Small Town

And it went smoothly enough. He sailed up the East River, passed beneath the bridge built to carry the number 7 subway, the line that ran out to Flushing Meadows and Shea Stadium. He took the West Channel past Roosevelt Island. He went on past Gracie Mansion, the mayor’s residence, then navigated the channel separating Manhattan from Ward and Randall’s Islands. Then he was in the narrow Harlem River, passing under one bridge after another, and eventually he turned sharply left, heading west now, heading back toward the Hudson.

And he knew (although he doubted they told you as much on the Circle Line) that, while he was circling all of the island of Manhattan, he was not encompassing the entire borough. Because on his right at this very moment was a geopolitical quirk, a little chunk of land that by all rights ought to have been part of the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx, but that was in fact a part of Manhattan. There was an historic reason for this anomaly, and he had known it once, but he couldn’t recall it now. If he had his books...

The Henry Hudson Bridge, and now the Hudson River. He headed the boat south, with the spectacular two-tiered span of the George Washington Bridge in front of him. What a view, thought the Carpenter. What a voyage. What a magnificent city.

It was still dark when the Carpenter pulled into his slip and tied up his boat. He was tired. It was extremely relaxing to be out on the water, but it was also exhausting. He undressed, hung up his clothes, and got into bed. The boat rocked him quickly to sleep.

When he awoke, he dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing. His backpack held a pair of dark trousers, and after he left the Boat Basin he’d stop at Barnes & Noble and change in the men’s room. He’d stow the white pants and the cap in his backpack. The blazer could go there as well, if the day was a hot one. Otherwise he’d wear it, as the garment was no less suitable ashore.

Shevlin had hung a calendar on the wall alongside the bunk bed. It was from Goddard-Riverside, a social service effort, and each page bore the amateurish art of a different senior citizen, with the artist’s name and age listed. Children noted their age on their letters and drawings, the Carpenter had noticed, and so did the elderly. I know this is rubbish, they seemed to be saying, but consider how old I am. Isn’t it remarkable that I can even hold a brush?

The calendar was hung to display the current month, August. Soon it would be time to turn the page, and the Carpenter did so now, to have a look at September’s masterpiece. It was the work of Sarah Handler, who was eighty-three, and it showed a bowl of round objects, which the Carpenter took to be apples.

He picked up a red marker and circled a date. Then he turned the calendar back to August.

twenty-eight

He had a surprisingly good day at the keyboard. He’d anticipated trouble, having so utterly rearranged the furniture in his life. For months — since whatever happened with Marilyn Fairchild, incredibly enough — he hadn’t had sex. Aside from various cops, Maury Winters, and that rummy of a PI, he hadn’t had anyone in his apartment in longer than he could remember.

Add in the fact that he’d just quit smoking and it seemed likely that the words would slow to a trickle, or dry up altogether. Instead, they poured down in buckets.

He’d finished for the day, showered and changed, and was sitting at the window when she showed up right on time. They went to Mitali’s for Indian food and he told her the patch was helping.

“But it was tricky getting it. You need a prescription for the thing, can you believe that? Every newsstand or deli will sell you all the cigarettes you want, but if you want to quit you’ve got to see a doctor. I went to this little drugstore on Bleecker, I don’t know how they stay in business, and I slipped the guy a hundred dollars.”

“You had to schmear him to sell you a patch?”

“I told him he’d be saving me time and money, and doing me a big favor. He looked around, like somebody might be watching us. I wonder if any of the guys in the hip-hop outfits are selling patches in Union Square. If not, they’re missing a good thing.”

Walking back to Bank Street, she slipped her hand into his.

The jazz station on the radio, with the volume turned low. She said the same thing she’d said yesterday. I’ll do anything you want. You can do whatever you want with me.

For answer, he drew her close for a kiss, put a hand on her bottom and pulled her loins tight against him. He was hard, but that was nothing new. He’d been that way in the restaurant.

She said, “Anything you want. And whenever you want, except for Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“Shrink appointments? Personal trainer?”