Cartilage and Skin (22 page)

But then, after allegedly being cleared of suspicion and hearing nothing about the boy for several months, I sat at my desk and stared at the frozen screen of my computer: the suspended conversation between discontent people, the half sentence of a supposedly twenty-nine-year old marketing rep who went under the alias of Bonzo. He had been confessing, with a hint of self-pity, that he always came across as too cerebral, so he needed to be more open and free, to learn how to “live life through the fingertips.” I sipped my hot tea and smiled, ready to point out his unintentional irony, with some clever comment about his typing skills—when the phone suddenly rang, severing me from Bonzo and the rest of the people in the chat room.

“Yes,” I said. “Sure. I can come down this afternoon.”

The social worker informed me that the boy was deteriorating, and she thought that maybe he would respond to me. For weeks, he hadn't said a single word, and each day he slipped more and more into a catatonic state, not so much by the clinical definition; it was simply a profound listlessness, a self-annihilation. He'd stopped eating, and he'd left the doctors no choice but to feed him intravenously. After several days in bed, hooked up to tubes, he'd decided to cease movement altogether, not even to relieve himself. Because he lacked certain traumatic symptoms, the social worker surmised that his condition was suicidal, not a cry for help, but a genuine disinterest in life.

When I hung up the phone, my immediate reaction was one of dread. With a simple phone call, on a random Tuesday, the problem of the boy thrust itself back into my life, and I was obliged to deal with it. As much as I wanted to tell the social worker that I had no interest in the subject—perhaps even affect a lazy yawn and apologize for finding the whole ordeal terribly boring, like a photo album of her cousin's wedding or a stack of back issues of a gardening magazine—I had to agree to visit her and the boy. I stood up violently from my desk and started stomping about the room, circling the coffee table and couch, making abrupt half-turns and new starts, and once or twice stabbing at the air with my fist, until my mixture of confusion and fear began to metamorphose into a different emotion. I was becoming angry. Yes, it was bad enough that I'd felt unwelcome in the world and had to seek refuge in my own cramped little room. Now, this tiny portion of security was being taken away from me too. I felt as though society had designated for me a lonely cage and, as soon as I submitted and agreed to lock myself in, the outside world decided to invade my space and root me out.

Of course, I would never reveal my unease to the social worker or anyone else. I would be as concerned, sincere, and helpful as needed. My appointment was a few hours away, giving me time to prepare both my attitude and my attire. After I ate my customary bowl of cereal—tiny, round, sweetened puffs—I hurriedly headed toward the bathroom, mildly reproaching myself for being J. C., the man who peed a lot. If I couldn't convince a few silly high school students that I was a serious writer, or Stephen that I possessed a dash of repose, or Lyle Tartles that I was an art aficionado, or Claudia Jones that I was harmless, then how was I supposed to convince the social worker that I was a compassionate citizen. Standing before the toilet, I thought about Claudia Jones again; she was divided up and categorized in my mind, a collection of parceled pieces. I continued to imagine her all the while I showered, brushed my teeth, wiped the steamy mirror with my underwear, and inspected my reflection. I could no longer see her distinctly; she became for me a jumble of images, which flitted, one by one, along the edges of my mind. The side of my head was a rich purple. Thankfully, most of the bruise was concealed beneath my hair. I didn't want the social worker to see my head and ask what had happened. I gingerly combed my hair, wiped the renewed steam away, and then touched my temple with a single, gentle fingertip.

I contemplated wearing the suit that I had worn at the bar with Stephen; the outfit now hung in a bag in the closet, freshly returned from the drycleaners, who'd hopefully removed from the fabric the stale odor of alcohol and cigarette smoke. But I couldn't wear a suit. It would have been too ostentatious, too out of place. I decided on a simple pair of slacks and a light gray button-down shirt, presentable but not too formal. The crowning accoutrement, of course, was my father's hat. It was an old-style felt hat with a snap button on the brim and six seams to the top point. Putting it on, I imagined myself dimly connected to a poor European immigrant of the 1930s or maybe to a migrant farmer. I liked it. Besides making me feel somewhat distinguished, like a man of eclectic tastes, the hat could be worn cocked at a slight angle and thus cover most of my bruise.

Wanting to give myself plenty of time to get to the appointment, I left my apartment as soon as I finished dressing. I knew what bus to take, but not how long I would have to wait for it. Bolting the door behind me, I hurried down the corridor, trying to scoot silently past Claudia's apartment, then out the front door and down the steps, keeping my head down, in case I accidentally saw my landlord. Out of fear of his rodent eyes, I focused my gaze on each square of the sidewalk for an entire block or two. My landlord and I had said all that needed to be said between us. He had offered me a simple, gentlemanly abolishment of my lease agreement. We never had to see each other again. He had even given me back my month and a half security deposit, so nothing would hold me back if an impulse to leave suddenly struck me one night. I didn't even have to bother saying goodbye. This was his solution to our altercation on the steps, a horrible, ugly scene that had occurred three days prior to the dreadful phone call.

Oblivious to how long I'd remained splayed and bleeding on the cold sidewalk, the instant I regained consciousness, I sat up and ranted at my landlord in a delirious panic. With my head throbbing, I was vaguely aware of him trying to tell me that an ambulance was on its way, but many of the roads had yet to be cleared of snow. I warned him not to touch me, and I called him a vile rat, among other things, as a few windows and doors began to open, allowing curious bodies to see what all the commotion was about. I wanted someone to come to my rescue because I was convinced that he had attacked me with a shovel and if not for the witnesses, he would have been dealing me a deathblow. But no one was helping me. The sight of blood on my palm and the crushing pain in my head drove me into the feverish pitch of hysterical frenzy. The louder I screamed that I had been struck down by this hateful creature, the louder the little man defended himself, bellowing that I was insane. He said that I'd fallen down the stairs all by myself. I said I would sue him and own the building. Hearing the sound of these words on my own lips, I was seized by a sudden flash of insight; I threatened that as soon as I owned the building and everything in it, I was going to throw him out on the street, so he could scurry back into the sewer with all the other vermin. Nobody watching us seemed to care, so we both shifted our focus, and rather than continue to address our audience, we insulted one another directly. We began to criticize the other's character and point out all the faults we could imagine. Still sitting on the sidewalk, in the process of getting up but not quite able to complete the act, I sensed that I was winning the verbal battle. There was more wit and flare to my abuse. At some point, I called him a loveless gnome, and this epithet must have pleased me because I began to tag it onto everything I said. When he called me gross, I grinned; he was so unimaginative that he had to use the same word for both my neighbor and me. All the while, people lingered in the windows and doorways. We were yelling at each other even after the ambulance arrived and a black woman with long, cool fingers began touching me. She tolerated us for a moment or two, but then she stood up and reprimanded us as though we were children, pointing her finger primarily at me, saying, “Mother of God. Mother of God,” and whatever else she said I don't really remember. The rodent fell silent, moved back to the base of the steps, and began to glower. The woman touched me and spoke in a soothing voice. She smelt as though she'd been chewing a sprig of anisette. My delirium started to subside beneath this woman's gentleness. She didn't think anything was seriously wrong with me, but to play it safe, I ought to get x-rays, which, in the end, confirmed her initial diagnosis: Nothing was seriously wrong with me.

When I returned from the hospital a few hours later, I found my landlord waiting for me. He wanted us to come to an understanding. We acted composed and civil as we stood at the threshold of my apartment. I mostly listened and nodded as he presented his case. First of all, he didn't own a single brick or nail in the entire building. He managed things for a corporation in New Jersey, which was comprised of two Greek brothers who owned a small strip mall; roughly fifty acres of undeveloped land that, after failing a round of perc tests, only generated revenue from a gun club; and this apartment building. If I wanted the building, I'd have to sue the Greeks. Second, my landlord, who apparently wasn't my landlord after all, had warned me about the bag of salt. It was my fault that I'd tripped. Third, he gave me back my security deposit, so nothing would hinder me from leaving. Apparently, I didn't need to give him any notice. I could simply vanish, spontaneously combust, or fall victim to any sort of abduction or annihilation. I continued to nod. We stood silently for a moment, inspecting one another, not shaking hands to seal or confirm our potential pact, nor withdrawing to our separate little rooms. We both assumed that the other was waiting for something else to be added to the conversation. I slipped the money into my pocket. Part of me faintly realized that I could now give back some money to Morris the man; another part of me suspected that my landlord wanted my response right there on the spot. I was about to speak, maybe even concede to leaving, but then his face sagged, as if he were reluctantly about to yield, as if he were giving up. With a hint of a grimace and a small show of fidgeting, he informed me that Claudia Jones's website was possibly called “Choice Bits” or something similar. At the moment, I hadn't been thinking about the web address at all, yet I could now see what the man thought about me. In his little brain, “Choice Bits” was part of our negotiation; it was the reason I was holding out; it was my selling point, my weak spot. In response, I shrugged, as if I no longer had any interest or that perhaps all along my interest had been a sham. I thanked him for the money and closed myself in my apartment, where I remained undisturbed until the social worker requested my assistance with the boy. At the time, I never suspected how everything—“Choice Bits,” my security deposit, the phone call—could possibly be connected, but I was on my way.

I arrived at the bus stop and concealed myself inside the glass enclosure. The metal bench was wet and frozen, so I stood back against the side wall and shivered. Remembering the day of the mist when I had sought shelter inside a different bus stop, I looked at the walls to see the posted flyers, imagining that I might find “Iago as Id” or “Female Models Wanted.” Besides the scrawl of graffiti, there was only a solitary sign, something handwritten in Spanish and referring to niños; someone named Marquita was offering her services as a babysitter. I had a strange, fleeting idea that even though I was childless, I could pay by the hour to have Marquita sit on my couch and watch television one night. Before the utter absurdity of this thought could check me, I plucked her phone number and stuck it in my pocket. I shrunk a little inside my coat as I remembered the black man on the motorcycle, Dr. Barnett, for I knew that the particular shape of his masculinity prevented him from ever entertaining the notion of paying for female company, sexual or otherwise. This was as likely as his putting a cowbell around his neck and skipping down Market Street in a thong. He was a man, composed of himself, and I was something else, something shapeless, a myriad of oozing parts.

After a while, a cold-bitten, watery-eyed woman joined me; she trailed behind her—attached by a purple mitten—a small, plump, excessively bundled creature, possibly a child, a dwarf, or a monkey, for only two black pupils peered out of a slit in a scarf that was wrapped around its fluffy-hooded head. When the bus came, the woman dragged the hobbling creature up the steps. As I started up behind her, I suddenly recalled one other incident during the misty day: Just before I had stepped inside the bus stop, I'd momentarily noticed a motionless figure standing against the building. Now, with some instinct or premonition arresting my stride on the bus steps, and with one hand holding the rail, I leaned out of the door and looked up the street. Everything appeared ordinary. Then I turned my head and searched in the opposite direction. Less than a block away, facing me, was a lone figure dressed in the same dark green baseball cap and corduroy jacket. I was immediately stunned. If not for the hydraulic hiss of the bus and the driver, ready to close the doors, giving the handle a brief, halting jerk—I might not have moved at all. But I stumbled up the steps and down the aisle. Once I was safely in my seat and the rumbling vehicle carried me away, my alarm began to settle down. In fact, I became amazingly calm, not because I convinced myself that the person on the street was a mere coincidence, but rather, deep down, I'd been conscious all along that he had been watching me. I'd been expecting it. Ever since the awful episode of the soiled boy, my body had been especially attuned to the threat of surveillance. Now, here it was at last, and perhaps by the clear spark of intuition or by some other sort of instant lucidity, I knew that it was not the watchful eye of the police, but the crazed glare of a slighted pervert.

The bus dropped me off a couple of blocks away from my destination and about an hour too early, so I had to find somewhere to wait. I started westward, in the direction I needed to go, suspecting that I might come across a place where I could sit down and drink a cup of coffee. The cold weather seemed to jab at the wound just above my temple, and the hat began to feel heavy upon my head, as though with every step a tourniquet tightened. I knew that W. McTeal was miles away, prowling about the vicinity of my home, waiting for my return. Yet I continued to look for him among the people on the sidewalk. Despite my alertness, I was somewhat blind, too preoccupied with W. McTeal and my imminent appointment, let alone with finding a coffee shop. I wasn't really taking notice of my surroundings. Even so, I started to sense that something unusual was happening in the road; a long row of cars was double-parked; and on the sidewalk, many people were simply standing in small groups, forcing me to walk around them. They seemed mute, hushed, almost secretive. One or two played the emissary, milling about from group to group, passing along some quiet communication. It was an oddly disjointed collection of people, dressed alike in dark, dreary clothes. Just when I began to wonder what these people were up to, they all appeared to respond to a mysterious signal that only they and maybe dogs could hear, for they began to move, to step off the sidewalk, and to get into cars. I stopped walking, as one by one, the engines turned and idled. From the tailpipes, puffs of gray exhaust tumbled onto the pavement and then drifted upward, thinning and fading. After a moment, the cars started forward, one after another, in formation, each shining its headlights on the rear of the car in front of it. I looked toward the head of the line, for the hearse, but the row had already rounded the corner up ahead. Although the somber faces behind the windows didn't turn and look at me, I sense that I was aligned with their grief and with the general sobriety of conspicuous mortality. I recalled that in older times, back when men wore black bands around their biceps, a person would show his respect for a funeral procession by stopping whatever he was doing, removing his hat, and quietly waiting until the last mourner was out of sight. Such customs must still exist, if not in the military then at least in small religious southern towns, where if not war then at least God served as a constant reminder of our vulgar fragility. When the final car turned the corner, I realized that despite the band cinching tightly around my skull, I'd forgotten to take off my hat.