The Brownstone, page 26
He smiled. They sat in the living room and said very little after that. He looked at her and slowly took her hand. She was calm now, almost peaceful.
It was a little after midnight when they walked hand in hand into the bedroom and went to sleep.
The outside cellar door smashed against the ground.
Justin’s head jerked slightly and then his eyes opened. A loud banging sound was coming from the cellar. “What the hell is that?”
Chandal never stirred as he put on his robe and went into the kitchen. He turned on the light. It was four in the morning!
Justin opened the cellar door, switched on the light, and descended the cellar stairs. He was shocked to see the basement floor entirely covered over with snow. “Goddamn it!”
Both the outside and inside basement doors were wide open. Angrily, Justin climbed the outside stairs, pulled the outer door shut, and bolted it. Once he had closed the inside door, he moved the large kerosine drum in front of it. Let’s see the wind move that! he thought.
Too exhausted to bother with the snow, he turned out the light, crawled back into bed, and went to sleep.
When Chandal’s mother opened her eyes later that night, she was floating away from her bed. The room was almost completely dark, except for a small nightlight that burned near the door. The tube had been ripped from her nose, and her nose was bleeding.
Slowly, her body began to move. She tried to call out for help, but gagged on her own tongue. The more she tried to call for help, the more she choked on her own words.
She could sense that there was someone else in the room with her. Standing near the small nightlight was the little girl. Her pale white face was smiling now as she repeated in a singsong fashion, “I hate you, I hate you, I truly do!”
The mother’s body spun around and around in a circle in rhythm to the little girl’s chanting. The faster she chanted, the fster the mother’s body rotated. Until finally, her body was flung through the large plate-glass window on the seventh floor. At last, she could make a sound. She screamed and kept screaming until her body broke apart on the pavement below.
The phone in the living room rang several times before Chandal heard it. She immediately woke Justin.
“What? What is it?” he asked, rising up on his elbows.
“The telephone!”
“At this hour!” He picked up the small alarm clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning!”
“We better answer it.”
“The hell with it—let it ring!”
“Justin, please—answer it.”
Justin looked at her and didn’t say anything. Flinging the covers from the bed, he stormed into the living room and answered the phone. It was the hospital. They were sorry to have to deliver the news, but Chandal’s mother had just committed suicide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BUT WHEN THE SMOKE TRAILED OFF AND HER CIGARETTE was snuffed out, Chandal was still left with one thought. I wasn’t there for you, Momma. I just wasn’t there for you. She sat back and listened to the sound of traffic rumble outside the Medical Examiner’s Building at 520 First Avenue. Morning rush hour.
She’d wanted to see the body, but they all said no. The doctor, the medical examiner, Justin—they all said no, and with each no, Chandal’s imagination had created a more distorted image.
“Justin, is it that bad? Is it horrible?”
“Honey...” He couldn’t look at her, hung an arm around her shoulders. “She’s not in that body anymore. She’s...”
“So it is that horrible,” she said with dry eyes. Silence. “You know, everything went all wrong. I had a bad feeling inside me. I don’t know why. I thought I didn’t love her. She thought I didn’t love her. But I did. I really did. I know I did, because now it hurts so much.” Her voice broke.
Justin hesitated uncomfortably. “Honey...”
“What?” Again she was matter of fact, blowing her nose, forcing her voice to steady itself.
“God, I hate it. But rehearsals...”
“You go. No, really. I understand.” She made a smile. She was still smiling after he was gone from her; gone in the cab, to rehearsal.
That afternoon, she sat in the front office of the Westside Holy Chapel. The funeral director, a woman of indeterminate age with deepset eyes behind large spectacles, set the form in front of her.
“Here. Fill this out,” she said with insatiable and even predatory curiosity. The form was long and complicated. It covered everything from the deceased’s Social Security number to the number of mourners expected at the wake. Below that were listed the number of candles, benches, chairs, and coat racks requested.
In the blank space marked “cemetery,” Chandal wrote: Fern Cliff Cemetery, Hartsdale, N.Y. Her mother had been born and raised there and her father was buried in Hartsdale.
She paused for a moment at the next blank space. According to the funeral director, Chandal was now the plot owner. The last surviving member of the family.
“Is there something wrong?” asked the woman with a sympathetic smile.
“Oh, no. No.” The last surviving member of the family. There was something she was trying to remember. Justin, she thought, taking a sharp breath. It was the link, the thing that they had in common. Justin and she were both the last surviving members of their immediate families. She felt a coldness in the pit of her stomach. She tried to think of another couple, just one couple their age, who had lost all four parents. Was it planned? she wondered. Did Magdalen know when she asked them to move in that three of their parents were dead already? Had her mother’s death been arranged? Had Magdalen—She stopped. No, I can’t really be thinking this, she thought, pushing the ridiculous paranoia away back into the recesses of darkness. I can’t believe something so insane. I can’t be thinking it at all, came another voice, a voice of caution. It’s dangerous for me to think it. They know what I’m thinking.
She clasped her hands together, forced herself to look into the funeral director’s professionally concerned eyes. I’m fine now, she reassured the woman silently with a forced smile. I’ve just been through so much, it’s made me think things that aren’t possible, aren’t real. But I’m fine now. See? I’m relaxed.
But, of course, she wasn’t. Today, as never before, she felt emotionally exhausted. Her mother’s death had completely drained her, it seemed, of the last ounce of response. She no longer knew what she felt. Her only emotion, as always in such instances, was a lukewarm resentment against herself for not being stronger.
Perhaps she spent too much time analyzing herself, left too many questions unanswered, leaving herself scattered in a million places. She knew what she should feel, should think, but—
After a long silence, the funeral director said in a soft, kind voice, “I know it’s hard. Here, let me help you.”
Patiently, the woman guided Chandal to the bottom of the first page. It was finally determined that her mother would be laid out the following evening from six to nine P.M. in a closed casket. The burial would take place the following morning.
The woman, now seemingly rushed for time, turned the page and proceeded to itemize the services that would be provided: Transfer of Deceased; Securing Permits; Embalming; Merchandise—casket, clothing, flowers, etc. Total: $2,642.36.
Business concluded, Chandal was escorted to the front door, where the woman extended a limp hand. “You can be assured that we will take care of everything.” Chandal left the chapel without looking back.
Around four o’clock, the funeral director called the brownstone with misgivings. The Fern Cliff Cemetery wasn’t sure that they could bury her mother on Thursday. The snow had reached a record twenty-six inches in two days.
“Well, then—what can I do?” asked Chandal nervously.
“Well, the alternative is to place your mother in their receiving vault until they are able to break ground.”
“Is this customary?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. It happens all the time. Last month, the grave diggers went out on strike. It was really quite a problem. But we managed.”
“I see.”
“We also have a problem with the church. Because Thursday is a religious holiday, they will be unable to conduct the services. I suggest we arrange for services to be held directly after the wake. Is that agreeable?”
Chandal agreed, hung up, and shook her head sadly. Walking to the kitchen window, she looked out and watched the clouds. It was an exceedingly gray day and the backyard was thick with snow. The branches on the trees were bent low from the ice that had formed on them and appeared to be ready to break at any moment.
She moved to the kitchen table, picked up a pencil, and attempted to jot down all of the things that had to be done. The paper remained blank. If they had only gone to California, surely none of it would have happened. Horrible thought—that it didn’t have to happen. What was it the woman... the seer—what had she said? To go away. Far away. The brownstone had brought her nothing but grief. In less than a month, she’d lost her baby, her mother, and perhaps the love Justin once felt for her. Had the woman seen this? And Sheila—had she seen that, too?
Mintz came into the room and jumped up on the countertop. She eyed her empty food dish in dismay.
“What’s the matter, Mintz is hungry?” Chandal smiled weakly at the way Mintz nuzzled up against her arm in answer to her question. “Okay, chow time,” she said, reaching into the cabinet for Mintz’s food.
Chandal, I’m sorry, the soft voice said from behind her.
Mintz raised her back and hissed. With lightning quickness, she leaped from the counter to the table and down, hitting the floor with a heavy double thud, like the impacts of two wet rags. She ran from the room, nails scratching the waxed floor in her hurry to escape.
I’m truly sorry. There it was again! She heard the voice clearly in her head; she was unable to turn around. A hand placed itself gently upon her shoulders. Come to the cellar tonight. At ten. I must talk with you, the voice whispered. Chandal wasn’t sure what the voice was really telling her to do. She began to scream. Her mother’s death had finally hit her full force and she couldn’t stop screaming. There was a gaping wound opened up in her stomach and she wanted to die. Screams were followed by tears, nonstop for almost two hours.
The actress’ response to Justin was a four-letter vulgarism which she had never used before, at least not at rehearsals. She retreated from the challenge Justin had flung back at her by going to the frost-sheathed window of the theater.
But Justin repeated the challenge of: “Well?”
She wheeled from the window as if forcibly turned. “Okay. Have it your way, but—” She broke off and returned to the stage. For Justin, a small victory had been won, but he drew no satisfaction from it. The actors waited for his next direction—there was none. He was caught in the middle of the ebb and flow of his own emotions. He was now two personalities. And sometimes he lived in a gray shaded area between the two—as now. What was it he had been saying?
Rehearsal became a disaster. Every few minutes the playwright would stop the actors to explain that he hadn’t meant for his lines to be read in that particular fashion.
Stepping onto the stage, Adler demonstrated the vocal and physical techniques needed to bring the full richness of his script to life. The actors grew warlike and started to argue. The stage manager looked to Justin, who looked the other way. By eleven A.M., the two lead actors refused to tolerate the situation any longer and stormed out of the theater.
“I don’t understand actors today. It’s my play; we’ll do it my way or we’ll not do it at all!” Adler slammed his script down on the table.
“You better go over there and calm him down,” Billy whispered into Justin’s ear.
“He’s an ass.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. How the hell can I direct with him around?”
Billy sighed, straddled a chair, and sat down. “Hey, buddy, you gotta get your act together. We’re falling apart here. You don’t seem to care.”
“I don’t.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? This can be a big play if you handle it right.”
“Let him direct it if he wants to.”
“Come on. What’s the matter?”
Justin shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, Christ, Justin—speculate!”
“How should I know? I can’t think anymore.” He pressed his fingers into the center of his forehead, the pain behind his eyes sticking like pins. “I don’t have the energy anymore.”
“Listen.” Billy moved closer to Justin. “Just get through the day.”
Justin slowly removed his hands from his eyes and stared at Billy. “What?”
Billy smiled. “You heard me. It’ll be all right if you go with it. Take charge. Everything’ll work out fine.”
“I just have to get my head on straight.”
“Sure. In the meantime, relax.”
“What makes you so calm all of a sudden?” Justin stared evenly at Billy.
“Me? Calm?”
“Yeah. You’re like a different person all of a sudden.”
“Why rock the boat, right? Look on the bright side,” Billy told him. “At least it’s a job.”
Justin started laughing. They both laughed.
Lunch was called as a temporary solution.
Justin swallowed a cup of lentil soup and ate a roast beef sandwich, and he awoke from his stupor. The playwright was the biggest problem, he thought, lighting a cigarette. Easily enough solved. He’d throw him out.
After lunch, back at the theater, Justin put his policy into action. The playwright was barred from the theater.
“How can I tell Adler he can’t observe a rehearsal of his own play?” asked the stage manager.
“Easy. You just open your mouth and say—‘Out, asshole!’ ”
But it wasn’t that easy.
“I’ll call the police!” Adler screamed from outside the locked door.
“Call God if you like!” Justin screamed back. “But you’re not getting back into the theater!”
“We’ll see about that!”
Justin listened as Adler slammed the outer lobby door. “Good. Now maybe we can get some work done.”
“Atta way to go!” Billy began to laugh out loud. Getting to his feet, he came around the table and slapped Justin on the shoulder. “Now that’s the way a director should act!”
Justin suddenly felt that he was being manipulated like a puppet. That Billy was maneuvering him. He removed Billy’s hand from his shoulder. “Let’s get back to work.”
Billy kept on smiling, but he could see that Justin was disconcerted. He watched as Justin moved down the aisle. With a fearful leap onto the stage, like a matador entering a bull ring, Justin hollered, “We’ll start at the top of Act One.”
Billy’s smile faded. Slipping into an aisle seat, he let his body slouch down, let his knees press against the back of the seat in front of him. He stared at Justin intently; Justin was sitting profile to him, the hard lines of his features softened in the dim light. Everything was going exactly as planned, Billy thought. Exactly as planned.
Justin spent the afternoon trying to repair the damage that the playwright had left in his wake, but his mind wandered once again. He called breaks every half-hour and spent the time thinking of Magdalen. Chandal and the death of her mother never crossed his mind.
By four-thirty, only Billy and the stage manager were left in the theater. Justin threw his script across the room and shouted, “A piece of crap! That’s all it is—garbage!”
“What’s the matter with you? Just yesterday you were telling me how great it was.” Billy slid off the stool to face Justin.
“That was yesterday! Did you hear him this morning? The man’s an idiot. If we did the play his way, we’d be laughed off the stage!”
“If that’s what he wants,” said the stage manager, “I think you should let him have it. After all, it’s his play!”
“Listen, you! You like your job—you keep your damn mouth shut!” Justin moved toward him.
Billy stepped between them. “Hey, come on, come on! Calm down.”
“Do me a favor, Billy, okay? Get lost!”
Billy and the stage manager left the theater together, leaving Justin to brood alone. After a few minutes of pacing the floor, he kicked an onstage chair, sending it crashing into the front row seats of the theater.
Unaware that there were two men watching him, he began to march up and down the stage mimicking the playwright. “The word is beautiful! The word should be spoken softly, eloquently, but never untruthfully. Like this... beautiful!’’
Applause echoed forth from the rear of the theater. Justin stopped and peered out into the darkness. “Who’s there?”
“Who’s there?” echoed back, but it wasn’t his own voice that he heard.
“Who are you?” Justin shaded his eyes from the light.
“The shmuck wants to know who we are?” Raucous laughter filled the theater and Justin saw Richards and Morgan coming down the center aisle.
Billy Richards’ husband, Justin thought, and stared at his lined and leathered face.
“Hey, Johnny,” Morgan said, “look at all these comfortable seats!” He wheeled around, struck the heel of his hand against the back of the soft green velvet chair. “Nice. Real nice.”
Both men were still dressed for work: construction boots, Levi’s, red-and-blue-checkered woolen shirts, heavy parkas. Richards wore his steel construction hat; Morgan held his like a Frisbee in his left hand.
“Come on, Johnny—let’s sit down. Watch the shmuck perform for us.” Morgan dropped into the chair left of the aisle. Richards took the one to the right, placing his boots against the back of the chair in front of him.
The theater flashed before Justin’s eyes. There was no back door, only side exits and the front door. The two men were positioned between him and the only way out. For a moment, Justin just stood at the edge of the stage, staring.
