Trouble Page 18

  “Let go of my fucking—let go.” He yanked at her ears, pressed her throat again. “I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

  “You’re losing your property,” she said with a nod. He turned to see a guy picking up his backpack.

  “Hey,” Jonah yelled. “That’s mine.”

  The guy looked at him, at Eve, and walked on, dropping the backpack in the gutter.

  “Always looking out for you,” she said.

  He spoke into her ear. “Enjoy this,” he said, “because it’s going to be the last time.” Then he slammed his elbow into her temple. She went loose, and he shook free, grabbed his backpack, and stumbled down the block.

  He’d covered no more than five yards when she let out a bloodcurdling howl.

  Stop him he stole my bag

  Instinct instructed him to stop and defend himself. What do you mean your—

  Not the time. He ran.

  Stop him stop somebody stop him

  He barreled down Avenue A, his bag jiggling against his body like a potbelly; fishing out his keys, slotting the correct one between his fingers, glancing back—

  Stop him

  He didn’t see it coming; all he felt was a gritty jawbone crunch, like he’d bitten down on a marble, followed by the miserable sensation of involuntarily changing vectors, a kite nosediving in a murderous crosscurrent.

  When he opened his eyes he was on his back, surrounded by four columns of white, paint-stained denim. Two broad, wary, disgusted black faces peered down at him, as though from a great height. Jonah wondered for a moment if he was in his own grave, waiting for dirt to fall. He hurt too much to move.

  Cap was holding the backpack.

  “Is he okay? Jonah?”

  “I got your bag,” said Cap. “He’ll wait here with you, I’ma call the cops.”

  Eve brushed her fingernails across Jonah’s forehead. “My love…It’s all right,” she said to the men. “He’s my husband. We had a fight. We’ll be fine.”

  The men exchanged a look.

  “My love, are you okay?”

  Jonah moaned.

  “Thank you.”

  “You sure you don’t want us to call the cops?”

  “Thank you. Yes. That was brave of you.”

  Cap shook his head, prompted Bandanna with a shrug, and they ambled away.

  “Wait,” Jonah croaked.

  “Shh…” Eve restrained him. “Rest, my love. Convalesce. Recuperate. These heavenly tears shall cleanse you. They have healing properties. Shhh…”

  Rain came down in waves, forming pools in the crenellated asphalt. His hair sopped up City juices; his shirtfront grew heavy. Eve’s face floated over his, the dripping ends of her braids echoing the soggy denuded canopy of the elm, her elm. Rain stung his eyes, went up his nose. Cornices wept. He smelled sewage and cat hair. He was going to drown in the middle of the East Village.

  “It’s Fate,” she said. “I’m your mission, Jonah Stem. And you mine. When you walk, I am the stones beneath your feet. When you come home at night, I am your bed. During the day I’m your air and when you die I will be the earth that enfolds you. I am everywhere. So it’s not worth mucking about.” She smiled. “Now. Shall I take you up and make you some tea?”

  He forced himself up. His head fucking killed.

  “Lucky you,” Eve said, “I was there to tell them to let you go. Chivalry lives.”

  He grabbed his backpack, staggered up, staggered across the street.

  “A little gratitude,” she called.

  He mounted the steps to his building.

  “Can’t we be courteous about this? Must I resort to extremes?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket for his keys.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  His jacket pocket was empty.

  “Looking for these?”

  As she hurried away he slipped on the wet concrete steps, reaching out to grab the stone bannister, missing, grating the back of his hand.

  “ARE YOU SURE this is necessary, dude?”

  “I told you, I’ll pay for it.”

  “That’s not what I mean, I mean are you like having a, like a…” For want of a conclusion, Lance wiggled his fingers in the air.

  “They got my ID and my keys,” Jonah said.

  The locksmith said, “Better safe than sorry.”

  “This is the strongest one you make?”

  “Medeco. Only Superman could break it.”

  “Dude, that’s you.”

  Including the fee for evening service, it came to three hundred nineteen dollars. Jonah had never been happier to write a check.

  “I’m putting the chain on when you go out,” he told Lance.

  “I won’t be able to get back in.”

  “I’ll take it off before I go to sleep. Or I’ll wait up until you come home.”

  “Aren’t you being—”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “They say that so you’ll buy more product, dude. It’s a cliché.”

  “If someone follows you, don’t come into the building. Walk around the block. In general, try and keep a lookout.”

  Lance gawked. “Are you sure—okay, dude, don’t tweak, I’ll keep a lookout…You know, your face looks pretty fucked up.”

  “I told you, the guy hit me. I need some ice, it’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t want to get out for a—”

  “I’m sure, Lance, I’m sure what I need is to relax, okay?” He went to his room and dialed his parents. As the phone rang the front door creaked open and closed, making his heart gulp. He peeked out. The living room was empty. Lance leaving, that’s all. You have a new lock, use it. He turned the bolt as the machine picked up.

  You have reached the home of Paula and Steven Stem…

  “Mommommommom—”

  “Golly, golly, here I am. Hold your horses, lemme—” Feedback squalled and died. “Hello, my dear son. Calling me on Friday night, how thoughtful.”

  “Mom, listen. I had my keys and my wallet stolen.”

  “Oh no, where?”

  “I d—at the gym.”

  “Did you have a lock?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Sometimes they look closed,” his mother said, “and then they fall open. You should make sure it’s locked.”

  “I will, next time, I promise. Listen, you need to change the locks at home.”

  “Here?”

  “My driver’s license has that address on it.”

  “We have a good security system,” his mother said.

  “Mom, please. It’d make me feel better if—”

  “Cripes, we’re going to have to cancel the credit card.”

  “What?”

  “My card that you have. The Mastercard.”

  “No, no—you don’t need to cancel that.”

  “Why not?”

  “That card in particular wasn’t lost. I have it, uh, I keep it separate.” He felt in no state to be ad-libbing.

  “You’re going to need a new driver’s license.”

  “I’ll handle it, okay? Just please change the locks.”

  His mother sighed. “Jonah…”

  “Please.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll get somebody out here on Monday.”

  “Can’t you do it now?”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Jonah.”

  “They come twenty-four hours. We had someone here tonight.”

  “If your license has our address, why did you change your locks?”

  “Just—I—I have another ID. With this address on it.”

  “You have two driver’s licenses?”

  TO GET HER to comply, he had to resort to yelling, which he hated to do, and he hung up feeling like a jerk. He insisted on getting his way, though, because doing so gave him a sense of achievement when in fact he felt oarless.

  Tackling him counted as an assault, he supposed; although who was to say that he hadn’t gone after her first? He had hit h
er in the head, after all. She was probably just as banged up, probably worse, and she was a woman. A small woman, a helpless woman. Everybody wanting to save her, little girl lost, her heroes.

  Besides, it would take more than an upper-middle-class twit med student whinging about a playground scuffle to get the NYPD in gear. They had better things to do than run cover for him. Don’t you read the news? This isn’t storytime, it’s Jihad Vigilance Fucking Central.

  He changed the icepack on his chin and lay down, his chest backfiring with each of those causeless cracks people call the house settling. The ice passed from cold to painful to warm. He’d been bleeding from the head when he came in. Scalp lacerations looked worse than they were. He’d seen them before. He could handle it on his own.

  • 20 •

  HE SPENT THE weekend holed up, ordering Chinese, leaving money in an envelope taped to the door, with written instructions to put the food on the ground. The delivery men nevertheless rang until he acknowledged them.

  You wan receipt.

  Leave it in the bag.

  Okay mistah.

  He waited by the door, waited for a silence unattainable in the City. He waited, knowing that his food was getting cold, the syrup collecting at the bottom of his General Gao’s chicken, the breading peeling like a popped blister. He didn’t care. He waited until hunger and shame got the better of him, then unlocked and unchained the door.

  Each time his cell phone rang—and it did so with increasing frequency—dread punched through his neck.

  ID UNAVAILABLE

  He called his provider to ask about blocking her number. Someone in Bangalore politely informed him that without the actual number they could do nothing.

  He took the battery out of the phone.

  On Saturday morning he called the super—a cantankerous Slav with watery eyes and torrential postnasal drip—and confessed that he’d lost his keys along with his wallet. Yes, they should probably put a new lock on the building. Yes, he’d pay. Yes, he was sorry. Gesundheit, Mr. Randjeiovic. No, it wouldn’t happen again. Yes, goddamn Steinbrenner, maybe next year.

  Mr. Randjeiovic’s locksmith charged thirty percent more than the other guy. Cutting keys for all the residents added up, too. Jonah didn’t care. He’d barely spent a dime over the last six months; the constraints of third-year inflicted an involuntary frugality. He briefly considered installing an alarm.

  He told himself that all these precautions were just that: precautions. Rations of time and peace of mind. Besides, living in Manhattan made hermitage seem not only reasonable but ideal; people paid heavy premiums for privacy. What could be more exclusive, more private, than never ever leaving your apartment?

  Lance, mystified by his roommate’s sudden agoraphobia—and characteristically willing to accept new weirdnesses without question—stayed in as a show of solidarity. They sat in the living room, playing a video game in which shirtless homies vied to be the most ruthless gangsta in da hood. It was Sunday evening.

  “This game encourages moral values.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you could pick any criminal in history to be, who would it be?”

  “Al Capone.”

  “I knew you’d—” Lance jerked the controller. “No. No. NOOOOO.”

  They watched his character eat a hand grenade.

  “What about you?”

  “Me, I’d totally be the Riddler. The greatest criminal mind of our century.” Lance revived his character. “Crap, I have to get the bazooka all over again.”

  Forty-eight hours of this had driven Jonah to the brink. He saw himself as the character in the game: vaporized by stasis, returned to the beginning of the conversation to make the same stupid jokes. The apartment had begun to smell like the psych ER, its atmosphere congealing, as though they were breathing broth.

  “We’re living in a submarine,” Jonah said.

  “A yellow submarine?”

  “More like a depressing shit-brown submarine.”

  Lance said, “You’re going to need groceries.”

  Jonah made him promise to check for strangers before entering the building.

  “Whatever you say, dude.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Ten-four. I’ll stock you up so you’ll be okay while I’m away.”

  Jonah blinked. “Away?”

  “I’m going to see the Count. Uh-membuh?”

  He hadn’t.

  “It’s been on the books since the summer. Dude, you sound baked. You’re going to miss me, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll write.”

  Lance came back from the bodega with peanut butter, bread, some apples.

  “Did you see anyone out there?”

  “All clear.”

  Jonah nodded. While Lance had been gone, he’d put the battery back in his phone and discovered 47 MISSED CALLS.

  “Do you think I should bring a bathing suit? The guy definitely has an indoor pool. Check out what he sent me.” Lance stopped his packing, pawed through his bag until he found a jewelry box, in which sat a pair of matte gold cufflinks inset with rubies. “If I play my cards right this could be serious Paycheck. My mom wants me to like this guy. She told me she thinks he might be The One. Believe you me, I’m as skeptical as you. It’s mathematically impossible for him to be The One. At best he can be, like, The Seven. I don’t think my mom’s ever had a first boyfriend. She started dating in the womb. She dated sperm.”

  “Thanks for sharing.”

  “It’s either embrace the concept of my mom being a total fuckin slutbag, or resent her and further denormalize our relationship.” Lance rolled up a pair of wrinkled cargo pants. “I hear the Count has fabulous taste in hydroponics.”

  “It’s nice that you have common interests,” Jonah said.

  “We’re botanically inclined. The family that smokes together, stays together.”

  “That doesn’t rhyme.”

  “The truth doesn’t fuckin rhyme, dude. It doesn’t need to.” Lance strapped his video camera into its padded case and absentmindedly wound the power cable around his hand. “Someday they’ll discover the chemical that causes infatuation. Vitamin L. The world as we know it will come to an end. Have they found that already?”

  “It’s called alcohol.”

  Lance laughed. He hefted his luggage and found it acceptably light. “You sure you’re going to be okay without me?”

  Jonah nodded.

  “Cause I don’t want to hear about you having a spaz attack in my absence. In case of loneliness, I keep a limited but high-quality selection of adult entertainment under my bed. You know where the real movies are. Feel free to get cultured.”

  Lance’s flight left Kennedy at nine, and for the first time in their roommateship he went to bed first. Unable to sleep, Jonah sat watching the Museum of Human Frailties. It was raining again, the asphalt a mirror.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2004.

  INPATIENT PSYCHIATRIC SERVICE, WEEK THREE.

  In the morning he left in a hurry. He took a circuitous route to the subway, stopping to buy snacks he did not want and crossing 14th.

  When you walk, I am the stones beneath your feet.

  He jogged through Stuy Town, then doubled back and descended into the station, bypassing an old Russian woman hobbling along with a laminated picture of a bearded man in a cassock.

  When you come home at night, I am your bed.

  Instead of pushing through a turnstile, he crossed in front of the token booth and ran up the other stairs. Above ground, he dashed for the uptown bus.

  During the day I’m your air

  There he changed to a crosstown, catching the at Grand Central.

  and when you die I will be the earth that enfolds you.

  Nobody on his team seemed to care that he was fifteen minutes late. Rolstein greeted him with a wave. Stifling a yawn, Jonah donned his game face and took out his notes. He had patients to present. He was a professional. Wake up.

  Bonita passed him some files, along with a
Post-it on which she’d scribbled OK?

  I am everywhere. So it’s not worth mucking about.

  He wrote water pipe emergency sorry and pushed the note back to her.

  AT THE HOSPITAL he was required to leave his phone on, should a patient or resident call, and was thus unable to do anything except play calm when he got a call from ID UNAVAILABLE, which by two P.M. had happened fifty-nine times.

  He could get a beeper and leave the cell at home. Or get a new cell, with a delisted number. It wasn’t a big deal to change your number. People did it all the time.

  Are you going to get a new identity, too?

  Going home he got off three stops early and flagged a cab, instructing the driver to overshoot his street and drop him at Avenue C and Seventh, enabling him to approach his building from the opposite direction. He skirted Tompkins Square Park, passing supafly whiteboys in rastafarian hats and a swish middle-aged man walking a Yorkie in a green Burberry vest.

  As he crossed near the 7A diner, the oily scent of french fries hit him hard. He had eaten nothing today, not for lack of time but because his gut was a trampoline, waiting to deflect whatever he consumed in the form of heartburn. He reshouldered his backpack and fell in line behind a bookcase of a man lumbering up Avenue A. Between Ninth and Tenth the man stepped into a doorway, killing Jonah’s screen and affording an unobstructed view of the intersection at Eleventh.

  Eve was nowhere.

  He took the stairs in long, dorky leaps, rushing into his apartment and throwing all the locks. Panic lubricated irrationalities: had she been on the train. Had she paid off all the cabbies in lower Manhattan to be on the lookout for him. Could she have been watching from a window. Was there any other way in. Could she squeeze through the vents like human toothpaste, scale the exterior wall, slip through the crack beneath the door, will you think normally, you’re inside, you’re here, she’s not. Calm down, calm down, calm the fuck down.

  The radiator hammered to life; he jumped.

  Several hours later, he felt calm enough to try for sleep, so he put his books aside and fell into nightmares. The first found him in a deserted urban war zone, the sky apocalpytic orange, burnt husks of cars and ravaged bodies of dogs and faceless children. He was running with someone piggybacked, his legs wearing out, he could not carry her (it was a her, he knew, and she was alive, although he could not see her face), he would have to dump her to save himself. He heard an air-raid siren. Then he woke up but the air-raid siren continued.