The Donzerly Light (16 page)

They stood there, and they came together in a brotherly hug, an embrace maybe closer than that shared by blood relations. Because this coming together had been made. Made of their wants, their wishes, their dreams. Dreams that they all could just feel were coming true.

The Green machine had found its home. In this place, and in each other.

But there was one thing more to do. One thing before leaving. One more statement to make. An exclamation point to be put on their collective resignation. And since it was Jude who’d conceived it, and suggested it while they stood together, arms draped over one another’s shoulders, it was he who led the way, picking up their friend Jack as they left. “To the elevators, gentlemen.”

They passed the bottle around quickly on the short ride down, and when the elevator doors opened on fourteen and the Green Machine stepped onto the empty floor the bottle which Jude was holding by the neck was empty but for a skim of the brown liquid that had filled it. Empty, yes, but for a higher purpose.

“Shall we?” Jude asked, and slung his arm with the empty around Jay’s neck.

Jay nodded, a sophomoric grin cut upon his face. Cut upon all their faces as they trotted over to Stanley & Mitchell’s stately double front door and, after undoing their flies, whipped out the Johnson brigade and laid four steamy streams of piss on the entrance to the fat man’s lair.

Twelve

Some Dreams Deferred

Almost three weeks later the streak was still on.

It came in the change from meals, from purchases at the market, from change given to break a five, or a one, or two or three ones. It came in change accidentally dropped. From change laid on a counter to pay for coffee or a pack of gum.

And it always came. At least once a day without fail. And with the coins that would all show heads, there came the knowing.

And people came, too. Hungry for what Green Machine Partners could give them. For what a secret knowing they would scoff at could give them. They came, yes, and with them came their money.

And from their money came more money. And with said money came the possibilities that grew of things so green.

Things such as Apartment 1704 in the Riley House on Central Park West.

“It’s actually been reduced a little,” the Realtor told Jay and Carrie as they stood in the living room of the empty twelve room condo whose three thousand square feet and two balconies overlooked the green expanse of Central Park. “Down to one million six from one million eight,” she said, adding hopefully, “It’s available for immediate lease pending purchase.”

Carrie’s eyes flared involuntarily at the recitation of the price, and she turned away from the pleasant older woman in the burgundy blazer and whispered to Jay, “We can’t afford that.”

“Of course we can afford it,” he assured her in a normal tone that embarrassed Carrie and drew a tight, uncomfortable smile from the Realtor.

Jay walked toward one of the balconies, a seventy footer that connected the living and dining and music rooms on the outside. Carrie crossed her arms tight and caught up with him.

“Jay, we could buy ten houses in Floral Park for that amount of money.”

He stopped and looked at her. “This isn’t Floral Park,” he said coolly, then continued on to the glass doors that let onto the balcony. He opened them and walked out.

The Realtor hung wisely back, giving the young couple their space.

Carrie glanced back at the still smiling woman, then followed Jay onto the balcony, that part of her that was supportive and loving and nurturing saying, as always,
Love him, love him, love him.
And the him that she was telling herself to love, and support, was standing at the chest-high wall that penned the outdoor space, looking out over the park.

She, though, could only look sadly at the concrete and tile that was everywhere beneath her feet. “There’ll never be grass here.”

“There’s a sea of grass across the street, Carrie,” Jay told her without looking back.

“But it won’t be our grass.”

Jay turned to her, and looked at her, at the pitiful loss that seemed to be welling on her face, and then he walked past her and into the living room where the Realtor was waiting patiently. “We’ll take it.”

Carrie stayed on the balcony for a moment, wondering why he had said ‘we’ at all.

Third Interrogation

August 15...1:30a.m.

“We moved in two days later,” Jay told Mr. Wright. Then he paused. Thinking. Recalling the time. The feelings. Elation for him. Something else for her. “I picked a decorator who picked out the furniture, the paint, the art.” Something else indeed. “Carrie stood on the balcony a lot and stared at the park. I think now that maybe she wasn’t looking at the trees. I think she was looking at something farther off. Something lost.”

Mr. Wright seemed unimpressed with his prisoner’s newfound grasp of things past. “How insightful of you.”

Jay nodded at his captor. “I deserved that. I know.”

“What else do you know, Grady?”

“I know that I got busy, and she got left out. Fame came knocking and I answered.”

Thirteen

Going, Going...

“Come in, come in,” Jay said with all the grace and warmth of a man not yet tired of camera crews from national magazines invading his home. “Come right in.”

These photographers and their minions were from
Time
magazine, no reporter in sight since the wordly part of the story had been done at the office some days earlier.
People
, and the
Times
, and
Newsweek
had all been by to hear his tale and snap his picture already, and all had positively gushed at the place Wall Street’s golden boy now called home. The shutterbugs from
Time
were no different.

“Man, this is nice,” the one who seemed to be in charge commented, his pony tail flopping about as he sauntered into the living room and stood amongst the sleek new furniture all around, his attention drawn mostly to a lamp table at the end of the lavender leather couch. “This black lacquered table is going to positively
glooow
in the shot. Beautiful!”

“Terrific,” Jay said. The guy from
Newsweek
had thought the Darabene print above the mantle was dreamy, and the gal from
People
had drooled over the sculpted Italian marble hound’s head by the windows that let onto the balcony. The fellow from the
Times
had seemed most impressed with the big screen TV in the den, but in the end used a shot of Jay outside the building where Green Machine Partners was born. Everybody just loved the place and what he’d done with it.

Everyone but Carrie.

She stood now, as she had the other recent times their (
his his his
) new home was taken over to have lighting cables laid and flash umbrellas placed, back from the action, sometimes looking out at the park, sometimes gazing wonderingly at Jay, at her man, the hurt upon her face so clear that you might think she was ill. And in a way she was sick. Sick of this place, and these people, and sick of...sick of...

“I’m going out for a while,” she told him, grabbing her purse and stomping past on her way out, angry at so many things, pained by so much of what had happened, but most of all right then her heart was broken when he said not a thing to her and simply let her walk out the door.

“Okay, boys, I took the day off work,” Jay told them, beaming, glad she was gone. Things were better these days when she was not around. Less of a reminder of a mediocre old life, one he could hardly believe was once his anymore. One that Miss Carrie still clung to in hope and dream, for some reason, and what a waste of a dream
that
was, he thought. “So let’s make the shoot worth that. Okay?”

He settled into a chair nearby and let them do their thing, knuckles wrapping on his knee as he watched and waited, and not once did he look to the front door through which Carrie had left. Not once did he even want to.

The shoot was through at six, the photogs gone by half past that hour. Jay poured himself a glass of Jack and stretched out on the soft cool cushions of his three thousand dollar couch, closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds of the city as they spilled through the open balcony doors.

At seven, the front door opened, and then closed, and Jay heard a purse drop on the Travertine floor nearby. He opened his eyes and saw what he expected. Carrie was home. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“You’re back,” he said, and sat up so as not to be rude. Best not to be rude to the one you loved. Well, best just not to be rude.

She nodded and sniffled, and stood near the chair opposite the couch, her hand resting on its impeccably upholstered back. She had been crying, it was obvious, but at that moment she smiled. A small and futile smile. “I was sitting in the park, and I was thinking. Do you remember the Ferris wheel? At the fair when we were just out of ninth grade? We watched the fireworks, and it seemed like every time we got to the top the biggest rockets would go off. It was like we were supposed to be right there, right then. Together. You had your arm around me. My hand was on your knee.” Tears glistened her smiling eyes. “It was perfect.”

“What’s your point, Carrie?”

She drew the back of her hand across her nose. “My point is it’s not perfect anymore.”

“We’re adults, Carrie,” he informed her, taking a sip of Jack. “Things aren’t always perfect all the time.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But you don’t seem to care that it once was.”

Frustrated, Jay took a long belt of whiskey and set the glass down hard on the two thousand dollar leaded glass coffee table. “This is stupid, okay? All right. I’m sorry the photographers had to tramp in here, and I’m sorry the ones on Sunday knocked over a lamp, and—”

“Dammit, Jay!” She shouted, her fist thumping the chair by which she stood. “It’s not about the photographers or the reporters or the damn lamp they broke! I don’t care about that lamp! I
hated
that lamp! I hate everything in this place!
I hate this place!
”

And she stopped there, and closed her eyes for a moment to regain some calm, some composure. She hadn’t wanted to yell, to lose control. But she had. And Jay had heard her, loud and clear.

“Go on,” he said after the ringing of her outburst had died. “Am I next? Does your hate extend to me?”

“Hate you? I don’t know you enough to hate you anymore.”

“So what the fuck is this all about then, Carrie?”

“You, you blind, money hungry fool. It’s about you.”

He nodded dismissively. “Right. I see. I’m a fool because I want to do well. This is why you’re pissed off at me?”

“This has nothing to do with doing well, or being successful. It’s all about money to you. Money to buy things. This place, these...” She sneered at the room and its contents. “...ugly things you’ve put in here. Money for the sake of having money.”

He pointed harshly at her wrist. “Money bought you that bracelet, Carrie!”

She glared at him and ripped the gift from Tiffany’s off her wrist and threw it at him. It missed, sailing past his ducking head and crashing against the balcony window. “I didn’t want that! I didn’t need that! You gave it to me because it cost five thousand dollars!”

“Six thousand,” he corrected her as he sat straight again.

“You see, that’s it. I don’t care what it cost, but to you all it
is
is cost.” She stepped toward him, her face an imploring mask. “Jay, don’t you see what you’re doing? You have money, more money than you’ll ever need, but it still won’t be enough.”

“Enough? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” she said, and from the blank look on his face he had either learned how to act far better than ever or...or he had truly forgotten. But how could that be? How could he forget who he was? “I’m talking about the fact that being rich now can’t erase being poor when you were a child.”

He glared at her, his fists bunching against the sofa’s leather cushions. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?”

“I want to be a success and you...you want to make all kinds of shit out of it.”

“A success?” she challenged. “Measured how? By character? Respect?” She shook her head at him. “No, by dollars. By the stuff you call ‘green’.”

“So what?”

“So...” But she couldn’t communicate with him. Not who he was now, who he had become. But maybe she could touch what he was. The old Jay Grady. She went to him and knelt close to his feet and took one of his hands in hers. “Was poor all that bad, Jay? Was it? You had your mother, your father. You were together. It was tough, sure, but you had a family.”

He pulled his hand from her tender grasp. “What do you know about being poor?”

“My family didn’t have much money either, Jay. Times were hard for everyone.”

“Hard? Were they?” He stood and walked away from her, seething, then faced her once again, his face a rising tide of old pain and anger. “Tell me, when you were eleven did most of your folks’ farm get sold off at auction by a bunch of men in suits?” He waited briefly for a response, but none came. “No? Well, did a man from the Madison Merchants Bank tell your father he should have been a little less farmer and that much more businessman? Hmm? When you were eleven going on twelve was there still power coming down the pole at Christmas? Was it colder outside than inside at your house? Did you have to start killing the chickens that laid the eggs, just to eat? Hmm, Carrie Elizabeth Stiles, did any of that happen to you?” She rose from her knees and stood. “Did your father have to take a job sweeping up at the Miracle Dairy to try and hang onto the five acres the bank hadn’t foreclosed on? Did you have to go into town with your mother to try and barter some eggs for the back medicine your dad needed?” He paused, his eyes puddling with wet rage. “Did...did you ever have to wait in the car behind Chuck’s Filling Station while your mother went in to ‘talk’ with old Chuck about getting a few gallons of gas for the old Buick? Did you ever have to wonder how it was she got him to pump those few gallons with no eggs to barter and no money to pay, or why she always wiped her mouth a lot with the back of her hand and swallowed again and again and stared glassy-eyed at the road after driving away from the station?” A tear spilled down his cheek, then another. “Did your parents argue all the way into town one day while you sat in the back seat, wishing they would stop? Did your parents ever argue like that, Carrie, about little nothings because they were so damn embarrassed about having to go to the County Relief Office to ask for the first Goddamn bit of charity either of them had in their whole lives?” There was something in his gaze now, a distant madness glinting off the tears. “Tell me, were your parents driving home with that first fifty dollar relief check when a police car broadsided them in an intersection? Were your parents killed, Carrie? Did the front half of their car get sliced off in a collision and spin into a light pole? Hmm?! Did it?! Did your parents burn to death in the front of their old Buick while you screamed from where you’d been safely buckled in the back?! Did you?!” And she was crying now. Crying with him, for him. “Did your parents die for fifty damn dollars? Did they?”