The Waiting Room (15 page)

She looked confused. She sat in the rocking chair again, put her head back, started rocking. "Maybe it's someone giving money away, Sam. ‘Dialing for Dollars,' or something." She chuckled. "Answer it and see. Maybe you're an instant millionaire." Her chuckle broadened, grew louder, stopped abruptly.

The phone continued to ring.

She went on, "Maybe a maiden aunt left you her entire estate—three cats and a philodendron." A chuckle; the phone rang again. "Maybe it's the phone company checking to make sure that
you're
who you say you are, Sam." A chuckle. Again the phone rang.
"Are
you who you say you are?" She continued to rock, slowly, steadily, her head back, hands on the arm of the rocking chair.

"It's a wrong number, just a wrong number," I said.

"Yes, Sam, I'm sure it is. But my adrenaline really is pumping now. It's making me lightheaded."

The phone rang, again, and again, and again. "And I'm just dying to find out if you've won something on ‘Dialing for Dollars.' You could be a celebrity, Sam." She chuckled. "An instant celebrity, an instant thousand-dollar winner." Another chuckle; the phone continued to ring; she continued to rock steadily, as if in time with her heartbeat. "Answer the phone, Sam. Please answer the phone. I'm going to faint if you don't answer the fucking phone."

"Who are you?" I said.

She said nothing. She continued to rock.

I was standing five feet in front of her; the phone, still ringing, was just to my right. I reached out, picked it up, snapped, "Hello!"

"Sam?" I heard. "It's me, Leslie. What happened, Sam?"

The woman in the rocking chair started to change. It was a subtle change at first, and slow, like milk in its first stages of going sour.

But then, as quick as ice breaking, her chuckle became a coarse and brittle laugh. It ended in midnote.

Leslie said, "Sam? What's wrong? Sam? Are you there?"

The woman in the chair stiffened up. Her hands on the arms of the chair grew rigid and clawlike. Her mouth stuck open an inch; her eyes became round and white and dull, like the eyes of a puppet.

On the phone, Leslie demanded, "Answer me, Sam!"

Then, all at once, the room was bathed in the smell of rotten wood, like the smell of a damp cellar that's been closed for too long, and I put my hand to my mouth and nose and felt my stomach turn over.

The woman oozed between the slats on the back of the rocking chair like Jell-0.

I dropped the phone and backed away, toward the door. I heard the soft
plop, plop
of the woman's body as piece by soft piece it oozed between the slats of the rocking chair and hit the rug.

The smell of rotten wood grew overpowering.

I backed into the door, turned, released the chain lock, and ran from the apartment.

Abner said, "She thinks she's being funny, Sam. She thinks she's entertaining you. She's a comedian." I'd followed him into his kitchen and was sitting at the table. He was searching in his cupboards—which were quite well stocked, as if in anticipation of a hurricane—for something sweet to have with his coffee. "Kind of a habit I got into," he explained. "Would you like some coffee, Sam?"

"No, I don't want any coffee! What the hell are you talking about—'she's a comedian'? What is that supposed to mean, Abner? For God's sake, talk to me."

He rummaged in another cupboard, he glanced around at me and smiled a little. When he smiles, his deep-set eyes seem to go even deeper because his cheeks push up. He said, "You're really agitated aren't you, Sam?"

I shook my head in disbelief. "You drag me into
hell
with you, and you have the balls to ask if I'm agitated about it!"

He began rummaging in his cupboard again. "No. It's not hell. I don't think there is a hell. I could be wrong, of course." He glanced around, smiled playfully, added, "I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken."

"Good Lord," I whispered. "You were pulling that one in high school, Abner."

He looked confused. "Was I? I don't remember."

"Just tell me what you know about this woman."

He found a box of brownie mix in the cupboard, studied it a moment, put it back. He continued rummaging. "I don't know anything about her. I'm only guessing. But I'd guess she's the same one who was on the ferry with you—"

"She couldn't be."

He looked at me, surprised. "Why not?"

"Because they simply were not the same woman. One looked like Leslie, I told you that—she looked exactly like Leslie."

He found a box of Jell-O, studied it, put it back. "If she could look like Leslie, she could look like anyone. Hell, she could look like me." Another smile, broad and teasing.

"Don't make me nervous, Abner."

"I don't want to make you nervous, Sam. I just want to"—his eyes got very wide and round—"open your eyes." He laughed. "It's the only way to cope. It's the only way to go on . . . existing. By keeping your eyes open, by accepting nothing for what it seems to be, unless you
know
in here"—he thumped his chest—"that it's what it seems to be. And you'll find there's damned precious little that you
know
in here." Again he thumped his chest. "She was a comedian, Sam. The world's full of comedians, living and dead, it doesn't matter much, except when they're dead the…
 
special effects"—he grinned-- "get a heck of a lot more interesting." A short pause. "I remember going into this bar on East 79th Street—"

"And what if I don't want to cope," I cut in. "What if I don't want to spend the rest of my life dodging shadows—"

"Oh, shit, Sam, you won't spend the rest of your life
dodging shadows.
This thing you've got is
temporary,
remember?! Temporary. That's what Madeline says, and whatever else can be said about Madeline, she does know her stuff." A pause; I started to ask who the hell Madeline was, because it wasn't the first time he'd mentioned her, of course, but he cut in, ."And Christ, they aren't
shadows,
Sam. They're a hell of a lot more substantial than that."

"So," I suggested, "what if I don't want to spend the rest of my life dodging
spooks,
then?" I jumped to my feet, felt my pulse racing in my ears. I leaned over, suddenly dizzy, put my hands on the table. Abner came over, put a hand on my arm. "Are you all right, Sam?"

I shook my head. "And what if I don't want to cope? What if I want
out?
What if I want to see only what everyone else sees?" I looked into his eyes. "What then, Abner?"

He stepped back. He had a box of pudding mix in his hand; he put it on the table, tapped it with his forefinger, and shook his head slowly. "I've asked myself the same question a million times, Sam." He continued tapping on the box. "I don't think I ever really meant it. I mean, I've got kind of a special interest in what goes on in . . . that world, don't I? I'm in love, and that helps me to cope."

"Just answer my question, Abner. Later, if you want to talk to me about your love life, then we'll talk about your love life, but for now, just answer my question."

He picked up the box of pudding and took it back to the cupboard where he'd found it. He said, his back turned, "I've told you before, Sam. You see what you see because you want to see it. In a way, I guess you invite it. As I do. Maybe you're not aware of it. Maybe you'll deny it seven ways to Sunday. But that woman came into your house"—he glanced around at me—"because you wanted her to come in. It's the same reason those girls came into your bedroom."

"Horseshit! Why in the hell would I want two giggling girls in my bedroom in the middle of the night?"

He laughed shortly. "That's not for me to say, my friend. I guess it depends on how well you know yourself, doesn't it?"

I didn't answer him. I was still angry, my pulse was still racing in my ears, but I wasn't sure
why
I was angry, or at whom. I went to the back door. The shade was down. I lifted it and stared out at the hulking, dark shapes of the dunes. I could faintly hear the ocean; the sound was comforting. "And when I stop
wanting
to see?" I said. "What happens then?"

Abner answered immediately, "Like I told you, Sam, this
talent
you've got is temporary. I don't know when it will go away. Soon, I hope. Then your life will return to normal, and you'll see only what everyone else sees. That's what Madeline tells me."

The sound of the ocean grew steadily and slowly louder, as if a wind were building.

Abner said, "What's that noise, Sam?"

"The ocean," I answered.

He closed the cupboard door softly, came over to me by the back door. "Wind's picking up, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, "the wind's picking up."

"Maybe you should go now, Sam. I really think you should go." I looked quizzically at him. He went on, "You won't like it here in a storm. This is not a pleasant place to be in a storm."

"I, wasn't aware that it was ever pleasant here, Abner."

He looked hurt. He took the shade I was holding, drew it up, leaned over, peered out. "It's going to be bad," he whispered. Then he straightened and looked earnestly at me. "I mean it, Sam. There's no reason for you to be here, so why don't you go? You can take my car again. Just please bring it back tomorrow, okay?"

Behind heavy white curtains, the windows to the left and right of the door began whining under the gathering wind. Abner drew the shade closed; he looked suddenly very agitated. He went to the sink and stood at it with his back to me, his hands gripping the sink hard, arms straight and stiff. Then he turned, got a backward grip on the sink, so his arms were still straight and stiff, and smiled a flat, false smile. "Please leave, Sam." His voice was tense and high-pitched. "Remember how I warned you before, about coming here?"

"Sure," I said.

"Well, I'm warning you again. This is not a pleasant place to be in a storm. It's very unpleasant, in fact. And I really . . ." He paused; his head fell forward, as if he were dizzy. He looked up. "For heaven's sake, get
out
of here, Sam! Get out of here, please!"

"No," I said.

The windows whined louder; the heavy curtains moved slightly. I said, "Where' would I go? I can't go back to my apartment; I sure as hell can't go back there. Besides, like you told me before—you need a friend here." I shrugged. "So I'll stay."

He glanced nervously at the windows, then at me. "I've changed my mind, Sam. I don't need anyone here. Really. That's the truth. I want you to go—I'm telling you to go."

The house shook. The whining at the windows became constant and loud. "No," I said. "I like ocean storms; I've always liked ocean storms."

He was still at the sink, still had his hands on it. He closed his eyes, raised his head a little, and screamed at me, "You can't stay here, Sam—my God, you can't stay here!"

The whining at the windows grew erratic. Abner opened his eyes and looked about as if confused. The whining stopped, started, stopped. The wind died. A long sigh came from him. "Thank God," he said.

~ * ~

After we have been apart for a few days, Leslie and I approach each other with incredulity and caution. I'm not sure why. I said to her once, "It's as if we have to draw the curtains aside." She nodded. She agreed. "It's as if," I wrote to her, "we can't really believe what we have and so we sniff around it for a while to be sure it's real. And when we find out that it is, we touch and grin and hug in the way that we do," which means urgently, with fun and pleasure.

It's like meeting someone at an airport. Airports are full of good feeling—they are places where people take their masks off, however briefly, and let their love come out.

So it's as if we are always meeting each other at airports, always waiting for the arrival of the people we were the last time we were together.

In the real world—in what passes for the real world, at any rate—things are almost always what they seem to be. A mailman coming down the street with a bag under his arm is almost always just a man delivering mail. A window washer poised thirty stories up on a tether is only a window washer. A man wearing a dark suit and carrying a cane who tells us where we should and should not park the car is usually just someone who can't mind his own business. And a storm that comes up, makes some brief noise, and dies is usually just a fit of the weather.

That's very close to the way things are in the world that Abner drew me into. Most of the time, things are precisely what they seem to be. It is a world of sun, and sky, and earth, of streetlamps, telephone poles, garbage trucks, Dear John letters, and mistletoe. It's a world where people fall in and out of love, where people lie to each other and whisper to each other and shout at each other. A world of B-1 bombers and political parties, personal computers, and hayrides. A world where pets are buried, and trees fall, and spring slides into summer. But it is also a world whose rules can change from one moment to the next, a world where the mailman may evaporate or the mistletoe slither off across the ceiling, a world where the same tree may fall again and again and again.