Love and Will

by Stephen Dixon

  He tore up the poem, stuck the pieces into his jacket pocket. There were two benches nearby but he didn’t sit. He put his hands in front of his face, closed his eyes, leaned his head against Chris’s vault, cried, remained still like that for several minutes after he cried, left.

  As he was walking to the parking lot, a man he had never seen before came alongside him and said “I was standing several graves, or whatever you want to call those things, over from you when you were inside before. I don’t mean to intervene, but we seem to be walking in the same direction to lot B. That must have been one hell of a person you visited just now. One really wonderful person. My condolences, no matter how long a time that person’s death might have been. Though because this cemetery, or whatever it is, is so new, it couldn’t have been more than seven years ago.”

  “It was only last year—this week’s his anniversary. And he was all right as a person, not great—I don’t want to lie to you. But thanks.” He patted the man’s back and got into his car. He backed up, pulled away and saw in the rearview mirror the man waving at him.

  Takes

  Man’s waiting in the service elevator right next to the passenger elevator. Someone comes—a woman, hopes it’s a young one, through the front door or from one of the apartments upstairs or on this floor—he’ll step out behind her with the knife, threaten her with it, take her in the automatic elevator rather than this hand-operated one to the top floor, walk her up to the roof, knife always on her throat, he always behind her and threatening softly but with a real scary tone in his voice “One scream and I’ll use it; make even a move from this knife or to see me and I’ll kill you,” take her to a good dark out-of-the-way spot on the roof—all depending what lights from the other buildings’ windows are on it—and rape her. She’ll never see his face and his voice won’t be his own. She doesn’t put up a fuss, he’ll leave her there gagged and tied up. He’s scouted out the building. Not many tenants come in or leave their apartments this late, but it’s worth the wait. Someone will come. Lots of single women in this neighborhood, so has to be a few in this building too. But on Saturday night, most, he bets, will be with men friends. One won’t though and that’s who.

  Tenant on the eighth floor. Can’t sleep. Something’s up. Hasn’t always been right when she thought something bad was going to happen, but enough times she has. It’s not from any crazy imagination she’s thinking this. The winos were really loud tonight. Few more bottles and things smashed on the street or whatever they’re smashed against than usual too. And a couple more souped-up cars and motorcycles than she’s used to racing past her building too. Why don’t the police do something? If it’s because they don’t know of these things going on or they’re too lazy to patrol or can’t because of cutbacks, then why don’t people call them more? This city. She turns the TV off. Get some sleep.

  Young woman’s mother in Connecticut. Thinking about her daughter. She went to New York to do graduate work in painting. Took an apartment with another young woman, a friend from college. But the building’s bad. Filthy, poorly maintained, bell system that doesn’t work; a firetrap, she’s sure. Even if some of the neighborhood’s okay, and some of the river buildings even elegant, and as co-ops or rented apartments, quite expensive, much of it’s very bad. Welfare hotels. Cheap rooming houses. Awful-looking men and women on the street day and night. Little park nearby where men drink and some dope and urinate in the open and make vulgar remarks to passing women and all sorts of other things. Beggars. In the Times she’s read of break-ins and muggings and seen a city crime statistic chart that put her neighborhood near the top. Worried.

  Man in a cab going acrosstown. Should have got out of the cab and escorted her upstairs. Didn’t like the looks of her building and block. But then he hardly knows her. She might have thought he was being funny in a way—forward, not funny. And he had this cab, was in it, did only promise to take her to the street door, or rather: just see, while he sat in the cab, she got inside that door, and then he might not have got another cab after he left her building or not so fast. Could have asked the cab to wait while he saw her to her apartment door. Now he thinks of it. But she said she’d be all right. He did ask. And he’s sure that no matter how hard he insisted on taking her to her apartment door, she would have said no. Still.

  Woman’s in the lobby, presses the elevator button. Light above the elevator door says the car’s on the top floor, the eighth. Slow elevator, takes days to get down. She doesn’t like waiting in this creepy lobby. Anyway, her friend Phoebe will be upstairs and they can talk about tonight. The man she met. He was nice. Took her home in a cab, wouldn’t let her share the fare with him. She wishes she had accepted his suggestion and let him walk her to her door. But then she would have had to invite him in. And offer him a coffee or a beer, when really all she wants to do, if Phoebe’s up—she’ll be up—is talk a little with her and go to sleep. Elevator’s about here. It’s here.

  Man thinks now’s the time. She’s a good-looking one. Long legs, big ass. She’ll screw well. He’ll screw her well. He’ll screw her till she cries for more, more. He steps out. She turns around. Knife’s out. Damn, she saw him. “Don’t say a word or I’ll kill you right here.” He gets behind her and puts the knife to her neck. Opens the elevator door, knife always against her neck. “We’re going to the roof. I know this building. Don’t say a word, make a peep—nothing—don’t even sneak a look at me again or you’re dead. I know how to get out of this building easily so I’ll be out of here before you hit the ground. Now get in.”

  She gets in. She doesn’t believe this. What should she do? This is a dream. A nightmare. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. Think, think. That knife. It pricks. They go up. He pressed eight. He said “roof.” Maybe someone will stop the elevator on the fourth floor, fifth. There’s only one outside button for each floor. No down and up buttons—just one, and if you press that button when you want to do down and the elevator’s going up, it stops. Please. Someone.

  It’s too late to call her, her mother thinks. She’d like to. She wants very much to speak to Corinne, tell her how worried she is about her. Tell her that Dad and she will give her a hundred dollars a month extra to find a better building to live in. Two hundred. It’ll be a sacrifice for them, but it just shows how anxious they are about where she’s living now. If she’s going to live in that city, she’ll tell her, then it has to be on these terms. Of course she could say no, she likes where she’s living now, took months to find and then paint and set up, doesn’t want to take any more money from them than she already is and so on, and they really wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. It’s too late to call. But it’s Saturday. She dials. Corinne’s phone rings. If she answers it, or if Phoebe answers it—she hasn’t once thought of Phoebe, for instance how she’d take to Corinne’s parents subsidizing most of their rent—she’ll apologize for calling this late, but both will have to know she only has their best interests at heart. That’s not enough. She slams down the receiver. She can wait till tomorrow? Has to, since Corinne will see her anxiety at this hour as bordering on mania. Just another nine or ten hours. Eleven’s okay to call on Sundays for women that age. Even if they’re with men friends who stayed the night, which, let’s face it, could well be the case. She goes upstairs to wash up for bed. Her husband says from the bedroom “What’ve you been doing? I heard you slamming the phone down, picking it up, then slamming it again.” “I only slammed it once. I was worried about Corinne. Worked it out in my head though, so it’s now all okay.”

  Roommate at a party downtown. Wonders if Corinne’s home by now. She’s sure she’s expecting her to be there when she gets home. Note she left will explain it or should. Something like “Aaron called. Sudden invite to big bash at a south of Soho artist’s loft and wanted me to join him. I know. Swore I’d grind away at the books all weekend and maybe never see Aaron again, but what, dear, can I say?” They have a phone here? If so, she’ll call Corinne and say she doubts
she’ll be coming home tonight, and she should try to do that before two. She’s just about never seen or heard Corinne up after two. “Excuse me,” to a woman she thinks is one of the three people giving the party, “but is there by any chance a phone in this place I may use?” “As long as it’s not to out of town,” the woman says. “Positively not.” “Actually, if you’re a good friend of either of the other hosts, you can make that call to as far west as Columbus, south as Washington, and as far north as Boston, let’s say.”

  She’s also a very pleasant girl, man in the cab thinks. Attractive. Even pretty. He’d definitely call her pretty, even beautiful in some ways, though he doubts a couple of his friends would. Still. And she had spark. Bright, besides. Far as he could make out, bright as any woman he’s met in a year. He’s definitely phoning her tomorrow. Monday night, not tomorrow. Doesn’t want to appear too eager. Why not? She seemed like she’d like eagerness. Directed at her, but not just to score. She complained how most men she meets these days don’t really care or get excited about anything but making money and getting ahead. Don’t really read, don’t think much about serious things, aren’t interested in much art other than movies and music. She didn’t say he was different than they but implied he was. She also gave him her phone number willingly enough. He likes her name. She seems to come from a good family: intelligent, moral, involved, well-off. He thinks she sort of took to him too. Maybe that’s why he should act fast: so she doesn’t forget why she was attracted to him, if she was. Tomorrow night. No, Monday’s soon enough. He hopes she paints well. If she doesn’t, he could always say at first—later he could level with her more—“Hell, what do I know?”

  Top floor. Roof stairs and door. Always trying to get a look at him to see if he means it—seemed he did. Had one of the most maniacal faces she’s even seen, when she saw him just that one glimpse. Slim, young, smelly, wiry, ruthless, cagey-looking. He’s crazy. He’s going to kill her. If it was just robbery he would have taken the bag from her downstairs and fled. Knife isn’t on her neck anymore. Rape and possibly kill her. She has to find a way to get away. She has to scream, run, kick, maybe on the roof. Now she’s thinking. Roof, where there’s space. Stairs he’s got her trapped. This building’s attached to the corner one and unless there’s barbed wire or something separating the two roofs, she can make a run for it yelling all the time. Pick up a brick if they have one on the roof and he’s cornered her against something like a wall or by a roof edge and throw it at him. Anything: teeth, knees and fists and then down a fire escape, but to escape. There’s one that goes all the way past her bedroom window to the narrow alleyway on the ground floor. Corner building must have one too. If not, down her building’s fire escape screaming, knocking, banging, breaking all the windows along the way if she has to till someone comes, wakes up, shouts, whatever, but helps chase the man away.

  Tenant hears footsteps on the roof right above her. Who could be up there this hour? Trouble. Either some junkies got in the building or corner one next door and got to the roof that way and are shooting up. Or winos or runaways or just plain bums making a home for the night up there? Why can’t it rain now or snow? Get them off. She just hopes the roof door’s locked tight so they don’t start walking down the building’s stairs and making noise and throwing up in the hallways as what happened a couple of times or trying all the doors. What else could it be up there but something awful? She hopes not someone forced to go for the worst of purposes. That’s happened on one or two other buildings around here but never hers.

  “Now you know what I want,” the man says. “I want to screw you but I want it without holding the knife to your face. That way it’ll be better for me and easier and quicker for you. Then if you’re good to me and a good little girl all around and give no trouble I’ll let you go. You’re a real piece of ass, you know? I could tell right away you screw well and that you’ve screwed around a lot. You got the face for it. Saucy. Sexy. So, you going to do it like I say? You don’t, you’re dead.”

  “No, I don’t want to do it with you,” the woman says. And then louder: “Now let me alone. Let me get by you and downstairs. Now please—I’m asking—please!” He stabs her in the chest. She raises her arms. He stabs her several times. She goes down. She screams. She says “Help, I’m being murdered.” He gets on one knee and stabs her where he thinks her heart is.

  “Stop that, stop that,” the tenant shouts out her window. “Whoever it is, leave that girl alone. Help, police, someone’s killing someone upstairs. On the roof. Stop that, you butcher, stop that, stop.”

  “Help me, I’m dying,” the woman says. “Stupid bitch,” the man says. He jumps up. Lights have gone on in some of the apartment windows in buildings that overlook the roof. “Shit,” he says. “Hey you there,” a man says from one window. “What is it, what’s going on?” a man says from a window right next to that one. “I’ve called the police,” a woman shouts from what seems like the building he’s on. “They’re coming. They’re on their way. Everybody call to make sure they come. Girl, don’t be afraid. They’re coming. People from this building will be up there for you too.” “Shit,” he says and leaps over the low wall to get to the next building’s fire escape.

  Her mother thinks about the dream she just had. All the apartment buildings around hers were falling down, one after the other. She lives in a suburban townhouse and has never lived in anything but a private home, but in the dream she was in she lived in an apartment in a tall old apartment building in a large city that looked more European than American. The buildings collapsed straight down as if heavy explosives had been set off under them. For a while it seemed the window was a TV screen and she was watching the buildings fall in slow motion in a documentary. She was with her three daughters, all about four to eight years younger than they are now, and her husband and mother, who’s dead. Then her building was falling. She held out her arms to her family and said “Here, come into me.” Her arms became progressively longer as each person came into her. She kissed their heads in a row—they were all as small as little children now—and started crying. Then they were at her family’s gravesite behind her grandparents’ farmhouse, burying her mother. “This proves life can go on,” she said to her husband, daughters and grandmother. She doesn’t know what the last part of the dream means. There is no farmhouse or family gravesite. Her parents and grandparents are buried in three different enormous cemeteries. Where was her son in the dream? She gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen, writes down the dream and what she thinks the end of it means. “That everything will be OK with C (living in her city hovel)? That I really needn’t be anxious about any of my kids or really about anything in life (how’d I come to that last conclusion?)? That if people stay in mind & memory (just about the same thing; I realize that) they’re never really dead? That living, dying, illness, fraility, tragedy, mayhem, mishaps, madness, revolutions, terrorism (from inside & out) and the rest of it are all quite normal? (Was that all you were going to say?) That we’re all basically entwined &—now stop all that; it was never in it. Then what? Time for God? Not at any price & why’d that idea pop in? (To interpret it theologically, that’s all.) An important dream though, start to end, no matter what I don’t make of it. Read all this back tomorrow. Underscore that: read, read.’ Maybe then.”

  Her father can’t sleep. He feels for his wife in bed. She left it before but is there now. “Hilda, you up? I can’t sleep; want to talk.” No answer or movement. Why’d she have to worry him so? Not that he can’t handle it, but—He gets up, goes to the bathroom, drinks a glass of water. That was stupid. Meant to take two aspirins first. He gets the aspirins out of the medicine cabinet, puts them in his mouth and washes them down with another glass of water. Now he’ll feel better. In about fifteen minutes. And his dreams are usually more vivid and peaceful in theme when he takes aspirins. His doctor thinks he should take an aspirin every other night to reduce the fat or plaque on his blood vessel walls. He doesn’t mind, especially for the side b
enefits of a more peaceful sleep and dreams, but usually forgets to.

  The woman’s being treated by paramedics. She gives a description of her attacker and details of what happened. “Honestly, try not to talk,” one of the paramedics says. “Yes, you probably shouldn’t,” a policeman says. She says “No, I want you to know what happened. If I go over it enough times, you’ll get everything. I came into the building. We’re still on my building?” “Yes, of course,” the policeman says. “I meant, he didn’t drag me over the parapet to the next building?” “If he did, he brought you back or you got back here on your own.” “No, what am I talking of?” she says. “I came into the building. I’ll proceed chronologically, no digressions. I came into the building.” “I really don’t want her talking,” the paramedic says. “You heard him, Miss. Don’t talk.” “I came into the building. He was waiting for me in the service elevator. That elevator ought to be locked at night, not left open. People can hide there. I’m digressing, but so what? The lobby door should have a better lock. Anyone, with a little force, can push the door open when it’s locked. The building should have better lights. Look at the lights when you leave in the lobby and hallways. Thirty watts, maybe. One to a hallway if you’re lucky. There’s a city law. My roommate’s checked. She’s studying to be a lawyer. Where is she?” “If you mean Miss Kantor,” the policeman says, “she’s not home. We’ve been inside your apartment. To look for your attacker. I hope you don’t mind.” “There’s a city law saying the wattage should be higher, Phoebe said. Minimum of two lights too. In case one goes out. He had a long knife. Said he’d kill me unless. Well, he nearly did. Maybe he will have. No he won’t. I should say that. No he won’t.” “You shouldn’t say anything,” the paramedic says. “This officer and I say don’t.” “But I wouldn’t have sex with him. Why would I? It would have been worse than anything. He was filthy. A beast. A jungle. I thought I could escape on the roof. I should have tried to break away sooner. In the lobby. That way I would have had a chance. But I was so scared. I couldn’t think. I got my wits about me going up the elevator. His knife seemed shined. Maybe he shines it with polish. He was sick enough. Maybe I should have let him do it. Screw me, he said. Maybe it would have been worth it, filth and all. When you can’t do anything.” “Now that’s enough. Absolutely no more talk.” “This has all been very valuable, Corinne,” the policeman says, “but this man is right. Save your strength. I insist. For your own sake.” “All right.”