Authors: John Lutz

Single White Female (21 page)

BOOK: Single White Female

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Hedra had watched and waited, and when the time was right she met a Haller-Davis rental agent at the Cody Arms, a woman named Myra Klinger who was blocky as a soccer player and wore a pinstriped blue business suit complete with a yellow power tie and cuffed pants. Unexpectedly, Myra had a martyred nun's face with brown, injured eyes.

As she unlocked the door to apartment 3H, she looked oddly at Hedra. Hedra had dyed her hair red and styled it in a graceful backsweep, and with her altered makeup and deliberately added weight she had no fear of being recognized by any of the tenants. And even if she were recognized, it would merely be as someone they'd seen before in the building; they wouldn't connect her with Allie, whose own presence they'd only vaguely acknowledged. New York anonymity was a curse for some, for others a proper blessing.

Myra said, “Strange, you being named Jones. The woman who lived here last was named Jones.”

Hedra smiled. “Common name. That's why my parents named me Eilla. Eilla Jones.”

Myra swept open the door and stepped aside so Hedra could enter. It was all one smooth and expectant motion, like someone introducing a celebrity to an audience.

The apartment looked shockingly bare, and the traffic noises from outside seemed louder and more echoing than Hedra remembered. The scatter rugs were of course gone; there wasn't the slightest clutter in the place, and that changed its character entirely. But it could be furnished almost exactly the way it had been the day Hedra moved in. Standing and staring, Hedra could see it, all the furniture in place, the television playing and a book lying on the sofa, and there was a cup of hot chocolate resting on the fat sofa arm.

Home, she thought. I live here. I'm who I am, so there's nowhere else I should be, nowhere else
I could be.

The air stirred by the opening door had settled back down; the atmosphere in the apartment was hot and close, thick enough for Hedra to feel lying smooth and heavy as the softest velvet on her bare skin.

She knew she was expected to react to the apartment, to say something, so she said, “Spacious, but it could be cozy, too.” She walked down the hall, glanced into the bathroom as if looking at it for the first time. She nodded with approval. Nice touch, that. She peeked into the bedrooms and smiled.

“The place'll be painted,” Myra assured her.

Hedra faced Myra Klinger and said, “No, I love it exactly the way it is. I wouldn't change a thing.”

“You sure? It can be painted the same colors.”

“I'm sure. And I can pay you three months' rent in advance. I'm promised a good job here, have been for months and now it's been confirmed, so money's no problem.” Hedra told her about a job as a computer programmer. She gave Lawrence's phone number as the company number, in case Haller-Davis decided to check. She didn't think they'd bother, with a three-month advance plus a security desposit. And it was such a convincing story; she was so good at manipulating people like Myra Klinger, at sizing them up and then using them. It was, after all, their hearts' desire.

Myra was thinking hard about the situation.

“To tell you the truth,” Hedra said, “this is the last apartment on the list a rental service company gave me. If I don't get this one, I'm not sure what'll happen; I don't have any more apartments to look at.”

“You could get a new list.”

“The way property is in Manhattan, I doubt if that'd help.”

Myra shook her broad head and frowned. “Yeah, it's a hell of a world sometimes. Hell of a city, anyway.”

“Sure is.”

“People get trapped in all kinds of ways.”

“Don't they, though?”

“Even caring, affectionate people whose only real crime is being human.”

“Or different,” Hedra said.

“That, too.”

Hedra locked gazes with Myra until she felt the subtle arc of current she'd expected. “Different people in particular get fucked over in this city, so they've gotta stick together, don't you think?”

Myra's breasts were rising and falling. “Are you positive you want this apartment, Eilla?”

“I
especially
want it,” Hedra said. “And I'll do anything to get it.”

Myra smiled. “Maybe there won't be any problem. I might recommend you get the apartment.”

“Oh, God! Thanks, Mrs. Klinger!”

Myra looked as if her feelings had been stepped on. She said, “It's
Ms.
And remember I said âmight.' ”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. There's one thing more, Ms. Klinger.”

“It can be Myra.”

Hedra grinned. She just bet it could be “Myra.” “Fine. What I mean is, is there a storage area in the basement?”

“Why, yes, there is.”

“Would it be okay if I took a look at it? I've got some stuff to storeâboxes of books and a bicycle.”

“I don't see why you can't have a look,” Myra said.

Hedra rode to the basement with Myra in the service elevator. It was the sub-basement, actually, as the basement itself had long ago been converted to apartments.

In the time she'd lived at the Cody Arms, Hedra had been to the basement only once. She remembered being surprised by its dim vastness, as she was again now. Though it was warm beneath the octopus tangle of heating ducts and with the boilers nearby, there was a cold feel to the basement, as if it were a cave. And in a way, Hedra thought, it was a man-made cave. Far below street level.

The south end of the basement was partitioned into what might be described as stalls. Square, equal areas divided by thick slat fencing that ran from floor to ceiling. There were spaces of about two inches between the slats. Each stall had a section of slats that swung open to provide access. These were the “storage lockers” of the apartments above. The ones that had items stored insideâabout a third of themâwere equipped with heavy padlocks. There was a number stenciled on each locker, corresponding with an apartment number.

Myra knew her way around down here. She reached up with a stocky arm and yanked a pull cord, and a low-wattage bare bulb winked on and lessened the dimness in a limited area. She gripped Hedra's elbow tenderly and led the way down the corridor between rows of storage lockers, reaching up two more times to work a pull cord and shed light as they walked. From somewhere in the basement came a steady electrical buzzing, perhaps a transformer. The sound faded behind them.

Allie's locker was about halfway down the row. It was empty. Hedra was disappointed. She'd thought maybe some of Allie's things might still be down here, overlooked when Allie's possessions had been moved out. Directly across from Allie's storage space was the locker for 4H, Graham Knox's apartment. Hedra saw that it still contained what was left of Graham's possessions. In the shadows she could make out a dented file cabinet, and on top of it an old typewriter gathering dust. Probably the junk was tied up in probate court, Hedra thought, or maybe simply waiting to be hauled away.

“Damn,” Myra said, fumbling with a large ring of keys. “I don't think I have anything that fits this lock, or I could open the door and you could get a better idea of how much space there is.”

“Well, that's okay,” Hedra said. She ran a hand across the slats. “I can estimate pretty well from here. What I got'll fit right in there.”

“I'll get the key to you later, I promise.”

“You don't strike me as the type that'd break a promise,” Hedra said. A large roach ventured into the light, then turned and scurried along the base of a storage locker and back into darkness. “Or go back on a bargain.”

“I'm not,” Myra said in a strained voice. She rested a hand on Hedra's shoulder, near the base of her neck. “Are you?”

“No,” Hedra said, smiling into the brown, agonized eyes. Not unlike Lawrence's eyes, only older. More resigned.

The two women left the dim basement and went back upstairs to the apartment.

Hedra hadn't said good-bye to Lawrence. Well, he hadn't known they were parting, so what did it matter? She'd given him some coke that was like none he'd ever snorted or smoked. The ultimate and final high. He lay curled in a corner of the bathroom while she'd methodically removed every trace of herself from his life.

Before leaving she'd looked in on him, and he hadn't moved. He'd probably never move again under his own power. “Lucky Lawrence,” she'd said softly before walking out. “You got what you wanted.”

Hedra moved into the Cody Arms and began buying furniture. She'd taken the largest bedroom; it had a better view and more closet space.

Her first night back in the apartment she'd sat on the bare floor where the sofa used to be, sipping hot chocolate, watching a mixture of sleet and rain smear the dark window and cause her reflection to waver. She was wearing her dark slacks and favorite yellow blouse, her brown sandals that were slightly too large for her but comfortable. She studied her other self in the flat and undulating window pane and she and her Other exchanged smiles.

Sitting in the dim warmth of the apartment, listening to the splatter of rain dripping from the gutters onto the gargoyle stonework, she felt a contentment she hadn't known since rare moments as a child. She was in a secret place, a place to hide, and in a way she could carry it with her wherever she went and it gave her an unshakable peace and confidence. It was her most precious possession.

The next morning she took a cab to a beauty salon on lower Broadway and had her hair dyed blond and trimmed in the old Allie fashion. It was also the first day of her diet.

No one in the Cody Arms seemed to pay much attention to her. If the pleasantly plump woman who'd just moved in on the third floor looked remotely familiar, it wasn't mentioned. At least not to Hedra's knowledge. And if it was noticed, the fact that she was rumored to be the previous tenant's sister accounted for any resemblance of clothing or gesture. Hedra and the other tenants played the New York game of studiously avoiding eye contact and stayed out of each other's lives. Random collisions of fate could cause problems.

When Hedra went out at night, she seldom drifted in the direction of the Village. In a city the size of New York there were countless places to go, countless men cruising for companionship. Looking for someone like Hedra.

Always she introduced herself as Allie Jones. The name had long ago faded from the news and caused no flicker of recognition and required no explanation. Allie Jones, one of the many on the make and available to be made.

At Apple of My Eye, a lounge on East 21st Street, she was picked up by a handsome young stockbroker. The Manhattan single girl's dream. He'd peered at her through the haze of tobacco smoke and the flashing, multicolored strobe lights and, talking loud to be heard above the music, said his name was Andy. She told him she was Allison but he should call her Allie. First names only. That was the protocol for places like this. They'd stay on a first-name basis while they explored each other and decided how far the relationship might travel.

Andy was tall and angular, with sharp and sensitive features and thick black hair that was parted with geometric precision and seemed never to get mussed. He dressed well, though a little too trendy; shoulders a shade too padded, pleated pants too tight at the cuffs. Narrow black shoes with built-up heels, made more for dancing than walking, added half an inch to his height, though he didn't need it. He must have bought the shoes for style. Or maybe he was some kind of dance buff. There were plenty of them around. Young Fred Astaires.

That first night at Apple he'd asked Hedra to dance, then guided her through a complex series of steps she didn't know. But she had no difficulty following his strong lead. She knew he was making them both look good. Fred and Ginger. The man could damn well move.

“You dance great,” he'd told her.

“Hah! Anyway, I enjoy the challenge.”

He raised his left hand, nudged her beneath the shoulder, and guided her into an underarm turn. Ballroom stuff, as if to demonstrate that he had class. That he thought
she
had class. When she came out of the turn, he was right there to pick up the beat. Maneuvered her toward the edge of the wide dance floor and began a lazy, circling step so they could talk.

He said, “It's tell-me-about-yourself time, Allie. You from New York?”

“Not originally. From Illinois. But I haven't been back there in years. Don't wanna go back ever.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, no solid reason. Just a collection of slightly unpleasant memories, all connected with the Midwest.” She felt a thrust of fury at the base of her mind. “They don't understand there that the different apple in the barrel isn't necessarily the rotten one.”

“Hey, I know what you mean. You live in the Village, I'll bet.”

“Nope. Upper West Side. You?”

“I'm from New Jersey. Teaneck. Too expensive to live in Manhattan for some of us.” He led her through a neat turn to avoid a couple who'd danced too close, then resumed his rhythmic, hypnotic circling step. “How long you lived in your apartment?”

“ 'Bout three years. Did I say I lived in an apartment?”

“I dunno.” He smiled. “Doesn't everyone in New York live in an apartment?”

“No, sometimes a condo or co-op.”

“Same thing. You go in a door and down a hall before you get to your door.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Bet you have a nice place. Maybe I could see it sometime.”

A quick hint of a smile. “Definitely. Sometime.”

“Where'd you live before Manhattan?”

She moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder. A tingle of alarm played up the nape of her neck, like the very tip of a soft feather drawn over flesh. What was going on here? “How 'bout you? Where'd you live before New Jersey?”

He told her, but she barely listened. Someplace in Connecticut. Not that it mattered. No way to know if it was the truth. A thousand voices in Hedra were screaming for her to be careful. She'd heard those warnings before and ignored them, and regretted it later. Alcoholics and gamblers must hear those same unheeded voices.

She and Andy danced until closing time and agreed to meet there the next evening. He kissed her lightly on the forehead as they parted. Nothing pushy, but a promise. Subtle foreplay.

And the next evening she went. She couldn't stay away.

She waited until almost midnight and he didn't show up.

After turning down her tenth offer of a drink or a dance, she decided to leave. She threaded her way across the crowded dance floor and past a line of people waiting to get into the main room. A short man with a gray beard and a gold-flecked silk jacket turned away from the woman on his arm and winked at Hedra. She said, “Nice coat, but that's about it, asshole,” and walked past him and out the door.

Zinging the bearded man had given her a great deal of pleasure, but she wasn't sure why. Maybe she'd made him a substitute for Andy. He was the same sex; that was close enough.

Midnight was too late for a woman alone to ride safely on the subway.

Alone.
Not what she'd planned.

It wasn't unusual to be stood up, she assured herself, as she hailed a cab to take her back to the Cody Arms. That was how it went in the singles scene in Manhattan, a cruel and devious game, each partner playing with the softest part of the other. Hadn't she always known it?

Still, she'd liked Andy a lot. She'd wanted desperately for the voices to be wrong, for him to be who he said he was.

But was anybody who they said they were? Really?

During the cab ride through the dark and rain-slick streets, snow began to fall.

At the Cody Arms, she paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi, feeling a few cold flakes on the back of her neck as she bent down and slammed the rear door. The cab pulled away and left a swirling turmoil of blue-gray exhaust that held the glow from the streetlight, then drifted low and disappeared in darkness.

She turned up the collar of her new blue raincoat and hurried across West 74th Street, listening to the
clack! clack! clack!
of her high heels spiking the pavement. She wanted to be warm. Safe. Home. Soon as possible.

There was no one in the lobby or the elevator. She rode up to the third floor, waited patiently for the elevator to go through its yo-yo act to minimize the step up. As the sliding doors hissed open, she strode out into the hall, already fishing in her purse for her key.

As soon as she closed the apartment door behind her, she felt much better. Calmer. And she realized she was very tired. Being stood up was a strain.
The hell with you, Andy, you inconsiderate bastard.
She'd have a cup of hot chocolate and then read herself to sleep.

She didn't notice them at first. Not until she'd hung her coat in the closet by the door and taken three steps into the living room.

Then her breath became a cold vacuum and she stopped and stood still.
Mother of God!

What was going on here? Were they real, sitting so calmly and unmoving on her sofa? Staring at her?

Not real, she decided.

Not possibly real.

An illusion.

She dug her fingers into her palms and laughed nervously, startling herself with the high-pitched rasp that exploded from her constricted throat. When she inhaled she found the air thin and dizzying and felt as if she might suffocate.

The large, tweedy man holding the brown package and the dead cigar said, “Nasty out there, isn't it, dear?” And she knew he was real.

Real, too, was the figure next to him on the sofa.

Sitting in Hedra's place.

Allie Jones.

BOOK: Single White Female

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