide all emotions and developed two strategies to communicate with one another. In public, we narrated reactions instead of performing or feeling them; only during the privacy of our sleepovers, awake in the dark, would we spill the real beans about who we cared for and how we felt.
"Smile and nod. I'll get the bed ready."
We climbed inside the bathroom window and I locked the bars behind us, then shut and locked the window. Now that I knew about the snooping rats, the window would stay closed until further notice. Leon and Dizzy seemed to prefer entry via Frame Travel, anyway.
I shoved furniture around to make room for the Murphy bed. Jenn went into the bathroom to complete the extended convoluted processes that take her forever to prep for bed. She was fast tonight. By the time I lowered the Murphy bed, converted my desk chair to a nightstand for her, and set out fresh water for us, she was making late–in–process noises. I barely had time to read the last week of the New York Times and grow my hair a quarter inch before she emerged.
I switched out the lights and climbed into bed beside her.
"Tell me everything about Hernandez," she instructed.
"He's a vet, he mentioned that. He's been working cases with me since I started as a detective. He's also a custodian because he's a great dad who makes sure that –" Her adorable little whisper of a snore cut me off. I lay there for a long time, listening to her breathing, which was irregular and ratcheted with gritty sighs.
I lay very still so as to not disturb her. My breathing achieved an opposite sync, and with each exhale I sent strength into her next inhale. I don't know how I kept still. Every ratcheted sigh jolted me, made me want to shriek and throw grenades. Eventually and mercifully, the cats showed up. Dizzy walked across my stomach to curl up on Jenn's thighs. Leon stretched out on my pillow. With my ear pressed against him, I could hear nothing but his megapurr and with that, I fell asleep.
Come the morning, I was up, showered, dressed, caffeinated, and watching Jenn still sleep. Her head was collapsed into her pillow, her hands sunk into the comforter. She had always carried her sixty three inches like a six footer, but now she looked tiny. She would never be weak but she looked frail. I blew her a kiss, left her a note and a key, and went out to hunt me some Lobotomists.
32. SOMETHING TICKLED MY MEMORY
I intended to infiltrate one or more Lobotomist training pods, which seemed the most likely way to find the elusive managers. I had to practice leak–resistant thinking first, because managers and some handlers could read leaky thoughts. I could hide real thoughts beneath a stream of superficial ones. To blend with Lobotomists, I needed a stream
of corrosive prejudices. I worked on my hating as I walked along Amsterdam toward the subway.
I hated these streets, I hated these people—wankers and losers and grabbers. It was time for a purge and from what I'd heard I'd find like minds at the meeting house on Keap Street in Brooklyn. I nurtured a guilty secret, too. I hoped the handlers didn't find out that I had tried to join a pod on Ma'Urth but they told me not to come back. I deserved another chance. They thought I couldn't measure up but I would show them they were wrong. I would prove it to them and then I would get the status and approval I craved and deserved.
Coming up with these thoughts was spirit–quenching. By the time I rehearsed enough to join a meeting, I would be in a dark dark place indeed.
I knew my musician was gone but nonetheless I got off the train at Columbus Circle subway station and sat on the bench where he used to play and maybe breathed air that had once carried his music. I so needed it now, as I faced unfaceable loss. I've had way too much practice dealing with death. My mother, my high school buddy Joey, my cousin, my father, my favorite prof, two cats in a house fire, my uncle. Ick. All those losses had one thing in common. Jenn helped me through them. Losing Jenn was impossible yet spitting in my eye. Everything about her was special, so it figured that her M.S. would be advancing so much faster than the norm.
My stop at Columbus Circle didn't help so I went up to the street and headed east. City noise can be a tonic and inspiration to me but today I needed music. I inserted my earbuds and lost myself in the saddest tunes I knew. Within a couple blocks I was bawling so loudly I had to up the volume. In New York, nobody hears you cry, so I was surprised when a hand grabbed my shoulder. Maybe I was about to step into oncoming traffic and a fellow pedestrian didn't want to get splattered.
The hand belonged to a gangly, acne–laden pre–teen who was mouthing to me intently. I popped one earbud out and realized the loud tinny backwash from my earbuds carried several feet away. The kid was singing along with my current tune.
"'Leave ah–lone, you don't buh–long here'," the kid sang to my musical backwash. Every inflection was perfect, although he hadn't been conceived when Elliott Smith recorded No Name #1. The kid sang with relish and he carried the tune about as well as I'd carried Jenn's suitcase. The kid made me smile, which reminded me that self–pity sucks. I offered him an earbud and we crossed the street, singing together. "'Got ner–vous, started whistling, every thought a rih–coh–chet.'" We finished the song this way, our sing–along incomparably poor and loud.
"Thanks, that gave me a good morning." He flashed a mouth full of black and puce. Kids these days get to choose the colors of their braces.
"Same here and likewise." I pocketed the earbuds and set off solo again, a big smile stretching my skin and etching deeper laugh lines.
The smile eroded as I rehearsed. I hated these streets, I hated these people, wankers and losers and grabbers. It was time for a purge and from what I'd heard I'd find like minds at this meeting house.
I Traveled to Frivolous Bedlam, where the silly building chatter compromised my sour perspective, which gave it good exercise. When I could stay pissed off and resentful in Bedlam, I'd be ready for a Lobotomist meeting.
Three steps onto Brooklyn Bridge, he said, "Good morning, Nica, I welcome the return of your steps." Before I could reply he continued, "Many need my counsel today so I cannot undertake casual conversation. Do you also need assistance on my span?" When Brooklyn Bridge spoke today, there were so many background voices it was like all Ma'Urth's cell phone conversations were broadcasting through a cosmic loudspeaker. Around me were beings who seemed to be talking to themselves and it hit me that these might be some of the simultaneous conversations that Brooklyn Bridge was holding. I stifled my awe. Lobotomists don't feel awe.
"I'm good, thanks." It was a disappointment but for the best. Talking with Brooklyn Bridge even briefly unsoured my attitude. And I needed to focus on precision Frame shifts.
Expletive Deleted was in an ugly state, as though a riot had just concluded. Around me, the buildings whispered and whimpered. Their windows were shattered, their walls smeared with garbage and maybe blood. While I walked, I prepared. I hated the streets of New York, the wankers and losers and grabbers. I deserved better, I deserved to join a pod and I'd prove it to them.
Half a block ahead, male models headed inside the meeting house on Keap Street. A meeting must be about to start. I slowed. Was I ready for this?
If not now, when?
Upstairs were a crowd of male models and a smattering of miscellaneous beings. We the miscellaneous exchanged grim nods. I was glad the room was packed, it created a jumble of thoughts to–It was time for a purge and from what I'd heard I'd find like minds at this meeting house.
The meeting was long and unpleas–inspiring, providing reason to hate anything and everybody. I hovered on the edge of small group conversations, shyly yearning for inclusion. After the break, the handlers slapped certain shoulders. "Stand." Slap. "Stand."
My shoulder stung from the slap. I jumped to my feet and looked around. All the male models were seated. All the miscellaneous humanoids were on their feet. The handler who had done the slapping gave a compassionate sneer. "This meeting is for natives of this Frame. You who stand, leave now."
Another handler waved us out with impatient boredom. I took heart in the fact that the handlers were also non–natives. I could belong, I only needed a chance to –
"Stop puling and move along," the door handler snarled as though I had spoken aloud. I trotted down the stairs, regretting I had offended.
Outside, I went across the street then hung around. I hoped I didn't offend by sticking around, but it was so hard to walk away when at last I knew where I belonged.
In lieu of letting my thoughts wander, I admired the building. People could be awful but they did make nice buildings sometimes. This one boasted a façade that was distinctive black granite with ruddy pink flecks. Every time I looked at it, something tickled my memory but this wasn't a time to sneeze.
The meeting must be over; male models exited the building noisily. The handlers exited last. I hated the streets at home. It was time for a purge and I could help make it happen. I crossed the street to be closer to the action. A handler glanced at me like you would glance at an overflowing trash can. I watched them walk away. I was the only one left on the block. I patted the building goodbye. I'd be back, and soon!
I made it back to Frivolous Bedlam, where I dropped my vile impersonation and released my thoughts. It wasn't Frame Travel that had made me nauseous this time. I leaned over, gasping, and shook like a swimsuit model on Neptune.
"Cat Shaver, are you okay?" A line of food carts tilted my way.
"I'm just fine. Thanks for being concerned!" They popped a few wheelies then took turns giving me rides across town. Lounging on the carts gave me a chance to ponder what I'd just experienced.
Attending the meeting was easier than I had anticipated, although even more repellent. That the miscellaneous humanoids like me were second class at the meeting, was—like most of life's developments—good news and bad news. Being of lowly status, I could attend without attracting attention; but what if they excluded the miscellaneous humanoids when the managers visited? I needed to revise my strategy. My gradual infiltration plan was too slow. The way they talked at that meeting, they'd soon be trained and going away. If that happened, I'd never get to the managers.
A new strategy coalesced as the carts wheeled me onto Julian's block.
"Stop please, I need to hop off. Thanks for the lifts!" The air filled with the food carts' disappointed goodbyes as I Traveled to Ma'Urth. I needed to make a phone call.
"Nica? Have you found Sam?" Lilah greeted me. Based on the yearning in her voice, she had not.
"No, but I need your help. Can we meet to discuss it? When do you get lunch? I could stop by."
"I've got an investor lunch I can't postpone. I'm off work at five."
We arranged to meet out
side Columbus Circle subway station at 515p, then I headed for the Lexington subway and a visit to Woodlawn Cemetery. I needed to check something there.
33. AND IT'S DANGEROUS
Rosie, the snip–of–a–girl guard, sat inside the cemetery gate's kiosk, still reading about celebrities. Today her frizzy hair was red.
She remembered me. "Tell your friends thanks. I haven't seen those hoodies since."
"They'll be glad to know that." It sounded like the illegal Connector remained disconnected, which meant my chances of a Lobotomist run–in today were low. As I headed into the cemetery grounds, the sun was warm and the breeze refreshing, but the trees' fall colors were gaudy. Funny thing about a cemetery. On a bright fall day this one felt more forlorn than it had at twilight. Or maybe the difference was in me.
The Connector had been behind a granite mausoleum. Today a grounds crew worked there, cleaning what looked like sooty grease. The mausoleum was made of a distinctive stone, black with ruddy pink flecks. Yup, I had remembered correctly. It looked just like the stone on the building that housed the Lobotomist meetings.
Back at the gate kiosk, I opened one of Rosie's visitor maps and pointed to that mausoleum. "The stone on this building intrigues me. How can I find out more about it?"
She picked up her walkie–talkie. "I'll get Rudyard over here, he's a cemetery historian."
Sure enough, Rudyard knew the facts and the lore. The stone on the mausoleum was a rhodonite granite with a B–movie history. It came from a renowned but short–lived, 19th century quarry called Witch Hollow, near Salem, Massachusetts. An unusual incidence of quarry worker fatalities and deaths of building inhabitants—plus the name and location of the quarry—spread rumors that the stone was cursed. The man who designed that mausoleum for himself was a tycoon with weak superstition and strong ability to spot a great bargain—the high–quality stone was grossly discounted as the quarry folded.