The Steel Kiss

Near the front hall Sachs once more approached Frommer’s cousin, Bob. She asked, “How do you think she’s doing?”

“Well as can be expected. We’ll do what we can, the wife and me. But we’ve got three kids of our own. I could fit out the garage, I was thinking. I’m handy. The oldest boy too.”

“How do you mean?”

“Our garage. It’s freestanding, you know. Two-car. Heated ’cause I have my workbench out there.”

“They’d come live with you?”

“With somebody and I don’t know who else it’d be.”

“Schenectady?”

Bob nodded.

“They don’t own this place? Rent?”

“Right.” A whisper. “And they’re behind a couple of months.”

“He didn’t have life insurance?”

A grimace. “No. He surrendered it. Needed the money. See, Greg decided he wanted to give back. Quit his job a few years ago and started doing a lot of charity stuff. Midlife crisis or whatever. Working part-time at the mall, so he’d be free to volunteer in soup kitchens and shelters. Good for him, I guess. But it’s been tough on Sandy and Bry.”

Sachs said good night and walked to the door.

Bob saw her out and said, “Oh, but don’t get the wrong idea.”

She turned, lifting an eyebrow.

“Don’t think Sandy regretted it. She stuck by him through it all. Never complained. And, man, did they love each other.”

* * *

I’m walking toward my apartment in Chelsea, my womb. My space, good space.

And looking behind me, of course.

No cops are following. No Red, the police girl.

After the scare at the mall, I walked miles and miles through Brooklyn, to a different subway line. I stopped once more for yet another new jacket and new head thing—baseball cap but a tan one. My hair is just blond and short, thinning, but best to keep it covered, I think, when I’m out.

Why give the Shoppers anything to work with?

I’m calming now, finally, heart not racing at every sight of a police car.

It’s taking forever to get home. Chelsea’s a long, long way from Brooklyn. Wonder why it’s called that. Chelsea. I think I heard it was named after some place in England. Sounds English. They have a sports team there named that, I think. Or maybe it’s just someone’s name.

The street, my street, 22nd Street, is noisy but my windows are thick. Womb-like, I was saying. The roof has a deck and I like it up there. Nobody from the building goes, not that I’ve seen. I sit there sometimes and wish I smoked because sitting on an urban outcropping, smoking and watching the city, seems like the essential experience of New York old and New York new.

From the roof you can see the back of the Chelsea Hotel. Famous people stay there but “stay” as in live there. Musicians and actors and artists. I sit in my lawn chair, watch the pigeons and clouds and airplanes and the vista and listen for music from the musicians living in the hotel but I never hear any.

Now I’m at the front door. Another glance behind. No cops. No Red.

Through the doorway and down the corridors of my building. The color of the paint on the walls is dark blue and…  hospitalian, I think of the shade. My word. Just occurred to me. I’ll tell my brother when I see him next. Peter would appreciate that. The lighting in the hallways is bad and the walls smell like they’re made of old meat. Never thought I’d feel comfortable in a place like this, after growing up in green and lush suburbia. This apartment was meant to be temporary but it has grown on me. And, I’ve learned, the city itself is good for me. I don’t get noticed so much. It’s important for me not to get noticed. Given everything.

So, comfortable Chelsea.

Womb…

Inside, I put my lights on and lock the door. I look for intrusion but no one’s intruded. I’m paranoid, some would say, but with my life it’s not really paranoia, now, is it? I sprinkle fish flakes on the fishes’ sky in the tank. This always seems wrong, this diet. But I eat meat and a lot of it. I’m meat too. So what’s the difference? Besides, they enjoy it and I enjoy the mini frenzy. They are gold and black and red and dart like pure impulse.

I go to the bathroom and take a shower, to wash off the worry from the mall. And the sweat too. Even on a cold spring day like this, I am damp with escape sweat.

I put the news on. Yes, after a thousand commercials, a story fades onto the screen about the incident at the shopping center in Brooklyn. The escalator malfunction, the man killed so horribly. And the gunshot! Well, that explains it. A police officer tried to stop the motor and rescue the victim by shooting it out. Didn’t work. Was it Red who fired the futile bullet? If so, I give her credit for ingenuity.

I see a message on the answering machine—yes, old-fashioned.

“Vernon. Hi. Had to work late.”

Feel that tightness in my gut. She going to cancel? But then I learn it’s all right:

“So I’ll be closer to eight. If that’s okay.”

Her tone is flat but then it always is. She’s not a woman with spring in her voice. She has never laughed that I’ve seen.