The bus lurched through traffic to Second Avenue, where I got off and walked a few blocks south. I read the address in the Times again and found the building. It was narrow and old, just as I’d suspected, and sandwiched between two glaringly new high-rises. It was rigged with ugly fire escapes and its brick facade hadn’t been cleaned in at least forty years. But the front door had a lovely Art Deco brass trim that I was sure could be nicely polished with one of those nonabrasive tile cleaners. “See Super,” the ad said, so I rang his bell and waited. A voice burst like gunfire through the intercom. I wasn’t sure what it said, but I answered, “I’d like to see the apartment, please, the one in the paper,” and waited until I was buzzed in. The super was in apartment 1A. I heard the tumblers in the locks turn, one after another, and then the door opened. An East Indian man in work clothes was standing there, and a few feet behind him, a woman wearing a sari was sitting with two children at the kitchen table. In one swift glance, I got an impression of yellow curtains and flowered wallpaper, dark linoleum splashed with bright toys. There was the spicy smell of cooking, foreign and inviting. Oh, other people’s lives!
The super said something to his wife in their language, and then he took a big ring of keys from the corkboard on the wall. One of the children waved gaily to me with her spoon before the door closed behind us. The available apartment was on the fifth floor. As the super and I climbed the stairs, I had another mental argument with Howard—as if I were considering this place for both of us and would have to convince him of its appeal. “A walk-up!” Howard exclaimed, inside my head. “Do you want to kill me, Paulie? This setup is for kids. Wait and see, the bathtub will be in the kitchen.”
“Look how clean the hallway is, though,” I insisted. “Hardly any graffiti. And the rent is really reasonable.” Actually, it was more than the monthly mortgage payments on our house, but it was cheaper than any of the other one-bedrooms I’d seen advertised.
It was a rear apartment. As soon as I walked in, I reluctantly took up Howard’s side of the argument. It was dark and dreary in there, and the rooms were tiny, with only an archway separating the bedroom from the living room. There were bars on the windows that cast prison-stripe shadows on the walls and floors. The bathtub wasn’t in the kitchen, but that might have been an improvement. The bathroom was so narrow I envisioned bruised knees and elbows from midnight trips to the toilet. The ad had said “No fee,” and I thought, They’ll have to pay somebody to take it. I knew that wasn’t true, it was a sellers’ market. But how did people live like this? How had we ever lived like this? I remembered the tumult of those early years, when all of us always seemed to be in the same room at the same time. It was noisy and nerve-racking and claustrophobic. I learned to long for solitude and space, but I’d never meant the isolation I’d felt lately in our roomy house.
I looked around and tried to picture what a couple of coats of white paint could do to reduce the gloom and make the apartment look larger. And mirrors—why, I’d just done a column on “mirror magic” that week. The bars would have to stay on the windows, of course. This was the top floor of the building, and burglars probably hung by their heels from the roof, like trapeze artists, trying to break in. But curtains would help, and an interesting old thrift-shop screen might serve as a kind of bedroom door. If I were twenty years old, I’d have been overjoyed at my great good luck in finding this place. Once, long ago, Howard and I had felt privileged to pay key money for a similar dump in Queens. But now I couldn’t work myself up into a sincere state of enthusiasm.
“You like it?” the super asked.
“Hmmm,” I said, noncommittally, and gave him a cowardly nod.
“Then you take it,” he concluded.
“Well, not yet,” I said. “Not right away. I need to think about it for a while.” What I thought about was his wife in her sari in Kip’s Bay, far, far from India, and that I was dislocated, too, although I couldn’t say exactly from where. I thanked the super and told him I’d be back. He politely pretended to believe me.
I went next door to one of the high-rises and bribed the doorman into letting me borrow the keys to a vacant studio on the twelfth floor. At least there’ll be a view, I thought. But the windows looked across the roof of the brick walk-up to the other high-rise. The square footage was about the same as the first apartment’s, only here it was all crammed into one room. The walls must have been made of rice paper, because I could hear every word of a conversation in the adjoining apartment. Two people, a man and a woman, were discussing where they would have dinner that night.
“Let’s eat Thai,” the man said.
“What, again?” the woman said. “If I even think of lemon grass, I’ll puke. Can’t we ever have any variety?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” the man said. “Look who’s talking about variety.”
“Fuck you, Mitchell,” the woman said.
I tried to imagine listening to them every day for the rest of my life. And then I had a true moment of clairvoyance. I saw myself actually living in that apartment, or the first one, with paintings on the walls and dishes in the cupboards. My friends would come with housewarming gifts: knickknacks and pot-holders, plants that would die in a week from lack of sunlight. I saw Katherine climbing the five flights of stairs of the walk-up, looking behind her all the way, and hyperventilating from exertion and fear. I pictured myself living alone, making supper with the television on for company, or getting dressed for a date. The word “date” seemed like such an anachronism, something to do with corsages and soda shops. Who was supposed to pay for things these days, anyway? And how did you ask, without offending, about herpes or AIDS? Oh, God, had Howard asked?
When someone stayed over, did you hide the less glamorous artifacts of your life, like the dental floss, or the tube of ointment that says: Apply to affected areas twice daily? Maybe you both flossed, companionably, in bed, the way Howard and I did, and applied the ointment to those hard-to-reach places on each other’s back. Years ago, when we were separated, I did go out with other men, but I was pretty young then, and more recently in the social swirl. Things were different in those days, anyway, and I only took one lover—out of loneliness, curiosity, revenge. Douglas was even younger than I was, and we had nothing in common but our hyperactive coupling. Howard was the only other man I’d ever slept with, and I suffered over my infidelity, and blamed that on him, too. It all seemed oddly innocent now, like an episode from childhood. I hadn’t even thought about Douglas in years.
I knew some divorced women who complained about the “rat race,” but I’d only paid distracted attention to their stories. My oldest friend, Sherry, had never married. Her disappointed, bewildered mother wasn’t ever sure what to tell her cronies, as Sherry passed through the decades from old maid to Cosmopolitan Girl to liberated woman. I’d granted my own mother her two dearest wishes: to be the mother of the bride and a grandmother—although I’d almost gotten the order reversed. Sherry had always maintained that she adored her single life, that it had terrific suspense. That sounded like the last thing I needed, but I was going to move out, anyway, as soon as Howard was fully recovered. I wouldn’t wait for proof, like the anonymous note a neighbor once sent about Howard and Marie, or the appearance on our doorstep of a dark-eyed, curly-haired baby. Or Howard’s disappearance.
On the way down in the elevator, an elderly woman confided that the service in the building was terrible and that the landlord was a famous criminal. She whispered, as if the elevator might be bugged. When I returned the keys to the doorman, he appeared to take sadistic pleasure in telling me that the rent on the studio was twelve hundred a month. The amazing thing was that my yearning for the city wasn’t diminished by any of this, and it seemed separate from my anger at Howard—more like an old, suppressed desire I was just beginning to acknowledge. I had to admit that he hadn’t abducted me and dragged me off to the suburbs; in the end, I went willingly.
When we were young and poor, and drove out to Long Island on Sundays t
o look at model houses, I believed it was only a cheap and harmless form of recreation, a way of playing house. And it did seem like effective if unconventional therapy for Howard’s depression. How amused we were by those impeccable, roped-off rooms, how smug about our own relative squalor. We kept telling ourselves we didn’t really want to live out there, where they named shopping malls after poets or Presidents, even if we could afford to. After Howard’s affair, though, the city began to seem dangerous in ways I’d never considered. I believed that crimes against the heart were being committed in every dark alley, on every street corner. No matter what excuses we finally invented for moving—safety, cleaner air, better schools, more space—we really did it to preserve our family.
That evening, I went to visit Howard at the hospital. I’d taken a long, hot bath first, as if to soak away the sins of an illicit rendezvous, as if I had lain with the super of the walk-up or the doorman of the high-rise. Looking at the apartments without telling Howard was a kind of deception, and so was fantasizing about a future without him. But it was nothing compared to the way he’d deceived me.
He was freshly shaved and showered—the perfect date—and he looked handsome, and pretty healthy, too. I wondered how much of a shock his heart could stand. What would happen if I accused him then and there and, when he admitted everything, told him what I intended to do? He might keel right over at my feet. But I couldn’t kill him yet; I had to let him get well first. He was like those prisoners on Death Row they keep in terrific shape until they give them the chair. I didn’t say anything, except for some aimless small talk. We chatted about the marvelous weather, the new low-calorie wines, the lesbian nuns on Donahue. I felt wildly impatient with Howard’s expansiveness, which was like a game-show host’s, his manic anticipation of going home. He announced again that he was going to change his habits, and I thought of all the times he’d quit smoking and of the abandoned Exercycle in our bedroom, its handlebars hung with his ties and belts. He kept calling me “babe,” a long-forsaken endearment. Liar, liar! Pants on fire! He told me that Gil Danzer had called to say he’d gone back to work, that he was driving his car again, and felt like a million bucks. Howard expected to make the same splendid progress himself. Now he wanted to know all about the new shower curtain—the sort of thing he’d never been interested in before—and I had to confess that I hadn’t bought one. “They didn’t have the right color,” I said sullenly, and he said, “That’s too bad, babe. Maybe we can look for one together soon.”
So that’s what he planned for our future: homely excursions for shower curtains, a clever domestic cover-up for what he’d done. Soon he’d want to get into team cooking, too. I guessed his sweetie had dropped him as soon as she’d heard about his heart, that she didn’t want to risk his dying on her—literally. God knows, there’s nothing romantic about a sick lover. Apply to affected areas twice daily.
Then I noticed that Howard’s roommate was acting strangely—staring intently at me, and looking quickly away whenever I returned his gaze. He had his television set on, as usual, a cops-and-robbers show, with strident music punctuated by gunshots. It was an effort for me to stay until visiting hours were over. As I went through the door, at last, Howard called after me: “Don’t forget, babe, be here bright and early. I can’t wait to get home!”
6
ONE MINUTE I WAS flying, and the next thing I knew I was down and out. To begin with, Paulie and the nurses made a major production out of my leaving the hospital. Paulie opened the closet and the night-table drawer a hundred times to make sure we weren’t forgetting anything. She kept asking if I wanted to take home the dying flowers and deflating balloons, all the get-well cards she’d taped to the wall. Seiffert had picked this time to shut off his TV and wander around the room, getting in the way. “Whoops, pardonnez-moi,” he said whenever he bumped into Paulie. Then one of the nurses came in with a wheelchair.
“I don’t need that,” I said.
“Rules,” she insisted.
“It’s a long walk, Howie,” Paulie said.
Even Seiffert chimed in, urging me to go along for the free ride.
I argued with all of them, getting hot and anxious. By the time the head nurse got into it, I felt overpowered and a little light-headed, so I just gave in and sat down. “See ya!” Seiffert called as we started down the hall.
It was a long ride and it would have been an even longer walk, but I was tired of being bossed around, and I hated to be made conscious of a simple thing like walking. I’d been especially jumpy since Janine’s surprise visit, but despite her threats, she never came back. I was relieved and let down at the same time. When Mike came to see me, he said, “Who was that ditzy dame at the studio, Flax?” Luckily, Paulie wasn’t there then. “Don’t ask me,” I said. “We’re in the Yellow Pages.”
Paulie brought the car around to the main entrance of the hospital and I got into the front passenger seat, holding on to the nurse and a curb-side tree for support. “Welcome back to the world,” Paulie said, charging into traffic. It was a beautiful autumn day, breezy and bright. The world hadn’t stood still in my absence. In only a couple of weeks, while my back was turned, the seasons had changed. It was like coming out of a movie in the afternoon, into sudden, blinding daylight and three-dimensional life. Paulie still drove like a madman. We whizzed past everything, my foot stomping the brake that wasn’t there. “Hey, take it easy,” I said. “Do you want to give me a heart attack?” I said it lightly, to hide the real apprehension that was building in my chest and stomach, that I was returning to things without being ready for them. I was much weaker than I’d expected to be, and we were moving farther and farther away from the protection of the hospital. I had gangs of pills to take, but we weren’t really equipped for emergencies—Paulie didn’t even know CPR—and what if something happened? That morning, before she showed up, I couldn’t wait to get out of there, and now I almost wished I was back inside.
“Look at the trees, Howard,” Paulie instructed. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Which ones are the trees?” I said.
Our house couldn’t have changed, but it looked smaller and flatter, somehow, as we approached it, more like a photograph of a house. The dog went nuts even before he saw me. He whined and scrambled against the other side of the door while Paulie unlocked it, and when I walked into the kitchen he barked hoarsely, as if he was choked with emotion. I couldn’t speak either. There were three fat, dusty tomatoes from my garden on the table and Paulie had chalked Welcome Home on the bulletin board. She stayed in the kitchen to make lunch, keeping Shadow with her, while I went down the hallway to our bedroom. The bed was made up with fresh, flower-printed sheets, and the covers were turned back on my side. I took off my shoes and lay down. The blinds had been tilted so that just the right amount of light filtered into the room, and the pulsing digital clock glowed greenly. I had a sudden desire for sleep and the drowsy, hopeful idea that when I woke up, my old life, my sense of well-being, would be completely restored. I turned the radio on, and the MJQ was playing “Trianon,” those cool, restful sounds made almost to order. I was a child again, getting into bed in the daytime, listening to music and the faint, comforting noises of a meal being prepared. Paulie had said that the kids would be over soon to see me, and I was going to call Gil later to tell him I was home. It was familiar and peaceful here, and safe.
When I came to, the room was dimmer, the radio was sputtering pure static, and my mouth was sour with sleep. Paulie was standing next to the bed, staring down at me. I shut the radio off, trying to remember my dream. Paulie had been in it, I was sure of that, and she was dressed in white, like a nurse, or a bride. “How do you feel?” she asked now, and before I could answer, she said, “Are you hungry?”
I had to think about both questions. I’d slept for almost four hours, but I still felt groggy. My stomach was rumbling, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. The kids had come and gone while I’d slept, and Gil and Sharon had called to say hello a
nd good luck. I’d never even heard the phone ring. Paulie continued to stand there, like a waiter impatient to take my order. I was on eye level with the curve of her hip. She was wearing her blue skirt and she smelled of something spicy. “What’s that?” I asked.
“What’s what?” she said.
“Your perfume. You smell good.”
She sniffed her arm and then pulled the neck of her blouse away. “I’m not wearing any perfume,” she said. “Maybe it’s the cardamom, or the curry. I’m making an Indian dinner. You slept right through lunch.”
“It must be because I’m in my own bed,” I said. “Our bed.”
“You have to take your medicine,” Paulie reminded me, and she handed me the vial of pills and a glass of water from the night table.
I swallowed a pill, swishing some extra water around to sweeten my breath. “Sit down for a minute,” I said, shoving over to make room for her.
“I can’t, really,” she said. “Everything will burn.”
“No, it won’t. Come on, babe, just sit down for a minute.”
She hesitated, twisting her fingers together the way she does when she’s nervous, and then she perched on the very edge of the bed. I moved closer and put my hand on her back. It arched instantly, as if I’d touched a spring. “Relax,” I said, massaging her through the soft cloth of her blouse. “Everything’s going to be all right now.” I said it for my own benefit as much as for hers. But how could anything ever be all right again? I was damaged; Dr. Croyden had used that word himself in his diagnosis. He said that I’d suffered moderate damage. I remembered that “damaged goods” was what we used to call girls who weren’t virgins anymore, happy to be the ones who’d damaged them.
It’s hard to describe the way I felt then—I was definitely interested, but not exactly horny. And I was a little worried that maybe I couldn’t, although the only part of me that had been damaged was my heart. But what about that? I didn’t know how much work it could stand before it blew out. Jesus, I’d never thought of sex as work before. We’d met with Croyden a few days ago, to discuss my reentry to real life. “You should be able to resume all normal activities,” he’d said, “as long as you take it easy. Walk at first, don’t run. I think you can start working a few hours a day in a week or two. Just try to avoid stressful situations.” How the hell did you avoid stressful situations?
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