Park Lane South, Queens (24 page)

“Really? I don't see you with any framed pictures of dead husbands.”

Iris sipped her tea.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say that. I don't know what came over me. It's just that I feel suddenly so at ease talking to you … as though I've known you for a long time. I never would dare to say something like that to anyone unless I felt close to them. I mean … you must forgive me. My mouth goes off before the thought even reaches my brain.”

“Dat's all right, dat's all right,” Iris waved away her apology. “I like you because you do say vot's on your mind … not because you vatch your vords. No, that doesn't bother me. But, as you must know, sometimes we carry da strongest memories around with us in our hearts, not in picture frames.”

Claire nodded sadly, remembering Michael. All the loneliness she'd gained with his death could never outweigh the joy of having had him once. Not for a moment.

“I used to have pictures,” Iris mused aloud. “But den came such upheaval in Europe. I took pictures myself, once, with a camera. Ach. I was so proud of dose pictures. I even framed dem myself. You can't take dat sort of important ting vith you ven you're getting out of da country.”

Now, isn't that odd, thought Claire. Weren't there some sort of pictures … pictures without frames … why, of course. It had been with Michael, a million years ago. They had to have been children. They'd gotten hold of some pictures, dirty pictures. One of those pictures had made such an impression on her that she couldn't imagine how she had blocked it out. It was a magazine picture, one of those cheap, detective sort of sexy things. There was a man. He was wearing a raincoat and holding a gun. No, then he wasn't a detective, he was just holding out that gun and pointing it at a woman, she was sitting on the bed in her fancy underwear and there was a caption, cut out with letters from comic books and taped into sentences and it said, wait a minute, it said: “Take off your stockings and pull down your panties.”

Iris cleared her throat. “Dere is,” she said, “a lot to be said for loss itself. It makes you appreciate vot you have. Every bit of it.”

The two women looked at each other with mute misunderstanding. Claire remembered her manners. She sat up briskly. “All those pictures you don't have anymore, were they of someone special?”

“Special? At dat time, ja. Dey vere special den. Only now dey are nothing but memories. Now my pictures are the sounds of crowded trams going up the Prinzregentenplatz … full of people long, long dead.”

Claire shivered. The rain outside was loud and the dust on the window sills had turned to muddy grime. She realized that with the darkness of her loneliness exposed to light, Iris's mystery had disappeared and now she had Claire on her side. They could arrest Iris but no one would ever convince her that she had killed those children. She found herself staring at a pack of worn out tarot cards on the table. The police weren't going to like the looks of those. It wouldn't hurt to get rid of them. The cat jumped onto Iris's lap and rubbed his head on her breast.

“That's an interesting name for a cat. Lü.”

“Dat's Chinese. It means the Wanderer.”

“You know, Iris, if I were you, I'd put those tarot cards away.”

“Pschew. I don't use dem anymore.”

“You don't believe in them anymore?”

“Oh, dey work. Don't think even for a little moment dat you can't ask da cards. Dat dey von't tell you exactly vot it is you vant to know. Dat's sure. I don't use dem now anymore because I happen to believe in prayer better. The direct approach. Me? I go right to da top. God himself. I don't bother with dose little saints, either. Und I don't bother with da cards because even dough dey'll tell you vot it is you vant to know, dere's no good reason for you to know it. Not in my book. Anything gonna happen, gonna happen. Vat for should've know da future? Take da fun out of it.”

“Yes, but what about preventive foresight?”

“Dat's vot God gave us intuition for. You rely too much on all these ersatz methods: astrology, palmistry, tarot … you lose your telepathic gift. Your own individual nose, as it vere.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Und anyhow,” Iris slapped the air, “I get sick and tired of reading everybody's cards.”

Claire laughed.

“Hmm. You tink dat's funny. It's not so funny ven dey won't let you in peace. Ven dey come from all over the place und interrupt your privacy und even your breakfast to find out if da husband is cheating on dem. Who cares? Once you find out you can do it … it becomes a real hell of a bore, let me tell you dat!” She sank back in her chair, done in by her own vehemence.

“Come on,” Claire said, “I'll help you carry these things to the kitchen. It's late.”

“Ja,” Iris got up carefully. “I'm not gonna argue vit you. Und you know vot else?”

“What's that?”

“If I put da tarot cards away … if I hide dem … und the police come, it vill look vorse for me if dey find dem hidden dan if I chust let dem sit dere in da open.”

So she knew. She'd figured out already that there was going to be a witch hunt. She was even ready for it. The awful thing was that it was Claire herself who'd supplied Johnny with the idea. She patted Iris on her meager arm and carried the tray to the kitchen. It was a harshly lit room, absurdly brisk and clean compared to the casual squalor of the others. The walls were tiled white, much like a hospital operating room except for the relief of one navy blue stripe around the top.

“My liebling room,” Iris's eyes glittered. “I am in here baking all the morning.”

“No kidding? Every morning?”

“Chust about. Da kids come, you know. I don't mind dem. Never. So I like to keep da cookie jars full. Dey all have der favorites. Michaelaen likes dat kind you like, the
rugelach
.”

“Michaelaen comes here?”

“Sure. All da time. Vell, sometimes.”

“Oh. I didn't know.” Neither, she bet, did Zinnie.

“Chust like Michael used to,” Iris said pointedly, searching Claire's blue eyes.

Claire leaned against the old porcelain sink. “Do you know what horror is? Not the sureness of death. It's the uncertainty of life that's the horror. Not knowing for sure what to do. I always wish there was some way to tell.”

“Ach,” Iris dumped the tea cups into a pool of suds. “Dere is no ‘sure.' You take a chance. You follow your heart. You know dat.”

“That's just it. I never do know. How do you know what the heart is trying to say?”

“You have to listen mit it!” Iris yelled at her. “You vant sure, you listen mit brain. Brain is right-left, black-vite. Heart is like a subvay train. You get off any stop you vant to get home. Quick one … march right home. Udder one … maybe takes more time, more valking, but is a more charming route. More trees und flowers along da vay. Dat's choice. Your choice. Anyvay, eventually, you gonna get back home. How is up to you.” Then Iris hitched up her skirt and started to hum “You gotta have heart.”

“You're a regular comedian. I feel as though everything's falling apart all around me … whatever I do goes wrong, whatever I reach for turns sour.”

“Oh, come, come, come. Noting is dat bad.”

“Maybe not. It's just that nothing goes right.”

“I know von ting. Ven ting's are going along smoothly, you can be very sure dat you're not getting anyvhere. Listen to me vell, girl, because dis is as true as true gets. Ven you're getting a lot of flack, ven everyting you do meets with resistance, den you know dat you are getting close to da source.”

“The source.”

“Ja.”

When Iris walked her out through the foyer, she handed her an umbrella. It was made of paper and sprayed with shellack. When she opened it, it crackled.

“No sense getting vet,” Iris said, “even if it is chust across da street.”

“Okay,” Claire took it gratefully. “This way I'll have to come back to return it.”

“I'd like dat. As long as you don't come too often.”

They smiled at each other. “Damn,” said Claire, “now where's the Mayor gone?”

At the sound of his name, the Mayor bolted from the depths of the pantry. Natasha, Iris's poodle, followed him out. She was looking very smug. Iris made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Dat dog. He's gonna make my Natasha mit puppies. Oh, vell. Gotta have someting to do, eh? At least animals, ven dey're old and useless, dey can still go out to stud.”

Old and useless? The Mayor flinched visibly. What a rotten thing to say.

Iris, clutching her elbows at the door, seemed to feel the need to temper her words as well. “I remember ven he vas a pup,” she reminisced. “Vay before even Michaelaen vas born. Dit you know he used to catch rats?”

“Yes, my father always talks about it.”

“Strange ting for a dog. Almost unheard of. Und once he caught a thief going into Gussie Drobbin's house. Caught him by da foot und voodn't let go!”

“Yes, I heard about that, too. My mother wrote me about it. That was when they changed his name from Blacky to the Mayor, wasn't it?”

Ah, yes, the Mayor remembered, consoled. And not a bad monicker Blacky had been. Dash, it'd had. A touch of the old mischief. Of course, merit warranted dignity. And one never could go back …

“Goot-bye! Goot-bye! Und not to forget dat handsome young fellow. Imagine vat it vould feel in da arms mit a nice little redheaded baby to hold!” She continued to wave as they made their way across the puddled street.

Claire rushed inside. Zinnie was off the porch by now and the house was dark. A nice little redheaded baby, eh? Claire snorted to herself. She hadn't been red for the last twenty years. But bless her for remembering. The old fox. She looked at the Mayor. “Listen to me. We're not even on speaking terms and this is the second time tonight I'm imagining having his baby. I must be off my trolley.”

He yawned at her feebly and they went right up to bed.

Across the street old Iris mopped the table with one edge of her kimono. She dusted her way lovingly around the figurines and ruby glass. She stopped when she noticed the cards. Claire had handled them thoroughly, then put them down absentmindedly into three piles. Iris raised her chin in wise disinterest, then turned around abruptly and snatched up the first. It was the moon. Ah, the mistress of the night. Underlying fears wriggling to the surface of a still pool in the body of a crayfish. A wolf and a dog barking. The home of the dead. Illusion. Iris shivered. She raised the second pile. The hanged man. The unconscious again. A sacrifice to be made. Some fearful journey through the underworld of Hades. Iris sat down carefully. She raised the third and last small pile. The wheel of fortune. So. The old order changeth.

Claire was just drifting off when the light went on.

“Sst! You asleep?”

“What?”

“You up?”

“Mmm. Turn that light out.”

Carmela put it out and turned another, less offensive, light on. She sat down on the edge of the bed, right at home, and unscrewed her earrings. Claire felt herself stiffen with exhausted rebellion but smiled encouragingly just the same. There was something prepossessing about Carmela, and impressively desperate. You might be riddled by her disturbance but you were also privileged. A realization, Claire supposed, that had something to do with the fact that Carmela was the assured, if batty, first born. She dragged herself up onto one elbow. Whatever it was that Carmela wanted, it would take her a while to get to it. She'd take you for a stroll along her own peculiar brand of garden path and then come out with it as she was just about to leave, an afterthought.

“I've wrecked my car,” she announced.

Claire's eyes went round.

“I did. It's all smashed up. On that big curve on Park Lane South.”

“Are you all right?!”

“I'm fine. Freddy went through the windshield.”

“Oh my God.”

“I mean, he's okay. He's got a big cut on his ear. Like it practically came off.” She raised her eyes to heaven. “But they sewed it back on.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

“What hospital?”

“He's out. They let him out. They sewed him up and we left. He just dropped me off in a cab.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Me? It was so strange. It all happened so fast. The car went clunk and I thought … I remember thinking it wasn't too bad, and then there was this terrible sound of shattering glass, and I looked over and there was Freddy heaped up on the dashboard with his neck all funny and I thought … I was sure he was dead. He was so still. And then he put his head up and looked at me and he's dripping blood … spurting blood, and all I could think was it's a good thing it's on the other side because I didn't want the blood on me. What a thought! I mean what a way to think!”

“So then? What happened then?”

“I backed up the car, we were on Tracey's lawn, right through the sticker bushes—thank God I didn't hit the house—and the car still went, sort of, and we limped up to Saint John's to the emergency room and they took care of him. They were great. Freddy was great. He told them he went through his apartment window.”

“But where's your car?”

“Well, then I started to drive us home, but then the thing that was sticking out under the car was dragging like crazy so I figured I'd better park it while I had the chance, and we walked down to the Roy Rogers and caught a cab. Aren't you going to ask me what I was doing with Freddy?”

Claire's head was spinning. She hadn't been able to get Freddy alone to confront him and had then concluded that it was none of her business anyway. She wasn't so sure she wanted to hear it now. “All right,” she sighed, “what were you doing with him?”