What Is All This? (14 page)

Next morning, her alarm clock rang. It was still dark out. She had to get up for school and Paula to wash her hair before going to school. I did my morning exercises in the bedroom and went downstairs and sat at the table with my coffee while they finished their pancakes and juice and milk. Dawn wiggled her fingers at me to get my attention, and said “I'm going to the city Tuesday night for my dance class. I'll drive you back, okay?” and I said “Sure.” “Also, I've been thinking we need a little vacation from each other,” and I raised my eyebrows, and she said “I'm saying that I'd like it if we didn't see each other this weekend—that's all right, isn't it?” “What's the real reason?” and she said “I already told you the real reason.” Paula got up, and Dawn said “If you're through, bring in your dishes, please?” Paula went into the kitchen with her dishes and started washing them, and I said “What I mean is what's behind the face of what you said?” “Face? What face? I don't understand, I just want to do some things by myself this weekend, okay?” “By yourself? Does that mean alone or without me?” and she said “Whatever I want to do—what's so wrong with that?” “You've a date—for all I know, you've two—so why didn't you just say it and that you've probably had your share of me for the time being, and what's troubling you is that I haven't had my share yet of you.” “I don't know about you, but I can't go through these things so early,” and I said “I'm sorry, but I can't help it. That's how I immediately felt. Maybe it's your fault for bringing this on too suddenly for me.” I went into the living room with my coffee and sat in the rocking chair. The cat jumped onto my lap and stayed there. Dawn came in and got down on her knees beside me and stroked the cat and rested her arm on my legs and said “I shouldn't have said anything before I left. That's what you used to do before I'd leave for school when you had something I didn't want to hear or wasn't ready or sufficiently awake for just then, and it would mess up my whole day.” “Forget it, it's all right,” and she said Though it does make me a little fearful for us again, but no big deal.” I said “No, it's had its effect,” and a couple of tears were coming out and she saw them and I thought “Goddamn fucking tears,” and got rid of them. “Oh crap,” she said, “I should have just stuck to ending it between us when I got back from Turkey,” and I said “What a thing to say. Turkey was a summer and a half ago.” “But I'm no good at periodically readjusting the relationship with the same man.” “Look, I'll never be able to work here today. If you don't mind I'm going to start the vacation a day earlier and take the express bus in.” I set the cat on the floor and went into the dining room to put my typewriter, which was on the table, back in its case. She came into the room and said “Maybe vacation was the wrong word to use. I meant by it that we could both use a short break from each other—for a couple of weeks or so.” Paula yelled goodbye from the kitchen. We yelled goodbye, and she left through the back door, probably because she didn't want to pass us to get to the front. “I've got to go too,” Dawn said. “I don't like leaving it like this, but I can't be late for homeroom.” She put on her coat and got her briefcase and books, I got my typewriter and canvas totebag, and we left the house and walked up the hill behind it to where her car was. She said “Listen, either be here or you're not here, but that's okay, right?” and I said “Right, and have a good week.” “Okay. You too. A great creative one,” and kissed me and got in her car and started it up and smiled and waved at me. She was trying to placate me with that smile and wave and those last remarks because she knew I was feeling hurt as I'd been again and again the past two years when she decided to break us up for two weeks, a month, her vacations, her separations, no doubt her other men besides Peter, her other times with other people, when she was feeling claustrophobic with me, as she'd said, and maybe when she gets too close to a man she always has to draw back, as she'd said, and so on. But I don't want to go into it again. Then why am I going into it again? But anyway, anyway, she was there on the flat part of the little hill, warming up the car not fifteen feet away from me, and when she drove off she probably thought “Who the hell needs the aggravation? I should be asking myself. Let him get used to me and my ways and what I can and can't do now, or let him go screw himself. No, that's too hard. Just let him go and maybe for good.” And I was standing there a few feet away from where I said goodbye to her, thinking “God, I love her so much I don't know why I hate her.” I don't know what I'm saying. I know it's going to be a lousy day. I should take the bus. I must take the bus. Just get the hell down there and take the bus already, stupid, and I start down to the stop.

We're walking through the park when we hear a groan from behind the bushes.

“What was that?” Jane says.

“Sounded like it was from in there.”

“I know, but who is it?”

“Want me to take a look?”

“No. Let's keep walking. I'm afraid.”

“Why? It could be a harmless drunk or sober man having a heart attack. You push on a ways and I'll check it out.”

“I said don't. It's no joke. We shouldn't have come this way. The path's too narrow. The bushes and boulders are too big.”

“We're in the heart of the wild bird reserve, that's why the denseness. Part of the eastern flyway in fall and spring.”

Then let's fly away.” Our boy in the stroller throws his bottle to the ground. “Don't, Jim. Stop throwing things.” She gives the bottle back to him. “I think he's made.” She leans over his back and sniffs.

“He's made. Please?”

“I'm still concerned about that groan.”

“What for? Nobody in his right mind should've been in there.”

“But say we read tomorrow it was someone who got killed. Worse than the heart attack. Someone who bled to death because nobody came in time. We could read that.”

“We won't.”

“We could.”

“I'm going and so are you. Now let's go.” She pushes the stroller. Jim throws his bottle out. She picks it up and offers him it.

“I wouldn't give it back.”

She drops it into the stroller bag. Jim tries sliding out of the stroller frontways.

“You'll break your feet, Jim,” she says. “Now in. I said in.”

“We'll move quicker if I carry him. Because it's going to start pouring again.”

“It wasn't a good idea cutting through the park.”

“Too late. And there's better tree shelter along the way.”

“Maybe that's what that groaning man was trying to do—save time. I hate this city.”

“One incident. That's all it ever takes you.”

“You're right. I like this city. But I hate people getting beaten up on and robbed and raped.”

It starts to rain. “Want to keep going or duck under this tree?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know. You're in a rush to get out, aren't you?”

“It's tough knowing what to do. Get drenched and give Jim a worse cold. Or stand under here and risk getting hit by lightning or mugged.”

“Let's ask Jim then. Jim? Should we stay or go?”

“Shou,” Jim says. “Ba-ba, ba-ba.”

“He wants his bottle,” she says.

“No chance.”

“Did he at least make up our minds about staying or going?”

“Would you stay here for a second while I go back?”

“Me? Here? Without you? You'll loan me a gun? And put him down till we decide.”

“I like holding him.”

“If we suddenly have to run you'll be too tired from holding him by then.”

“But say we do read or see on the TV tomorrow—”

“Oh, sure. Drop by drop. His last words to the police were ‘I heard a couple and their son Jim pass by. They debated helping me. She convinced him not to. He convinced her he was crazy enough to. Jim wanted to crawl back and throw his bottle at the mugger. The one thing they agreed on was they were tired of picking up his bottle.'”

“Ba-ba, ba-ba, ba-ba.”

“Okay, let's go,” I say.

“Now? When it's a waterfall?”

Then we'll stay here.”

“You didn't get the word from Jim yet.”

“Okay, Jim? You don't want to go under a waterfall and get a worse cold or even worse.”

“Ba-ba, ba-ba.”

“He's really hot for his bottle. Maybe if we had some milk in it.”

“Don't start,” she says. “He drank it all. What we should have in it is water from one of the fountains we passed, but they all had to be torn loose from the ground. This city.”

There she goes again, folks.”

“Well, this city, this city. Where I can't even get water for my son because of the creeps who like kicking fountains down?”

“Whenever we can't get water for him he's your son.”

“Our son. But those creeps. I think it's stopped.”

I stick my hand out. “Still coming down pretty hard.”

“I like it under here. I can say that. Like our own arbor. Or whatever it's called. A private retreat in the storm.”

I put my arm around her shoulder and hold Jim up to us tight. “If that—”

“You're getting his neck wet from my hair.”

“If that man was mugged, I hope he was at least also under a shelter.”

“Oh, thanks. But if he was, then I'd wonder what he was doing there. Looking to meet men, probably.”

“Or he loves nature and wanted to step further into it. A bird watcher, maybe. Someone might have jumped him from behind just to get his binoculars.”

“Why from behind? Those guys will attack you right from up front.”

“You're so sure his attacker was a man?”

“I don't even think anyone was attacked. But it's not something a woman would do.”

They would. They have. Girls too, in groups and gangs. Certainly some of the girls I've taught. And starting at age eleven and twelve.”

“Something would have to be wrong with them then.”

“Ba-ba, ba-ba.”

“You think ba-ba means something other than bottle?” I say. “Like weh with him means wet and tub water and puddles and numbers one and two and maybe also rain.”

“Weh, weh, weh.”

“I at least got his mind off the ba-ba.”

“I'm going. I don't care if it's buckets. Now put him down.”

I put him in the stroller and push it downhill. “Weh, weh, weh,” Jim says. We reach the park drive and I pull under the eaves of the Swedish Cottage.

“We're soaked through as it is,” she says, “so don't stop now.”

“Still afraid? We're away from it, and maybe we can call the police from here.”

“Sure. See anybody inside? Nothing but the puppets. Hello, puppets. Which'd almost be nice for Jim to look at some other day. But you weren't afraid? That groan before was one spooky scene.”

“I wasn't for me, though I was a little for you two.”

That's why I want us to get on.”

“But we're safe now. And Jim shouldn't get any wetter.

Stay here. Dry him off. The towel in the bag's still dry, and I'll be right back.”

“Why? Let the police go snooping around. There's an emergency box over there. Not around—to your left. On the traffic light pole. Call them and you'll have done more than most anyone would.”

The box is in the rain. Its cover is hanging off. Above it, the glass police sign two lightbulbs were once in has been smashed out. “I don't think it's working,” I yell.

“Try it.”

I pick up the receiver. “Officer Tanner,” a voice says.

“I'm speaking from near the Swedish Cottage. I want to report that I heard about ten minutes ago what seemed like a male groan in the general vicinity of the bird refuge woods up from Eagle Hill.”

“A groan? Wasn't a tree swaying? Did you look?”

“I tried to. My wife got scared. We've our kid with us.”

“No personal threats against you, though? Or a description of anyone you saw there?”

“No. Only it did seem very ominous to us.”

“All right. I'll have a car make a check.”

“I didn't give you the exact location of the spot.”

“You said the Cottage callbox. If there's anything wrong around there, we'll find it.”

“But up the hill from it, up the hill. Hello?” No answer.

I run back to the cottage. “No?” she says. “Well, if they won't do anything, it must be nothing.”

“But at least if I go and find nothing, I'll know there was nothing.”

“It could also mean the man with the groan is dying behind a bush you didn't look behind. And suppose in your great search the mugger tries to get at Jim and I here?”

“You're by the road. There are cars.”

“Where? You see one?”

They'll be by. And right up the road's the path to the park exit and buildings and lots of traffic.”

Then walk me there.”

“It's pouring.”

“I don't care. He's already soaked. He's probably got pneumonia, so what do you want for him next—to get cut up and thrown into the underpass? And me too. I've got pneumonia too. We all do. Now walk me out. Oh, I'm going.”

I grab her arm. “Use your sense.”

“And you stop the crap. I'm going home. You go where you want. Call me if you're killed.”

“Okay. But hustle, though.” She goes. “And put the towel around his head.” I run up the hill to where I heard the groan. But Jane and Jim. I run back down and catch up with them as they're leaving the park. “You all right?”

“Can I even talk? I'll choke on a mouthful of rain. Find anything?”

“Only got halfway. Then I thought someone might pop out at you.” We cross the street. “You can make it home now?”

“I can, but I'd like help.”

“I'll get you a cab.”

“If you're lucky. They're all filled.”‘

Then hurry home. But I only came back to check on you.”

“Please don't go back. If anyone's been mugged, he's crawled away by now or been found, I'll start a fire. I'll put on hot soup and make us toddies. I have to get Jim changed and fed and down for a nap. You can start the fire. But help me, Sol.”

“Get under.” We get under the canopy of a building facing the park. “Sir,” I say to the doorman, “could you loan me your umbrella so they can get home? We're on this sidestreet two blocks down, and I'll bring it right back.”

“I need it to get my own people to the street,” he says.

“I'll give you a dollar to loan it.”

That has nothing to do with it. Even if in two minutes I can make that much in tips with it.”

Then I'll give you two dollars.”

“Weh, weh, weh.”

“Listen, if I had another umbrella…”

“Frank,” a woman coming out of the building says. “A cab?”

He opens the umbrella and goes into the street and blows his whistle.

“If a second cab comes along can you hail it for us?” I say.

“If another of my tenants doesn't want it.”

“Please, Sol. Let's just run home.”

“She's a little frightened,” I say to the woman. “We were in the park and thought we heard someone being mugged.”‘

That's nothing unusual,” the woman says.

“At least we're safe here. From the rain and muggers.”

“You'd be surprised. Only last week my purse was snatched on these steps. Fortunately, I don't carry anything but duplicate cards anymore and a ten-dollar bill if they demand money. But right here. I yelled for Frank. But he was working the elevator because our regular man was in the men's room.”

“One of those coincidences.”

That my purse was snatched and not some other tenant's?”

That the elevator man was away and Frank wasn't here to protect you.”

“My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Reeves, was threatened with a broken bottle right in front of Frank's eyes.”

“No,” Jane says.

“She says no. A few months ago. He was on duty then. But this young girl slipped around him while he was tying his shoelaces and threatened her in the lobby.”

“A young girl?”

“No more than twelve, Mrs. Reeves said.”

“Twelve is the age I told her it can start,” I say.

“Twelve? Dr. Melnick—the professional office off the lobby? Three boys of about ten or so rang his bell and walked in and terrorized everyone in the waiting room and the doctor himself. They got in through the service entrance when no one was looking and snuck upstairs. Ten-year-olds. Kids.”

“Ten sounds pretty young for it,” I say. They were probably older.”

“Nobody bothered to ask them for their birth certificates. But the doctor's an obstetrician, and he said one of them could even have been eight.”

“Not eight,” Jane says.

“Got your cab, Mrs. Fain,” Frank yells from the street. “Son of a B,” when it's grabbed by someone else.

“You're not fast enough,” she says. “But that was Dr. Melnick. They took a satchel of drugs, which turned out to be emetics. Much as I pity and think I understand the poor thieves, I hope they swallowed them all. And of course everyone's money and wallets when they announced they had guns. Even a little girl's purse with only buttons inside. And then raced past the doorman. But those are the youngest I know.”

“I thought around eleven would be the youngest,” I say.

“And remember, this is only in one building. And we usually have a doorman on duty. And the elevator man, porters, the super, the handyman—all kinds.”

“We only have two locks and a front door into the brownstone almost anyone can get in,” Jane says.

“That's all? But there's my cab. Nice talking.” She gets under Frank's umbrella and he takes her to the cab.

“It's let up a little,” I say. “Want to make a run for it?” I fold up the stroller, lift Jim, hold the stroller in my other hand, and we run home.

“It's terrible,” Jane says, putting dry clothes on Jim. “But now that I'm here I can't get that groan in the park out of my mind.”

“Well, stop about it. Because you were the one—”

“I know. And I know I stopped you from looking into it. I only hope that if a man really did groan, he's safe in his home now and all right.”

I get her umbrella and put on my raincoat. “Don't forget the water's on.”

“Where are you going?”

“Ba-ba, da, ow?”

“You won't forget the water? I don't want it boiling over with the gas still on.”