Troika (22 page)

P
erla and I have just finished dinner, and we’re alone in the apartment—Norma having ostensibly left earlier to visit her very sick and very nonexistent cousin. It is nine at night, and I am tired both from our long walk in the park and from the intensity of this day. I ask Perla if she can help me on to the bed. I position my wheelchair at a slight angle to the bed and, despite my fatigue, use my arms to push the entire weight of my body off the chair. My legs dangle and swing like those of a jolly marionette, the tips of my toes brushing the wood floor. I can hold myself up for a few seconds, but I need someone, Perla, to guide me the foot or so over to the mattress. Perla leans forward and ducks her head low. She wraps her arms around my waist, then slides them up under my arms. It occurs to me that she has experience with this, that she is not a novice; Perla has loved someone who was either quite sick or hopelessly drunk.

Again, I am impressed by Perla’s strength. With neither a grunt
nor a wobble, she transfers me to the bed and rests me tenderly on my back. She covers me up and stands before me, her own fatigue apparent.

“You mind if I go to sleep, too?” she asks. “In that guest room from last night?”

“Of course, Perla.” She leans down, puts her arms around my shoulders and gives me something approximating a hug. Then she stands up straight, kicks her right heel in the air and, from just a couple of feet away, waves to me—an odd but adorable gesture from someone standing so close.

“Good night,” she says. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Perla.” And as she exits the room, I watch her move away from me—a sexy swagger in her gait. I think about Perla’s keen observation, how she noticed the impact that the little girl with the cotton candy had on me, how she extracted me from that painful setting. I think about Julian’s arms around her waist, about the pleasure that she—and not I—can give the man I love. I look down to my useless legs and curse myself for destroying not just my own life, but Julian’s too. For what kind of stupid girl declines a beautiful walk down a beautiful seaside lane with such a beautiful man? What kind of stupid fucking girl does something so fucking stupid?

There are times—and now is one of them—when I hate myself and want to die. Never have I had the courage to kill myself, to take the necessary and affirmative steps to ensure my own death. But tonight, I will do something that may guide me further along the continuum and, in the process, determine what type of girl this Perla really is.

I set the bedside alarm for one in the morning. I close my eyes and, as if I have not a single care, I pass seamlessly into sleep. When I am later awaken by the soothing chime of the alarm clock, I reach over to my left and lift a pillow. I toss it to the ground beside the
bed. I then grab another pillow and drop it to the floor next to the other pillow. I do this two more times until there is an imperfect, cushioned row on the floor. The pillows are misaligned and there are gaps through which the wood below is revealed. Still, there’s some cushion below extending the better part of the bed’s length. I eye the expensive jewelry on the dresser: my watch, earrings, a diamond-and-sapphire brooch.

My plan is this. I shall push myself up on to my right side. It will take me some time to do this, as turning on my side—for reasons having to do with angles and leverage—is harder than maneuvering out of the chair. Once I am on my side, I shall peer down to the pillow-covered floor below. With my left arm, I shall push off, creating momentum that carries my body toward the side of the bed. I shall rock back and forth several times, gaining speed as I go. Eventually, I shall pass that tipping point and my left shoulder will rotate forward, carrying the rest of my body with it. I shall fall off the side of the bed and crash to the ground, the pillows partially breaking my fall, but my body, my head, my face may be exposed to the wood between and around the pillows.

Depending upon which part of my body misses the pillows and hits the floor, I may feel pain. If it is my lower body, then there will be no pain—just bruises and scrapes and possibly a broken bone. If it is my upper body that hits, I may have those things as well, but accompanied by severe pain. There I shall lie, in a paralyzed crumpled mass, awaiting Perla’s response to this manufactured tragedy. I wonder if she will seize the opportunity of my total incapacitation to rob the place. Or will she take no action, just sit in the chair and watch me die, thinking about how she’s going to redecorate the apartment once she has replaced me? Will she recoil at the pathetic horror of my deformed body in its soiled diaper and, rather than assist me, gather her things and flee? Will she make a sincere effort to help, then
cradle me while calling emergency, comforting me until the medics arrive? Or will she do something else? Something entirely different.

Using my left hand, I push down on the mattress and lift my shoulder off the surface, extending my arm stiff and straight until my body has turned over on its right side. I rock back and forth, back and forth, riding along the fulcrum that is my shoulder and hip, until my body gains enough speed and carries all of my weight over the edge of the bed. My body hits the ground in an odd way, such that my head and shoulders go first—which is the opposite of what I had hoped. The right side of my head misses the highest pillow and cracks with terrific force into the floor. My skull bounces off the wood like a bag of fruit and lands again on the floor. My shoulder slams into the hard surface, and the pain drives across my neck, across to the other side of my body. Soon, my legs follow, and I watch the two lazy ropes of wet dough slide off the mattress and land in the center of the pillows below.

My right cheek rests on the cool floor. I am in agony. I moan loudly, a signal for Perla to save me. I open my eyes and wait, but I see and hear nothing. Where is she? Where are the sounds of her movement? Surely, I think, she would have heard the crash and my call for help. And then a terrifying thought occurs to me, one that I foolishly had not considered prior to this dangerous stunt: Perla is already gone, escaped earlier in the night. Smart girl. Julian was right.

I look over to the phone, which is beyond my reach, and I wonder if I have suffered internal injuries. I wonder if I am bleeding from within, if I shall die before Julian returns from D.C. I wonder if my death will be ruled an accident or a suicide. Or if—something I had not foreseen—Perla will be suspected in my death. And I wonder if the circumstances of my demise will, for any number of reasons, prevent Julian and Perla from being together. Or if they will now be free to share a spectacular life.

I
’m sleeping so deep in the comfy bed and I’m having a dream about what looks like Cuba, but could really be anywhere, and what happens but I get woken up by a big noise. I’m not used to this city, so who knows what it could be. I’m wide-awake now, staring at the ceiling and a little scared. I listen real close for another big boom, but it’s quiet now, so I figure it’s just nothing and try to get back to sleep. Then a few minutes later I hear something else. I hear a groan and some crying and I think
oh
,
fuck
,
Sophie
’
s hurt
. That’s the first thing I think, and I’m out of bed and in her room in a second and what I see is horrible.

Sophie’s on the ground and her body’s in a real odd shape. Her upper half is going in one direction and her lower half the other, and it looks like she’s a broken doll. She’s wearing a top but her bottom’s naked and I guess her diaper got knocked off in the fall, ’cause it’s right there next to her on the floor, open and filled with her stuff. I
kneel down next to her to get a good look, brush the hair away from her face. She’s got blood running out of her nose and her lips are swollen and I have no idea if she’s still breathing. I put my fingers on her neck, right under her jaw, and it turns out she’s got a pulse. Not much, but still a little beat.

I look around the room. On the dresser there’s a sculpture of a lion, it’s made of green stone, jade I think, with jewels in the eyes, and next to it there’s Sophie’s fancy watch and some jewelry, gold with diamonds and blue stones that must be sapphires. I look at Sophie and her eyes are still closed with blood all over her face. I look back to the dresser, then down to the end table where the phone is.

I jump up and grab the phone, call 911 and tell them I just found Sophie hurt bad, she’s paralyzed from the waist down, but that was from before, and I’m alone in the apartment and need some help real fast. I hang up the phone, hold on to her hand and pray hard that she doesn’t die. Now, there’s lots of reasons I don’t want Sophie to die. I don’t want her to die ’cause it wouldn’t be right for Julian to suffer any more. And also ’cause I sort of like her, even though I’ve only known her for a day and a night. And I don’t want
anyone
to die, except that guy who fingered me at the club.

I’m holding on to her real tight. Sophie, Sophie, I’m begging. I start screaming help as loud as I can, hoping maybe a neighbor hears me or the doorman or someone who works in this goddamn building who’s not too fucking busy polishing the brass poles. But I guess ’cause the apartment’s so big and the walls so thick, nobody can hear me. In my neighborhood in Miami, everyone’s right on top of each other, the windows open, music playing, kids laughing. So there’s not much privacy, and that’s the way we like it. Real social. But nobody’s coming to help me now, and I think that’s one of the problems with being so rich—nobody can hear you scream.

There’s blood all over the floor. Sophie’s eyes are open now,
flickering real fast, and I’m nervous ’cause that’s exactly what you see in the movies right before someone dies. I don’t know how long it’s been since I called emergency, could be a minute, could be five. And then I hear some noise in the hallway, a door opening, and I scream help, help, we’re in the bedroom. Someone’s running toward us now and I turn around to the door, and standing right there just a few feet away is Julian. Now, he’s not supposed to be back until the morning, so boy, am I happy to see him.

Thank God, I scream, thank God. Sophie’s hurt, I don’t know what happened. I just heard a big noise and ran in and she was right here on the floor. I hold up the phone—there’s blood all over it—and say I called 911 and they’re on the way. Julian runs toward me, toward us, and I stand up to get out of his way. He kneels down next to Sophie, throws himself down to the floor next to her really, and cradles her head with one hand, wipes the blood from her face with the other. He presses his lips against hers. Baby, baby, he’s weeping.

Then he puts a pillow under her head and lays her down real careful. Give me the phone, he yells, and I hand it to him. But it’s all slippery and covered in blood and he drops it on the floor, picks it up real fast and calls 911, says we’ve got an emergency, I need an ambulance and the police. Then a pause, and Julian says to the operator oh, you already got a call? I don’t say a thing, but I’m thinking that I already told him I called emergency, so maybe he didn’t hear me right. And I’m also wondering what we need the cops for. Julian hangs up the phone and strokes Sophie’s face, just keeps saying baby, baby, and I’m standing a few feet away not sure what to do with myself.

As he’s holding her, he turns to me and tells me to get some towels from the bathroom and fill up a few plastic bags with ice. I’m out and back in a flash and I got a stack of fresh towels and two bags of
ice. Julian pats the cuts on her face with a towel, then wraps up the cold bag and holds it to the bump on Sophie’s forehead. I’m squatting right next to them with a washcloth in one hand and ice in the other, and that’s when something strange happens. Julian looks at Sophie, then at me, and there’s a change in him. I can see it on his face first, then he says real accusing, what happened, Perla? What did you do to her? What are you even
doing
here?

Well, I look at him for a sec, then stand up and back away ’cause even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this, I don’t like his tone. What did I do to her? I didn’t do anything to her, Julian. We went for a walk in the park, then Norma had to go ’cause her cousin got sick and Sophie asked me to stay until you got back. I was sleeping,
we
were sleeping, and then I heard a big noise and came running in here. Sophie was right there on the floor,
right there
, blood everywhere, and the first thing I did was call emergency. Then you walked in.

Julian shakes his head like he’s disgusted and tells me to grab a couple of pillows, slip them under Sophie’s legs while he lifts them up. And just as I get the pillows positioned right under her legs, a radio goes off loud in the hallway—a police radio—and the whole emergency crew pours in. I jump up and clear out of the way, right against the wall, so they can get to her. There’s two guys working at the same time, checking her pulse, her eyes with a little flashlight, strapping an oxygen mask to her face. Those medics are so fast and they get her on a stretcher in no more than a couple minutes. And as they’re taking her out of the room, Julian gives me a stare that’s all blank and distant and maybe even final. Then he points at me and says officer, you’ll want to talk to this woman because I don’t know what she’s doing here at this hour, alone with my wife, and there’s a damn good chance she’s got something to do with this.

Well, that’s the last thing I’m expecting, and I gasp real loud. But
before I can even get one word out, Julian and the medics are out of the room and rushing Sophie to the elevator. Next thing I know, a cop steps toward me. I hold up my hands, which still have a bit of red from the blood, and say easy, easy, I didn’t do a thing. He says I just want to ask you a few questions. Your name, date of birth, home address, your occupation. I tell him everything except my job, and when he finishes writing down all my info he says again, your occupation? What’s your
job
? I’m in the entertainment business. What kind of entertainment? I pause. Dancer, I whisper, and he gives me a little smile, which is real inappropriate given what’s going on.

So tell me, ma’am, what happened? I explain how I was staying over, how Sophie asked me to spend the night, how I heard a big noise and ran in, called 911. Then he asks me how I know the Pravdins. The truth? You’re not supposed to lie to the police, he says. Which is sort of funny ’cause the only people who think you shouldn’t lie to the police are the police. Me and Julian got a little thing going, I say.
Had
a little thing going. And that’s when his eyes light up and they might as well be a big neon sign that’s blinking
motive
,
motive
,
motive
. I know enough people who got in trouble with the law to see where this is going, and I can feel myself getting sweaty and a little pissed off that I even have to explain myself.

You were alone when Mrs. Pravdin fell? Yes. And when you called emergency, was anyone else in the apartment, other than her? Just me, we were alone. He sizes me up and down, not like a construction worker when you walk by a site, but like someone who’s trying to make a decision. Okay, then I think you’re going to have to come give a statement, he says, explain all this to a detective, and he reaches for my elbow. Now, I don’t like a man touching me, unless it’s on my terms and I’m getting paid for it. And I’m in a bad state with everything that’s happening, and something about him reaching for my elbow when I’m in the right makes me feel a little
violated and angry and without thinking, just pure impulse, I pull my arm away and say don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare!

Well, that’s all a cop needs, just a little hostility—failure to obey an order, they call it—and he pulls a pair of cuffs off his belt, dangles them in the air. Why don’t you just turn around real slow, he says, and it’s clear to me that this guy isn’t fooling around. So I do just that, turn around real slow and press my palms together behind my back, like I’m praying to the ground. I’m the one who called 911 in the first place! I plead. And the cop laughs so loud, like he’s heard that line a thousand times and says to me lady, lots of times people call it in themselves just to make it look like they’re innocent. Now, with my kind of job there’s no end to the amount of stupid shit you hear, no end, but this idea about reporting a crime to get
out
of a crime is just about the dumbest thing I ever heard. And I’m about to tell him just that, how stupid that sounds, but I figure now’s not the time to get into a big debate.

I feel the cold metal against my skin, then the click of the cuffs. I look around the room and see the pillows on the floor and the jewelry on the dresser, that shower bed in the corner and a smudge of blood on the wall. I close my eyes and picture my dad. I pray to him. Forgive me, Dad, forgive me. ’Cause I fucked up good this time.