Before he even got to his spyhole, Freedy knew they were there. That creepy music, coming down tunnel F: he didn’t like any music, but this kind was the worst. Wasn’t even in English, like the singer was rubbing your nose in it.
Freedy removed his drywall door, went into the little room, put his eye to the spyhole. Ka-boom: drop-dead, fuck-you, better than he’d remembered, one, the darker-haired, dressed all in black, the other, the blonde, in red. And that guy. Freedy had forgotten all about him, the college kid he could break in half.
They were lounging on couches, purple couches with gold fringe, drinking some golden liquid from sparkling glasses and talking, the whole room golden too, from the candlelight. The funny thing was that the blond one, hanging something silver around her neck, was saying exactly what she’d said the first time he’d seen her: “How do I look?”
Some weird time warp, like they’d been waiting for him to come back. But what a ridiculous fuckin’ question. How could she even ask? Drop-dead fuck-you is how she looked. The drop-dead fuck-you ones had to know they were drop-dead fuck-you, didn’t they? Otherwise nothing made sense. Freedy toyed with the idea of saying it, not loud, just cool and matter-of-fact, speaking right through the spyhole. Drop-dead fuck-you is how you look, babe. Then their heads would whip up, real quick, to where the sound came from, and he’d come crashing through the wall. Ka-boom. Toyed with the idea, but remained silent. He was good at silence when he wanted to be; right now, he couldn’t even hear his own breathing.
“Like a pirate,” said the darker-haired one. “Do you think Leo actually found it, or just bought it somewhere?”
“Who knows anything about Leo anymore?” said the blonde.
The darker-haired one thought that over. The college kid, so breakable in two, watched her do it like something special was happening. “Do you think Dad knew all this?” she said.
“Knew all what?” said the blond one.
“Brooklyn,” said the darker-haired one. “Mrs. Uzig.”
Mrs. Uzig? Leo? Bells rang. Maybe something special was happening.
“It would be just like him, wouldn’t it?” said the blond one. “To keep the good stuff to himself.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that,” said the darker-haired one.
The blonde shook her head. “Daddy’s little girl.”
Daddy’s little girl. What the fuck was this all about? Suddenly it hit him, another one of his amazing insights: they were sisters! And this other one, the college kid, was their brother! Three rich kids, fooling around down in the tunnels. It all made sense. Lucky for the college kid, that brother angle-might save him from being broken in two.
“What do you mean, daddy’s little girl?” said the darkerhaired one.
“You find that obscure?” said the blonde.
Totally obscure, but Freedy didn’t care: their bodies! Meanwhile they were exchanging some sort of look. The darker-haired one broke it first, just like the statie with him. Hey! Was this a fight? And were they a little drunk? Probably not-they weren’t behaving like fighters and drunks he knew: no snarling, for one thing; no punching, for another.
The music stopped. It got very quiet. Freedy pressed his forehead to the wall, his eye almost in the room. He could hear the candles burning. “More music?” said the college kid, getting up.
For fuck sake.
“How about the Caruso?” said the blonde.
“ ‘Caro Nome,’ ” said the darker-haired one, real decisive for some reason.
“ ‘Caro Nome,’ ” said the blond one. “Aren’t you getting sick of it?” The darker-haired one didn’t answer. The blond one turned to the college kid. “Aren’t you getting sick of it, Nat?”
“Not yet,” said the college kid, Nat.
From his angle, Freedy had a good look at the blonde’s face when he said that. She was pissed. He had no idea why, but she was. The others didn’t see it: the one called Nat was winding up some old-fashioned record player-maybe an antique, maybe worth a bundle-and the darker-haired one, the little sister, was watching him.
More music. A female voice, the same hideous song that had been playing the first night. The big sister didn’t like it either; Freedy could see that. She got up right away and said: “I’m going to call him.”
“Who?” said the little sister.
“Daddy,” said the big sister, said it funny, like it was in quotes.
“Why?”
“See what he knows about Leo.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Not in Manila.”
“How do you know he’s in Manila?”
Her voice took on an edge: “Or Singapore, Shanghai, what difference does it make? They’ll track him down.” She was walking toward the unlit room, the bedroom. “See you later,” she said.
“You’re leaving?”
“Bonsoir.”
Or some foreign shit; this was like another goddamn country.
Freedy’s angle was perfect for seeing what happened after that. The little sister and the Nat guy exchanged a look, like they didn’t know what the hell was going on. Join the club, thought Freedy. Meanwhile, big sister was climbing up the rope ladder in the bedroom. There was just enough spillover light from the candles in the big room to gleam on her blond head. Up and out of sight she went. Freedy heard something close like a lid.
The little sister and the Nat guy made eye contact again, different this time. The little sister got up and walked over toward the record player where the Nat guy was standing. Why did he keep calling her the little sister? She was just as tall as the big sister, with a body just as good in every way. In fact-another one of his insights was coming, he could feel it-they were identical, except for the hair. Except for the hair, they could have been twins.
And the Nat guy was not their brother, oh no, not unless something sicko was going on. Freedy knew that from the way she put her arms around him, the way they kissed, swaying to the music but not dreamy, much hotter than dreamy. Freedy was just settling into what might get pretty interesting when he saw something that actually scared him, scared him, Freedy; made his heart jump inside his chest. It wasn’t that first gleam, barely flickering in the unlit bedroom that did it; he didn’t make the connection. It was when that blond head materialized in the darkness, and big sister, her body hidden in shadow, took in the scene by the record player. Her face.
Actually scared him.
“I love this song, don’t you?” little sister was saying.
“Yes,” said the Nat guy.
“Do you understand the words?”
The Nat guy shook his head. “Is this before the kidnapping or after?”
“Just before,” said the little sister.
Freedy looked beyond them, to the bedroom. Big sister was gone.
20
“That which is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil.” Why? (Or why not?)
— Optional midterm exam question, Philosophy 322
“I love that,” Izzie said.
“What?”
“Your chipped tooth.” She ran the tip of her tongue over it again.
“It’s a flaw.”
“That’s why.” They stood beside the wind-up record player, down in the cave, their arms around each other, music of long ago all around them; the words incomprehensible to Nat, the emotions not. “How did you do it?” Izzie asked.
“Do what?”
“Chip your tooth.”
“I was born with it. My mom has the same thing, same tooth.”
“Your mom-” Izzie began, and stopped herself.
“What about her?”
“Oops,” Izzie said.
Nat backed up a little, still holding Izzie, but at arm’s length. “What about her?”
“I hope to meet her one day.”
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
Izzie sighed. “She sounds nice, that’s all.”
But he’d never really discussed his mother wit
h Izzie. “Who says?”
“You can be relentless.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m used to it. Patti told us about her. There-happy now?”
“Yup.” He was; the sound of her name stabbed him, but he was happy at the same time.
Izzie laughed, moved closer to him. The music played, the candles burned. Happy, and on his way to exhilaration. He spun her, just a half a little spin, to the music.
At that moment, something caught Nat’s eye on the far, and distant, wall. He looked over Izzie’s head, saw only the biggest of all the oil paintings, hanging halfway up. Fauns, sheep, a centaur spying from behind a rock, three nudes bathing by a waterfall.
“Is she relentless too?”
“My mom? No.”
“What does she do?
“I thought I told you.”
“Must have been Grace. Happens all the time.”
“She works in a law office.”
“Your mother’s a lawyer?”
“Receptionist.”
“How big a practice?”
A question that would never have occurred to him. “In what way?”
“How many lawyers?”
“Just one.”
Izzie’s eyebrow rose, that right eyebrow that took care of nonverbal communication.
“It’s a small town,” Nat said.
“What’s he like?” said Izzie. “Or she.”
“My mom’s boss?” Mr. Beaman: Whatever you’ve got, Evie. Paper cups will do. “He’s all right, I guess.” She never complained. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s about you,” Izzie said. “And we have something in common.”
“We do?”
“I lived in a small town once myself. In Connecticut. Not Grace. Just me. We were very little and it was just for a year. This was after the divorce. Grace stayed with our mother in the city, my father and I moved to the country. I went to first grade at an ordinary public school.”
“And survived?”
“Very funny. I loved it. Especially snow days. They were the best. Did they have snow days where you were?”
“Some.” But not many; Nat’s town prided itself on keeping the schools open no matter what, and anyone with a pickup and a plow was on the road with the first falling flakes, fighting for a chunk of the public-works budget.
“There’s nothing like a snow day,” Izzie said. “Not Christmas, or any other holiday or vacation. You wake up and ka-boom.”
“Ka-boom?”
“Everything’s changed.”
“What do you mean?” Nat said. He himself had earned extra money on snow days, shoveling driveways.
“It’s a different planet,” Izzie said. “This feeling-I couldn’t put it into words back then-of freedom. Real freedom, like I was no longer in the grip of all these forces.”
“What forces?”
“The forces, Nat. The responsibilities, the duties, the relationships.”
“Life as we know it.”
“Exactly. Snow days are different. Like after the world ends but you survived.”
“And you get the same feeling down here.”
“Close. How did you know?”
Later they were in the bedroom, on the canopied bed, the candles all out, the silence complete.
And not long after that: “The things you do,” Izzie said.
Anything. They seemed to be able to do anything together, without need of consultation, without fear of a misstep. He moved slightly so she could put her head on his chest if she wanted; she did.
“Think it’s still snowing?” Nat said.
“Got to be,” said Izzie. “That’s why I picked this place-it was snowing when I interviewed.”
Picked this place. Nat thought of Mrs. Smith and Miss Brown, all it had taken to get him here. “And Grace? Is that why she picked it too?”
“She didn’t really care.”
“Didn’t care?”
“Where she went. College isn’t really that big a deal, is it? If I liked it, that was good enough for her.”
Silence.
“And when you went with your father and Grace stayed with your mother?” Nat said. “How was that decided?”
“What a funny question.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s one of my earliest memories, maybe the first. It was supposed to be the other way, me with my mother, Grace with my father. Then there was this goodbye scene in Grand Central Station. Suitcases, porters, the old nanny and the new one, probably the Albert of the time, the four of us. The four of us of the time. And Grace-do you know Grand Central?”
“No.”
“There’s a mezzanine with a restaurant above the main concourse, or at least there was then. This was before the renovation, when it was still full of homeless people. We were having hot chocolate while someone got the tickets for Connecticut. Grace’s chocolate spilled-I can’t remember how, but I can still see the chocolate flowing across the table and dripping onto her lap. She just watched it, didn’t even flinch. Then she looked up and said she wanted to go with Mommy.”
Silence. And yes, like a snow day, everything muffled, the world disconnected.
“But it was all arranged. That’s what they said, my mother, my father, one of the nannies, someone. No one took her seriously. The next thing, she’d climbed on top of the railing, over the concourse, and spread her arms. I can see that too, much stronger than the spilled chocolate, even. On tiptoes on the railing, like Acapulco. It was in my dreams for years.”
Silence.
“What was that?” Izzie said.
“What?”
“That noise.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
They listened, heard nothing but snow day silence, insulated from sound by the earth around them.
“Then what happened?” Nat said.
“This homeless guy, going from table to table with a paper cup, grabbed her and sat her back down in her chair, like it was part of his routine, kind of roughly. Couldn’t have happened now, of course, the way it’s all cleaned up. Then the tickets came. I went to Connecticut and Grace went back to the apartment with our mother. This was on Fifth Avenue, not where we are now. And that was that. The next year, our mother met someone new and moved to Paris, and my father ended up with both of us, back in the city.”
Silence.
“But I never understood what she was basing her preference on,” Izzie said.
“How do you mean?”
“We hardly spent any time with either of them. I don’t know why it made such a difference.”
Nat didn’t either, but he could see that chocolate dripping into Grace’s little lap as though he’d been there. In the darkness, he felt Izzie’s eyes on him.
“What’s your earliest memory?” she said.
“The same kind of thing.”
Izzie took it for a joke, and laughed.
They climbed the rope ladder, started back through the tunnels, Nat leading the way with a flashlight. “A teacher?” said Izzie; he felt her breath on the back of his ear. “Is that really what you want to be?”
He replied with a question of his own. “What did you put?” The rest of the cards had been forgotten after Mrs. Uzig’s appearance.
“Guess.”
“Spearing fish,” Nat said.
Pause. “I wish I had,” Izzie said. “I’m starting to think you know me better than I do.”
He had a troubling thought. “You didn’t put what Grace did?”
“Oh, no.”
“Then what?”
“Now I’m not telling.”
“Even if I guess?”
Somewhere during this dialogue they’d stopped, faced each other, embraced; the flashlight beam pointing here and there without guidance.
Izzie started to reply, then made a little sound, a quick inhale. “Look,” she said, and pointed to the quivering circle of light on the tunnel ceiling.
A bat hung upside down from a plastic pipe,
its eyes wide open, liquid, intelligent.
“Our cave,” said Izzie. “Our bat.”
The thing hung motionless.
They climbed into the janitor’s closet in the basement of Plessey, out into the hall, upstairs to the main floor. Late night, snow coming down hard.
“Snow day tomorrow,” Izzie said, “for sure.”
She led him out the door and onto the quad, the snow in her hair, on her eyelashes. “Kiss me,” she said. “Kiss me right now.”
He did. Everything was all right, would be all right; whatever problems there were lost their power, like normal forces on a snow day, just as Izzie had said. He loved her, no doubt about it, and would have said so; but she was already gone, running across the quad toward Lanark, snow falling behind her like curtains.
In the morning snow still fell, but not as hard. Nat put on his boots, warm and waterproof, sixteenth-birthday present from his mom, now a little tight, and walked over to the student union cafeteria. Breakfast smells woke him up. He piled food on his tray-scrambled eggs, bacon, corn flakes, English muffin, banana, milk, juice, coffee. The cashier took his meal card, swiped it through the machine, swiped it again, once more. “Card’s blocked,” she said.
“Blocked?”
“Got a block on it.”
“Why?”
“Have to ask the financial office.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
Crying Wolf Page 19