Park Lane South, Queens (25 page)

Carmela twisted her ring. She had a two carat diamond from Arnold that she refused to take off. “I'm seeing him.”

Claire fumbled on the nightstand for a cigarette.

“You don't seem very surprised.”

“It's Zinnie who's going to be surprised.”

“She's not going to find out.”

“Carmela. You've got a head-sized hole in the windshield and Freddy the torn up head that fits in it. She's not stupid, you know.”

“Freddy's going to have the car towed to his garage in the morning.”

“And what's he going to say about his head?!”

“I don't know. He's going to make up some story. I'm not supposed to know. I'm not supposed to have seen him.”

“Cozy. Very cozy.”

“Claire. They're not married anymore.”

“Oh, right. That changes everything. I suppose that's why you're being so clandestine about it. Because it's perfectly all right. Suppose Zinnie started dating Arnold. I suppose that wouldn't bother you a bit?”

“Zinnie sceeves Arnold. She thinks he smells like a corpse.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“You have nothing to do with it, either.”

This was good. “You woke me up to tell me this?”

“Tch. What a mess. It's all a mess. I never should have started up with him.”

“You're damn right you shouldn't have. And what about AIDS? Just where do you think he's been since he's out of the closet?”

“Claire. There are such things as prophylactics.”

“Oh. And you're sure that that's enough? I mean is it worth it? You and Mom were telling Zinnie you didn't want him around Michaelaen, for God's sake.”

“I know, I know, I know.”

“I mean, it's your business what you're up to, but you can't be pleased with yourself. You can't.”

Carmela snorted. “I haven't been pleased with myself since I was in school.”

“Because you were challenged there. You only got mixed up in this nonsense because you're bored. Why don't you quit that stupid job and sit down, I mean like really sit down, and write something good. You know you've got to sooner or later. You know it's in you. Don't you owe anything to the talent you were blessed with?”

“No.”

“Don't be a jerk.”

“Oh, Claire. You talk like a high school guidance counselor.”

“So? What's wrong with that?”

“What about you? You could get a job in some terrific studio in the city and work hard and eventually open your own. And what do you do? You wander around here like some refugee from the third world who's too proud to go on welfare.”

“That's just what I don't want. A job in the city. A job in a studio. Any studio. That would be the same as your job at the magazine. Being soothingly polite to arrogant clients who you'd just as soon smash in the teeth. I know how those people are and I don't want to turn into one of them. They act so big. They act so … so … cool. You just want to put them in a black and white film from the fifties and turn off the sound. I'd rather sell cookies in a shop. And keep my photography the way I like it: pure.”

“Nothing's pure.”

“Yes, some things are. Saving yourself for someone you love is pure.”

“I don't know why I bother to talk to you. You're screwing your brains out with that Polack and that … that pig cop.”

Claire flushed. “Michael was one of those ‘pig cops.' And I haven't slept with either of them, for your information.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I haven't.”

“Well, then you're more of a dope than I figured.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I'd love to be there in the morning when the Traceys wake up and see their sticker bushes gone.”

They both laughed, Carmela harder than Claire, whose heart had gone light and then lead at the mention of Johnny. Her first instinct was joy, but her reason told her bluntly it would never work out. She remembered what Iris had said, and she hugged her knees with grim hope. Carmela's hearty convulsion was just trailing off in a high, windy note of amusement. She focused her rather bloodshot eyes back on Claire. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “You're in love. But with which one?”

“Which do you think?”

“The poor one.”

“Bingo.”

“Figures. You always were the one to bring home the mutts.”

“He's not destitute, Carmela. He has a house. A horrible house, but a house. He's not some cokie, he's—”

“That's all horseshit. What you mean is that he makes your juices run.”

“You're so poetic. I always liked that about you.”

“Hey. A spade's a spade. So what's the plan?”

“Sit back and wait. Either he'll come after me or he won't.”

“You wanna borrow something ravishing to sit back and wait in? Like my strapless jewel green?”

Somewhere in the depths of Claire's mind, preoccupied with the image of Johnny coming across her suddenly in the dazzling green dress, an alarm went off. But Carmela was taking her hand. “Listen, kid,” she said kindly, “if I were you, I wouldn't sit around and wait for anyone. I'd go after him with big guns.”

“I thought I did. We just wound up wanting to wring each other's neck.” She didn't mention his accusations.

“Look. If you want someone, you have to forget your standards and act like a flight attendant. He'll come around. Dress up. Wear heels. Dip.”

Claire burst out laughing.

“I mean it.” She stood. “You wanna get laid, you have to put aside your values for a couple of minutes.”

“But I don't—”

“Bullshit. You do. We all do. As a matter of fact, if you're not interested in the Polack, I'll take him. That is if you really don't mind.”

“Carmela, there's something strange about Stefan. I don't trust him. He could be the killer, for all we know.”

“Who's talking about trusting him? I'd like to take him for all I can get.”

“I'm not kidding.”

“Neither am I. I like the type who are up to no good. Mischief. You just don't want me living in that mansion up on Park Lane South.”

“Carmela, believe me, I know exactly how you feel. I had quite a few of the same thoughts once or twice myself tonight. But that's not what we're talking about here. We're talking about finding a way to live with ourselves. I mean, look at us. Here we are at three in the morning; I'm still drunk and you're blitzed from God knows what—”

“So I snorted a little …”

“Yeah. You only ever snort a little. That's why you weigh about forty pounds.”

“Oh, shut up. Just shut up, because I know what kind of sermon's coming. And you just wish you had my slender thighs.”

“Thighs, yes, scrawny neck, no.”

“You had to get that out, didn't you? Make you feel better?”

Claire listened to her heart pounding in her ears. Why on earth did she let Carmela get to her like this? Nobody had ever irked her this way overseas. Was this what she'd run away from? The people who pushed all her buttons? Turned her into a child? She sank back, exhausted, onto her pillow. Carmela moved over to the doorway and looked sadly at Claire. Cruelty had a way of bringing out the best in her. “Anyway,” she said. “I hope it works out with your dick-a-della. I really do.”

“Thanks.”

Carmela hesitated one more time. “Oh,” she said, “by the way. If you could pick up my car tomorrow I'd really appreciate it. Um … as you have nothing else to do. With your camera stolen and all, you won't be doing much shooting, right?”

Claire smiled wryly. “Sure. I've got nothing else to do. And tigers never change their stripes.”

“What's that face for?”

“I just wish you would once walk up those rickety stairs to see me without wanting something. Just to come up once for no reason at all but to, I don't know, talk or something. The way you make it out to look before you get to what you really want. Or at least just say what it is you want first. You don't have to make an ass of me.”

Carmela narrowed her eyes. “I don't know what you think you're doing. The only reason you came home and bothered with us is because you were washed up over there. We didn't see hide nor hair of you when you were a big success in Germany. You didn't even show up for Christmas! Never. You just lived your selfish life and went your selfish way … and did you ever think that maybe you were missed? That you were needed? You think you were the only one who suffered losing Michael? You think you loved him maybe more than we did? Do you? Because I can remember nights when I would come up these ‘rickety stairs,' as you so picturesquely put it, just to get away from the sound of Mom crying at night. And did you ever hear a grown man cry over there in your travels, in your quest to see the wide, real world? Because I can remember nights that Dad would put on his Beethoven tape and think we couldn't hear him. Or do you think the mourning went away when you left? After the excitement of the funeral parlor died away and all the relatives were gone and nobody from the precinct came around anymore, it was just us, without him. Who the hell do you think cleaned out his sock drawer? You? His dear twin sister? So who are you going to call the user? Me?”

Claire let the one tear roll down her cheek without wiping it. “You're right. And it is because I've been a failure in so many ways that I wound up back here, still looking inward, like a teenager does, trying to know myself and all that. I don't deny that I'm a failure. The only thing is that I've been a success in ways you think I've been a failure and a failure in what you take for granted I've succeeded in. I was such a waste while I was making all that money. I was so nothing, so nowhere. I couldn't sleep unless I had the light on and a couple of joints under my belt. I used to get these great travel jobs, traveling to these incredible places, and all I could see were the printed results I'd get out of it … what was going to look great in the dais. I didn't see the Sugarloaf in Rio, I saw an impressive backdrop for the clothes I was shooting. Oh, Carmela! I didn't see anything, I was so driven. So paranoid. I let myself fall in love with a vicious, megalomanic, woman-hating bastard just to satisfy my rotten self-image. And I was right. I was a total shit. I only started to come to myself, to love myself, when I was so broken down and lonely that even I had to feel sorry for me. The best I was was at my worst, with nothing. I just gave up, surrendered … and went out on my own. And it was only then that I found the courage to want to come home. So I am using you. I certainly am. But finally for the right reasons.”

Carmela was putting her hair in a braid. ‘“And it was then that I found the courage …' How moving. I suppose I'm supposed to feel sorry for you now, too. It must have been awful making all that money without having to take the subway for it. It must have really bent your artistic pride. This might be new to you but, you know, a lot of people never even
get
the chance to be a hack at their art. They wait tables.”

“Those are actors, Carmela.”

“So they shoot weddings.”

“Now what do you want? Me to feel guilty for being successful at what I hated anyway? I've got enough things I feel comfortable being guilty for. That's not one of them. Let me ask you something. Why the hell do you have such an attitude? Did I do something to you? What is it?”

“Oh, I don't know.” She sat back down on the bed.

The Mayor groaned. This night was going on forever. Would they never stop jabbering? He rolled over and broke calamitous wind.

They both held their heads in submissive meditation while the thunderous moment passed.

“I always play the bitch with you,” Carmela said. “I admit it. You always did bring out the worst in me. But I'm only sending out mixed signals. It's really not so bad that you're home. I mean, it could be worse.”

They sat watching each other fondly, warily. The rain battered down above their heads.

“I've got to sleep,” said Claire.

“And you won't forget my car?”

“No.”

“Good night, then.”

“Yeah. Night.”

Michaelaen sat up in his bed. What was that? It was raining so hard. He was in his own bed but those shadows made all kinds of funny shapes on the wall. You could never be sure. His heart beat swiftly in his narrow chest. They were supposed to go out for their meeting. There was going to be magic and everything. He slipped out of bed and went up to the window. Boy. It was really coming down. And he felt a little sniffly. No one was going out on a night like this. But he didn't want Mommy to get in trouble. He didn't want anyone to hurt Mommy. What was today? Was it Wednesday? He couldn't remember. If it was Wednesday Mommy was off nights. She'd be home. But if he went all the way down to her room and it wasn't Wednesday, no one would be there. Michaelaen gulped. It was better to take along his old blankie. You never knew if it might get cold. Or drafty. Or something. He found it, right where it always was, tucked underneath his toy chest. How he hated to go down this hallway. It was best to more or less skedaddle through. He raced with his rear end tucked up tight behind him and never looking right or left, just squint so you couldn't see too much and close your ears and hunch up, like.

Zinnie woke up quickly, a blink of an eye and she went from full sleep to full consciousness. This was a talent of cops and conscientious mothers, and of course she was both. Michaelaen slept alongside her most of the time when she wasn't on nights, the hell with what those psychs said in the books—what did they know, anyway? She'd arrested her share of them. Sure, they'd always gotten off, but you knew what you were dealing with. Professional loonies, half of them. She'd let her son sleep beside her as long as he needed her warmth. She smiled at the sweet-smelling body cradling into her arms. Oh Lord. This is what kept her from going over the edge. The things she saw at work! The people! If you could call them that. The things some of them did to their own kids. It made you want to be sick. It almost made you want to quit the whole deal and move out to the Island or up past Westchester. But not quite. Those people, their kids were just as hopped up as the kids in the neighborhoods. And the job, whatever it might be, it had its points. There was a feeling of camaraderie you weren't going to find somewhere else. Like that time one of their own took a bullet and they closed every street and intersection and even the bridge on the way to Saint Luke's. Fast. She'd had the entrance to the bridge and she'd stood there alone in the night in her uniform—that was back when she'd still been in uniform—and all of a sudden like a shot out of nowhere comes this speeding ambulance, over the bridge with no moment of hesitation, one of their own they were going to get taken care of, and save him they did, not a moment too soon they'd said later. And it made you feel good. Especially when the ambulance had been flying by and there you were holding back any interference. The little lights twinkling on the bridge there, and you knew that all the way there, there would be someone else to take over, like a chain. It was horrible. But it was beautiful, too. It had its own kind of grace. And you were part of it. It could give you a chill up your spine. She pulled Michaelaen closer still and buried her face in his tufty hair. His smell was all his own and she reveled in it. Like clover and gum. Water-pistol water from the plug. She closed her eyes. The Mayor, satisfied that all was well and everyone in their proper place, walked contentedly back down the hall.