Park Lane South, Queens (9 page)

No, let's face it. You couldn't beat where you were from if you were after sorting yourself out, untangling the web of who you were, beneath the influence of all the world. Hadn't Swamiji told her just that when he'd seen her off at the bus depot? They'd sat together and scarfed down three or four
masala dosa
between them. Swami had licked his fingers and bobbed his head this way and that with pleasure and they'd both drunk still another nice black tea. It had struck her as so absurd to see him sitting there in the dusty hubbub after the tinkling quiet of his small walled garden, but then he was a very unusual swami, not megalomaniac at all like the others she'd investigated. He was a good little swami. Kind. A little bit of St. Francis what with all the broken down animals he had recovering at the ashram. Which is what might have accounted for his lack of popularity with the Western truth seekers. They tended to go more for the well-swept ashrams. No, he was not grand at all except for deep in his heart. Rather a catholic sort of swami, if one looked at it in the old Mediterranean way. Gee, she missed her dear, smelly little fellow with his magical eyes. She wondered what he'd make of the murder. “Well, well,” he would say, “veddy bad. But would it be better if we did not know about it? No. Certainly not. And if we know, must we not do something about it? Certainly. If only to pray. Well, well. And so we shall pray.”

Claire bent her head and repeated a couple of well-chosen mantras. When she looked up the sky was moving to the north, and so did she. It hadn't been easy to leave Swamiji. And only much later had she realized that it had not been easy for him to instruct her to go. Any Western woman was a boon to an ashram. And Claire especially had been nice for him to have around. She was tidy, for one thing. Best of all she'd shared his love of plants and helped him to categorize and bottle herbs. But it wasn't until Delhi and the outdated Western music piped into the airport lounge—“… you always smile but in your eyes your sorrow shows,”—that she knew he had loved her. Well. She'd loved him, too.

Claire passed the Holy Child Grammar School, where she'd gone as a child. She and Michael used to ride to school and park their bicycles right against that very chain link fence. She hung her head and crossed the road toward the church. A lovely old place it was, orange-bricked and landscaped in green, early Spanish Mission style mostly, but with Roman effects: flabbergasting stained glass and cathedral-like heights. There was a dark and hollow coolness to it, not unlike the Baths of Istanbul. She thought she might go in, just to sit down in the darkness and get out of the heat for a moment, but there seemed to be a funeral going on. Wasn't it awfully early for a funeral? She walked around the corner to the front. How horrible those black hearses were. Eerie, like that in front of the low-hanging gray sky. Claire stood stock still. She poised her camera. The doors of the church drew open and a swarm of people suddenly filled the tall steps. There were so many that they toppled onto one another. A stout young woman in black keeled over the white coffin and passed out. There was a great deal of jostling, someone was yelling, and almost all of them were in tears above the small white coffin.

Then it hit her. It was the child who had been murdered. They must have upped the hour of the mass to avoid the media. There was no shortage of cops. Twelve of them, she counted. And the captain. Very grand looking with gold braid and hair parted cleanly by a razor. Cops were used to funerals, weren't they? Claire stood there, hypnotized through the lens, but she couldn't bring herself to shoot. She had the perfect angle and the right long lens and she knew she'd make the cover of the
Post
in a minute, but there was no way she could shoot that wailing herd as they moved toward her. No way. If there was one thing that she had learned from life it was that you did not make your fortune from the private agonies of victims. You just didn't. If there was any sense to the world, to her own existence, it wasn't going to come from giving life to that picture. Some things, Claire knew, just weren't worth being paid for. She lowered the camera.

Several people, those daily churchgoers who had no relation to the funeral but who stood around caught up in the drama, watched her curiously. One nervous-looking young man with red hair made a move as though he were coming over to say something, perhaps chastise her for her camera, but he changed his mind and turned away. The cries from the murdered child's mother echoed horribly through the vestibule. Then thunder rolled not too far off. No doubt it was raining already over Manhattan.

Claire headed home. There was no traffic on Myrtle Avenue. There never was. Just the shiny trolley line still taking off in both directions. Lord, the cries of that poor woman! How did Zinnie do it? She saw pain like that all the time. And worse. No, there couldn't be much worse than that. In Richmond Hill, no less.

The nearer Claire got to her block, the more those spider webs were noticeable. The old Queen Ann houses looked, in the overcast, almost vaporous. If she shot with a breath-steamed lens it would look downright enchanted. She finished the whole roll of film standing there by the mailbox. This was what she wanted, wasn't it, the romanticism of her reality. Finding beauty right where it was. No more robbing the East … no more hupla onto a plane to go look for legendary sights: … the faceless Buddhas of Bāmiān … or the islands of the Maldives, sprouting up like jade mushrooms in a perfect turquoise sea. How many other photographers had shot those jewels before and after her? And what had they become, exquisite cigarette placards? No, this—this was it right here. It would have to be. It was, after all, what she wanted. Hers. No one else's. As for her blubbery middle, there were a variety of steps she could take. She could stop eating altogether. But then of course she'd smoke nonstop. No, she'd have to find a more gymnastic approach. Swimming? Swimming would be ideal except that she had no car to carry her to and from the beach. And the thought of swimming in an indoor pool left her limp with apprehension. No, swimming was out. Tennis was too expensive. What did one do without money? One jogged. Claire quickened her pace with a breast-rattling jiggle. It was not the most difficult of sports. She checked an impulse to light a cigarette as she walked along figuring all this out. It wouldn't hurt to be fit. She'd been postponing it so long now that she wondered if she was convinced she'd fail. Nonsense. She wasn't a child. Or had she turned back into one when she'd come home? She certainly had reverted to her adolescent messy self. Just look at her unmade bed and the lump of clothing she'd left on the floor.

She would change. She would change everything about herself. She wasn't doing anyone any good in this suspended state of trying not to worry about things. If one wanted to worry, one should get on with it so as to go on from there. What was it Swamiji used to say? “Curl up inside fear to find surrender. Then defend your right to overcome.” Claire smiled to herself. Perhaps it would work out after all.

“Hi,” she said as she came in the back door. “What's the matter?” Mrs. Dixon and her mother sat morosely at the kitchen table. Zinnie, just home from her midnight shift, hung over the counter with a tall glass of iced coffee and a case of bloodshot eyes.

“It's the Mayor,” said Zinnie. “He's grounded.”

Claire looked at the dog on the floor. He raised his brown eyes to her and gave a minor salutory flick of his tail.

“He got a ticket,” said Mrs. Dixon.

“For doing it on von Lillienfeld's front lawn,” sighed Mary.

“A hundred bucks,” said Zinnie. “Wait till Dad finds out.”

“The thing was,” Mary sulked, “that we were warned. I mean, that's what your father will say. Everyone knows you're not allowed out without your pooper scooper or a good brown paper bag and a leash. It's just that the Mayor is so
used
to being out on his own. Poor pooch.”

“Poor Pop,” Zinnie said. “A hundred clams.”

“And there's nothing to be done,” said Mrs. Dixon as she hurled yet another sugar rock into her coffee sludge, “It's territorial, you know. You can't stop that in dumb animals. He lusts after her poodle.”

“I saw the officer out there,” Mary shook her head and laid each finger on her breast. “I saw him and I thought, oh boy, somebody's going to get a ticket. But I thought it would be for parking. You know how they slink about checking for outdated registrations and too many inches from the indiscernible curb. Sure, that's their bread and butter.”

“Traffic,” snarled Zinnie. “Regular cops wouldn't be bothered. They'd just give you a warning.”

“I was out in the yard hanging Michaelaen's clean laundry—”

“Where is Michaelaen?” asked Claire.

“Down at the store with your father. I was out in the yard watching this officer and not even thinking about the Mayor. Well, if the truth be known, I did sorta see 'im outa the corner of me eye like. But I thought he'd take off toward the trestle the way he normally does. Don't ask me why he chose to come lumbering back to me this particular mornin'. You know the way he is, he's got no use for me unless it's five and he's droolin' after his dinner. He never notices me in the mornin' as a rule. But wouldn't you know the officer comes marching over, as efficient as you please, and says, ‘That your dog, ma'am?' Now what was I to say?”

“You could have said no and gone into the house,” Zinnie said.

Mary shrugged helplessly. “I couldn't deny my own dog. Sure that would be denying one of your own.”

They all turned silently to look at the Mayor. Clearly penitent, he sighed with them in unison.

“Anyway,” Mary's tone changed, “I did try to sneak into the house, but the dog came wollypoggely up to me, happy as good-all to see me.”

“I tried to help her out of it,” Mrs. Dixon said. “I came running over, didn't I?”

“That you did.”

“Did you tell him that Zinnie was on the job?” Claire asked.

“Sure, Mrs. Dixon told him that. He didn't care, though. Heartless man. And not at all proud of his uniform! Ice pop stains all over his front. Grape, no less. And we, law-abiding citizens in every other respect. Oh, wait till your father hears this one.”

“It was von Lillienfeld who went and reported the dog, you mark my words,” Mrs. Dixon scraped her chair along Mary's good linoleum. “Nobody else has that much brass. She's a bad one. Shut up in there like some old witch.”

“Now,” Mary wailed, “he won't be able to go out at all without his leash. Come to think of it, I don't even know where we've put the old thing, it's been so long since he's had it on. And haven't I better things to do with my day than to have to go traipsing here and there after a dog who's used to being everywhere at once?”

“Well, I'm not walkin' 'im,” Zinnie said firmly. “He won't walk anyhow. He just sniffs in one spot if you've got him on a leash.”

“And how would you know that?” Mary doubled her chin. “As if you've ever walked him!”

“I passed by the church,” Claire changed the subject. “The funeral for that little boy was going on.”

“No fooling? Already? That must have been mobbed. Did you go in?”

“Uh-uh. I just caught them coming out onto the steps. It was really awful.”

Mrs. Dixon stood up heavily. She didn't want to talk about that again. “I think I'll be off,” she said.

“Oh, and thank you again, Mrs. Dixon,” Mary gave her her face of holy sympathy, “—thank you for helping me with the officer.”

Mrs. Dixon winked and closed the door.

Mary eyed the scrape in her linoleum.

“Not that she helped you any,” Zinnie said.

“Oh, hush. She means well. She hasn't much to do now, with Mr. Dixon gone.”

Zinnie gnawed at her thumbnail. “I really feel like walking over there and giving von Lillienfeld a piece of my mind. The frustrated old bitch!”

“Now you don't know if it was she who called,” Mary warned.

“Come on, ma. Don't be naive!”

“I'd rather be naive than judgmental and presumptuous. Conjecture is the ignorant man's tool.”

“Look. He poops there every day, doesn't he? Who else would have a reason to call? And that brownie didn't show up here without somebody calling.”

Claire looked up. “Does he really? Every day?”

Mary sniffed. Zinnie stuck her face in the fan.

“I'd better get Michaelaen's shirts off the line.” Mary heaved herself up. “It looks like it's ready to pour.”

“Want some coffee, Claire?” Zinnie asked when she had gone. “You look all done in.”

“I hit the bourbon last night. And you don't look particularly fresh yourself.”

“I had a collar. Nice one. Took an uzi away from a six-foot black.”

“A coon?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“I mean calling a guy a coon.”

“Oh.” Claire felt her face redden. “I just meant … I mean there are blacks and there are coons. I was thinking more of the apparition than of the choice of words. As a matter of fact, I thought cops talked like that.”

“Maybe they do. Maybe I even used to. I mean, I did. Maybe I just grew up, you know. Like when I started living on a higher level.”

“Touché.”

“You're welcome. Look. My partner's black. He wouldn't let nuthin' happen to me. He's a real hot shot. You understand? When it comes to backup, he's right there. Okay?”

“Yes. And I'm sorry.”

“Hey. It's all right. You saw the funeral, eh?”

“Mmm. I saw them put the coffin into the limo. It was white.” She looked sadly at Zinnie. “You should have seen the poor mother.”

“I wish Daddy would get back with Michaelaen. I hate to go to sleep without seeing him.”

“He'll be back, don't worry. People don't die just because
you
love them, you know.”