Slaves of New York (24 page)

I'm lying flat on my back on scratchy paper, waiting for the verdict, when Dr. Bartholdi tells me I can sit up and tuck in my shirt. He writes furiously on a pad: probably dialogue for some autobiographical best-seller he's working on. "Chapter 23: The Case of Eleanor T."

"Your blood pressure is low," he says. "Probably if you get up too quickly after you have a few drinks, you'll feel dizzy."

"I didn't have a few drinks," I say. "I didn't feel dizzy. I almost passed out on the street. If I hadn't lain down, I would have blacked out completely."

"You wouldn't believe how many people I treat in nightclubs. People faint all the time. Vasovagal syncope."

"Yeah?" I say. I wonder why Dr. Bartholdi would even bother to go to nightclubs, if he has to spend his whole evening treating hysterical fainters.

He sends me for a blood test, saying, "You can call me on Thursday for the results, but I don't think they'll tell us anything we don't know."

It gives me a certain satisfaction to get jabbed in the finger. I watch as one large, ruby dot of blood appears on my skin, miraculous as jewelry. I think of the dot of blood as full of life and motion and drama like the lives of the people around me. Microbes, corpuscles—who knows what deathly battles are fought all the time between white blood cells and alien invaders?

On the other hand, on the subway ride home, I do wish I had something more critical to tell Stash: that I have anemia, pleurisy, an electrolyte imbalance. I'd like to inform him that shortly I'll be reduced to life in a wheelchair, that I'm counting

on him to push me across the street. I'm disappointed that Dr. Bartholdi dismissed me so abruptly, without even trying to get my phone number. I could have given him Daria's; that might have taken care of her for a while.

Stash isn't home, and after hours of waiting, at eight o'clock I fix myself some hamburger and blue cheese on an English muffin. I like ketchup. It's a good thing Stash isn't home, because I gleefully finish off a bottle. This would certainly drive him crazy. I take my plate to the bed, at the far end of the room, so that during my meal I can watch TV; there's a program on about how rich people make more money. This pastime takes up an entire life.

I'm annoyed at Stash, but by the eleven o'clock news, with the water shortage and the story about the sculptor who was murdered by junkies, I start to get worried. Andrew, our dog, waits patiently for him by the door: he's not even interested when I offer him a bit of hamburger.

I don't really want anything to happen to Stash, although I enjoy planning his funeral from time to time. A lot of things can occur in the city: muggings, shootings, women accosting him from the windows of limousines.

At twelve-thirty Stash walks in. "Where were you?" I say. "What's happened? Why didn't you call?" These are the very words I've resolved not to say.

"Daria," Stash says. "Her dog died."

"She has her own boyfriend!" I say.

"I had to go with her in the dog ambulance to the hospital," Stash says. "She was hysterical."

"The dog was twelve years old!" I shout, jumping up to empty ashtrays. "What was she hysterical about? Why didn't you call me?"

"She let the dog off the leash," Stash says. "It was her fault. Textron got attacked by an Akita. Straight to the jugular."

"We have a dog
here,"
I say. "Tell me you're having an affair."

"There's nothing between Daria and me," Stash says.

"We've been friends for years and years. We used to hang out together."

"I paid for half of that Godzilla lighter for her birthday. I say. "She never even thanked me. What about me? I had to spend the day at the doctor's."

"What happened?" Stash says wearily. He opens the refrigerator and moves a jar of Mexican hot sauce to one side.

I imagine the hands on my wristwatch stopping, then turning backward. I see myself dressed in black, my face very white, a red rose clutched in one frozen hand. I change the red rose to a lavender one. "It was weird," I say. "He spent hours examining my breasts."

"What?" Stash says. "Report him! What do your breasts have to do with fainting?" I've gotten to him. He's indignant and furiously snatches a hunk of cheese from some hidden recess inside the fridge. I watch him sink his teeth into it; I want to tell him to use a knife, but I don't say it.

"He had to listen to my heart," I answer at last.

Stash poises over the cheese like a puma made nervous at a fresh kill. "So what did he say was wrong?" he says.

"Vasal-vascular syncope."

"Which means?"

"I faint in nightclubs," I say. "Or if I stand up too quickly. It's a common problem. Maybe he said something about a vagal-vasal system."

Stash shakes his head. "Why do you go to that crummy clinic? They don't know anything there."

"I'm a member," I say. "He was a doctor, with a medical degree from an accredited university."

"He said there was nothing wrong with you? But I saw you! Why didn't you go to my doctor, like I told you?"

"She should have put that dog to sleep long ago," I say. "It's cruel to keep a suffering animal alive."

Stash comes over to the bed where I'm sitting. "There's nothing between us, Eleanor, really," he says. He puts his arm around my shoulder. "Don't be jealous. She loved that dog. Now she's all alone. But we have each other." He strokes my

hair, and with his free hand he takes a Tuscano cigar from the packet in his pocket. "Who was on Johnny Carson tonight?" he says. "Anybody good?"

I move to the edge of the bed, bend over, my head between my knees. My hair touches the floor. In my veins—some thin and twisty, others fat, ropy—I can feel my blood, thrown for a loop, struggling to flow uphill where only a second before it was flowing down.

For several weeks Clarence Mullens had been sharing his apartment with a girl he met on the street. It was his sixth year in college. Because he was so inconspicuous in appearance he had developed the habit of dressing outrageously. All of his clothing was made for him by an elderly tailor familiar with the styles of 1928.

Clarence was an exceptionally tiny person, nearly featureless. Yet over the years he had become accustomed to his looks. He was the youngest child in a family of three boys: in some way he had been cheated, for his brothers, though not especially striking, had succeeded in snatching more distinguishing features than he. His oldest brother had a chin; the middle one a nose. Yet even they, as well as his father, the third in a multigenerational family of publishers, were quite nondescript.

"What do you think?" he said to the girl, as he put on a striped bow tie.

The girl, Inez, lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. "You always look the same," she said, without glancing in his direction.

"If you intend to stay in my apartment," Clarence said, "I suggest you compliment me from time to time." Instantly he was filled with remorse. He picked up a stack of records from the couch and put them on the floor. Then he sat down. "We'll go out now and get a drink," he said in a flat voice. "Unless you'd care to look at my collection of photographs?"

"You've shown them to me eight times," Inez said. "You go for a drink. I'll rest." She sat up abruptly and began to hum in a low voice. Her hair was quite short; her face, more masculine than Clarence's, consisted of a pair of gray, slanted eyes, a bumpy nose, and thin mouth.

"We're expected at my parents' house for dinner," Clarence said.

"I have no interest in meeting your parents," said Inez, lighting an unfiltered cigarette.

After a short discussion, it was agreed that Clarence would pay Inez five dollars to attend the dinner at his parents' house.

"I've told my parents we intend to be married," he said. "They want to meet you."

At this remark Inez slid her legs over the side of the bed and scowled. "Where are those bridal magazines we bought?" she said in a sullen tone. Clarence picked up the magazines and sat next to her on the bed. As she turned the pages, Clarence slid one arm around her shoulders. Inez appeared not to notice, but shrugged his arm away.

Clarence's apartment was at the edge of the ghetto near the university. It was in an old brownstone which had formerly been a one-family residence. The wallpaper in the hallways was peeling, a curious cucumber pattern. The kitchen, which had formerly been a closet, was not large and contained a tiny Frigidaire and a gas stove with two burners. Numerous insects roamed at will.

They walked down the street to the bus stop. In an alleyway, two boys were hitting a small animal with a stick. Inez ran over and punched the weaker-looking boy in the head. He spat in Inez's face and ran off. Before the second boy could escape, Inez grabbed him by the arm. With her free hand, Inez picked up the yowling animal, a blond kitten, from the ground. It clawed her fiercely across the arm, but Inez held onto it. "Inez," said Clarence, "what do you think you're doing?" The boy, although smaller than Clarence, appeared very

dangerous. Clarence did not trust even the ten-year-olds in this particular neighborhood. Once a gang of boys had tormented him in the park, succeeding in embarrassing him no end. His valuable watch and antique eyeglasses were stolen.

Inez turned and walked back to him, dragging the boy by his ear. His hands waved violently in the air. She flung the scratching kitten into Clarence's arms. "Ask him where he lives," she told Clarence.

"Inez, please, let's go," said Clarence, holding the kitten before him. "We're going to be late for dinner. I thought you might like to take in a show at a club afterward, so I've reserved seats. A well-known, rather elderly transvestite, who used to star on the French stage, is doing a cabaret act on the other side of town. Unfortunately, as you may have noticed, there is not much in the way of night life in this city."

"I said, ask him where he lives," said Inez.

Clarence looked at the boy. He was no more than eight or nine years old, and was dressed in a prep school uniform. No doubt, thought Clarence, he attended the parochial day school on the block. "I don't want to get involved, Inez," said Clarence.

"Then screw the dinner at your parents," said Inez.

Clarence thought for a moment. "Where do you live?" he asked the boy.

"Six Hundred West 109th," the boy said.

Clarence looked at Inez.

"Not anymore," she said.

After a short conversation the boy agreed that he would stay with Clarence and Inez, provided that his mother did not mind.

They left the small boy watching television, having first removed his clothing so that he would not attempt to escape. He had made friends with the kitten, and was amusing himself by tying its back legs up with a bit of string; unfortunately the animal was covered with fleas.

After locking the boy and the kitten in his apartment, Clarence announced he would get his car out of the garage. They

were now so late for dinner that Clarence felt he had little choice, though he hated to drive. It was only with the greatest of difficulty he could see out over the dashboard; the car was very old and the dashboard unusually high. He felt it would appear undignified to sit on pillows.

"Do you think the boy will be all right left alone in our apartment?" he said nervously when the garage attendant had brought the car around to the front of the building.

"Clarence, do you want me to drive?" Inez said.

Clarence assured her that he would prefer to drive his own vehicle. His life had become so interesting since his accidental introduction to Inez, he could now scarcely imagine how he had filled his days before. His primary activities were listening to opera and cutting out pictures of food from magazines, which he then glued onto paper plates. However, he had so many incompletes in his classes, some dating back three years, that he went through each day under a crashing anxiety; even the two aforementioned activities he could not really enjoy. Now, in the space of only a few weeks, Inez had finished all of his work for him, and while the papers were rather odd —Inez had read none of the books or attempted even the slightest bit of research on the various subjects—they were nicely typed and of the correct length.

Inez was indeed a remarkable person. She lived life on a daily basis; some mornings she woke up in Clarence's bed and had no idea of where she was, or even Clarence's name. Clarence had learned to greet her directly each day. "Hello, Inez," he would say upon waking. "My name is Clarence Mullens, and we're engaged to be married."

She came from a wealthy family; her father and grandfather had been politicians, but her family would have nothing to do with her. They found her behavior disruptive; twice she had attempted to burn down the ancestral home. At present she survived on the streets, though as she was not a terribly attractive person, prostitution was out of the question. Her manner was far too abrasive and abusive, without necessarily appealing to the sort of man who hoped to be dominated. "My true

dream is to run a business where I go into people's homes and help them decide which items of clothing to throw out and which to wear," Inez said on several occasions.

Clarence's parents were quite old and feeble. They lived in a luxury apartment building, in four small rooms decorated entirely in the color scheme of light green and avocado.