The Sea Beach Line (21 page)

Rayna was only one of many faces in the sketchbooks, and I needed to find more of them. Waiting for them to appear on the street like Rayna had wasn't going to work. I'd been debating whether or not I should show anyone Al's sketches. They were his private thoughts and experiences, and when he returned, he might be upset to find out people had seen them. At the same time, the drawings contained clues to his disappearance, and showing them to people who might recognize something could help me find him.

Not wanting to lay Al's whole inner world bare, I chose one representative drawing, the picture of the dead soldier standing with Roman and Timur. The dead soldier was central and most recognizable in this picture. Having him in context with Roman and Timur might also prove helpful.

One morning, after we had set up, I showed Mendy a photocopy of the drawing. He studied it for a long time, taking off his glasses and holding the picture close to his face, but ultimately shook his head.

“No. I'm afraid I don't know him. Roman and Timur I've seen with your father, of course, but never that guy with the closed eyes.”

“What you got there?” Eye asked, coming up behind us with a stack of books. Business had been good, and Eye was helping Mendy out frequently. I decided I might as well show him the picture too, since he was already looking at it, and because he seemed to know my father and most of the players in the street.

“A drawing of someone I'm curious about. Have you ever seen this guy?” I tapped my finger on the dead soldier. Eye scanned the drawing with his one functional eye, then turned away.

“Nope. Never seen any one of them.”

“Now, Eye,” said Mendy. “That ain't so. I know you've at least seen Roman, with Al at storage.”

“I make it a point not to see anything that doesn't concern me,” Eye said. It seemed that this was a sincere philosophy, not an oblique reference to any information. Eye, like many people on the street, was resigned to his condition. His life was hard, but the only alternatives he could imagine were worse. He'd been out here for years, and he didn't want to tempt fate by pursuing anything outside of his limited world.

That Friday was extra slow, mainly because Steve Lesser, who set up at the corner by LaGuardia Place, was clearing out his stock. He was moving out to California, which was great for him, but he was selling all his paperbacks at two bucks a pop, or three for five, and undercutting everyone else's business. I had nothing to do but sit and read volume four of Ginzberg's
Fantasies of the Jews
and wonder if old Moses would have been better off marrying a Jewish girl, and, speaking of Jewish girls, when I'd see Rayna again. Hopefully she was okay. I hadn't seen her in four days and was getting worried. Normally no more than a day or two went by without her coming by the street.

Then, just as I was thinking about her, Rayna appeared at my table, like I had conjured her myself. She looked more disheveled than usual. Her blouse was wet with sweat, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Instead of greeting me, she asked, “Do you stay out here all night, with your books?”

“No,” I said. “I pack the books up and take them to a storage space.”

“What kind of place is a storage space?” This happened often, that she didn't seem familiar with a common term.

“It's a big closet, with a lock on the door. Inside a big warehouse.”

“And you sleep there, too? With your books?”

“Yes, I have a little mattress, and I sleep on the floor, next to the books.”

“Next to the books?” she asked. “Like you yourself are a book on a shelf?” Rayna was across from me, on the customer side of the table. It seemed like she wanted the barrier between us. Her questions were spoken eagerly, not conversationally, and I was becoming concerned.

“I never thought of it like that. But I suppose so.”

“That sounds safe.”

“It is safe. The walls are made of metal, and there are three locks on the inside of the door. Where do you sleep?” I had been wondering this for a while. She only had a few garments of clothing, and seemed to spend the whole day wandering the city. She shrugged and looked away. “You have somewhere to sleep, don't you?”

“Well, I sleep in a tree.”

“A tree?” What did that mean?

“Yes, a tree. In the park, down there.” She pointed east, toward Tompkins Square.

“There is a big branch that crooks downward, and has room enough for me inside it. I climb up after dark, and no one would know I was there. The police lock the gates, and I'm safe.”

“How long have you been doing this, Rayna?”

“I've been out here about a month. I . . . I couldn't stay at my father's house.”

“Where is your father's house?” I was afraid to push too hard, but it seemed like she wanted to talk.

“Boro Park. I lived in that house my whole life. But I couldn't live there any longer. It is a large house, almost like a mansion, and my whole family lives there. It is a
frum
and pious home. But there are secrets.” She was speaking quickly, almost frantically. “It wasn't . . . it wasn't always nice there. I didn't want to live there anymore. I couldn't. I got on the D train, and rode until I crossed the bridge and came to Manhattan.”

“I understand,” I said. I didn't entirely follow why she had left home, and didn't necessarily need to know details she didn't want to share. But it was clear that she had run away from a bad situation, and didn't want to go back. I wondered if Al had seen her in Brooklyn; he had spent time in various parts of the borough. Or maybe the Jewish
communities of Brooklyn were so inbred that the same faces appeared over and over. But then again, her account of her home was so strange, tortured, and timeless. The story didn't disprove any ideas I had about Rayna's origins, and her connection to Galuth's painting. Who knew when she'd run away, how long she'd been wandering?

“I'm sort of a runaway too,” I said. Rayna smiled inquisitively at me.

“I thought your father was the runaway, and you are waiting here for him?”

“That's true too,” I said. “It's my sister's house I ran away from.” Rayna and I sat down on the curb, and I told her about Andrew and Becca uptown, and my mother and Bernie in New Mexico, and how I preferred to stay downtown by myself. I told her that I hadn't spoken to them for a while, but I was doing fine on my own. Rayna's mood lightened. She stuck around for the rest of the day.

I wasn't really a runaway, not in the way Rayna was. Though I kept meaning to call Becca or e-mail her from an Internet café, everything outside of my downtown world and search for Al had faded into the distance. The least I could do was send a postcard. I picked two out from the newsstand on West Third and Sullivan and wrote them both quick notes, explaining that I was fine but working a lot and didn't have a phone yet. I left the return address sections blank.

Rayna was quieter during her next visit. She had talked herself out the last time she was here. I didn't mind; it was nice to spend time with her, even if we weren't talking. I had sold a lot of books during lunchtime, and she helped me straighten up the table. In the afternoon, we split a bottle of lemon seltzer and some almond cookies. She didn't seem to want to leave, and stayed to help me through the evening rush.

When I started the slow process of packing up, Rayna became agitated. She pulled at her long hair, like she was trying to rip it out, and wrapped her arms around herself.

“It will be time for you to leave soon,” she said.

“Yes. I'm afraid so.” She looked scared. “You don't want to be by yourself, do you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It's not that I don't want to be alone. But I can't go back to the park tonight. I don't mind sleeping in the tree. But now there's a man who comes over the gate in the nighttime. He is too fat to climb the tree, but he stands at the bottom and grins up at me. It is a wicked grin. The past two nights he has done this. If he catches me, I'm done. If he tries to touch me . . . I'll . . . I'll . . .”

“It's okay,” I said. I thought that I should give her a hug, but it didn't seem like she wanted to be touched by anyone just then.

“You don't have anywhere else to go?”

“No. Last night I didn't sleep at all. I walked around all night. Quickly, so no one could catch me. I'm very tired now. I can't walk around so quickly for another whole night. I know people sleep on the subway train, but I'm afraid.”

“You think someone will bother you down there too?”

“No. Yes, I do, but it's not that. The subway is underground, and makes twists and turns. I know it's silly, but I feel that if I fall asleep, and don't see where I'm going, the train might go on a different track and carry me down to Sheol.”

“Yes, I know. I often think the same thing.”

“Don't tease.” She looked wounded.

“I don't. I'm not. I can't see who's driving the train. It could be a devil. The ground could open up further, they've already opened it too far.” The story we were telling each other was childish, but the fear was real, and this was the only way we could talk about it. But then, for all I knew, Rayna really was the ghost of a girl who died in 1920. Maybe her story was even worse than that. Who knew what terrible things had happened in her home. Maybe she really did run from demons who wanted to drag her down to the underworld. It didn't matter. Real or not, man or demon, I wouldn't stand by and let anyone take her.

“Come stay in my space,” I said. “You'll be safe there.” Saying these words made me nervous. Of course I wanted to protect Rayna. She was dear to me, and I wouldn't mind spending the evening with her.
But I'd never tried to protect anyone before, to take care of them and keep them safe, even for one night, which is what I was promising now. Al was a protector, not me.

“I don't know,” Rayna said. I knew she liked spending time with me too, but that didn't mean she completely trusted me. Maybe she was right to be wary; if I was being honest with myself, I saw an opportunity here to learn more about Rayna, and her presence in the notebook.

“You see me,” I said. “You know me.” She was quiet for a moment, exploring my face with her eyes. Then she nodded.

“I need my bag,” she said.

“Where is it?”

“Hidden in the tree branch.”

“Go and get it. The fat man won't be there?”

“No. He comes very late. When it's very dark. It's safe in the evening still.”

“Are you sure? I can pay Eye to watch the table, and go with you.” She considered it for a moment, then shook her head.

“No, it's okay. It's only dusk. It's midnight that I'm afraid of.”

“Fine. Then go and get your bag and come right back. And here.” I handed her a twenty from my bankroll. “Go and get us some food. Some bread and good things for us to have for supper. Then come back here, and I'll have finished packing up. And you'll come back to my storage space with me and the books. I'll lock the door from the inside, and we'll be safe, and you can sleep.”

Rayna was nervous when we first got into the storage space, looking over her shoulder and jumping at every sound, and I assumed it was because she was alone in private with me, a man she didn't really know very well. On the way back to the storage space, she told me she had shared a room with her sisters in Boro Park but had never been alone with any men other than male relatives or schoolteachers. I tried to give her as much space as I could, but as it turned out, she became calmer once I fastened the locks and came to sit beside her.