The Brownstone, page 16
Chandal watched Sissy wind her way through the American flags, the plastic Micky Mouse dolls, the stuffed shark toys, and Donald Duck.
In an atmosphere of chattering voices, birdsongs, and chill, Chandal left the zoo, via the back exit, and walked home through Central Park.
At three P.M., Justin abruptly left the producers in charge of the casting call. He offered no explanation. Silently, Fein took a brown handkerchief from his shirt pocket and blew his nose. Stark sat still, impotent in impatience.
Standing on the second-floor landing of the brownstone, Justin paused and then knocked lightly. Elizabeth opened the door and stared at him with an obvious air of displeasure. “Yes?”
“Is Magdalen at home?” He fidgeted with the zipper on the front of his leather jacket.
Elizabeth nodded.
“May I see her?”
Without saying a word, she indicated that he should wait there. Justin could hear every step down the long hallway, and every moment he waited his position became more unendurable. Guiltily, he thought of Chandal and the baby. He was growing uneasy when suddenly light footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Elizabeth appeared at the door and asked him to step into the apartment. He looked at her closely to see if she suspected his real emotions, but her face was calm and, without the slightest expression, she said that Magdalen was much better today and would see him. She turned and led the way.
Justin followed and all at once he noticed that the apartment was strangely familiar. The portraits that hung on the walls—he knew them by heart. The antique chair, the mirror, the white drapes—all were familiar. Magdalen’s room was at the far end of the hall, to the right—precisely where Elizabeth led him. He knew that, too.
And somehow he knew that he’d been expected. That he was keeping an appointment he’d been expected to keep. He breathed in deeply. The sweet smell was soothing to his senses. Part of him dropped peacefully away and with it went the brooding, the sadness. He fell under an unseen protection. Yes, all was well and exactly as it should be. They stopped in front of Magdalen’s door. He could hardly wait to go inside, into the warmth of Magdalen’s presence. Expressionlessly, Elizabeth swung open the door and he passed over the threshold, feeling the air fanning back against his neck as immediately she closed him inside the room, shutting the heavy door from the outside.
Self-consciously, he straightened his jacket, noticing the room. He knew it as well as his own bedroom. There was the fire burning in the fireplace, the small table with his books, the rack of pipes that Magdalen had asked him to smoke. For an instant, he almost turned to leave. But instead, he turned to the white figure lying so quietly upon the bed.
“Come in—don’t just stand there!” Magdalen cried out in a clear voice.
Justin moved closer. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said in a low voice.
Below, Chandal took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor. Perhaps it would help if she talked with the two old women, she thought. She had started up the stairs toward the second floor when she caught sight of Mintz. The cat always knew when Chandal entered the house and was there to greet her.
“And how are you?” She picked the cat up in her arms and moved into the kitchen. Her dish was empty. She fed Mintz and made herself a cup of coffee. She wished that she hadn’t asked Sissy to stay with her tonight. What would be accomplished? The entire situation had become ludicrous. The best thing to do was to talk it out with Justin. She wrote him a note telling him that she would be home right after her visit to the hospital. She was careful to add “I love you,” and after her name, she drew a heart with an arrow through it.
Folding the piece of paper, she placed it between the salt and pepper shakers on the table. Mintz had finished her food and was cleaning herself off. Exhausted, Chandal went into the bedroom to lie down.
She thought of the picture in the lower drawer. No, she’d had enough confusion for one day; rest was the best answer. The pillow felt soft and warm, and before long, she fell asleep.
Justin left the brownstone not realizing that Chandal was right there in the bedroom sleeping. Had he known, he would have been less conspicuous.
Chandal sat up in bed when she heard the front door close. She glanced at the clock—five-fourteen P.M. She went into the bathroom and showered. She soaped herself immaculately, accounting for every inch of skin surface. She repeated this several times, the entire operation taking twenty-five minutes. She combed her hair with the utmost of care, making absolutely certain that not a single strand was out of place. After brushing her teeth twice, she washed her hands and then carefully combed her hair again, making sure that the bangs were perfectly straight. When she stepped from the bathroom, she looked like an entirely different person. It was six-forty-five P.M.
Prior to leaving the brownstone, she tried to call Sissy. She wanted to tell her not to come. There was no answer. Having forgotten to call the service, she was unaware of her dinner date with Justin at seven P.M.
Justin picked his glass up off the bar, rested his elbow on the sleek black marble surface, and let his eyes move around the room slowly. There were eight, maybe nine people sitting in the Sacred Cow. Chandal was not among them.
He turned back to the bar and contemplated the glass in his hand. In the center of the small dining room a young girl sat down behind the piano and began to play.
“Look at me, I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree...”
He hummed the tune to himself, in snatches, staring about him, frowning. Why was Chandal always late? He had felt the headache coming on, but now it had worsened. He rubbed the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead, trying to drive away the pain. He closed his eyes, letting the thin edge of the melody soothe his brain.
When he reopened his eyes, two men had taken seats on either side of him. Neither spoke, but Justin felt that they were together. They both ordered beer.
Justin poured the rest of his drink down his throat. It went down the way it always did, hot, curling, and lodging solid in his stomach, where it stung. Then the two men began to speak.
“Nice place,” said the man to Justin’s right.
“Yeah,” the man to his left answered.
“Justin Knight.” To his right.
“Correct?” To his left.
Justin smiled faintly, leaned back, and squinted at the two men. He knew neither of them. “I don’t think—”
“Richards.” The tall, thin man flashed a broad smile.
“Morgan.” The other man, squat and barrelchested, followed suit. Both men were corpse-pale and moved with jerky, haphazard gestures.
“What’s your problem, Knight?” asked Morgan.
“Problem? I don’t have a problem,” Justin said uncomfortably.
“Well, you’re going to have,” said Richards, his face tight. “I mean, it isn’t nice, you going around shooting your mouth off, telling people to take their clothes off like you did today. She happens to be my wife, and I don’t like it. It makes me look bad.”
Billie Richards, Justin thought. The girl from the reading today. A no-talent broad, a model or something. Slightly aged, simpering fool of a would-be starlet. Justin’s fingers tightened into a fist. So Billie Richards was married to this goon.
Richards leaned over to Justin. “Do you know what I do for a living, Knight?”
Justin shook his head.
Richards reached into his pocket, took out a handful of dirt. Dumped it onto the bar. “Construction. That’s what I do. Construction. All day, every day, six in the morning to three in the afternoon, seven days a week. I get home, I’m tired from busting my ass all day long. I need to catch some sleep. I don’t like it when my wife wakes me out of a sound sleep, hysterical. Crying that she wants me to do something. What the hell is wrong with you!” He thumped the bar with his fist.
“Relax, Johnny,” Morgan said, his cigarette starting to burn his finger. He snuffed it out and lit another. “That was a dumb thing to do, Knight. She’s a very serious actress. But then, how would you know? You never gave her a chance.”
“Chance, ha!” Richards exclaimed. “This dumb bastard probably has the play already cast. Now don’t you?” he asked heavily, his broad, flat face constricted as he squinted, watching Justin, waiting for the answer.
“Not really.” Justin tried to remain calm. “How did you know where to find me?”
Morgan smiled. “We called the theater. They gave us your home number. We called. Your service said you were meeting your wife here at seven. Who the hell are you, the President? You’re not hard to reach.”
“Look, let’s stop the bullshit!” Richards poked his finger into the middle of Justin’s chest. “Her name is Billie—Billie Richards. When you call tomorrow, you tell her you want her to read for the play again. It’ll make her happy, and I can get some sleep. Right?” He let Justin draw his own conclusions.
They both rose to their feet in unison. “You want some advice, Knight?” asked Morgan. “Take a walk, think about it—it’ll be good for your health. Shmuck!”
Justin watched as they turned and walked away, up the stairs, out the front door. Morgan whistled. Justin watched them get into a checkered cab and drive away.
Without expression, he looked down. Christ!
He ordered another whiskey. The hostess, a small, well-built brunette dressed in black and gold, gave him his drink; he asked for another and then another. The minutes slipped away.
“Damn!” he muttered, watching the Scotch shimmering in the light; pale and trembling, in the glass. Once it starts to crack, there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing; it keeps squeezing in on you from all sides—crumbling down on top of you and there’s nothing that can stop it. Once you blow it, there’s no second chance. Why did he ever tell her to take her clothes off? He didn’t even seem to remember. And now these two jerks.
His hand, resting on the bar’s edge, tightened: a hard, dark fleshy ball. Yet, it really didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His fist unclenched itself, moved easily around the glass. Nothing mattered anymore. He could sit there and nurse his drink and let things take care of themselves.
That’s right, the voice said inside his head. Everything will be taken care of.
And then all the headaches—racing ambitions, half-caught visions, words, glances, sudden violent apprehensions—were gone. The young business execs, the singing waiters, the hat-check girl were all around him now, and it was business as usual.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He hardly recognized himself. Had he changed? Uneasily, he finished the last of his drink, tipped the hostess three dollars, and left the Sacred Cow.
Chandal stopped at the front desk to ask the number of her mother’s room. The woman behind the desk was busy, alternately hopping from the switchboard to the sign-out patients list. Periodically, she let out a whoop and said, “Sorry, my mistake.”
Chandal took a seat and waited. A teen-age boy, his arm in a cast, sat down in the chair next to her. He glanced at the travel posters that hung on the wall.
Two interns stopped to discuss a patient. The younger of the two read aloud from a chart. “Blood study—negative. Urine analysis—normal. Chest X ray—normal. Blood pressure—110/76. Ears, nose, and throat are normal.” They disappeared into the elevator.
Chandal stiffened. She thought of her baby and prayed that it would be born healthy. Oh, my God, she thought, what would she do if the baby were born abnormal—deformed?
“Miss?”
“What?” Chandal turned toward the desk.
“What’s her name?” asked the nurse.
“Oh, Briar. Helen Briar.”
“Third floor—D. Through the doors and down the hall.”
“Thank you.”
Chandal had to sign the register once she crossed over into the new wing. The nurse informed her that her mother had been placed in an oxygen tent—nothing serious, merely precautionary.
The third floor was a beehive of activity. People rushed from one room to another—a well-known news commentator was about to be operated on. What terrible loneliness he must feel, thought Chandal as she entered her mother’s room.
It was difficult for her mother to speak through the plastic covering, and the noisy air pump made matters worse. This was the first time Chandal had ever seen her mother seriously ill. It frightened her.
“Is it still cold out?” her mother murmured.
“Yes.”
“Are they giving you good heat in the new apartment?”
“Not really.”
“It’s going to be a gloomy winter, then.”
“Yes.”
Chandal’s mother went on to explain that she’d had chest and stomach X rays; that they’d had her drink six pints of chalk. She stopped talking after that, but suddenly Chandal could feel her starting to panic.
“Everything’s going to be all right, Mom,” Chandal assured her.
“I know.”
“I’ll be by tomorrow. Is there anything you need?”
She shook her head. “If you can’t make it tomorrow, then the next day, okay?”
“Seven o’clock tomorrow, without fail.”
Reassured, her mother smiled.
Chandal sat for the next half hour and watched her mother sleep. She studied the white face, strangely young and vulnerable in sickness. What are grownups but children in old bodies? Oh, God, fragile bodies. Bodies that quit. Lungs that quit breathing, hearts that stopped beating. Let it be all right, she prayed, wishing she could reach through the plastic tent and take her mother’s hand. Let everything be like it used to be.
By the time she left the room, she was exhausted by her own fear. She stopped at the desk and listened to her own voice, weak, drained of emotion, asking the nurse, how was her mother, really? The bright, energetic nurse had a message from the doctor. Chandal was to leave her phone number; he would contact her in the morning. Chandal scribbled her work number on the pad.
“That’ll be just fine,” said the nurse, brimming over with good spirits, and Chandal reflected that she was probably a very good woman. She would bring life into a death room, deceiving the patient into hope. Into believing that somehow this nurse would keep the patient alive another day. And then the moment of truth would come and the patient’s eyes would widen in surprise when he heard the sound of his own death rattle.
Her hands clenched in her pockets, Chandal left the hospital.
When she arrived home, Justin was in the basement—the red light over the cellar door told her so. The note she had left for Justin earlier had been torn to shreds and left on the kitchen table. It was a sign of things to come.
Unaware that Justin had already eaten, she began to prepare dinner. It was then that she realized that she’d forgotten to pick up the ring. No matter. She’d pick it up in the morning before work.
By the time Justin came up from the basement, the dinner was almost ready. Justin looked around the kitchen, laughed, and walked into the living room without speaking to Chandal. She was too tired to argue with him. She began to eat dinner alone.
While Chandal washed the dishes in the kitchen, the front doorbell rang. It was Sissy. Justin called out caustically to Chandal that her girl friend had arrived. Wearily, Chandal said that she’d be right out and told Justin to make her comfortable.
Without saying a word, Justin conducted Sissy into the living room. He glanced disapprovingly at the overnight bag she held in her hand.
“Nice space,” she said, putting down her bag.
“Thanks.” Justin shrugged. “Can I make you a drink?”
“Yes, please. Scotch and soda would be nice.” She removed her coat as Justin mixed the drinks. He watched her sit, cross her legs, fight a cigarette.
“You just come from dinner?” he asked, dropping ice cubes into the glasses.
“Yes—that’s why I’m a little late. We had to sit through a one man monologue.”
“When did you manage to eat?”
“During the yawns.”
“Of course. Justin smiled briefly and handed Sissy her drink. “Well, here’s to success.”
“Thanks.”
They both drank.
“God, I’m exhausted,” she said, kicking off her high heels.
“Why are you here?” His voice broke off, hanging in the still air.
Sissy grimaced, curled her lower lip, “Hasn’t Chandal told you?”
“No,” he said coldly.
“I thought she’d tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Perhaps you should ask her that.” She sipped her drink.
“Are these cryptic comments meant to annoy? Or are you, after all these years, speechless?”
“Not at all.” She twisted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Which? Speechless, or trying to annoy?” He smiled.
“My, my, multiple choice. There was a time when a statement from you went without question.”
“Well?”
Sissy smiled. “Neither. I just feel there is something dreadfully dull about the telling and retelling. Chandal had something to say—let her say it to you directly.”
“Why not you?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Three cheers for bullshit!”
“It’s nice to see you again, Justin. The fact that I can’t stand you really has nothing to do with this.” She held up her glass. “Mind if I have another?”
“Help yourself.”
She slipped her heels back onto her feet and crossed to the cocktail cart. “By the way, I’m inviting you and Chandal up to my cabin in Pennsylvania for the weekend. Any weekend. Just for the record, you’ve been invited.”
“I can’t think of a better way to ruin a weekend.”
Sissy sloshed her drink around, sending the ice cubes banging into the sides of the glass. “Why is it whenever you and I are together in the same room, there seems to be a hectic flush to the atmosphere?”
