Metropolis, p.8
Metropolis, page 8
Unfortunately, “sale” is a misnomer. Although there will be lots of papers to sign at the time ownership is transferred, there will be no money involved. In exchange for his liability in the elevator incident, Zach is turning over the property without a penny of compensation. No more business. No more investment property. No more income. Yup, no one-percenter.
Metropolis was dropped in his lap at the moment he needed it most, and it fulfilled its function many times over. The early years were demanding, but he toughed them out, turned Metropolis legit, and got himself out of the marijuana business, which had been his objective from the start—that and using the purchase to launder his drug money.
The drug stuff had started as a lark, dealing small amounts of pot out of his dorm room at Yale, but it became a monster in six short years. Even though he’d never sold anything but pot, he’d gone big-time, and was soon hanging out with guys who cared little about the disastrous effects of what they were doing as long as they were getting high and jet-setting around the world.
Admittedly, Zach had enjoyed this too, but when his childhood friend Tony died, along with a dozen others, due to a bad batch of heroin that Nick, a business associate of Zach’s, had sold them, Zach wanted out. He was devastated by Tony’s death and shamed by his part in what he’d considered a game—but clearly was not. So when Nick needed fast cash to get out of the country before the cops caught him, he’d offered Zach Metropolis at a ridiculously low price, and Zach grabbed it.
The building was a money machine. Three hundred eighty-four units, almost always continually rented, provided him with all the cash he needed to support his rather indulgent lifestyle. Owning Metropolis transformed him into a respectable, tax-paying businessman, if one with wild, risk-taking hobbies, a reinvention he was quite proud of. And one he assumed would continue as long as he wanted it to. Which isn’t quite the way things turned out. Not for him, and not for everyone else whose world was destroyed by a broken elevator.
A single moment causing such widespread damage. Financial ruin, heartbreak, pain, incapacitation. And why did it happen? It’s been months, and still no one knows for sure. Was it an accident, suicide, murder? No one knows this either. The media is rife with speculation, but so far that’s all it’s been, and the questions remain.
Zach has always been a much better spender than saver, and although he’s got some money in the bank, there’s not that much of it. It might last him nine months, a year if he sticks to a strict budget, which is unlikely. So here he is at thirty-seven, nearly broke and scurrying around to hide transgressions he believed he’d put behind him long ago.
As he gathers the photographs, he notices one of the creepy kids’ room he saw at the auction. He looks at it in awe. An amazing shot, black-and-white, as all of Laurent’s photos appear to be. An image of inanimate desks and books and drawings without a single person in it, yet full of angst and questions. A beam of light separates the armchair from the children’s lives, allowing the chair itself to appear to be observing from afar, a distance that somehow feels vast. What’s the story here? Who are these absent kids? Who’s watching them from the empty chair? And most of all, why?
He thinks about the other abandoned units he saw that day: Liddy Haines’s pied-à-terre, the fancy office, the small, neat monk’s retreat. Are there exceptional photos of these places too? Brilliant shots of other units, once full and now cleaned out? So many mysteries inside a building he’d always considered lifeless.
There are a mind-boggling number of undeveloped film canisters. His guess of many hundreds can’t be all that far off the mark. He plunges his hands into a batch, rolls the small plastic tubes around in his fingers, tosses some in the air, watches them fall. A potential trove just waiting to be discovered. Perhaps a gold mine as well. And there’s nothing he needs right now more than a gold mine.
Zach’s original plan was to destroy all the photographs, contact sheets, negatives, and undeveloped canisters, fearing they might reveal his crimes as well as those of his early tenants. But how can he do this now that he’s aware of their potential value artistically and financially? He scans the equipment scattered on the table, and then it hits him: he’ll develop the film himself. He’ll get rid of anything incriminating, and if the other photos are as good as he suspects, entire new possibilities will open to him.
Most of the gear he needs is right here for the taking. Actually, it’s already his. And there’s a decent-size extra bathroom in his condo that could easily be converted into a darkroom. He’s never developed a photograph in his life, but before he started scuba diving or hang gliding or competitive skijoring, he hadn’t known anything about them either. Same with highpointing and nature photography. He catches on quickly, and he’s pretty resourceful. Excitement rises within him. Time for another reinvention.
He runs down the stairs and retrieves the flattened cartons he’d left in his trunk wedged under Rose’s computer and files. Rose, who can’t be all that much older than he is but seems older than his own mother. Rose, who appeared competent, but clearly wasn’t. Rose, who begged him to forgive the unforgivable. Damn her to hell.
When Zach returns to #514, sweaty from his exertion on this unseasonably warm May afternoon, he packs up the darkroom tools and chemicals. It’s an unwieldy mix, some of it large and bulky, and the rest small and fragile. The enlarger weighs a ton. It takes three trips down the long, desolate corridor to load up the freight elevator at the back of the building. The smaller elevator, closer to #514, is crisscrossed with yellow police tape, presumably out of order forever.
Once he manages to squeeze it all into his Prius, Zach looks up at Metropolis, rising at least seventy feet above the sidewalk. Such a majestic building for such a mundane purpose. The crenellated, corbeled cornices. The square corner tower, two others atop the entrances. The round punched-brick window cutouts. Evocative of a medieval castle, and now just as ominous.
14
Rose
Rose relives Liddy’s hug and kiss as she hangs on to the strap in the packed Red Line subway car. Liddy held her really tight, like she was leaning on her. This must mean that they are really friends, maybe even special friends. The kiss on the lips was kind of weird but maybe that’s what some people do with their friends. Rose has never kissed a friend like that but she knows other people do things differently than she does. Like how Europeans kiss on both cheeks.
When she switches to the Blue Line she still has to stand but is grateful it isn’t as crowded as the Red Line. And the people in this car look a lot more like her than the ones in the last one. No Cambridge types here, with their cool glasses and fake-ripped expensive clothes, but her Revere folks. Down to earth and not afraid to say what they think.
It’s not that she doesn’t like people who are different from her. She likes Marta and Jason Franklin and there are lots of others. Like Liddy, who has lots of money. It’s just that she feels more comfortable with her own. Doesn’t everyone? Except that in the ten years she’s been making this trip, even the Blue Line has become more different from her than it used to be.
A boy with a backpack gets on the train and smashes her in the shoulder with it. He doesn’t apologize even though he knows he did it, and Rose supposes Michael wouldn’t apologize either. Her sweet little boy has been gobbled up by some large, smelly man-child who isn’t sweet at all. But even Michael, who’s always on her mind and is her biggest concern, can’t push away Liddy. Rose wonders what that whole thing about her wanting another unit is about and frowns. Somehow it seems like it must be something bad.
She feels a squeeze of thankfulness when she walks through the front door of her familiar apartment. It isn’t big, but it’s more than enough for the five of them. It’s the same as her mother’s and as her brother’s downstairs. The exact same layout of rooms she’s always lived in.
The entrance is through the small sunroom facing the street, then the living room and the dining room and the kitchen after that. There are three bedrooms to the left of the other rooms, with one bathroom. It would be nice to have two bathrooms, but there are dark hardwood floors and wide moldings and a pretty built-in china cabinet. Rose wonders if one of her children will live here someday. Then she and Vince will take over her parents’ apartment on the first floor and babysit for the grandkids.
Emma and Charlotte are doing their homework at the dining room table. Emma, who’s the little boss at eleven even though she’s only one year older than Charlotte, is making sure her sister is doing her math problems right. “One-quarter is the same as point two five,” Emma says, her voice a perfect imitation of a teacher disappointed by a slow student. “They mean exactly the same thing.”
Charlotte doesn’t raise her head. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. It’s math. You’re stupid if you don’t understand that.”
“I am not stupid!” Charlotte cries. “Math is stupid if it needs two ways to say the same thing. And you’re stupid if you don’t understand that!”
“Don’t call each other stupid,” Rose says. “Emma, do your own homework and let your sister do hers.”
“But she’s doing it all wrong, and I was just trying to—”
“Emma.” Rose points to the history book open in front of her older daughter. “Your homework.” She goes into the kitchen and checks the cabinets and refrigerator to figure out what to make for supper. She actually agrees with Charlotte because what’s the point in making math any more complicated than it already is?
There’s enough leftover lasagna for tonight if she bakes up a lot of garlic bread—and serves Michael last, because he could probably eat all the lasagna by himself. She’ll make a salad for herself and Emma, green beans for Vince and Charlotte because it’s the only vegetable they’ll eat. Michael refuses to eat anything green. As she pulls things from the refrigerator, she calls out for Michael. She gets no answer so she calls again. He should be home from football practice by now, and if he isn’t that’s a bad sign. She marches out of the kitchen and bangs on his door. No answer.
“Michael’s not here,” Emma tells her in a singsongy voice that shows how happy she is to know something her mother doesn’t.
“Where is he then?”
“Haven’t seen him.” Emma grins. “Probably should check your phone, Mom.”
It’s annoying the way the kids are always making snide comments about her lack of computer skills but she does as Emma suggests. There’s a text from Michael telling her that he’s going to have dinner at Reggie’s. He doesn’t ask. He just says. He’s been having dinner at Reggie’s an awful lot lately. Reggie is one of the boys Rose doesn’t like from Michael’s middle school days, and Reggie doesn’t play football. She should call his mother to make sure Michael is there, but she doesn’t know the mother and doesn’t want to admit that she doesn’t know where her own kid is. At least now she doesn’t have to worry about not having enough lasagna.
Rose goes back into the kitchen and softly presses her tongue to the exact spot where Liddy kissed her. She likes the feeling and likes the memory. Warmth spreads up her cheeks, and she smiles again. When she finishes dinner preparations, she shoos the girls from the table so she can set it. She should make them do it, but they always make such a fuss that it’s easier just to do it herself. Vince will be here in a few minutes and he likes his dinner on the table as soon as he gets home. Her Vince is a good man. A hardworking man, a good husband and father, and he doesn’t drink too much. She’s lucky to have him. Much luckier than her friend Katherine, whose Rick makes Liddy’s Garrett look like a pussycat.
Vince comes through the door and calls out his usual, “Daddy’s home!”
Emma and Charlotte go running. They push at each other to get to him first. “Daddy! Daddy!” they cry in unison.
He winces as he picks each girl up, but twirls her around and kisses her on the head before setting her down again. “Princess One and Princess Two! How are my two beauties tonight?”
“Dinner will be ready in five minutes,” Rose calls.
He comes into the kitchen, pecks her cheek, and grabs a Bud Light. “I’m beat.”
She doesn’t tell him she’s beat too. He works in a Home Depot warehouse, which is a hard job that’s sometimes backbreaking and made worse by the bad injuries he got in Afghanistan. While she gets to sit in a comfortable office all day mostly just drinking coffee and sometimes hanging out with Liddy. Rose presses her tongue to her lip again. It’s been a long time since Vince kissed her on the lips. Even longer since they had relations.
She counts back and realizes it might be a year. It’s not that she doesn’t love him, because she does with all her heart and has ever since they were kids. It’s just that sometimes it feels more like they’re brother and sister. But after being married for so many years she supposes this isn’t such a bad thing. She waves her good, hardworking husband toward the dining room. “Take a load off, hon. I’ll bring dinner right in.”
15
Liddy
It takes two days for Liddy to fully recover from the cocaine. As she knew she would, she snorted the entire gram that afternoon, then took sleeping pills to avoid the crash and climbed into bed. Although the pills took care of the first wave of punishing withdrawal, they did nothing for the morning after. Or the morning after that. The days either. There was the stomach distress, the dry mouth, the light sensitivity, and the aching teeth, but the worst part was the pervasive sensation of unease, edging into dread. It was housed in her chest and billowed outward with every breath.
In her Weston days, the recovery was much quicker. Two aspirin and a strong cup of coffee the morning after, and she was good to go. Not so anymore. Aging will do that to a person. The high isn’t worth this extended recuperation, forty-eight hours of misery vs. six hours of exhilaration, and she vows her coke days are over. But as with so many promises she’s made to herself to quit whichever substance she was currently overindulging in, this one, too, will be broken.
By the third morning, she’s sipping tea at the kitchen table, breathing fully and deeply. Garrett is in Europe on his business trip. He told her he’d be gone four or five days, but it could be more. Or less. He likes to keep her guessing.
It’s her day to tutor at the Burke, a low-income high school that’s so overcrowded they hold classes on Saturday mornings, but she has a little time before she has to leave. Nonetheless, she stands and puts her mug into the dishwasher. Then she hesitates, reconsiders, and takes the mug out. She pours herself another cup and sighs. If she can’t decide whether or not to have a second cup of tea, how the hell is she going to decide whether to end her marriage?
When she was in the throes of fury and pain, not to mention high on cocaine, her decision to leave him was clear-cut. But now she’s beginning to waver. Not in her hatred of him or her desire to be free of his clutches, just a rethinking of the logistical, financial, and familial difficulties involved, the myriad ways she could fail. But there’s still the punch. And his relentless and growing need to control her.
There’s no denying Garrett was controlling from the beginning. He questioned her endlessly about where she’d been and who she’d been with, what her plans were for the next day, sometimes suggesting she not do that particular thing, not see that particular person. At the time, she’d viewed these as signs of his concern for her happiness, his interest in her activities, an expression of how much he loved her. And maybe it was. But it’s difficult to believe it still is.
Heading for the Burke, Liddy pulls onto Washington Street in the heart of the recently branded Midtown, which has always been known as Downtown Crossing. It’s an area hardly anyone lived in twenty years ago, when it was filled with empty storefronts and garbage. Now the neighborhood boasts some of the most expensive residences in the city, along with a slew of trendy restaurants, overpriced furniture stores, and a high-end Roche Brothers supermarket.
Dipping along the edge of Chinatown and past Bay Village’s narrow streets and handsome brick row houses, she drives over the Mass Pike and into an area of the South End that only recently was home to warehouses, parking lots, and the Boston Herald’s production facilities. Now it’s called the Ink Block, another newly named district, this one created expressly for the young techies flooding into the area. Here, it’s Whole Foods that feeds the highly paid residents.
Then everything begins to shift from chic to shabby. At first slowly, as some gentrification has pushed into Dorchester, and then more rapidly. No more gleaming towers. No more historic brownstones. No more well-dressed people walking their designer dogs or pushing expensive baby strollers. Warren Street. Blue Hill Ave.
Tree roots heave themselves through sidewalks, roads crumble at their edges, and the people appear to be crumbling along with them. These folks move more slowly, smile less frequently, walk less erect, as if carrying burdens too heavy for their shoulders. Car repair shops, check cashers, bodegas, and broken windows. Inconsistent garbage collection, and not a supermarket to be seen. She’s barely traveled two miles.
This transition is always troubling. Heartbreaking, actually. She consoles herself with the thought that she’s doing what she can to help, or at least trying, both personally and financially. But she feels the weight and the guilt of her privilege.
When she gets to the Burke, classes are changing and the halls are chaotic. Lockers slam. Students strut and shove and kiss and laugh, calling to each other as if shouting across a football field. It’s heartening to know that no matter how rich or poor, teenagers act like teenagers. And high schools smell like they do everywhere: a mixture of shampoo, sweat, dust, Pine-Sol, and chalkboards, although no one uses chalk and erasers anymore.
