by Dan Proops
Edmund attempted to cheer his friend up by saying we can only do our best, that no one’s perfect, and he should forget about trying to live with no faults or mistakes.
Adam left the church with a little more optimism. The guilt had waned and he’d been refreshed by the company and the tea, and Edmund hadn’t been too harsh regarding Nigel, or the girl, or any of it. Sarah’s last letter and her talk of Travis came to him as he made his way through the sunlit back streets of Earl’s Court.
He was in the woods again; then he was nearing the fallen tree and could just make it out through some cherry trees in full blossom, and he found Sarah with Oliver sitting on the decaying trunk. They were laughing together. And all was one with Adam as they were finally together, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Then he tied Oliver to the base of a tree with some rope. He took a razorblade and cut the side of his face with a swift movement and the cut was deep, then he cut again, drawing the blade down his cheek. He was oblivious to his screams. He took the blade and held it over Oliver’s neck, and as the blood flowed Sarah begged him to stop. He heard her desperate pleas.
Adam stood on the corner of his street and lit a cigarette. It had happened again, and he’d thought he was free from the woods and the fallen tree. He took refuge in a café and ordered a double espresso, then another, as he fought to stave off the horrors. Power over others? He didn’t even have the ability to control his own mind. He finished the coffee and returned home. Using Cassandra’s gift, he booked a flight to New York.
He called Eva and said he couldn’t make the dinner appointment. There was disappointment in her voice, but he said he’d call when he returned from Brooklyn.
It was the morning before his flight was due, a Wednesday, the day Darius was forced to go for his walks. Dr Lane had been pleased with his patient’s progress, and Darius had managed every Wednesday for a month; most weeks it took him half an hour to build up the confidence to leave.
Adam climbed the stairs, entered his father’s bedroom and watched him dress, grumbling as he did so.
‘Dad, it’s warm, you won’t need your coat.’
‘I need it—makes me feel better wearing it.’
‘How’re you feeling about the walk?’
‘I dread this shit, but it’s good to get outside and breathe some fresh air and see the world. Shitty world that it is.’
They were stuck on the porch for a few minutes, then Darius strode off at a rate that surprised Adam. Over the past months his attitude to Sarah had changed and his initial reluctance to discuss her had evolved into a strong interest. He’d now ask about her regularly and would usually bring her up during one of his walks. He asked if the letters made his son happy. Adam said they did, apart from her insistence on them remaining penpals. Darius turned to his son.
‘Remember when you two were small, we were in Kensington Gardens, looking at the palace? That was when I wasn’t the old bastard I am today.’
‘Yes, Dad, I remember.’
It had happened on a torrid June afternoon. Darius took his children to the palace, and Sarah had been in a foul mood all morning because she wasn’t allowed to wear a particular dress; it was blue, and torn near the pocket, so she was forced to wear a white one with a floral collar. She’d been as disruptive as possible, and had hidden behind the cherry trees, saying: ‘Silly dress for silly-billies.’ This wasn’t a terrible thing to say, but after repeating the same sentence for the hundredth time Darius said she was driving everyone mad. She sulked and was silent on the walk to the Chinese restaurant, and then proceeded to complain to a waiter that all the food was inedible.
Adam smiled at the memory, and then Darius stumbled, but kept his footing and leant against his son. It was a bright afternoon, and the dismal streets of Earl’s Court were transformed in the summer sunshine. Darius was walking at a surprisingly quick pace, excited, when speaking of Sarah’s childhood.
‘She was a feisty little thing when you two were small.’
‘Yes, Dad, she was.’
‘She was a brilliant child—such a wonderful personality. I loved her so much. She’s really alive, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she certainly is.’
Darius smiled, a serene smile, and the rims of his eyes were wet as he gazed at the shops and houses. A tear formed, then fell. And he said he was crying as he was so thrilled she’d been found.
‘Adam, I hope you’re happy she’s alive.’
‘Yes, Dad, I am. Very much so.’
‘Good. It’s a wonderful thing that’s happened, for both of us. I’m tired now. We’ve done half an hour haven’t we?’
‘Yes, let’s go back.’
They walked to the flat, Darius holding Adam’s hand for balance, the other holding his stick. His demeanour and conversation was more optimistic when walking. But as they weaved through the back streets, Darius said he blamed himself for Sarah’s disappearance and despite Adam’s attempts to persuade him there was no truth to it, his father was determined to burden himself with guilt. At the flat, Darius went to his room and Adam walked up to his. He’d be leaving for New York the next morning.
Thirty - Four
He was in an apartment in Brooklyn. It was similar to the last one, but smaller; and now it was early summer in New York, the hottest for a century. The air conditioning was adequate, but loud, and he woke after a poor night’s sleep. Before arriving, Harold had asked if he wanted to stay with him, but Adam needed his own place. Before leaving for the States, Adam had arranged a dinner at Harold’s.
He’d come to New York with no particular intention, unlike the last visit when he’d arrived armed with a picture of Sarah and the determination to find her. This was more of a reconnaissance mission. He liked being in Brooklyn, being close to her. In her last letter, Sarah said her illness had returned but it was just flu. He’d received the letter a few days before setting out for America.
So he wasn’t hunting for her, as he knew she was at home and unwell, but he wanted to get to know Harold a little better, and find out anything he could about Sarah. He’d not been close to his uncle. All he knew about him was that he refused to be called Harry, and that he loved pizza.
Adam unpacked. This involved dropping some books on a side table and throwing a couple of socks on the floor. The flat had one room, a studio space, painted blue, with a kitchen barely large enough to stand in. He lay on the low, soft bed and his mind turned to Cassandra. They’d met the night before he’d travelled, and had spoken of her illness. She had no news, and Adam had experienced the same frustration when she’d first told him of her disease that bright afternoon in Richmond.
He spent the day in Manhattan. The heat was cloying, the air thick as tar. He walked though Central Park enjoying the sunshine, and then he rested on a cluster of warm rocks under the shade of some trees. He sat for a while, then left the park and walked down some avenues, shaded by lines of skyscrapers either side of him, and the roads were like giant canyons. He walked the wide baking streets, went to the base of the Empire State, and then made his way to Ground Zero. The names of the many victims were inscribed on a low wall surrounding the vacant space where the great building had once stood. And with sadness he went from one nameplate to another. Tears welled at the thought of their grieving, of the families who’d gone through the same as him. He thought of the parents of a child, a name inscribed in stone: the day they’d first heard, and the following weeks when they’d endured the initial stages of grief.
Adam walked away and went back to the park, near a noisy junction. As he took a sandwich from a paper bag he looked up at the blinding sheets of metal and glass reaching skywards. He wondered if Sarah had been there. Wherever he was in New York he’d think of her and imagine her in the very spot where he was. He took the subway back to Brooklyn and spent half an hour preparing for dinner with his uncle.
Harold lived near the Brooklyn Bridge on a street with brownstones and gardens of flowers in full bloom. Adam’s shirt clung to his back, wet wi
th sweat. He walked up some steps and knocked. Harold’s wife, Ida, met him at the door. She was in her fifties, was plump with grey-blonde curls and a face full of wrinkles; she was expressive in the way she dressed. Ida wore orange. A bright orange shirt with tassels on the sleeves and a skirt that was too short for her.
‘Well, if it isn’t my lovely nephew! Adam, come in.’
‘Hi, Ida.’
Harold’s place was large by Brooklyn’s standards, but gaudy, with walls painted a lurid yellow, and a carpet similar in colour to Ida’s dress. The front room was expansive, with kitchen cupboards and a sink next to a wall beneath a window with brown velvet curtains. Adam sat on a red sofa and sank low into it. There was floor-to-ceiling shelving housing a myriad of self-help books. Ida liked to learn how to improve herself, and there were various books on weight, skin and improving self-confidence.
Harold was wearing one of his chequered shirts, purple and red, and some braces. Adam thought he’d walked into a seventies film set.
‘Take a pew, Adam. Mine’s a beer. You got a thirst on you?’
‘I’d love a beer.’
‘He’s come to the right place, hasn’t he, Ida?’
‘He sure has.’
Harold went to a chrome fridge the size of a car and Adam wondered if Ida had got her way with the thousand-dollar fridge. Harold talked about its various technical abilities, including a device that lets the user know when their food was out of date, and added that he didn’t need this function as there was no food in the fridge. Harold liked delivery food.
‘Beaut, this thing. All these devices. It was worth it, wasn’t it, Ida?’
‘Nope. The credit card companies are laughing at us.’
Harold worked as a construction worker, and after talking about his beloved fridge, spoke about his obligations on some sites he was working on. He said they lived a simple life and went to church every Sunday. After opening a can of beer and settling beside Adam, he rambled on about God for a while, the benefits of praying and how many friends he’d made going to church; and one in particular, an obese dentist with a stammer whom they played bridge with. Harold made a vague derogatory remark about Ida’s card-play, which was met with a sigh; she said Harold’s bidding was ‘way off’ and asked how he had the nerve to criticise her play. Harold, Ida, the dentist, and a man from Peru played bridge on Saturday afternoons.
Harold leant his head back and drank some beer, then moved a little closer to Adam, who smelt the alcohol on his uncle’s breath.
‘You a religious man, Adam? Go to church?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Kind of? What does that mean?’
‘I have a friend I see in a local church, and I’m trying to get my belief into shape.’
Harold opened his third beer and looked confused. Ida was drinking brandy and she said they hadn’t missed church in a decade. Harold stood up, took another beer from the fridge and patted his wife’s thigh as if to congratulate her and them both for going to church so regularly.
‘You can’t get belief into shape,’ he said. ‘It’s not something you can take to the gym, is it, Ida?’
‘It’s in the heart, Adam.’
Harold drank his beer and Ida drained her brandy glass, then poured herself another. An awkward silence hung in the air. Adam heard Harold’s breathing, and Ida was making strange smacking sounds with her lips as she took large sips from her brandy. To break the silence, Harold said something about the fridge, something about temperature control.
He went to a drawer and took out a brown envelope; inside was a pile of leaflets, all advertising pizza delivery places. Harold showed them to Adam and said he had menus from every pizza place in Brooklyn. He smiled with pride as he handed one to his guest. Harold went to five pizza cutters on a rack that were all different sizes. He ran a fat hand over them while humming, then in a flash chose one and showed it to Adam.
‘Seen one like this? It’s a beaut, cost me twenty dollars.’
‘That one was ten dollars,’ said Ida.
‘Nope, the other one cost ten. I know about my own damn pizza cutters. Adam, you want American Hot, triple cheese or four seasons? We can get anything.’ Harold put a thumb in his belt and pulled his trousers away from his ample stomach, while grinning. ‘Look—triple cheese has been good to me.’ Adam went for the American Hot. Fifteen minutes later the delivery came and Harold tipped the boy heavily. Pizzas as big as spaceships were laid out on the table. They ate them at a dinner table of some horrible lacquered wood. Adam couldn’t compete with either of them. He watched as Ida and Harold consumed an absurd amount of pizza; Ida pushed the food into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.
They asked about his artwork, then about Cassandra, but Adam skirted round the questions. He didn’t want to talk about any of it, and then they asked about Darius. Harold, his mouth crammed with pizza, said:
‘Guy should write some more books—needs to write, that guy. He gave up writing, what, twenty years ago.’
‘It was fifteen,’ said Ida.
Adam quickly interrupted by leading the conversation to Sarah, and asked a few preliminary questions trying to be as subtle as possible. Harold was sitting back, sated, looking pleased with himself, as if he’d accomplished something by finishing one of the spaceship pizzas. Ida was nibbling at a crust.
‘She’s not well, is she, Ida? Ida, you listening?’
‘Uh huh. She’s sick.’
Harold opened another can of beer, and Ida was working away on her crust. Adam watched Harold drink his beer; some dribbled down his chin and Ida was chewing away, wide-eyed, some tomato sauce and half an anchovy in the corner of her mouth. She dropped a burnt crust on some cardboard the pizza had come in, then cleared her throat.
‘Harold, how’s Mandy doing?’
‘Maddie. It’s Maddie,’ said Harold. ‘And she’s doing fine, just fine.’
‘Sorry, I seem to be making a million mistakes don’t I?’
‘Yes, Ida. Think before you speak. But I love you, baby. You got a lot of love for old Harold?’
‘Yeah—love you, big boy.’
Adam went deeper with his enquiries about Sarah, but they didn’t seem to know much. Ida said they rarely got a chance to see them as Maddie was troubled with her depression.
‘It’s Oliver who’s depressed,’ said Adam, surprised at this mistake. Ida apologised, complained of a headache and said she’d take an early night. She wasn’t feeling up to more conversation, so she cleared the detritus of pizza from the table, kissed Adam on the top of his head and said she was happy he’d visited. Harold squeezed his wife’s behind, then ran a fat finger down her arm.
‘Get that bed nice and warm for me, Ida. I got some lovin’ for you, so don’t fall asleep.’
‘Sure baby—gonna wait for you.’
Ida plodded up a flight of carpeted stairs. Harold said she’d been ‘difficult’ ever since he bought the fridge, and said she forgot things every now and again. But despite this and the odd altercation over house expenses, they were happy together.
A string of pizza hung down from Harold’s chin and there was grease on his hands. He asked if his nephew had enjoyed his dinner and Adam said they were great pizzas, better than anything available in London. Harold smiled at this. Adam thought a pizza compliment would put him in a good mood. Then he asked a few insignificant questions about Sarah. He told Harold there was cheese on his chin and then looked directly at his uncle.
‘Why won’t Sarah see me?’
‘Adam, she’s ill.’
‘She wasn’t ill when I was here last time. Maybe she was, I can’t remember, but it’s been months. I need to see her, Harold.’
‘It’s not in my hands, I’m afraid—girl’s got a right to privacy.’
‘I’m desperate to see her. She’s my sister, and I haven’t seen her in years.’
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘I don’t want to talk about something else. Where does sh
e live?’
‘Adam, if you’re gonna act all difficult, we might as well call it a night.’
‘Harold, where does she live?’
‘I’m not gonna repeat myself; in fact I will: she needs her privacy, like we all do sometimes.’
Harold stood up, red-faced, sweat on his face, holding some cardboard pizza boxes. His eyes were wide and beady, the whites showing above his irises. He was rolling the pizza cutter back and forth along the edge of one of the boxes. Adam sighed.
‘Thanks for a nice meal. The food was great, and I’m impressed with your collection of pizza cutters.’
Harold’s demeanour changed in an instant. He smiled. And he said it had been a good evening and Adam should come again, sooner rather than later for some more ‘cold ones’. Harold said he had his eye on a new pizza cutter that cost fifty dollars, but doubted if he’d buy it, and said there may be trouble with Ida. He asked if it was a sin to spend so much money on a pizza cutter and Adam said he should treat himself. Harold asked if the beer was any good and hoped his nephew had enjoyed the evening.
He went to a shelf and took a framed photo and showed it to Adam. It was a picture of Harold with a gold trophy and two other men in loud shirts with smaller ones.
‘Won a Brooklyn bowling competition. That’s your uncle, a real champ.’
Harold looked at the photo with pride and replaced it on the shelf above the self-help books. Adam was wondering whether to ask about Sarah again, but feared he’d receive the same brusque response. He finished his can of beer, then congratulated his uncle on his win at the bowling competition.
‘It’s a big thing I won. Adam, see the size of that cup! Huge. Tell your dad to write a new novel. Guy’s got nothing to do stuck in that bed all day.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Real sorry about Ida. Think she’s going a bit doolally.’
‘No problem.’
‘We should go bowling some time.’
Adam decided to bring up his sister with one last comment.