The 25th Hour

by David Benioff

  Ten minutes before, the three of them had marched up the narrow staircase to Monty’s apartment and sat in silence in the dark living room, nobody willing to say a word. The light spilled out below the door of the bedroom but Monty did not go in there; he sat on the floor, his back against the radiator, scratching behind Doyle’s mangled ear. Jakob pictured Naturelle lying in bed, eyes open, waiting. For some reason the image stabbed at Jakob. He wondered if she knew that Monty had fucked another woman back at the club, if she cared.

  Monty finally stood up and said, ‘Let’s take Doyle for a walk. One last walk with Doyle,’ and the four of them trudged back out to the snow.

  Jakob listens to the sounds of Slattery’s heavy footsteps; he feels his friend’s exhaustion, his frustration. In a strange way it comforts him to see how bad Slattery looks, how miserable. His face is troubled, gloomy, and Jakob feels a great surge of affection for him, to see him so wretched on account of another. Slattery’s a good man after all. Not a sweetheart, but a man you’d want on your side when the troubles come.

  Still, he’ll look fine by the weekend, thinks Jakob. We’ll both look fine. In a few hours, while Monty is riding the bus to Otisville, Slattery can crawl into bed, the shades pulled down, sleep until Sunday, watch the Super Bowl at a friend’s apartment: bowls of popcorn and nachos on the coffee table; happy, well-fed people piled on the sofa, lounging on the floor, drinking beers in the kitchen; everybody cheering when the good guys score.

  The four of them march down the middle of the avenue, a crew of jaywalkers stomping past red lights on the eastern edge of the hushed island. The only vehicle on the road is a snowplow half a mile south, its yellow lights flashing. Jakob wonders how far he would walk through the snow before protesting. Monty could lead them to the Gulf of Mexico and they would tramp wearily behind, unaware of the sand and shells beneath their feet.

  At 86th Street they cross into Carl Schurz Park, past the fenced-in gingko trees. Doyle spots a squirrel sitting on its hind legs by a garbage can; they stare at each other for a moment and then Doyle pounces, kicking up snow. Jakob is relieved when the squirrel makes it to an oak tree and climbs to safety. Doyle sits below, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, staring sadly up through the branches.

  They follow Monty up a cascading series of steps – the actual steps hard to discern in the deep snow and weak light – and along a trail that winds past red maples, lampposts, and park benches. When they get to the playground, Jakob taps Slattery’s elbow and gestures: This is where he’s taking us. They have heard the story before, of how Monty and Naturelle first met on the swings. But Monty doesn’t even slow down; he leads them past the swings, the sandboxes, the monkey bars, past the basketball courts and roller-hockey rink, onto the esplanade that runs for miles along the East River.

  Jakob has never been on the esplanade at night. Now he understands why Monty wanted to come. Across the river lies Queens, and Queens before sunrise is beautiful: red antennae lights winking to warn pilots; the Pepsi sign glowing in neon script over the bottling plant; white clouds rising from the smokestacks like genies, bulging and blustering, ready to grant three wishes to the good people of Astoria. Behind Queens the sky is beginning to brighten, a pale blue band at the eastern horizon that darkens progressively into the black above Manhattan.

  Jakob brushes snow off the iron rail of the balustrade, leans against it, and stares into the river. A string of yellow lights quivers beneath the water, and Jakob shudders, imagining a legion of drowned men bearing torches, all of them standing silent vigil on the riverbed. He knows it’s nothing but the reflection of electric lights fixed to the suspension cables of the Queensboro Bridge, but Jakob can’t shake the image of bloated, eyeless bodies waiting below the water.

  ‘Look at the lighthouse,’ says Monty, pointing with one gloved hand to the stone tower on the northern tip of Roosevelt Island. ‘They should fix it up, get it working again. Be nice to come out here and see it working. No tugboats around. Crews are probably stuck in their driveways in Staten Island.’ Monty laughs. ‘I figure all the tugboat guys live in Staten Island. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Those guys make good money,’ says Slattery, who has joined them by the balustrade. ‘They have one of the best unions in the city. Them and the crane operators.’

  ‘It would be good to work a tugboat,’ says Monty. ‘Hauling barges around, being out on the river all day. Get the radio tuned to a game, you know, just smoking and watching the city roll by.’

  Slattery shakes his head. ‘You’d be watching the city so much you’d run into it.’

  ‘So what do you think,’ says Monty, turning to face Jakob. ‘You ready for Mr Doyle?’

  Jakob watches the dog rolling in the snow, pawing at the air. ‘He likes the snow.’

  ‘He’ll be good for you, Jake. Nobody’s going to break into your apartment, that’s for sure. And girls love Doyle. Take him for walks, you’ll see. It’s a certain type of girl that goes for Doyle. It’s the funky ones. Look at him. It’s the ones that like old beat-up tough guys. What time you got?’

  ‘Quarter past seven.’

  ‘Quarter past seven.’ Monty drums a quick riff on the iron rail and hauls himself over the balustrade with one motion. He stands on the narrow ledge, the backs of his knees against the rail, the river below him.

  ‘Wait,’ says Slattery, holding his hands up. ‘What are you doing? Monty, what are you doing?’

  Doyle – belly down in the snow, panting – stares up at his master. Jakob’s mouth hangs open, the words caught in his throat.

  Monty watches the dark water flowing beneath him. ‘What do you think, about forty feet down? What are you worried about? I can’t kill myself jumping forty feet. Unless I freeze to death.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Slattery. ‘Come on, give me your hand. Don’t fuck around.’

  ‘Don’t fuck around? I should be serious, right?’ Monty scrapes snow off the ledge with his shoe. ‘I’m not going in there like this. They’ll eat me alive.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Slattery. ‘You’re going to slip and break your neck.’

  For a long moment Monty says nothing, staring across the river at Queens. Finally he turns, grabs the rail of the balustrade, and vaults back to the esplanade, his feet skidding on the snow as he lands. Slattery grabs him around the waist and keeps him from falling; Doyle barks; Jakob exhales.

  ‘I’m not going in there like this,’ repeats Monty, shoving Slattery away. ‘The minute they get a look at me, I’m gone. You got to help me out, Frank.’

  ‘Tell me how,’ says Slattery, bewildered.

  Monty whistles for Doyle and the dog jumps to his feet and runs over, wagging the stump of his tail, his muzzle powdered with snow. Monty hooks the leash onto the dog’s collar and ties the cord around a baluster, knotting it twice.

  ‘Make me ugly,’ says Monty.

  Slattery and Jakob look at each other.

  ‘You told me before,’ says Monty. ‘Anything I need.’ He unbuttons his coat and lays it carefully atop the balustrade.

  Slattery shakes his head. ‘I can’t do that. What are you thinking, I give you a black eye and people won’t fuck with you? It won’t change anything.’

  ‘You think I deserve it, don’t you? I blew it, right? That’s what you think, I had a good chance and I blew it?’

  Slattery keeps shaking his head. He backs away from Monty. ‘I can’t hit you.’

  Monty stands with his feet apart, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks smaller now, without his coat on, the black wool sweater narrowing his body. ‘I think you can. I think you want to, a little bit. I think you’ve wanted to for years.’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘You want to,’ says Monty, advancing on him. ‘Come on, Frank. You’re afraid?’

  Slattery holds his hands up, palms toward Monty. ‘Listen—;’

  ‘What are you afraid of, Frank? That I’ll hit back? You’re afraid I’ll get mad and hit back? That would b
e embarrassing, right? Big tough guy like you getting your ass kicked?’

  ‘Come on,’ says Jakob. ‘This is crazy.’

  Monty turns on Jakob and points a gloved finger at him. ‘Who’s talking to you? Who the fuck is talking to you?’

  ‘Forget it,’ says Slattery. ‘Come on, forget all this. Let’s get some breakfast.’

  ‘This all works out pretty well for you, doesn’t it, Frank? Pretty convenient for you. You’re going to look after Naturelle when I’m gone, right? You’re going to make sure she’s okay?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think she doesn’t know how bad you want her? You’re fucking pathetic, drooling after her all the time; you’re like a dog sniffing her ass. She laughs at you, Frank. You’re a joke, an old joke, and you’re not even funny anymore. She’s not even flattered anymore, it’s gone on so long.’

  ‘All right,’ says Slattery quietly. ‘All right.’ He turns stiffly and walks away.

  ‘Come on,’ whispers Jakob. ‘Monty, come on, what are you doing? Tell him you’re kidding.’

  Monty pivots and punches Jakob hard on the cheek, the crack of gloved knuckle on bone echoing on the empty esplanade. Jakob falls back against the balustrade, clutching his face.

  ‘Monty,’ he says.

  Monty steps closer and punches Jakob again, this time in the gut, and Jakob sinks to his knees, gasping. He covers his face with his hands, to protect himself, then hears a great groan, hears the sound of two bodies slamming into the snow. When he looks up he sees that Slattery has tackled Monty, has pinned him to the ground. Slattery holds Monty’s throat with his left hand and drives his right fist into Monty’s face, again and again and again and again and again.

  Doyle is howling, trying to jump onto Slattery but yanked back each time by the leash. He strains forward, fangs bared, the muscles in his hind legs bunching, but his master is three feet too far. He never quits; he keeps jumping for Slattery, keeps being yanked back by the leash.

  Jakob touches the burning skin of his cheek and examines his fingers: no blood. Slattery keeps hitting Monty, the blows beginning to sound wet, Monty no longer wriggling beneath him.

  ‘Frank,’ says Jakob, grabbing hold of the balustrade and pulling himself to his feet. ‘Frank!’

  The blood puddling by Monty’s head, melting through the snow and steaming in the air. The sound of a fist unmaking a face. The dog howling and battling the leash.

  Jakob stumbles over to Slattery and pushes him. ‘Stop!’

  Slattery looks up, his face wet with tears, his mouth open, a webbing of saliva between his lips.

  ‘Okay,’ says Jakob. ‘Enough.’ He places his hands under the big man’s arms and helps him rise.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ says Slattery, looking down at Monty. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  Jakob crouches and turns Monty onto his stomach and Monty coughs, a thick ribbon of blood falling from his mouth. Doyle barks madly. Jakob scoops up a handful of snow and begins gently pressing it to the side of Monty’s face; he listens to make sure that Monty is breathing.

  Slattery watches, speechless, bloodied hands by his side. Jakob remains crouched next to Monty, his fingers resting on the back of Monty’s neck. Doyle keeps barking, over and over, the collar digging into his throat as he struggles to reach his master. A tugboat sounds its horn on the river and Jakob thinks, One crew made it to their boat.

  Finally Monty shakes his head clear of the snow and begins crawling forward.

  ‘Hold still for a minute,’ says Jakob. ‘Hold still.’

  When Monty tries to stand his legs collapse beneath him. Jakob wraps his arms around him before he falls and lowers him slowly back to the snow.

  ‘Don’t try to move yet.’

  Monty pushes himself off the ground again and this time manages to keep his balance, though he sways like a drunk. ‘It’s okay,’ he mumbles, the words slurred. He turns to face his friends.

  Slattery looks at him and moans, sits down heavily in the snow, his chin tucked against his chest, his right hand, slick with blood, covering his face. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  ‘Hospital,’ says Jakob. ‘We need to take you to a hospital.’

  ‘No,’ says Monty, staggering toward them. Doyle is mewling now, stomping his paws, confused. Monty bends down unsteadily and scratches behind the dog’s ear.

  ‘Be a good boy,’ he says.

  Slattery is still sitting in the snow, sobbing. Monty leans over and kisses his forehead.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Monty.

  Slattery rocks back and forth, hands over his face, his forehead marked with blood.

  Monty turns to Jakob and touches his shoulder. ‘Take care of my dog.’

  He lifts his coat off the balustrade and walks away from them, away from the black river, the steel bridges, the stone lighthouse, away from the sun beginning to rise over Queens, away from the basketball courts, the swings in the playground, down the cascading steps and west toward home.

  Twenty-three

  She sees him when he’s still three blocks away, a black-clad figure limping through the snow, holding his coat down by his hip. He’s alive. She breathes in deeply, the cold air burning her throat; she reaches for the silver crucifix hanging around her neck but it’s not there; it’s upstairs on the night table, atop the coil of silver chain. She starts walking toward him but stops after a few steps, squinting, the early morning light flaring off the snow. Even from this distance she can tell that something is wrong. When he’s a block away she realizes why he’s not wearing the camel’s-hair coat. He doesn’t want blood to drip on it.

  Blood leaks from his nose, from his mouth, from a deep gash bisecting one eyebrow. The entire left side of his face is bright red, grotesquely swollen, a thumb-length welt curling under the cheekbone. His nose is badly broken; his lower lip is split in two places; a patch of skin the size of a dollar bill has been scraped off his forehead. His throat is striped red and white.

  The swelling has narrowed his eyes to slits; he doesn’t see her standing by the stoop steps, wearing his old hooded sweatshirt, until he is almost upon her. When he does see her he smiles, and she has to look away for a moment, his beautiful teeth ruined, three knocked out of the bottom row, one front tooth chipped badly. He tries to say something but chokes, leans over, hands on his knees, and spits up blood.

  Naturelle takes him by the hand and leads him slowly up the stoop steps, through the two entrance doors, up the narrow staircase and into their apartment. Pale sunlight shines through the windows. She sits him down on the sofa and runs into the bathroom, rummages through the medicine cabinet for the things she needs, fills a glass with cold water and returns to him, makes him drink. He tries to speak again but she shakes her head, takes the glass from him, and rests it on the coffee table. Lifting his arms above his head she pulls the black sweater off, unbuttons his shirt, and slides it over his shoulders. She runs her hands quickly over his rib cage, watching his face to see if he flinches.

  She goes into the kitchen for a washcloth, fills a bowl with warm water and liquid soap, hurries back to the living room, and sits beside him. She begins gently cleaning his face, pausing when he jerks back, then leaning forward again to dab at each cut and scrape. When she wrings the washcloth above the bowl, drops of blood fall into the water and bloom. After she is satisfied that each wound is cleaned, she opens a bottle of witch hazel and wets a cotton ball. She presses the cotton lightly against the gash that splits his eyebrow; Monty shudders, his fingers gripping the edges of the sofa cushions. Eight cotton balls soaked in witch hazel lie on the coffee table when she’s finished. She tapes a gauze pad over the gash. He’ll need stitches, she thinks. She imagines a prison doctor roughly sewing him up while joking with the nurse. Will they handcuff him to the table?

  Monty’s head lolls against the back of the sofa, his battered face framed in sunlight. The night is over and he is asleep. She watches him breathing, the rise and fall of his rib cage, the tremor of pulse at the base of his throat. She lo
oks up at the clock on the far wall. She needs to wake him, dress him in clean clothes, take him downstairs, and find a taxi. She watches him dreaming, his eyelids fluttering, his fingers curling and uncurling, grasping for something. One more minute and she’ll wake him. Give him one more minute.

  Twenty-four

  When Monty opens his eyes his father is standing before him with clenched fists.

  ‘Who did this to you?’

  Monty reaches for a glass of water and recoils when the rim touches a broken tooth. The pain is shocking, fierce and electric. Monty lowers his head and waits for the nerves to quiet, then raises the drink again and sips more carefully. When he finishes, Naturelle takes the glass from him and goes to the kitchen to refill it.

  ‘Who did this to you, Monty?’ his father repeats.

  ‘What time is it?’ Monty can see the clock on the far wall but can’t read the hands. The room is blurred with sunlight and shadows, all the edges washed away. His father’s face is a pale oval that bends and splits when he speaks.

  ‘I’m bringing you to the hospital,’ says Mr Brogan. ‘We can tell—;’

  ‘No,’ says Monty. He puts his palms down on the sofa cushions and pushes himself upright. ‘I need to go.’

  Naturelle returns with a full glass of water. She waits quietly, her eyes focused on Monty’s hands.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asks again. He pulls on his shirt and buttons it crooked; Naturelle sets the glass on the coffee table and fixes him. She hands him his sweater and he slides into it, then heads for his bedroom, banging his shin against the table.

  ‘Monty,’ says Mr Brogan. Monty stops and looks at his father but Mr Brogan says nothing else, so Monty goes into his room, looks at the unmade bed, the running tights on the floor, the bowl of plums on the bedside table beside an empty pack of cigarettes. He pulls off his wet shoes and finds an old pair of workboots in the closet, slips them on, and laces them.