Transgressions Volume 2 Read online

  Around three in the morning I remembered who had owned the Lucite cube with the steel penny in it: Roland Abelson, in Liability. He called it his retirement fund. It was Roland who had a habit of saying “Lucy, you got some ‘splainin to do.” One night in the fall of ’01, I had seen his widow on the six o‘clock news. I had talked with her at one of the company picnics (very likely the one at Jones Beach) and thought then that she was pretty, but widowhood had refined that prettiness, winnowed it into severe beauty. On the news report she kept referring to her husband as “missing.” She would not call him “dead.” And if he was alive—if he ever turned up—he would have some ’splainin to do. You bet. But of course, so would she. A woman who has gone from pretty to beautiful as the result of a mass murder would certainly have some ’splainin to do.

  Lying in bed and thinking of this stuff—remembering the crash of the surf at Jones Beach and the Frisbees flying under the sky—filled me with an awful sadness that finally emptied in tears. But I have to admit it was a learning experience. That was the night I came to understand that things—even little ones, like a penny in a Lucite cube—can get heavier as time passes. But because it’s a weight of the mind, there’s no mathematical formula for it, like the ones you can find in an insurance company’s Blue Books, where the rate on your whole life policy goes up x if you smoke and coverage on your crops goes up y if your farm’s in a tornado zone. You see what I’m saying?

  It’s a weight of the mind.

  The following morning I gathered up all the items again, and found a seventh, this one under the couch. The guy in the cubicle next to mine, Misha Bryzinski, had kept a small pair of Punch and Judy dolls on his desk. The one I spied under my sofa with my little eye was Punch. Judy was nowhere to be found, but Punch was enough for me. Those black eyes, staring out from amid the ghost bunnies, gave me a terrible sinking feeling of dismay. I fished the doll out, hating the streak of dust it left behind. A thing that leaves a trail is a real thing, a thing with weight. No question about it.

  I put Punch and all the other stuff in the little utility closet just off the kitchenette, and there they stayed. At first I wasn’t sure they would, but they did.

  My mother once told me that if a man wiped his ass and saw blood on the toilet tissue, his response would be to shit in the dark for the next thirty days and hope for the best. She used this example to illustrate her belief that the cornerstone of male philosophy was “If you ignore it, maybe it’ll go away.”

  I ignored the things I’d found in my apartment, I hoped for the best, and things actually got a little better. I rarely heard those voices whispering in the utility closet (except late at night), although I was more and more apt to take my research chores out of the house. By the middle of November, I was spending most of my days in the New York Public Library. I’m sure the lions got used to seeing me there with my PowerBook.

  Then, just before Thanksgiving, I happened to be going out of my building one day and met Paula Robeson, the maiden fair whom I’d rescued by pushing the reset button on her air conditioner, coming in.

  With absolutely no forethought whatsoever—if I’d had time to think about it, I’m convinced I never would have said a word—I asked her if I could buy her lunch and talk to her about something.

  “The fact is,” I said, “I have a problem. Maybe you could push my reset button.”

  We were in the lobby. Pedro the doorman was sitting in the corner, reading the Post (and listening to every word, I have no doubt—to Pedro, his tenants were the world’s most interesting daytime drama). She gave me a smile both pleasant and nervous. “I guess I owe you one,” she said, “but … you know I’m married, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, not adding that she’d shaken with me wrong-handed so I could hardly fail to notice the ring.

  She nodded. “Sure, you must’ve seen us together at least a couple of times, but he was in Europe when I had all that trouble with the air conditioner, and he’s in Europe now. Edward, that’s his name. Over the last two years he’s been in Europe more than he’s here, and although I don’t like it, I’m very married in spite of it.” Then, as a kind of afterthought, she added: “Edward is in import-export.”

  I used to be in insurance, but then one day the company exploded, I thought of saying. Came close to saying, actually. In the end, I managed something a little more sane.

  “I don’t want a date, Ms. Robeson,” No more than I wanted to be on a first-name basis with her, and was that a wink of disappointment I saw in her eyes? By God, I thought it was. But at least it convinced her. I was still safe.

  She put her hands on her hips and looked at me with mock exasperation. Or maybe not so mock. “Then what do you want?”

  “Just someone to talk to. I tried several shrinks, but they’re … busy.”

  “All of them?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “If you’re having problems with your sex life or feeling the urge to race around town killing men in turbans, I don’t want to know about it.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I’m not going to make you blush, I promise.” Which wasn’t quite the same as saying I promise not to shock you or You won’t think I’m crazy. “Just lunch and a little advice, that’s all I’m asking. What do you say?”

  I was surprised—almost flabbergasted—by my own persuasiveness. If I’d planned the conversation in advance, I almost certainly would have blown the whole deal. I suppose she was curious, and I’m sure she heard a degree of sincerity in my voice. She may also have surmised that if I was the sort of man who liked to try his hand picking up women, I would have had a go on that day in August when I’d actually been alone with her in her apartment, the elusive Edward in France or Germany. And I have to wonder how much actual desperation she saw in my face.

  In any case, she agreed to have lunch with me at Donald’s Grill down the street on Friday. Donald’s may be the least romantic restaurant in all of Manhattan—good food, fluorescent lights, waiters who make it clear they’d like you to hurry. She did so with the air of a woman paying an overdue debt about which she’s nearly forgotten. This was not exactly flattering, but it was good enough for me. Noon would be fine for her, she said. If I’d meet her in the lobby, we could walk down there together. I told her that would be fine for me, too.

  That night was a good one for me. I went to sleep almost immediately, and there were no dreams of Sonja D’Amico going down beside the burning building with her hands on her thighs, like a stewardess looking for water.

  As we strolled down 86th Street the following day, I asked Paula where she’d been when she heard.

  “San Francisco,” she said. “Fast asleep in a Wradling Hotel suite with Edward beside me, undoubtedly snoring as usual. I was coming back here on September twelfth and Edward was going on to Los Angeles for meetings. The hotel management actually rang the fire alarm.”

  “That must have scared the hell out of you.”

  “It did, although my first thought wasn’t fire but earthquake. Then this disembodied voice came through the speakers, telling us that there was no fire in the hotel, but a hell of a big one in New York.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Hearing it like that, in bed in a strange room … hearing it come down from the ceiling like the voice of God …” She shook her head. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that her lipstick almost disappeared. “That was very frightening. I suppose I understand the urge to pass on news like that, and immediately, but I still haven’t entirely forgiven the management of the Wradling for doing it that way. I don’t think I’ll be staying there again.”

  “Did your husband go on to his meetings?”

  “They were canceled. I imagine a lot of meetings were canceled that day. We stayed in bed with the TV on until the sun came up, trying to get our heads around it. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “We talked about who might have been there that we knew. I suppose we weren’t the only ones d
oing that, either.”

  “Did you come up with anyone?”

  “A broker from Shearson Lehman and the assistant manager of the Borders book store in the mall,” she said. “One of them was all right. One of them … well, you know, one of them wasn’t. What about you?”

  So I didn’t have to sneak up on it, after all. We weren’t even at the restaurant yet and here it was.

  “I would have been there,” I said. “I should have been there. It’s where I worked. In an insurance company on the hundred and tenth floor.”

  She stopped dead on the sidewalk, looking up at me, eyes wide. I suppose to the people who had to veer around us, we must have looked like lovers. “Scott, no!”

  “Scott, yes,” I said. And finally told someone about how I woke up on September eleventh expecting to do all the things I usually did on weekdays, from the cup of black coffee while I shaved all the way to the cup of cocoa in front of the midnight news summary on Channel Thirteen. A day like any other day, that was what I had in mind. I think that is what Americans had come to expect as their right. Well, guess what? That’s an airplane! Flying into the side of a skyscraper! Ha-ha, asshole, the joke’s on you, and half the goddam world’s laughing!

  I told her about looking out my apartment window and seeing the seven A.M. sky was perfectly cloudless, the sort of blue so deep you think you can almost see through it to the stars beyond. Then I told her about the voice. I think everyone has various voices in their heads and we get used to them. When I was sixteen, one of mine spoke up and suggested it might be quite a kick to masturbate into a pair of my sister’s underpants. She has about a thousand pairs and surely won’t miss one, y’all, the voice opined. (I did not tell Paula Robeson about this particular adolescent adventure.) I’d have to call that the voice of utter irresponsibility, more familiarly known as Mr. Yow, Git Down.

  “Mr. Yow, Git Down?” Paula asked doubtfully.

  “In honor of James Brown, the King of Soul.”

  “If you say so.”

  Mr. Yow, Git Down had had less and less to say to me, especially since I’d pretty much given up drinking, and on that day he awoke from his doze just long enough to speak a dozen words, but they were life-changers. Life-savers.

  The first five (that’s me, sitting on the edge of the bed): Yow, call in sick, y’all! The next seven (that’s me, plodding toward the shower and scratching my left buttock as I go): Yow, spend the day in Central Park! There was no premonition involved. It was clearly Mr. Yow, Git Down, not the voice of God. It was just a version of my very own voice (as they all are), in other words, telling me to play hooky. Do a little suffin fo’ yo’self, Gre’t God! The last time I could recall hearing this version of my voice, the subject had been a karaoke contest at a bar on Amsterdam Avenue: Yow, sing along wit’ Neil Diamond, fool—git up on stage and git ya bad self down!

  “I guess I know what you mean,” she said, smiling a little.

  “Do you?”

  “Well … I once took off my shirt in a Key West bar and won ten dollars dancing to ‘Honky Tonk Women.’” She paused. “Edward doesn’t know, and if you ever tell him, I’ll be forced to stab you in the eye with one of his tie tacks.”

  “Yow, you go, girl,” I said, and her smile became a rather wistful grin. It made her look younger. I thought this had a chance of working.

  We walked into Donald’s. There was a cardboard turkey on the door, cardboard Pilgrims on the green tile wall above the steam table.

  “I listened to Mr. Yow, Git Down and I’m here,” I said. “But some other things are here, too, and he can’t help with them. They’re things I can’t seem to get rid of. Those are what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Let me repeat that I’m no shrink,” she said, and with more than a trace of uneasiness. The grin was gone. “I majored in German and minored in European history.”

  You and your husband must have a lot to talk about, I thought. What I said out loud was that it didn’t have to be her, necessarily, just someone.

  “All right. Just as long as you know.”

  A waiter took our drink orders, decaf for her, regular for me. Once he went away she asked me what things I was talking about.

  “This is one of them.” From my pocket I withdrew the Lucite cube with the steel penny suspended inside it and put it on the table. Then I told her about the other things, and to whom they had belonged. Cleve “Besboll been bery-bery good to me” Farrell. Maureen Hannon, who wore her hair long to her waist as a sign of her corporate indispensability. Jimmy Eagleton, who had a divine nose for phony accident claims, a son with learning disabilities, and a Farting Cushion he kept safely tucked away in his desk until the Christmas party rolled around each year. Sonja D’Amico, Light and Bell’s best accountant, who had gotten the Lolita sunglasses as a bitter divorce present from her first husband. Bruce “Lord of the Flies” Mason, who would always stand shirtless in my mind’s eye, blowing his conch on Jones Beach while the waves rolled up and expired around his bare feet. Last of all, Misha Bryzinski, with whom I’d gone to at least a dozen Mets games. I told her about putting everything but Misha’s Punch doll in a trash basket on the corner of Park and 75th, and how they had beaten me back to my apartment, possibly because I had stopped for a second order of General Tso’s chicken. During all of this, the Lucite cube stood on the table between us. We managed to eat at least some of our meal in spite of his stern profile.

  When I was finished talking, I felt better than I’d dared to hope. But there was a silence from her side of the table that felt terribly heavy.

  “So,” I said, to break it. “What do you think?”

  She took a moment to consider that, and I didn’t blame her. “I think that we’re not the strangers we were,” she said finally, “and making a new friend is never a bad thing. I think I’m glad I know about Mr. Yow, Git Down and that I told you what I did.”

  “I am, too.” And it was true.

  “Now may I ask you two questions?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much of what they call ‘survivor guilt’ are you feeling?”

  “I thought you said you weren’t a shrink.”

  “I’m not, but I read the magazines and have even been known to watch Oprah. That my husband does know, although I prefer not to rub his nose in it. So … how much, Scott?”

  I considered the question. It was a good one—and, of course, it was one I’d asked myself on more than one of those sleepless nights. “Quite a lot,” I said. “Also, quite a lot of relief, I won’t lie about that. If Mr. Yow, Git Down was a real person, he’d never have to pick up another restaurant tab. Not when I was with him, at least.” I paused. “Does that shock you?”

  She reached across the table and briefly touched my hand. “Not even a little.”

  Hearing her say that made me feel better than I would have believed. I gave her hand a brief squeeze and then let it go. “What’s your other question?”

  “How important to you is it that I believe your story about these things coming back?”

  I thought this was an excellent question, even though the Lucite cube was right there next to the sugar bowl. Such items are not exactly rare, after all. And I thought that if she had majored in psychology rather than German, she probably would have done fine.

  “Not as important as I thought an hour ago,” I said. “Just telling it has been a help.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Good. Now here’s my best guess: someone is very likely playing a game with you. Not a nice one.”

  “Trickin’ on me,” I said. I tried not to show it, but I’d rarely been so disappointed. Maybe a layer of disbelief settles over people in certain circumstances, protecting them. Or maybe—probably—I hadn’t conveyed my own sense that this thing was just … happening. Still happening. The way avalanches do.

  “Trickin’ on you,” she agreed, and then: “But you don’t believe it.”

  More points for perception. I nodded. “I locked the door when I went ou
t, and it was locked when I came back from Staples. I heard the clunk the tumblers make when they turn. They’re loud. You can’t miss them.”

  “Still … survivor guilt is a funny thing. And powerful, at least according to the magazines.”

  “This …” This isn’t survivor guilt was what I meant to say, but it would have been the wrong thing. I had a fighting chance to make a new friend here, and having a new friend would be good, no matter how the rest of this came out. So I amended it. “I don’t think this is survivor guilt.” I pointed to the Lucite cube. “It’s right there, isn’t it? Like Sonja’s sunglasses. You see it. I do, too. I suppose I could have bought it myself, but …” I shrugged, trying to convey what we both surely knew: anything is possible.

  “I don’t think you did that. But neither can I accept the idea that a trapdoor opened between reality and the twilight zone and these things fell out.”

  Yes, that was the problem. For Paula the idea that the Lucite cube and the other things which had appeared in my apartment had some supernatural origin was automatically off-limits, no matter how much the facts might seem to support the idea. What I needed to do was to decide if I needed to argue the point more than I needed to make a friend.

  I decided I did not.

  “All right,” I said. I caught the waiter’s eye and made a check-writing gesture in the air. “I can accept your inability to accept.”

  “Can you?” she asked, looking at me closely.

  “Yes.” And I thought it was true. “If, that is, we could have a cup of coffee from time to time. Or just say hi in the lobby.”