Subterranean gallery, p.4
Subterranean Gallery, page 4
Neither Terry nor Rheinhardt said anything. Stoke put his cup down, stood up from the chair, and started pacing around the kitchen. “Some exhibition, a couple of hours and then gone. She deserves more than that, doesn’t she?”
“She’ll get more than that,” Terry said. “We’ve got extra prints of everything, materials ready to do the framing and matting. You come by the Warehouse tomorrow, you can help us with it. By Saturday morning, whether Wendy’s out or not, the pictures will be back up on the walls.”
Stoke stopped pacing, looked back and forth between Terry and Rheinhardt. “Really?”
Terry nodded.
Stoke grinned. “You had this all planned, didn’t you? You knew the cops were going to come down on it, haul off the pictures.”
“No. But we knew it could happen. Kind of thing happens a lot more than most people realize.”
“Sure, I’ll be there tomorrow, help out.” He sat back down, looking satisfied.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” Terry said. “Isn’t that your registration deadline?”
Stoke’s satisfied expression twisted from his face, and he turned away. “Yeah, tomorrow’s the deadline.”
“What are you going to do, Stoke?”
He wrapped his arms around himself, looked at Rheinhardt. Rheinhardt didn’t say anything, didn’t move. It’s yours, Stoke, he thought.
“I don’t know,” Stoke said.
“You’d better know soon,” Terry said. “You don’t register, we’re going to have to start working out what you’re going to do, go underground, leave the country, whatever. You won’t have that much time before…”
Stoke turned back to face her, cut her off. “All right, look, I’ve already registered, okay?”
Terry hesitated, glanced at Rheinhardt. Accusation, he thought. Why didn’t you tell me? she was asking. Looking back at Stoke, she said, “When?”
“Yesterday.” He was looking away from her again.
“I thought you weren’t going to register.”
Stoke banged a fist on the table, stared hard at her. “Exactly. You thought I wasn’t going to. I never said. I didn’t know what I was going to do, not until yesterday. And now we all know.”
Terry slowly nodded. She picked up her coffee cup, didn’t drink from it, set it back on the table. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “Does this mean you’ll go into the army?”
“I don’t know what it means,” Stoke said. “Like I told Rheinhardt, I’m buying time. Buying…time.” He gave her a halfhearted smile. “Who knows? Maybe I won’t get drafted at all, then I won’t have to worry about it.”
Terry just shook her head. “You’ll be drafted, Stoke. Count on it.”
Stoke didn’t answer. Rheinhardt watched them both, feeling removed and distant, not quite connected to them. Terry was right, of course. Stoke would be drafted. He had everything against him. Wasn’t in college, wasn’t married, wasn’t a member of any of the right churches, didn’t have friends or relatives in the right places, didn’t have wealthy parents who could buy his way free. Stoke was draft meat, dead and helpless. Rheinhardt knew what that felt like.
“I’ve gotta go,” Stoke said. “It’s late.”
“I’ll drop you off,” Terry said. “I’ve got the Warehouse van.”
Stoke shook his head. “I’ll walk. I can use it.”
Terry looked like she was about to say something else, but just nodded instead.
Stoke got up, breathed deeply once. “I’ll see you two around.” He dug something out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, swallowed, then turned and quickly left through the back door, closing it quietly behind him.
Terry looked at Rheinhardt. “Is it me? Am I being too hard on him?”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “For Stoke right now, probably. But I think he understands.”
Terry sighed, nodded. “What about you? Give you a ride?”
“I’m not going back to the Warehouse tonight.”
“My place?”
He shook his head. “I think I’ll crash on Deever’s couch.”
“You want me to stay?”
She needed something tonight, he saw that. But he couldn’t give her anything; he needed to be alone. “No,” he finally said.
Terry nodded, stood. “Will I see you tomorrow? To work on Wendy’s stuff.”
“I don’t know.” He was looking at her, but was unable to focus completely on her features.
“Rheinhardt?”
“What?”
Terry breathed deeply, then shook her head. “Nothing. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She left through the back, as Stoke had, and Rheinhardt listened to her footsteps descend, growing fainter until he could not hear them at all. He remained motionless at the table, still disconnected somehow, and content to stay that way.
In his mind, the image of clay.
A picture of the misshapen block that now rested on the work table two miles away took hold. Rheinhardt had once had a vague idea of where he wanted to go with the clay, of what structure he wanted to form. But, just as he’d had difficulty working with the clay, molding it to what he wanted, he now had difficulty picturing that form in his mind—each time the image began to clarify at all, to focus and stabilize, it crumbled completely, melted down to the image of the misshapen block of clay that now existed in the studio with two crushed cigarette butts disfiguring, or perhaps defining it.
The sound of creaking floorboards jerked Rheinhardt out of his trance. He opened his eyes to dim light, reoriented himself. He was still in Deever’s kitchen, the room lit only by the outside porch light angling in through the window, casting narrow, elongated shadows. Rheinhardt heard the floorboards creak again, from the other end of the apartment. Then came the sound of trickling water, the flushing of a toilet, then floorboards again as the flushing sounds faded.
A hulking shadow appeared at the far end of the hallway, staggered toward him. Deever. Coughing, Deever made his way along the hall; stopped in the entrance to the kitchen; leaned against the door jamb.
“Rheinhardt?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“It’s I,” Deever corrected. He stumbled forward, pulled a chair from the table, dropped into it. “Got a cigarette?”
Rheinhardt lit two, handed one to Deever. “Want a drink?”
The big man coughed, shook his head. Part of his arm was in the light from the porch, but the rest of his body was in shadow. “The opening over?”
“Oh yeah. Cops came, closed it down. Noise complaints, they said. Came in to stop the music, they said. While inside they saw Wendy’s photographs, just coincidence you understand, decided the pictures might be obscene. Confiscated them all, took in Wendy.”
“Nice evening.”
They smoked awhile in silence. Rheinhardt looked for patterns in the smoke that drifted in and out of shadow from their cigarettes. It seemed to him that patterns did exist in the smoke, but that he could not quite recognize them. He was tired; concentration was difficult.
“Stoke’s registered for the draft,” Rheinhardt said.
Deever didn’t reply immediately, but then asked, “Do you think he’ll end up going in?”
Rheinhardt nodded. “Yes. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll go. And Terry will want me to talk him out of it. Because I know what it’s like.”
“Will you?”
“How can I tell him what to do?” Rheinhardt said. He gestured toward Deever’s Lazarus patch. “What about you? You fought in Vietnam, would you try to tell him what to do?”
“I don’t know. That was more than forty years ago. I’m an old man, Rheinhardt. If he asked, I’d probably tell him not to go.”
“I can’t do that, Deever. I can’t advise him one way or another.”
“I understand.”
The light outside shifted, cast new, moving shadows into the kitchen for a moment. Someone knocked at the back porch door.
“I’ll get it.” Rheinhardt went to the door, opened it.
Justinian stood on the back porch, half his face in light, half in shadow. His long, gray hair glistened with moisture from the fog.
“Hello, Rheinhardt,” the short old man said. “You going to ask me in?”
“It’s not my place, Justinian.”
“Deever is an old, old friend, and I’m certain…”
“Let the little bastard in,” Deever called.
“Thank you, Walter,” Justinian said.
Rheinhardt stepped aside, and Justinian stepped in, went to the table and sat. Rheinhardt closed the door, returned to the table.
“How about cigarettes all around?” Justinian asked. As Rheinhardt passed out cigarettes, Justinian went on. “How have you been, Walter?”
Deever shrugged, took a cigarette from Rheinhardt. “I’m doing all right.”
“So you two know each other,” Rheinhardt said.
Deever and Justinian both nodded. “We fought in the Nam together,” Deever said. “I think I will get a drink.” He got up from the table, went to a cabinet above the sink, came back to the table with three glasses and a bottle of vodka. He poured some for himself, drank half the glass and refilled it, then sat. “Help yourselves.” When neither Rheinhardt nor Justinian did, Deever said, “All right, why are you here, Justinian?”
“I’m here to help Rheinhardt.”
“Help me with what?” Rheinhardt asked.
Justinian smiled, said nothing.
“Christ, that’s it,” Deever said. He drank down his vodka, pushed back from the table. “I’m going to bed.” He stood, looked at Rheinhardt. “You staying here tonight?”
“Thought I would, yeah.”
Deever nodded. “Just make damn sure you lock up securely after he leaves. I don’t want to have to worry about strange creatures roaming around in here at night.” He turned and shuffled down the long, dark hall.
Rheinhardt turned to Justinian, who was still smiling without a word. “So you’re a Namvet,” Rheinhardt said.
Justinian nodded.
Rheinhardt pointed toward Justinian’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you wear a Lazarus patch.”
“Don’t have one.”
“You’ve never been cleared?”
“Never cleared, never even screened. I didn’t come back. Not the traditional way. I’m still listed MIA, presumed dead. The V.A. doesn’t even know I exist.” He held up his cigarette, stared at it. “Do you remember the first time we met?”
“Not really.”
“Neither do I.” Justinian smiled.
“Why are you here tonight, Justinian? I don’t need any help. I don’t want any.”
“Let’s go outside for a bit, talk out there.” Justinian put out his cigarette, got up and started for the back door. Rheinhardt remained seated for a minute, uncertain, then got up and followed.
When Rheinhardt stepped out onto the back porch, it was empty. He looked up, saw Justinian at the top of the wooden ladder attached to the building and leading up to the roof. The old man disappeared over the top, and Rheinhardt started up after him.
As Rheinhardt came up over the edge of the roof, he saw a flash of metal, saw Justinian’s face rushing toward him, then felt hot pain slashing along his left arm. Rheinhardt released his grip on the ladder, started to fall back and away. He reached out with his right hand, grabbed the ladder, then swung back in and crashed back into the building. He nearly let go again, but hung on, scrambled to get his feet back onto the rungs. Teeth clenched against the pain, he grabbed the ladder with his left hand, pulled himself back securely onto it, and quickly dropped a few rungs before settling into a crouch, gazing up at the roof.
Blood dripped along his arm; somehow Justinian had run the knife in under Rheinhardt’s jacket, sliced along his forearm. What the fuck was going on?
Justinian’s face appeared over the edge of the roof, looking down at him. Rheinhardt could not manage to get out even one of the questions waiting to be asked, to be shouted at the old man.
“You’ve grown lax, Rheinhardt,” Justinian said.
“What?”
“Coining up onto the roof like that, blind. If you’d have done something like that down in the ’mericas, you would have been dead.”
“This isn’t the ’mericas.”
“Not yet. But it’s getting close.”
Rheinhardt didn’t say more, fighting down anger and confusion. He could feel his heartbeat pulsing in his neck, and his fingers were slick with blood; the pain was a long, steady throb.
“You need waking up,” Justinian said. “You see it, all right, but you don’t do anything about it. You stay in that stupid fucking place, the Warehouse, and you’re going to go right down the hole with everyone else.”
I already know that, Rheinhardt thought. I am getting out, you crazy old man. But he didn’t say anything. He slowly climbed down to the porch, staring up at Justinian. Breathing heavily, he leaned back against the railing, still watching the old man.
Justinian held out the knife. “Remember this, Rheinhardt,” he said.
Rheinhardt moved quickly into the apartment, locked the door, threw the dead bolts. He stayed near the door and listened for a minute, then went through the apartment and checked the front door locks. Finally he went into the bathroom to take care of his arm.
The cut was clean, about seven inches long and nearly half an inch deep, but the bleeding didn’t seem to be too bad. Deever’s med cabinet was well stocked, and Rheinhardt cleaned the cut thoroughly with antibac soap, ran it with an antibiotic coag ointment, then pulled the cut together with butterflies. He gauzed and taped the arm to protect it.
Rheinhardt went into the living room, sat on the couch, and looked out the window, half expecting Justinian’s face to appear. He was cold, his arms and hands shaking, and he wrapped himself in a blanket. He smoked half a cigarette, then lay out on the couch and tried to sleep. For a long time he remained awake in the darkness, listening to the ceiling noises as Justinian moved about on the roof above him.
Justinian
Justinian dances.
He moves about on the roof of Deever’s building, no smile, eyes open, eyes closed. Shoes scrape across gravel, arms swing out, in, out again. He faces the sky, eyes closed, then tips his head down, facing the roof, slowly turns on one foot, digging at gravel with the other.
The fog is thinning, shifting with a slight breeze. The moon, already far along its downward arc, momentarily shines through the fog, then is obscured again, a pale half disk.
Justinian stops. He holds his arms away from his side, opens hands so the fingers do not touch one another. He stands motionless, eyes still closed. His thick gray hair is damp, dusted with tiny beads of moisture reflecting nearby streetlights.
Justinian flexes his fingers, in, out, in, out, now with a regular rhythm. He raises one foot, lowers it, raises and lowers it again, in synch with the flexing of fingers. After two or three minutes of this, Justinian crouches, then leaps into the air, one leg swinging wide, arms out. When he touches down, knees bending, he springs again. He leaps and slides and spins about the roof, eyes open, eyes closed, open, closed. The steam of breath and sweat rises all around him.
Justinian dances.
Near dawn, Justinian walked along dark, quiet streets. The fog was gone, stars visible in the sky above. Buildings on both sides of the street were dark, most in disrepair, some partially demolished; not a single streetlight worked for blocks in all directions.
A grinding sound drifted through the air, faint but growing louder. Justinian stopped, turned his head a moment, then began looking at the buildings on either side of the street. He jogged across to a brick building, quickly climbed up its side using window frames and holes broken out of the brick as handholds and footholds. When he reached the fire escape at the bottom of the third floor, he pulled himself onto it and crouched against the brick, nearly hidden in shadow.
A minute or two later, a police growler came around the corner a few blocks away, started up the street in Justinian’s direction. The blue and green light atop the police transport vehicle pulsed steadily as bulb-tipped rods vibrated through the air on all sides; the grinding sound was loud now, emerging from beneath the growler with steam around the wheels. Nothing was visible through the darkened windows.
Just as it passed below Justinian, the growler spun quickly on its wheels, drove into a dark alley across the street. It disappeared from view, then stopped, engines idling. There were sounds of doors opening, grunting and scraping noises, then doors closing. A few minutes later the growler emerged from the alley, turned up the street, and continued on.
When the growler was out of sight, Justinian descended from the fire escape, crossed the street, and entered the alley. The alley was short and dark, ended in a rotting wood fence and a jumble of crates, tires, and pieces of rusting metal. A muffled snort sounded from within the jumble, and Justinian stepped closer.
Behind a stack of old tires, huddled on the ground, were three people wrapped in dark coats and trousers, tagged with police markers. All three were unconscious, the bodies rising and falling with irregular breathing. Another snort sounded, from the person on the right.
Justinian pulled a thin roll of money from his pocket, peeled off three tens. He knelt in front of the three dark figures, reached forward, and tucked a bill into each coat. For a minute or two he remained kneeling in front of the sleepers, motionless. Then he stood and walked out of the alley and continued along the street.
At the next corner he stopped over a storm drain, unzipped his pants, and urinated through the grate. His gaze seemed fixed on the steam rising from the grate, and he blew the smoke of his own breath into the steam, watched it swirl and mingle and rise and quickly disappear. He zipped his pants, resumed walking.
A few blocks farther on, Justinian turned down an alley between two buildings—one brick, the other cement. Metal fire escapes, wooden platforms and beams, strings of metal chain and strips of curling plastic all combined to block out most of the stars, and the alley was far darker than the street, nothing visible except black shadows against other shadows. Justinian stopped in front of a metal door on his right. He withdrew a block of keys from his coat, unlocked both door bolts, pushed the door open and stepped inside, relocked the bolts.
