Drowning Lessons (19 page)

Or what, God forbid, if some creep should decide to push you, like some of those creeps do, in front of a train? What then (God forbid)?

Then you told me something truly amazing: that people actually
spit
on you. That you'll be going down the street or just standing somewhere minding your own business and suddenly someone passes by and lays one down right at your feet, or worse, right
on
your feet,
splat
. When you told me that, I swear I got so mad I was like shaking inside. I wanted to get my hands on one of those spitters, to grab him (or her) by the neck and choke them and spit in their eye and see how they like it. I almost wished it would happen right then. But it didn't.

From the moment you told me about the spitting, I felt different
about you. It was almost like I started to feel, I don't know,
possessive
or something. Standing next to you on the subway platform, with all those strange people, I felt like (wow, this is weird)
proud
, like I was privileged to be with someone special like you. Or maybe I just felt, you know, like the good guy, the hero, the guy who comes to the rescue of the lady in distress … you know, not that you're helpless or anything but … I mean, shit, I can't get over the way you
move
on those things. I mean, it's not like you
need
any help from anybody. Me included.

But listen (and this is the big point I'm leading up to here): when we got to the theater and were in our seats, and the lights went down, and it was dark and we were both quiet, staring at the screen, eating popcorn out of a big bucket in my lap … it was at that moment I started feeling certain, well, I guess you could say typical male feelings. Maybe it was the darkness, or the quiet, or the smell of the popcorn, or your hand reaching across through the dark over my lap, or just the way your face, and those eyes, looked in the light reflected off the screen as the credits started rolling … but I started to get, well, excited. And I thought to myself, holy shit! This can't be happening to me! I'm actually getting excited over a … with a … I mean, she's a … you're a … Christ, I said to myself: what the hell is
wrong
with you, Dominick? Didn't your parents teach you
anything
growing up? Huh? Didn't they teach you not to take advantage of crippled girls? I mean, shit, what an ape.

Okay, so I used the word “cripple.” So what? Disabled. Same difference. Call a spade a spade.

Twenty-five past. Hey, are you gonna show up, or what? What's happening? Christ, I hope you didn't fall or something. Another ten minutes, that's it. Then I'm out of here.

So afterward, after the movie that is, I escort you back to your place. I mean, it's dark and God knows what could happen to somebody like you, you know, with so many creeps around. I mean, I'm not about to let you go home by yourself.

So we get there, this big old hotel on Broadway at 105th. By that time I'm hardly even noticing anything. I mean, I guess people are looking at us coming down the street, wondering, you know, what's he doing with her, and vice versa. I feel like I'm in a scene in some gritty movie, with newspapers blowing at my feet and steam coming out of the sewer, that sort of movie, what they call film noir, which is French for black and white, not the kind of picture you take your family to. Not for mass circulation, or whatever.

The hotel is sort of run down. There's a doorman there, but really he's more like a security guard, no gold braid, no cape coat, not even a uniform: just a white shirt with big, round perspiration stains under the arms. I mean, this guy wouldn't last
ten seconds
at my building. At least he calls you by your last name. Me, I try to know all the first
and
the last names of everyone in my building; I even try to know their dogs' names, though that isn't always possible. But at least this guy's that much on the ball, even if he does look like shit. Or else he just remembers certain people, you know, with things that stand out.

“Good evening, Miss Daltrey.”

He smiles a big, greasy smile, then looks at me. I'm not sure I like the look on his face, which to me seems to be implying something like, “It takes all kinds.” Something like that. Or it may be just the fact that he hasn't shaved, which is pretty inexcusable.

Then he says, “Package arrived for you.”

He hands it to you. It's a big envelope, about as big as I've ever
seen. You look at the return address, nod, and shove it in your shoulder bag. I ask you what it is. I can't help it; I'm curious.

“Galleys,” you say.

I don't know what that means. I figure it has something to do with the fact that you're a writer. But if you plan to keep me in the dark, I say to myself, go right ahead, be my guest.

Then you look up at me and say (another surprise!), “Coming up?”

I'd feel really rude saying no, so up we go. I have to say they've got that whole place well figured out. No stairs. Elevators all over the place. And where there aren't any elevators, there's ramps. Obviously there are a lot of people like you living there.

When we get to your room, the door's unlocked. I can't believe you just leave it like that. Can't believe, that is, until I take my first look inside. Jesus, what a (pardon my language) shit hole. I mean, not to be offensive, but I've seen seventh-graders with neater rooms. For starters there's kitty litter all over the floor. It kind of irks me, the idea of someone like you having a cat to take care of, like you don't have enough problems of your own. Plus there's clothes, papers, and books scattered everywhere, like a hurricane just blew through the place. Even if the place was straightened up, it wouldn't be any palace. It's only one room, first of all, with a tiny kitchen stuck in the corner and shelves made out of bricks and scrap wood. Plus it smells sort of like fried cat pee, if you know what I mean. No wonder you leave the door open. Worst thing a burglar could do is leave the place cleaner than he found it. There sure isn't anything worth stealing, except maybe the computer, which kind of shocks me at first. I mean, it doesn't look like the kind of place you'd see a computer. I mean, you'd
think the kind of person that lives in a mess like that wouldn't know what a computer was.

Then I remind myself: hey, she's
different
. She can't take care of herself like other people. It's a miracle she's even
alive
.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask me then.

Tea, shit, I need a drink. I ask, “Do you by any chance keep any bourbon around?”

You don't drink, you say. “The strongest thing I can offer you is Constant Comment.”

Constant Comment: sounds like something you use to permanently clean your toilet. But it isn't; it's funny-tasting tea, with spices and shit. I wonder, is it something all cripples drink?

So we sit there, me on your unmade bed and you in your wheelchair, which is the only chair in the place. At this point I'm starting to get really nervous. Somehow seeing you in that wheelchair makes everything … I don't know, more
intense
. I mean, you're sitting right up close to me, and there I am on your bed with the sheets all rumpled up behind me, and naturally the thought crosses my mind, you know what I mean. And meanwhile I'm sipping this weird-tasting tea, asking myself: Can I be
doing
this? Am I for
real
?

Nine forty-five.

And you, you just keep looking at me with those eyelike eyes. I get so nervous I spill half my tea.

It was a summer night, the temperature just about ninety. Your place had no air conditioner, not even a fan. So I was sweating, wiping the stuff off my forehead, looking around. You were there, in front of me. I'm not sure if I noticed them before, I guess I did, but your breasts … they're … how do I say? Impressive.
Pillowlike. The kind of breasts that make you want to put your head down between them and go to sleep for about a hundred years.

Your cat was in your lap; you were stroking it. Archimedes, you said its name was. It kept purring and rubbing its whiskers against the black and blue marks on your forearms. Something hit me then: it stuck there inside my brain. Then it broke loose and came to me. You lived a cripple's life, with a cripple's wheelchair and a cripple's cat and a cripple's smells, in a building full of cripples. And I'm sitting there, staring at your breasts, getting all excited and thinking,
I'm about to get it on with a cripple.

“Well,” I say. “This is nice.”

“Yes,” you say. Your voice is soft, whispery, like a feather duster. “It is.”

Suddenly the cat jumps off your lap. You bend down and start massaging your leg, going up and down with both hands; you say it helps the circulation. I can see that the muscles in your legs are gone, melted away. All the same, they don't look so bad. “Here,” I say. “Let me do that for you.”

“Oh, would you please?”

Sure, why not. Sure.

So there I am massaging your legs, you making tiny little moany-groany sounds with your eyes closed; it's all so very quiet except for the moany-groany sounds. Before I know it I can't smell the colors, I can't feel the light, I can't see the sounds, I don't taste a thing. It's all happening in my hands, at the tips of my fingers, there in the dark with our eyes closed, both of us falling down all over the place, into softer and softer layers, with the sheets falling off the bed and me holding onto your bony legs for
dear life, your face, your lips, under your arms, everything wet, drying the sweat off my forehead in the sheets, kissing you there, there, all over, all over our faces, all over each other, me prying, trying to get your legs undone, not thinking anymore, not even knowing what's what, which way is up, unable to stop. God. We just went at it, like wild. Like two
animals
. Slipping and sliding, back and forth, in and out, hearts smacking together, sweat oozing down our cheeks, tongues like whips, hands like grappling hooks, clothes and arms all over the place, rolling down a hill ten miles long and covered with moss, then lying there, dead.

Jeez, are all cripples
that good
?

(I'm waiting five more minutes. Then I swear I'm getting up and leaving.)

We were frozen there then, perfectly still, afraid to even breathe, me looking into your eyes, beautiful. God, you were beautiful then. Really.

Then it hits me, the sadness. Shit, I thought. She must feel really good right now. I mean, I could tell we both felt really good. But then I thought; I can get up now. I can get up and walk away on my own two feet, no crutches, no wheelchair, no nothing. She'll never get up, not
completely
. She'll never be free, like me. This is her life; I'm just a visitor. Sure, she can write a few books. That's about it. The rest is daydreaming.

Man, did I feel sad then — for your sake. And guilty as hell, you know, for taking advantage. I mean, I could see it meant a lot to you. I mean, I'm sure you didn't take it lightly. I mean, I couldn't just leave it at that, could I?

That's when I decided: Dominick, you've got to follow this thing through. At least see her a few more times. At least get to
know
the kid
a little. (The kid: that's what I called you to myself.) Nothing permanent. Taper it off little by little. Beyond that, you can't be responsible. I mean, no contract signed, right?

I said, “I better go now.”

You didn't say anything. You just kept stroking the back of my head, smiling. At the door I said, “How about the bagel shop? I could meet you there — sometime?”

You said that would be nice.

“Fine,” I said. “How about Wednesday? I'll meet you for breakfast.”

“Sounds good,” you said.

“Fine,” I said. “9:00 a.m.?”

“Sounds good.”

“Fine.”

And that's how we left it. As a matter of fact, I left feeling pretty good about myself. Like, you know, I'd done a good deed. Something like that.

So here it is. Wednesday. The bagel shop. Nine … fifty-seven … Nine … fifty-eight. So why aren't you here? I mean, there's got to be some
explanation
. I mean, you wouldn't stand me up, right? I mean, no way would you stand me up, right?

Right?

Why would you stand me up?

I'll give it another five minutes.

Another five minutes.

Only.

malecón:
an embankment, levy, dike,
seawall, cliff, or coastal highway.

THE CAR VIVA COLÓN
“borrowed” was a late-model Cadillac convertible, the paint of which had faded to a blue paler than that of the sky. He had been walking to his brother-in-law's
yuga de cana
stand where he worked, when, stopping to rest against the trunk of a date palm, he noticed the car parked in its shade, and the set of keys gleaming on its red-leather-upholstered driver's seat. The car was parked about a mile from the bank of the river where Viva lived in a rusty tin shack. His brother-in-law's red and yellow sugar-cane-juice stand was another two miles away.

He had been walking slowly, using a piece of dried-out sugar cane as his walking stick. Though Viva prided himself on his fitness, lately his legs had been giving him trouble. Most of the pain was in his ankles, but today the knees were starting to hurt as well, and he found himself walking more and more slowly and
stopping to rest more often, leaning against things whenever he could.

Viva was in his seventies — where exactly in his seventies no one knew, including Viva. Most of his teeth were gone. It was the sugar cane that had done it, all the years of gnawing on raw cane. Viva's missing teeth were — more than the soreness in his ankles and the stiffness in his knees (and the stomachaches and hemorrhoids and hearing loss in one ear) — to him signifiers of old age. The realization that he was old had come to him one day not long ago when, after a long, unprofitable day of selling peanuts to motorists, he boarded a crowded bus on its way back from the public beach. The bus had been filled with rowdy young people, and Viva had been forced to stand, squeezed in among them on his tired legs, his bags of unsold peanuts suspended from wire clothes hangers, as they pointed and laughed at him.