Friends (5 page)

“Pearl, this is Will Taub, Gabe's old friend—it's not too late to call, is it?”

“What happened? Don't tell me he died?”

“No, though he's pretty sick though, but that isn't why I called.”

“How sick is he? In the hospital?”

“He's at home. You want his number? He doesn't live where he used to when you knew him, but I have it right on me.

“Why would I want his number? Last time we spoke he insulted me something awful. But I was concerned how his health was. He was killing himself the way he drank and didn't eat, not that I'd ever want to speak to him about it or anything else again. What I'm saying is, no matter what went wrong between Gabe and me, I can still have sympathy for him.”

“Of course. I didn't mean anything by it. How are you, by the way?”

“I'm fine, and you?”

“Fine too. But let me tell you why I called. Did you read his novel—the only one of his published?”

“Sure.
Clash!
Why?”

“Well, it was my feeling after reading it that Gabe took a lot of material from my unpublished novel
Flowers
, which I gave him one night to bring to a publisher downtown after you two had had dinner at my place. Do you remember?”

“I think so. We went by subway. That was before I bought
my car for school.”

“That's right—the subway. Well, Gabe claims he only read twenty pages of my novel and then wanted to throw it out the subway car window he thought it was so bad. Do you remember that? He said you would. Because what I remember is that later that same evening he called me up—at two or three in the morning—and told me he read half my novel so far and loved it and needed more time to finish it before he took it to the publisher, which was White Nights, though that I wouldn't expect you to remember.”

“I don't remember him wanting to throw anything out the window but himself a few times.”

“I'm talking about your subway ride home.”

“I know, but how do you expect me to remember that? It was six years ago.”

“Four years ago—five at the most.”

“It's too small an incident to remember.”

“Then what about Gabe calling me later in the morning—that two to three a.m. call—and telling me on the phone how much he loved my novel? Do you remember that?”

“Of course not. I was probably asleep when he called.”

“Do you remember, then, before you went to bed, Gabe staying up late to read my novel, and maybe in the morning—”

“I don't remember any of that. I do remember having dinner with you and I think her name was Lucille—”

“Louise.”

“Louise, Lucille—I was close. And that we took the subway home. I don't know why I remember the subway. Maybe because it was very cold—”

“It was in the middle of winter.”

“Then it had to be cold and I probably hated the long wait in the subway station and wanted to take a cab. But that's
all I remember of that night—
all
. So now, after so many years, it seems silly for you to call me and worry about such a matter.”

“I don't know. I'm sorry if I might have disturbed you with my call, but the matter seems important to me.”

“Believe me it's silly. Because when you get right down to things, what's the difference about your old manuscript? From the way I knew Gabe then, and from what you and others have said about his condition since, he's much worse off than any of us now, published book or not. So forget whatever he might have done to you and just be thankful you have your health and also the time to write more.”

“Maybe you're right. Take care, Pearl, and goodnight.”

“No, be honest—I want you to answer me direct: am I right or not?”

“You are.”

“Good. Speak to you soon.”

Magna as the Good Woman

Key's still in the lock, my hand still on the key when I'm grabbed from behind, his hand over my mouth same time he turns the doorknob, and pulls the key out, pushes me into the apartment and kicks the door shut.

“Don't scream or I'll kill you,” he says.

Light's out. Normally I open the door, stick my hand past the jamb and turn the light on, first thing when I get home from school. So the room's dark, both his arms around me now, hand still over my mouth, my lips hurting from the pressure of his grip, shoulder bag he took from me and now holds, his mouth even closer to my ear.

“I mean it. Don't say a word. Do or try to get away from me or anything I don't want you to and I'll kill you. I've killed others. Women and men, I can kill you.”

I shake my head. My hair brushes his face.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He takes his hand away from my mouth a little. He could clap it back on in a second if I screamed. I'm not going to. I believe what he says. The way he grabbed and now holds me and way he speaks.

“I'll do what you say.”

“That's a good woman. Now where's the rest of your money? Lead me to it.”

He puts his hand back on my mouth and I start walking to the bedroom closet. I don't want to go to the bedroom with
him but that's where the money is. If I said I didn't have any money he'd probably say I was lying. Everyone has some money at home. A ten, a five, and all of mine except for what's in the shoulder bag is in the closet in a box. Better to give it and maybe he'll get right out. So I start for the closet with him holding me from behind, arm around my chest, other hand on my mouth, my shoulder bag he's holding bouncing against my side.

“Don't turn the light on till I tell you,” he says.

We're in the bedroom. He walks me to the window and pulls down the shade. Walks me to the light switch and says “Turn it on,” and I turn on the light. Dumps what's in my shoulder bag onto the floor, takes the money from it and puts it in his pocket and kicks the bag and the books that came out of it across the room. “Now the rest of your money.”

We go to the closet. He pulls the string and the closet light goes on. “I'm letting you go now only to get the money. Yell once and you are dead, dead,” and he takes his arm from around me, pulls a knife out of his pocket, though the blade's still in the shaft. “You believe me, right?”

I nod.

“You can speak. I'm not preventing you.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes sir? What?”

“Do you believe what I'm saying?”

“I believe you, I believe you.”

“You're not a beautiful girl.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm sure most men think you're gorgeous but to me you're ugly. And that's disappointing you are. Those are my odds though.”

“What can I say.”

“Get the money.”

I reach up and get the shoe box off the closet shelf and give it to him. He opens it and takes the money.

“Anything else of value around?”

“I've a television, stereo, speakers, jewelry, mostly antique and costume. Take it all. It's all right.”

“I know it's all right.”

“I'm sorry. I was just saying.”

“You're scared.”

“Yes I'm scared.”

“You smelled scared. Do I smell scared?”

“I don't know.”

“Because I'm not. I'm happy. This was so easy. In getting into your downstairs was so easy and easier still that you gave me a safe place to stay for you on the stairs to the roof. You want men to wait for you to take all your things?”

“No.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don't. I've nothing to do with the design of the building. That was done fifty years ago and the old downstairs lock is the landlord's. Now please go. You have all my money.”

“The jewelry, television, whatever else of value.”

“I'm sorry, I forgot. Jewelry's in that case.”

He grabs my arm and we go over to the jewelry case on the dresser. He opens it, looks it over, selects what he wants from it and sticks the jewelry into his pockets.

“That's the TV?”

“Only one.”

“Too big. It'd take two of us to carry. Stereo's probably no good either. They'd see me a block away with it unless you have a suitcase I can fit it in. Where's the stereo?”

“The other room.”

“I like this room.”

“I don't have a stereo here.”

“But I like it. A bed. Get undressed.”

“Please, I don't want to.”

‘“Please, I don't want to.'” He takes the knife out of his pocket and opens it. “I've used this. But first show me the suitcase and stereo but suitcase first.”

If I lived on the second floor I'd run to the window, throw it open and jump out and maybe even jump through it without opening it. I'd risk the stitches and broken leg, two of them, broken hips, a broken head, to avoid getting raped and maybe knifed and killed. But I'm four flights up. He'd beat me to the door. Or if I beat him to it, by the time I opened it he could knife me. Would he? How much is bluff? He seems he would. And knife me after he raped me? Seems there'd be less chance of that than hi s doing it if I tried to escape, just because I did what he asked and didn't anger him. I don't know. I'll give him what he wants, even suggest things I have he didn't think of—the blender, an antique figurine—and then plead with him to leave. If he doesn't, if he insists, if I see there's no way I can convince him otherwise or escape without getting knifed, I'll give in.

I get the suitcase out of the bedroom closet. He takes me to the livingroom, pulls down the shade, turns on the lights, says to sit right beside him on the floor next to the stereo.

“I don't think it'll fit,” I say.

He turns it on, listens to it, unplugs and fits it into the suitcase by a couple of inches on all sides, closes the case and lifts it by the handle, testing its weight.

“It's so light I can even run with it.”

“Now please go.”

“First undress for me. Later I go.”

“I don't want to undress. I want you to go. You got what you wanted. All this must sound trite. But you got what you wanted. You want a blender—a little valuable statue also, but the blender almost brand-new, take them. I'm not feeling well anyway.”

“Blenders and toasters you get nothing for and statues can be traced. And you look fine.”

“I've the flu. That's what my hacking's all about, maybe if not here then when I was coming upstairs. I'm also having my period. Besides that I've this terrible yeast infection down there that will end up in anybody's body—the genital area—that I come in contact with. It won't be worth it. You'll have to go to a doctor. It's quite crummy looking and will itch like mad for you when you get it. Just go. I won't report you.”

“I'll see if you have infections and periods. Get undressed or I'll stick this in you now.”

He puts the knife to my throat and motions me to stand. We stand and I take off my jacket and start taking off my blouse. He rips the blouse down when I get some of the buttons undone. He squeezes my nipples and steps back to observe them. “How come they don't get erect? Usually when I play with them like that they get erect. But I like a woman without a bra. Easy street door and roof stairs and no bunkmate or bra, you made it simple for me. Now the rest of you. Make it quick and I'll get out of here quick.”

“Get out of here now. Please. I'm serious that I'm not well. And I swear I won't report you. But if you hurt me in any way I'll have to report you as I'll have to go to the hospital and they'll ask me and they'll call the police and I'll have to tell them about you. If they have your picture, I could recognize it without even wanting to.”

“They don't have my picture. But if they did and even if I didn't hurt you, you'll go the police and look through a million pictures to find me. I've nothing to lose, whether I do anything more to you or not, that's what I'm saying, so take off the damn rest of your clothes.”

I shut my eyes and just stand there. He pulls my belt out, unzips the skirt and pulls it down to the floor, pulls the panties down to my ankles, slaps my calf, I pick each of my
feet up and step out of the panties and skirt and then he tugs on my sleeve and I take off what's left of the blouse.

“You're so hairy,” he says. “Not that I'm complaining. You've nice legs and tits though. Turn halfway around.” I do. “So-so. Now into the other room.”

He sticks the knife into my arm and I feel the sharp end of it. I go into the bedroom with him beside me. He takes off his pants. He doesn't have on underpants. He's already erect. He motions me and I sit on the bed. He gets on the bed, lays the knife on the floor and says “Everything I want you do for me and don't even get a little mean.” He grabs my head from behind and pushes it down till my cheek touches his penis and forces my mouth to the tip of it and says “Open your teeth and pull them back,” and jerks my head up and down on it so I have to open my throat all the way or choke while at the same time he puts his finger in my vagina and says “Wet…get wet…I want to go in easy.”

He does this with my head and his finger for a few minutes. At one point I start gagging and feel I have to vomit and he hears me and releases my head but not his finger.

“Don't throw up on me, I warn you. I'd kill you just for that.”

“I won't.”

“If I'm too big, I won't push you that far on me again—that's my one consolation.”

“Okay.”

What I'm feeling is I can't stand this. My eyes are shut when he brings me down on him again. I'm trying to imagine I'm someone else. Or that thing is something else but it can't be. Or I'm someplace else. Not with another man. At the moment I hate all men. I'm trying to think this isn't happening to me. I'm trying to think this can't be happening to me, it's a dream. And I'm a machine. Someone has turned me on, put a coin in the slot, put a plug in the socket, something, a
battery in my head and me the machine I'm just performing as a machine would, top half of me going up and down on some other machine, doing a machine function but not with a man. I'm made of metal, solid, cold, disposable or with some crazy man, because my mind can't seem to change him into a machine, who likes doing it with a machine, but I can't feel it or him or even be thinking of that now because a machine can't feel or think.