Waiting in Vain

by Colin Channer

  An intense silence fell over them, and they stared at each other for a second, which in their heightened state of attunement felt like a minute. In this suspended flash of clarity, in which the world around him and his swirling thoughts moved slowly, showing their undersides, Fire glimpsed the logic behind the chaos of the universe. He began to understand why he needed her, and why he needed distance from Blanche. Sylvia needed him, showed her vulnerability, which made him feel useful, potent—valuable in the way of a solution to a riddle. And Blanche did not. She was older and—especially when they’d met—more accomplished in many ways, and she refused to surrender control to him even when she was ill … The most she would ask of him in those days was to bring her water, and read to her, and drive her to the doctor. And she only seemed vulnerable while begging him to return to her. After which, things would be the same. He was a child for her. At best an adolescent. But with Sylvia he could be a man … whole … ranging freely between the roles of giver and receiver.

  “I’ll walk you down,” he said.

  He watched her get on the train. She stared at him through the window. He moved his mouth, pretended to say something. She wrinkled her brows, trying to tell him that she didn’t understand. He pretended to say something else. She wrinkled her brows even more, transforming her face into a sign that read, “Hurry up and say it slowly. The train is about to leave.” He mouthed some more. She gave up. Put her thumb in her ear and her pinkie in her mouth to say, “Call me.” He blew her a kiss. She swallowed it, still trying to make sense out of nonsense as the train entered the long black tunnel.

  chapter five

  He called her in the early afternoon.

  “Hello.”

  She leaned back in her chair and began to rub her belly through her yellow cotton blouse.

  “Where are you?”

  “Brooklyn,” he said. “Outside a Senegalese place named Keur N’ Deye. I just left Moshood’s. I had to get a few things for my cousin and his girlfriend. Phil and I were supposed to be hooking up, but I haven’t seen him. But anyway I’m not here to see him. I’m here to see you. What are you doing?”

  “Besides thinking about you?”

  “Yeah. Besides thinking about me.”

  “Nothing much. Work.”

  “I heard a rumor,” he said.

  “What rumor is that?”

  “That you’re going to leave work early and spend the rest of the day with me.”

  “Sure, if you hire me when they fire me.”

  “They won’t fire you. Just tell them that this guy who really likes you has come a long way to see you. They’ll understand. D’you know what? Lemme talk to your boss.”

  She told him to hold on and then did her impersonation of Virgil’s mumble. “Hello, Virgil Pucci speaking.”

  “Hello Virgil, how are you today? Listen, my name is Mr. Likesylvialucasalot, and I’m really and truly infatuated with her, and would really like to see her. And I know that she’s a really important member of your team over there, but consider this—there are many people who can do what she does for you, but only one of her who can do what she does for me. So could you be a really nice guy and let her go, please?”

  “You are so silly,” she said.

  “Thank you very much, coming from you that is really high praise. But seriously. Take the day off and come and see me. It’s a Friday, they’ll understand.”

  “I can’t, Fire,” she said, weighing various deadlines and the missing receipts. “Really.” She had to be sensible. She was alone. She had to remember that.

  “Just tell them you’re sick,” he said. “Or that your mum died or something like that. But whatever you do … just come.”

  “I think you’re insane.”

  “I must be, right? To be doing this.”

  “Or maybe you’re like this with every woman.”

  “No, just every other one. It’s too expensive to be this nice to all of them. Only the top fifty-five get this kinda treatment. The rest get dinner at McDonald’s.”

  She glanced at her bouquet, which was down to ten tulips. Boogie Boo had swiped two. “Thanks for the flowers, they’re beautiful, and it was just so nice of you. You know what’s so incredible about you? You’re like a witchman or something. You just have this way of reaching out to me when I’m feeling most vulnerable. Like that time you called my house looking for Claire and you were concerned about me … out of the blue … without knowing it was me. And then this morning … you don’t even want to hear what happened—trust me. I had the worst morning, and then I came outside and you were on my doorstep with flowers. You do realize we have to take you for genetic testing, cause real black men don’t do these things according to the news. Honestly, Fire, I didn’t take you seriously when you said you were coming. I just thought it was something nice to say.”

  “Why’d you think I was joking?” he asked.

  “Because … I mean … men just don’t do that. At least not unless they’re rich, which—don’t take it the wrong way—I don’t think you are. Or unless they’ve had sex and they know it’s good.”

  “Which is sorta the case.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “About what?”

  “Our … how do you say … office phone sex … or is it phone office sex?”

  “Who knows, maybe you were faking it. You were probably soaking your corns and clipping your nose hairs.”

  “Okay, lemme come clean. You’re right. But I forgot to tell you that I put you on speaker phone. Now the whole office wants to meet you.”

  He laughed with her.

  She liked that Fire could be so zany and self-deprecating then turn around and write a poem like “Person.” For the poem was not only passionate. It was good. It showed a clear understanding of form. Of course she’d known men who could have written that and even better. But that was not the point. They hadn’t.

  “Fire … why are you doing this to me?” she asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Making me want to leave my job and come and spend the day with you.”

  “How am I doing that?”

  “By talking to me. The longer you talk to me, the more I want to get out of here. You care about me, don’t you, Fire?” she half said, half asked. “I know you do. Where are you going to be in a half hour? I have to leave here. I’m feeling very sick.”

  They arranged to meet on the Brooklyn Bridge, on a bench on the walkway above the road. Sylvia dragged herself there, burdened by the weight of the sky, which had fallen on this humid day from the weight of its own wetness and draped itself across the city. Exiting a cab at Chambers Street, she picked her way through the flowered triangle of City Hall Park, edging behind a press conference on the steps of the neoclassical box that anchored the green. Weaving through a band of demonstrators, she ducked under a barricade, crossed the street, and entered the walkway in front of the Municipal Building, a towering Beaux Arts masterpiece with an awe-inspiring colonnade. There, she reached for her sunglasses and then made her way up the incline, dodging bikers and joggers, alert to the movements of camera-wielding tourists, herds of them in J. Crew, who stopped without warning, obstructing progress with the fuck-you languor of cattle.

  He wasn’t there when she arrived. Knowing he might be hiding, she wandered around the base of the huge stone columns that support the bridge’s arches.

  She checked her watch. She was on time. He, of course, was late.

  Reminding herself not to sulk, she passed the time by reading poetry—Midsummer by Walcott—passing through screens of imagery to another life, a life of razor grass and bougainvillea and rivers that frolicked instead of oozed like the one that slunk beneath her now into a dishwater sea.

  Drawn into transcendent verse, she lost track of time. And when she was through she realized that she’d been waiting for an hour, which didn’t bother her as much as she’d expected, for it gave her time to think about her actions and their possible conse
quences. She’d lied to her colleagues and slacked off about the receipts. But more important, she was having an affair. Now, as she sat there, higher than most of the city, she felt his spirit filling her, fading into her marrow. And there, on that bridge, halfway between her home and her office, she began to understand why Aretha trembles that way when she sings “A Natural Woman.”

  But all this for what? She could lose her job, or her relationship. Or both. For what reason? To spend a day with a man she barely knew.

  She looked at her watch again. She should leave, she thought, at least on principle … she should walk away right now.

  But she made no attempt to go. Because under the ambivalence and apprehension simmered a feeling—and whether it was intuition or hope she wasn’t sure—that meeting Fire on this August day would change her life somehow.

  She turned her face on the runners and bikers trickling back and forth; she marveled at their stamina in the liquid heat. As she sat there, suffering pasty licks of tongues of breeze, a Japanese man in a Panama hat sat on a stool across from her and began to weave standards on his box guitar. She began to hum along … quietly … to herself … getting up to drop loose change in his collection plate. Did she have a request? She asked if he knew “You Go to My Head.”

  And as he played it for her she closed her eyes and thought of Fire: saw him standing in the kitchen at Claire’s gallery in his red T-shirt and baggy jeans; felt the madness of that first kiss; saw him as she left him at the phone booth, neither of them expecting ever to meet again. What a weird thing, she thought, just meeting a stranger and feeling a charge and then finding yourself in “like.”

  Suddenly she heard a loud collision, and she opened her eyes to see a wriggling heap of spandex, flesh, and metal. Hands from the gathering crowd picked through the bundle, helped the victims to their feet. The crowd began to grow, pressing sweaty bottoms in her face, wilting her with its collective heat. She’d been waiting for over an hour now. And she really hated to wait. Where the hell was he? He had better come soon.

  The crowd was stirring now. People were arguing, maybe even shoving a bit. She couldn’t see. Then as a woman grabbed her child and scurried away, the crowd erupted into a helter-skelter. People flying like shrapnel.

  Sylvia saw a glimmering knife and a splash of blood, and two men rolling toward her, heaving and throbbing. She lunged away in time and they crashed into the bench. She scrambled to her feet, her knee bruised and her slacks torn, and ran, leaving in her wake a clamor of thumps and bangs and curses.

  On the Brooklyn side of the bridge she leaned against a wall to catch her breath, trembling like a severed limb. Sagging from heat and fright, she slumped to the ground, her knee popping like a hot coal, pulling on the thread of air she’d snagged between her teeth as a squad car raced up the walkway, sirens barking, lights ablaze.

  After a few minutes she began to walk back to the bench, but stopped when she made the turn to enter the bridge proper and saw that the crowd had remade itself.

  This is just too much, she thought. He should’ve been on time. She turned around and shuffled home.

  There was no place to rest in that shambolic place, so she was forced to clear the bed, and this drew her into a larger action of sweeping, dusting, and polishing that was usefully distracting. At minutes after nine, she showered and went to bed, tired, anxious, and disappointed. She’d called him several times without getting an answer.

  At five after midnight the telephone jolted her awake. The response to her grunted hello was Fire’s voice, recognizable but thinner.

  “How are you? Where are you?” she asked anxiously.

  “At the hospital.”

  She gathered the sheets around her. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Phil swallowed some pills today.”

  “Oh, my God. How is he?”

  “Not so good.”

  “Where are you?”

  “St. Vincent’s Emergency Room.”

  “Do you need me?” She was out of bed, ready to fling on some clothes.

  “No, love, I’m fine. But thanks.”

  “If you need me, Fire, I’ll come for you.”

  “I’ll be okay.” His voice cracked. The fissure went right through her.

  “If you need me, Fire, I’m there.”

  “No … baby, don’t worry yourself.”

  She didn’t know him well enough to know how to convince him. And she didn’t want to pressure him. He needed his energy for himself and his friend.

  “Okay, but if you need me, call me, okay?” She began to lay out some clothes on the chair.

  “I’m sorry about today,” he said. “I apologize to you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “It’s okay,” she replied. “It’s okay.”

  “I thought about you a lot today,” he said. “When I found out what happened to Phil I started to think about some of the things I want to do in this life. And getting a chance to know you was one of them. This thing between us is not ideal, Sylvia. I know that … this situation. But there is a certain logic to the chaos of the universe, and I don’t think our convergence is random. It has a meaning, Sylvia, and a purpose. And we owe it to ourselves to discover that … to find out what it is. Who knows, maybe this is the path through which we’ll become good friends. Or maybe we’re here to validate our respective involvements … to strengthen them in the long run. I …” His voice cracked again.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought about you too, Fire. I was really mad at you today. While I was waiting for you a lot of crazy things happened—”

  “Like what? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it some other time. I was so angry … but now I’m so sorry, baby … so, so sorry. If you don’t want to be alone tonight … you can stay with me. Okay?”

  “Okay … but are you sure? I mean, there are other people to consider.”

  “Yes … it’s fine … no one else will be here. And anyone who wants to be here needs to call before coming.”

  “Okay.”

  She slapped her forehead. “I shouldn’t have said that … about coming to stay with me … I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. Oh, God, this is so weird. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just tired. I’m like really tripping now.”

  “Don’t apologize. I understand how you feel.”

  She lay back on the sheets. “So come, then. Don’t stay alone. Come stay with me. I’ll look after you.”

  “Thank you so much … I really need you right now.”

  “Will you hold me, Fire, and tell me that it’s right to feel this way? Will you tell me I’m not out here on my own?”

  “You’re right to feel this way.”

  “I need you to say it while you’re holding me though.”

  “I promise. But now I have to go.”

  “Okay. But call me.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “I will.”

  Sitting in the sickly spray of fluorescent light, Fire unbuttoned the neck of his shirt and prepared himself for the worst as the Filipino nurse approached him with the set jaw and blank eyes of a giver of bad news. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he followed her to an adjacent hall, where without preamble she presented the facts. Overdose of sleeping pills. In and out of consciousness. Serious condition. No sense in waiting. Go home and rest.

  She turned and walked away, leaving him to stare at her figure being absorbed into the dull gray walls. At the end of the corridor, a pair of double doors opened slowly, admitting to the waiting room another frazzled soul, who would sit in a hard plastic chair under frigid lights and wait for the facts while learning to associate bleach with the odor of death. His hands behind his back, his head held erect, Fire tried to shorten his depth of field like a camera, not wanting to record in sharp detail the scene before him—the knotted faces, the whining children hurr
iedly dressed in the middle of the night—all of this while a drone streamed in through his spinal cord and up through the base of his skull, filling his head with nothing but the sound of its own nothingness. Then quickly now, as tears filled his eyes, the room began to melt from solid to liquid.

  Margaret, who had brought him Ian’s letter, was almost upon him before he saw that she was the person who’d come through the door. How was she connected to this? But before he could ask or guess, she flung herself against him.

  Phil, she told Fire, was her boyfriend. She and Ian had broken up.

  “It was all so sad,” she said—her face was pressed into his chest—“because it had all begun so suddenly and was about to end the same way.”

  The facts marched into his skull, where they shouted down the white noise. Phil and Margaret. Margaret and Phil. How? Why? In what time frame? All this while he held her, absorbing her shudders and convulsions, soaking them up with his body, adding more weight to his soul. He needed to go soon. He needed to be looked after as well. He was sorry, he said, thinking of Sylvia’s lap now, but he couldn’t give her anything more than facts.

  Margaret began to give details about Phil and her, but Fire stopped her politely and gave her yet another fact. He had to go, and the clerks in billing needed to speak with someone. Would she deal with them? He had no idea how these things worked in America.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said, “it’s just that I don’t … y’know …”

  “Know him?”

  “Yes. I don’t even know his full name or his address.”

  “Well, I have to go,” he said. “I’ve been here for thirteen hours now and I need to get away.”

  He gave her his details and Phil’s information, then left.

  He didn’t realize he was drenched in sweat until he went outside and the wind transformed his body hair to splinters. Standing outside on Seventh Avenue, he sensed what it was like to be a tree in a metropolis—to be a living, breathing thing that was ignored. As he looked around for something to call out to him, to pull him in a direction, he felt his feet being sucked into the earth below the concrete, felt his toes turning into roots.