Closing time, p.19
Closing Time, page 19
“Okay. I got it. Hold on.”
She took most of her weight out of Barbara’s hands when her belly hit the lip of the dumpster and she folded at the waist and she spotted the cat and reached and the kitten turned to look at her, wide-eyed at this new disturbance and she thought it probably would have bolted had it not been perched there so precariously, but as it was, stayed put just long enough for her to put her right hand down and push further at the lip to get an extra foot of reach so that she caught it in her left hand and lifted it away.
The kitten gave one long meeeeeoooowwwww in earnest now and glanced anxiously over its shoulder and she looked down to where the cat was looking and saw the much larger body whose markings so nearly matched its own. Its head lay hidden beneath a block of stone. She saw long-dried blood along its bib and shoulder.
“Oh, you poor little thing,” she said.
The kitten just looked at her, trembling.
“I’ve got her,” she said. “I’m coming down.”
“How did you know?” Barbara said.
“How did I know what?”
“That it was a she?”
She laughed. “I did. I didn’t. I don’t know.”
They were headed uptown and over to the subway and then home. Barbara carried her bag for her. She carried the kitten pressed against her breast and shoulder. The kitten was matted and caked with dust and god knows what else and smelled like the inside of a garbage can and she gripped Claire’s shoulder fiercely. Claire didn’t mind a bit.
“How old, do you figure? Five, six weeks?”
“God, I doubt that her eyes were even open a week ago. She’s young. Really young. I’ll get her to a vet this afternoon. Check her out and see if she’s okay. The vet’ll probably know.”
They were going back roughly the way they came. Past the dusty shops and into the smell of burning and the strange sad New York silence.
“You going to keep her?”
She lifted the cat off her body and held her up over her head with both hands and the cat looked down and she smiled at the cat and smiled too out into the quiet street.
“Forever.”
NOVEMBER 10TH, 2001
SEVEN
When David finished work for the day—the acrylic for the YA book cover was getting somewhere, finally—he did what he always did and cleaned his brushes and covered his canvas and went to the bedroom and pressed MESSAGES on his answering machine and turned off the mute button and listened.
Sandwiched between a recorded pitch from Mike Bloomberg asking for his support in the coming election and a call from his agent’s assistant asking him to phone when he got the chance, she had good news for him, was her voice saying it’s me, just wanted to see how you were doing, cut off abruptly.
There had been whole days by now that he hadn’t even thought of her though they were still few and far between but this had been one of them, he’d been that absorbed in the work for a change, and then her voice, or the ghost of her voice—his machine was an old analog cassette recorder and had the annoying habit of allowing snippets of old buried messages to rise up from between the new ones like withered fingers from a grave—rushed at him with all its force and broke the dam inside him again.
How am I doing?
Some days fine, Claire. Most days, not well at all.
He dialed her number. Something he hadn’t done in weeks now at her request.
He got her machine.
“It’s me,” he said. “Did you phone today? Or is my machine messing with my mind again? I figured I’d better check. Anyway, I’m here, and I hope all’s well. See you.”
He’d given her plenty of time to pick up. She hadn’t, so either she really wasn’t there and the call had come in earlier or her voice had been a mechanical glitch and she still wasn’t talking to him.
Ready to talk to him was the way she put it.
He’d wondered if she’d ever be ready.
His agent was on speed-dial. She wasn’t. He’d taken her off almost a month ago. Too much temptation, far too easy. His agent said they had a terrific offer for him, cover art for the next six Anne Rice paperback reissues, his agent very enthusiastic about it, and went on to outline the deal. The deal was a good one and he sure as hell could use the money but he’d worked with Rice a few years back and knew she could be a pain in the ass, one of those writers who seemed to think they were painters too and let you know it each step of the way, detailing you to death, your art going back and forth for approval like a canvas ping-pong ball.
“Tell them I’ll take it,” he said.
He hung up and went to his computer and lit his twenty-first cigarette of the day. It was supposed to help him cut down if he counted them but so far it had only made him nervous to know he was smoking so damn much. He went into his e-mail. Half an hour later he hadn’t answered any of them. The words wouldn’t come.
It was obsessive but all he could think of was her message on the machine. Just wanted to see how you were doing. Maybe she really did. Maybe she had just gone out for a while and she’d call back later.
He doubted it.
But he missed her enormously and whenever he allowed himself to realize that, whenever he truly let it through, he’d cling to even the most delicate thread of hope. She’d changed her mind, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t bring himself to leave, she missed him too much, all forgiven, let’s try again.
He knew her far too well to think it was anything but fantasy but he clung to hope as though hope itself might make it so. It wasn’t just the sex he missed though god knows it had never been anything but fine between them but his heart had an entire Whole Earth catalog of what he missed about her and his mind kept flipping through the pages. Sometimes almost at random, something striking him hard for no reason. The gap between her two front teeth, the husky voice, the talk about mutual friends whose names he hadn’t heard for weeks now and incidents long past and people long gone in both their lives and art and books and feelings, the tall proud way she walked the street or the feel of her waist beneath his arm or her cheek beneath his hand or the two of them staring up at the darkening New York sky—it just went on and on. Countless images, moments observed and shared over the heady course of two long years. And the friendship which always lay beneath.
He pushed back away from the computer and turned it off, watched the screen crackle down to neutral gray. The email would have to wait. He wasn’t feeling up to the basically cheery voice it always seemed to require of him
A drink, he thought, that’s what was in order. You got a lot of work done today. You deserve it. Have a scotch and turn on the news for a while. Couldn’t hurt.
Could it?
He was drinking a fair amount these days.
Was it for pleasure the way it used to be? Or just to throw a cozy blanket over pain?
He knew Sara worried about it. Sometimes so did he.
He seemed to have to bludgeon himself to sleep these days.
He got up and poured one anyway. His two tabby cats yawned awake on the counter when he cracked the plastic tray of ice. He scratched them both behind the ears. They fell asleep again. Sara wouldn’t be home from work for two hours yet and the cats wouldn’t be fed until she did. They knew that as well as they knew every flat surface in the apartment and the exact extent to which it was good for sleeping on. Until that time rolled around, dozing was an appropriate response to life.
He wished he were as sensible and poured himself a stiff one.
He was waiting for a phone call.
It might be a long night.
It was.
Seven hours, five drinks and a leftover chicken dinner later she hadn’t called. So it had been a glitch, as suspected. Tomorrow he was getting a new machine, dammit. He didn’t need the torment.
And it was a torment. He wasn’t overstating. He felt like a caged animal in his own apartment. Sara was in the bedroom watching TV and doing paperwork, some homework from the bank but he couldn’t join her the way he usually did, not tonight. He couldn’t turn it off. It was as though being in the same room with her right now would constitute betrayal—of Sara, of Claire, of all three of them.
He tried to read but that didn’t work either. He never painted or even sketched when he’d been drinking and he wasn’t about to start now. So that left the computer. He answered his e-mail as best he could and then surfed the net, looking for images, not sure what he was looking for but something to startle him or comfort him. Something. He felt hot-wired to her voice on the phone. Finally he left-clicked on the WRITE MAIL icon and began this long, feverish, idiotic letter to her. A plea for some kind of communication, any kind would do but mostly he wanted to see her and probably he wanted that for the very same reason she did not want to see him. It might start it up all over again, which he was selfish enough to want even knowing it could not be good for her was and honest enough about to make him feel guilty as sin.
He didn’t know if the booze was helping or hindering in the sense-making department but the letter poured out of him and when it was finished he began to hit the SEND button but then stopped to read it again. He didn’t know if it spoke to his feelings or didn’t. If it was self-pitying drivel or not. Fuck it, he thought. Fuck it fuck it fuck it. He saved it into the MAIL WAITING TO BE SENT file. Maybe he’d send it off tomorrow when he was more sober and maybe he wouldn’t.
Meantime he was not going to sit here staring at a computer screen all night.
He knew where she worked these days.
They still had a few friends in common who hadn’t deserted him completely and he’d persuaded Barbara to give up the address. Hell, she was right here in the neighborhood. Only ten blocks away.
He turned off the computer and got up and walked into the bedroom. Sara looked up at him from the bed. Piles of papers fanned out in front of her in an orderly fashion. She was doing something to them with a red felt tip pen.
“I’m going out,” he said. “Feeling restless.”
“Okay. Where to?”
“Take a walk, have a drink. We’ll see.”
“You going to see Claire?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess I’ll figure that one out once I’m out there. She still doesn’t want to see me.”
She put down the pen.
“David, are we in trouble? Do we need to talk?”
“No, we’re not in trouble. At least not now. I don’t know about the long run. I don’t know where we’re going. But we don’t need to talk, not now.”
“I worry.”
“Don’t. It’s okay. I just might need to see her. I don’t know.”
She looked at him and nodded. “All right. Be careful,” she said.
She meant it. All that careful entailed.
“I will. I love you.”
She went back to her papers. He thought how strange this would look to some outsider. As though she really didn’t care. But he knew she did care and how much. They had thirty years together and the ties were strong even if sometimes invisible to most people, stretched thin these days because he had fallen in love and she of course knew as she knew everything important in his life—and maybe it was that knowing, as much as the cats they shared or the apartment they shared or the fact that she was his first best critic or even the years themselves of order and easy companionship which was why he stayed and couldn’t seem to leave.
Sarah was family by now. He had no other.
He put on his jacket and stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him.
EIGHT
Half-past midnight and Claire was finally getting to eat—the Caesar salad with grilled chicken she’d asked the cook to leave for her in the microwave. They’d been slammed all night long for a change but now there was only old Willie in his usual corner, arms folded in front of him and half asleep over his beer. When she finished she’d roust him. Willie weighed in at a good two hundred pounds and he’d already fallen off his barstool once since she’d started working here only a few weeks ago. He was going to crack his head open one of these days. She didn’t want it to be on her watch.
Sandi dumped the last of the candles out of its holder into the black plastic trash bag down at the end of the bar, sighed and smiled and untied her waitress’ apron and slid it off over her head.
“I’m outa here, that okay?”
They’d already split the tips and balanced out the register. There hadn’t been any discrepancies between that and the cash-due printout or they’d have had to go through the checks together one by one to find the error. And Sandi looked dead on her feet.
“Sure. Go. You have a good night.”
“What’s left of it.”
“Give that guy a hug for me.”
“Yeah. Hey, listen, I really want to thank you for that. I really appreciate you talking to me. It helped.”
“Kenny’s a good kid. Everybody screws up now and then. Just don’t let him make a habit of it, that’s all.”
Sandi smiled again and slipped on her jacket and hoisted her shoulderbag.
“I won’t. See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
She finished her salad. Hell, she’d wolfed the damn thing down. You got busy, you didn’t have time to eat. Then you forgot to eat. Pretty soon you were starving. It was high time she had a shot and a Marlboro. She poured a double Cuervo neat and lit up and let the smoke slide down deep.
“Hey, Willie. Last call.”
“Hmmmm?”
She watched the heavy eyelids slide up and then down again—what her father used to call the Long Blink. “Willie. Hey.”
“Hmmmm?”
“Time to go.”
“Oh yeah, ’course. Okay I finish this?” He smiled.
“Sure.”
She watched his fingers toy with the neck of the Heineken, literally feeling around for the thing, and then grip it and pour. He had about a third of a glass left. She took a hit of the Cuervo and another pull on the cigarette and walked around the service station and then down the bar past him to turn off the central air over by the plate-glass window and then heard the sounds of the city rush in to her left as the man opened the door and stepped through. The man nodded and smiled and took off his thin brown leather gloves and she thought, shit, why does this always happen to me? because she was supposed to stay open until one if there were any customers at all, that was the rule in this place and here it was twelve forty-five and it would be just her luck and she was just that new on the job that the boss would come around to check up on her if she told this guy she was closed already.
The man was tall and wore a good brown three-piece suit and he put his brown leather briefcase down on the bar eight stools back from Willie, just in front of the register and smiled again and said, evening.
“Evening,” Willie said.
The man just looked at him.
She had to laugh.
“I’m just about to close,” she said. So this’ll be last call. But what can I get you?”
If he knew about anything he knew about bars and barflies and he could tell from the way the fat guy was sitting on his stool that he was about to drop, that she sure wasn’t going to serve him again so that was when he’d made his move. He’d walked across the street from the flower shop where he’d been pretending to admire the window display and through the door. From where he stood he had a perfect view of the street and the corner of Columbus and 70th. Nice easy monitoring.
“What’s on tap?” he said and she told him. He said he’d take the Amstel.
The Amstel came in a frosted mug. He liked that. He took a sip and watched her rinse a few glasses and dry her hands and then walk over to the fat guy in the corner. He liked the way she walked. It was assertive, very New York.
“Hey, Willie. Wake up, Willie.”
“Huh?”
“Finish your beer.”
“Right. Okay.”
He tilted the glass and drank and set it down again.
“Tomorrow’s another night, Willie. Finish it up.”
“Okay.” He did. “What I owe you?”
“You already paid me.”
“I did?”
“Yep.”
“Tip?”
“You left a good one, Willie. Thanks.”
“Pleasure,” he said and smiled and waved at her once like he was the goddamn pope bestowing a drunk benediction and slid off the barstool. He tugged once at the collar of his faded gray raincoat and straightened up and managed not to stagger as he walked out the door.
God, he hated barflies. Fucking disgusting.
She went back to the dishes again.
“He’s really a very nice guy,” she said. “But with all that weight he’s carrying I worry about him. I’m afraid he’s going to have a heart attack or something right in the middle of my shift. Then what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t blame you. But say it did happen, what would you do?”
She shrugged. “Call 911 I guess. I’ve seen CPR but I’ve never, you know, actually done it.”
“You’ve seen CPR?”
“Movies, television. Not in real life.”
“Oh. I’m Larry by the way.”
He put out his hand. She smiled and dried hers on a towel and took it.
“Claire. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Claire.”
He looked around while she went back to the glasses in the sink and thought, hell, as good a time as any, slipped on the surgical gloves out of her sightlines beneath the bar, unlatched the briefcase and opened it and pushed it aside with the top open so that it would block any view from the street and lay the gun down softly on the bar.
“Claire?”
She looked at him first and then at his hand spread over the gun and he watched her face change. He always liked this moment. Revelation-time.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, Claire. We’re going to pretend we’re a pair of old friends, maybe we even dated way back when, who knows? And I’m here closing up with you, so you do what you do every night, only I’m here. You lock the door and hit the lights outside and dim the ones in here. Only difference is that once you’ve done all that you empty the register into this briefcase. Me, I’m just having a drink. You understand?”
