When You Don't See Me (21 page)

It could be read by Uncle Blaine, who'd been nothing but kind and generous to me from the time we'd started e-mailing each other a few years before. He'd let me move in with him. He'd had no room in his old apartment. No room in his life, really. But he made room. And now Fred was publicly criticizing Blaine. If Blaine read that, would he think I felt that way? Would he think Fred was speaking for me? I didn't feel that way. Did I? In any case, I'd never said anything like it to Fred.

The apartment was dark and quiet when I went inside. I slid as noiselessly as possible through the wall of sheets and peered toward the futon. I listened for the steady breathing that would mean Roberto had made it home safely. Was sleeping soundly. Had made some kind of peace with Fred.

There was no one lying there. There was nothing breathing in the room. My stomach hurt. I was glad I hadn't drunk alcohol, because I'd be throwing up.

You never see Stick eat an entire meal. Does he have an eating disorder? I think he does.

The window in the living room was open. I walked through the room and climbed through it to the fire escape. Before I stood up, I caught a glimpse of the alley below. I tried not to think about how far I'd fall if the rusty metal I clung to decided to pull away from the building. I turned to my right and, instead of Roberto, I stared at a half-dead potted palm our neighbor must've left outside. I didn't want to look down again, so I looked up and noticed the ladder connecting the fire escape to the rooftop.

I quietly climbed the steps, past the windows of other apartments in the building, hoping nobody would notice me. Or worse, mistake me for a burglar and shoot me. At the top, I grasped the rung of the ladder and started chanting to myself, “You're not going to fall.” Over and over, until I reached the roof.

“Yo,” Roberto said softly.

He reached over and pulled me against him. I breathed in the soap. The aftershave. The sweat and anger. The loyalty. The love.

The two of us sat in silence, unmoving, and watched the twin columns of light disappear as the sun rose.

October 3, 2003

Dear Nick,

You are something else. I just got a letter in the mail letting me know that you'd made a donation to the Anti-Defamation League in Gretchen's name. This is the kind of thing that made Gretchen love you so much. It's a reminder of what a fine young man you are. Emily is fortunate to have a cousin like you, who wants to make a positive difference in the world she'll grow up in.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for remembering my daughter in this way.

Love,
Kruger

I
jumped into the waiting van and Isaiah screeched away from the curb, barely giving me time to fasten my seat belt. Sometimes I felt like Manhattan was a giant pinball machine. I was the unlucky ball, and Isaiah manned the controls. I never knew where we were going next or if we'd get there in one piece.

“Hey, look,” he said, pointing toward a bus. Which was unnerving, since his other hand was reaching for his Pepsi.

“I hate to whine, but could you keep one hand on the steering wheel?” I turned to look at the bus and read the ad on the side. Next to a network logo, it was just black letters on a white background that said ANGUS REMINGTON IS BACK, AND YOUR AFTERNOONS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME.

“Is your Uncle Daniel on
Secret Splendor
again?” Isaiah asked. His tone was hopeful. I'd heard from him many times how Daniel was the best actor in soaps and should go back because the show was lousy since he'd left.

“Not that I know of,” I said. “They probably recast.”

“Fuck that. Daniel Stephenson is the one-and-only Angus Remington,” Isaiah said.

“He was like the third or fourth Angus Remington.”

“He was the best Angus Remington.”

“Can we use ‘Angus Remington' in every sentence we say for the rest of the day?” I asked.

“Yeah, like you can tell me how that guy just Angus Remington'd you in the service elevator.”

“I never get screwed and tell.”

I knew he wasn't sure whether or not to believe me. “Why are you such a sex fiend lately? Is Morgana slipping Viagra into your hemlock?”

“Morgana,” I repeated and laughed. “It's the weirdest thing. I'm actually starting to like Morgan.”

“Damn, you
are
horny.”

“Not that way. She just doesn't bug me the way she did. Maybe I got used to her.”

“Olive sheep syndrome,” Isaiah said.

A test of wills ensued. I knew he was dying for me to ask what that was. He knew I was trying not to. As usual, I caved and said, “Is that some kind of Italian slur? I'm not Italian.”

“No. Nothing wrong with being a black sheep. Black is beautiful. But you ever noticed all our clients hate olive? The olive sheep must feel unwanted. You're the olive Dunhill. You think Morgan is an olive sheep, too, because Bailey's the good twin.”

“You and your theories,” I said.

“You're the one who says Bailey and Morgan are related,” he pointed out.

“They have to be,” I insisted. “They're too weirdly alike. To answer your question, I don't know. About the sex thing, I mean. Maybe I'm just getting more offers lately.”

Too much sex would never make my list of things to complain about. I felt like some inner switch had been flipped. Everywhere I looked, there was another man who saw and came toward the light.

“Do you still see that doctor? And the construction worker?”

“He's an ironworker, and I talk too much,” I said. “No wonder I have friends who put my business on the Internet.”

“Quick. Write that down.”

“What?”

“First almost-humorous thing you've said about Fred in the last month. You talked to him yet?”

“Nope,” I said.

Fred had left a single message on my cell to tell me that he was willing to discuss things whenever I was. I still didn't want to. I missed him. A lot. But I was afraid if we talked too soon, it wouldn't go well for either of us. Every time I thought about his blog, I got pissed off again.

“Where to next?” I asked.

“Rug delivery to a high-rise in Chelsea,” Isaiah said. “Maybe we can find you a rich boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend is the last thing I'm looking for,” I said.

When Isaiah pulled into the building's loading zone, I stared upward with an attack of nerves. “This delivery isn't to a penthouse apartment, is it?”

Isaiah consulted the clipboard and said, “Fourth floor.”

“Ah. Not a problem.”

“You need to get over being afraid of heights.”

“I'm not worried about the height,” I said. “I'm more worried about a man with a gun and a grudge.”

Isaiah was practically wetting his pants by the time I finished the story of Parker D. Brooks and the loss of my I Dream of Cleanie job.

“White people are so fucked up,” he said.
“Carefully place the Armani sunglasses on the dresser, then raise your hands slowly.
Ah ha ha ha haaaaaaa.”

“Shut up.”

We delivered and placed the rug without incident. After a few more stops, Isaiah drove me as far as Marcus Garvey Park. I walked the rest of the way home, pausing only long enough to pick up a bottle of water. It was a beautiful fall afternoon. I was pretty sure I had an unread paperback. Everybody else should be at work, so I could lie on the futon with the window open and read. Or jerk off. Whatever my mood called for.

The apartment had an eerie silence when I stepped inside. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up. I wondered if we'd had a break-in. Maybe the burglar was still there. No, that was crazy. He'd have heard me come in and gone out the window. Or rushed me in the hall. Unless he was waiting to jump me.

I stood frozen for what seemed like hours. Condensation ran down my bottle of water and onto my hand. I needed to pee.

“Hello?”

Nice going,
I thought.
You think the burglar will call hello back? Maybe you can have a conversation about the weather.

I couldn't stand there forever. The cramped hall was dark, as always, and I reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. Which was when I finally understood why everything seemed spooky. The refrigerator wasn't rattling. Morgan's air purifier wasn't on. And the heat lamp over the snakes' aquarium, which sometimes made a buzzing noise, was silent. Everything was quiet the way it had been during the blackout in August.

“Fuck me,” I said. “We've got no power.”

I stepped back outside and listened. I could hear TVs, music playing, a high-pitched whine that might have been a hair dryer. So it wasn't a blackout. It was just us. It must be a fuse or something. Unlike the rest of the Dunhills, I didn't know about that stuff, but I knew we'd paid our power bill.

I went back inside and thought about the heat lamp. If the bedroom windows were open, would the cool air be bad for the snakes? The last thing we needed was dead reptiles. Morgan would turn into something out of a Greek tragedy. Empires would topple. Civilization as we knew it would cease. My sex drive might even vanish.

I walked into the bedroom and ducked under the taut rope that separated the sloppy side—Kendra's—from Morgan's immaculate part of the room. Then my heart lurched because there were no snakes in the aquarium.

I jumped, searching the floor around my feet. Then I rushed out of the room and slammed the door, my heart pounding. But Lucifer and Hugsie could be anywhere.

No way was I staying there alone with snakes on the loose. It was every viper for himself, and I was out on the street in seconds.

Then guilt set in. The longer they were free…And if there were windows open…Or they got into someone else's apartment…

“Why me?” I moaned.

“Why not?” a dreadlocked guy said and stepped around me.

I admired his ass as he walked away, then remembered my dilemma. I flipped open my phone and found Morgan's cell number.

“This better be important.”

“Is that how you always answer your phone?”

“Only when it's one of my loser roommates,” she said.

“For some reason, our power's off. I guess we blew a fuse. Lucifer and Hugsie are missing.”

“How do you know? Were you in my room?”

“I was checking on the snakes,” I said. “God. I'm doing you a favor—”

“We didn't blow a fuse,” she interrupted. “Our power's been cut off because the bill wasn't paid.”

“No way. Wait. You knew about this?”

“It went off while I was home. I called ConEd. We're behind two months. And we ignored a shut-off notice.”

“Did you tell them it's a mistake? We paid the bill,” I argued.

“We
thought
we paid the bill,” Morgan said cryptically. “The snakes are with me. The electricity is not my problem. I gave you my part, so it's on you. Deal with it, Nick.”

“But—”

I shut up when I heard dead air. She'd hung up on me. I flipped my phone shut. Then I opened it again and called Drayden's. When Roberto answered his page, I repeated my conversation with Morgan.

“Let's think about this,” he said. “What'd she give you, cash or a check?”

“She always gives me cash for everything but rent. Same as you.”

“Did you pay it in person, or—”

“I usually pay it at the check cashing place. Maybe I forgot? But I wouldn't forget two months in a row. And I'd have all that cash, and—wait. Now I remember. Kendra needed cash before she went out one night. I gave her the money I'd gotten from you and Morgan for the power bill. She said she'd swing by ConEd the next day and write a check for the full amount. She was going to pay my part, too, because she owed me money. When was that?”

“Wish I could tell you,” Roberto said.

“Sorry,” I said. “You're busy. You know what? I'll figure it out.”

I stayed on the sidewalk and tried to remember. It must have been August when I'd given Kendra all that cash. After a few more minutes of mind-torture, I had a hazy memory of writing a check for the September bill. I left it on the kitchen counter with Morgan's cash. I also left a note telling Roberto and Kendra to add their part. Then it was all gone, and I assumed one of them had taken care of it.

I went back upstairs and called ConEd, only to get a repeat of what Morgan had told me. We were two months delinquent.

I wrote down how much we owed and where I could pay the bill to get everything turned back on. Unfortunately, that couldn't happen before the next day. At least the weather was good. But that wouldn't help me face Morgan and Roberto.

“The hell with that,” I said. “I'm not the one who screwed up.” I flipped open my phone again.

“How can I work if you call me incessantly?” Morgan complained.

“We won't have power until tomorrow,” I said. “You and the kids might want to stay somewhere else tonight.”

“I'd already planned to. Stop calling me. Unless it's to tell me we have electricity. And you'll have to replace anything I have in the freezer and refrigerator that spoils.”

At least Roberto was nicer when he suggested that I stay in the Bronx with him.

“Nope,” I said. “I didn't say anything to Morgan, but Kendra's the one who took our money. I'm ambushing her tonight.”

Roberto laughed and said, “Sure you are.” He adopted a falsetto and said, “Oh, Nick, I'm sorry. But I got fired when I wouldn't put out for my boss. Then I had to pay rent, and I got syphilis after that night I spent in the harbor on the yacht with you-know-who.”

“Who?” I asked.

“I was being Kendra,” he said in his Roberto voice. “We'll never know.”

There wasn't much daylight left, so I tore through Kendra's side of the bedroom as quickly as I could. I found my check and the two unpaid bills under a pile of dirty clothes. Once the evidence was in hand, I lit candles, poured myself a glass of Morgan's wine, and sat in the living room to wait.

Kendra finally came home smelling of grease and looking like she'd detoured through Iraq. She was holding two carry-out boxes. She gave the candles a puzzled glance. “Am I in the right apartment?” she asked, wearily kicking off her shoes.

“You are,” I said. “I know you're tired and dirty, but the power's out. If you want to shower, there's hot water. But you'll have to do it by candlelight.”

“Ew,” she said. “What's if there's a roach in the bathroom? You know they come out when it's dark.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I'll just wash my hands,” she said. She dropped the food on the overturned crate that served as a coffee table, though it was mainly used for rolling joints. “Maybe by the time we finish eating, the electricity will be back on.”

I let her complain about her shitty day while we ate. Then I poured her another glass of wine.

“Is this Morgan's wine?” she asked, peering at the label in the candlelight. “Wait a minute. Where is Morgan? We need to hide this bottle.”

“Yeah, we could hide it under your dirty clothes. Along with the unpaid bills.”

“Huh?”

“It won't work, Kendra.” I recounted what I remembered about the last two months' power bills and finished with, “I found the unpaid bills in
your
room under
your
stuff.”