Around three in the morning I remembered who had owned the Lucite cube with the steel penny in it: Roland Abelson, in Liability. He called it his retirement fund. It was Roland who had a habit of saying Lucy, you got some splainin to do. One night in the fall of 01, I had seen his widow on the six oclock news. I had talked with her at one of the company picnics (very likely the one at Jones Beach) and thought then that she was pretty, but widowhood had refined that prettiness, winnowed it into severe beauty. On the news report she kept referring to her husband as missing. She would not call him dead. And if he was aliveif he ever turned uphe would have some splainin to do. You bet. But of course, so would she. A woman who has gone from pretty to beautiful as the result of a mass murder would certainly have some splainin to do.
Lying in bed and thinking of this stuffremembering the crash of the surf at Jones Beach and the Frisbees flying under the skyfilled me with an awful sadness that finally emptied in tears. But I have to admit it was a learning experience. That was the night I came to understand that thingseven little ones, like a penny in a Lucite cubecan get heavier as time passes. But because its a weight of the mind, theres no mathematical formula for it, like the ones you can find in an insurance companys Blue Books, where the rate on your whole life policy goes up x if you smoke and coverage on your crops goes up y if your farms in a tornado zone. You see what Im saying?
Its a weight of the mind.
The following morning I gathered up all the items again, and found a seventh, this one under the couch. The guy in the cubicle next to mine, Misha Bryzinski, had kept a small pair of Punch and Judy dolls on his desk. The one I spied under my sofa with my little eye was Punch. Judy was nowhere to be found, but Punch was enough for me. Those black eyes, staring out from amid the ghost bunnies, gave me a terrible sinking feeling of dismay. I fished the doll out, hating the streak of dust it left behind. A thing that leaves a trail is a real thing, a thing with weight. No question about it.
I put Punch and all the other stuff in the little utility closet just off the kitchenette, and there they stayed. At first I wasnt sure they would, but they did.
My mother once told me that if a man wiped his ass and saw blood on the toilet tissue, his response would be to shit in the dark for the next thirty days and hope for the best. She used this example to illustrate her belief that the cornerstone of male philosophy was If you ignore it, maybe itll go away.
I ignored the things Id found in my apartment, I hoped for the best, and things actually got a little better. I rarely heard those voices whispering in the utility closet (except late at night), although I was more and more apt to take my research chores out of the house. By the middle of November, I was spending most of my days in the New York Public Library. Im sure the lions got used to seeing me there with my PowerBook.
Then, just before Thanksgiving, I happened to be going out of my building one day and met Paula Robeson, the maiden fair whom Id rescued by pushing the reset button on her air conditioner, coming in.
With absolutely no forethought whatsoeverif Id had time to think about it, Im convinced I never would have said a wordI asked her if I could buy her lunch and talk to her about something.
The fact is, I said, I have a problem. Maybe you could push my reset button.
We were in the lobby. Pedro the doorman was sitting in the corner, reading the Post (and listening to every word, I have no doubtto Pedro, his tenants were the worlds most interesting daytime drama). She gave me a smile both pleasant and nervous. I guess I owe you one, she said, but you know Im married, dont you?
Yes, I said, not adding that shed shaken with me wrong-handed so I could hardly fail to notice the ring.
She nodded. Sure, you mustve seen us together at least a couple of times, but he was in Europe when I had all that trouble with the air conditioner, and hes in Europe now. Edward, thats his name. Over the last two years hes been in Europe more than hes here, and although I dont like it, Im very married in spite of it. Then, as a kind of afterthought, she added: Edward is in import-export.
I used to be in insurance, but then one day the company exploded, I thought of saying. In the end, I managed something a little more sane.
I dont want a date, Ms. Robeson, no more than I wanted to be on a first-name basis with her, and was that a wink of disappointment I saw in her eyes? By God, I thought it was. But at least it convinced her. I was still safe.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at me with mock exasperation. Or maybe not so mock. Then what do you want?
Just someone to talk to. I tried several shrinks, but theyre busy.
All of them?
It would appear so.
If youre having problems with your sex life or feeling the urge to race around town killing men in turbans, I dont want to know about it.
Its nothing like that. Im not going to make you blush, I promise. Which wasnt quite the same as saying I promise not to shock you or You wont think Im crazy. Just lunch and a little advice, thats all Im asking. What do you say?
I was surprisedalmost flabbergastedby my own persuasiveness. If Id planned the conversation in advance, I almost certainly would have blown the whole deal. I suppose she was curious, and Im sure she heard a degree of sincerity in my voice. She may also have surmised that if I was the sort of man who liked to try his hand picking up women, I would have had a go on that day in August when Id actually been alone with her in her apartment, the elusive Edward in France or Germany. And I have to wonder how much actual desperation she saw in my face.
In any case, she agreed to have lunch with me on Friday at Donalds Grill down the street. Donalds may be the least romantic restaurant in all of Manhattangood food, fluorescent lights, waiters who make it clear theyd like you to hurry. She did so with the air of a woman paying an overdue debt about which shes nearly forgotten. This was not exactly flattering, but it was good enough for me. Noon would be fine for her, she said. If Id meet her in the lobby, we could walk down there together. I told her that would be fine for me, too.
That night was a good one for me. I went to sleep almost immediately, and there were no dreams of Sonja DAmico going down beside the burning building with her hands on her thighs, like a stewardess looking for water.
As we strolled down 86th Street the following day, I asked Paula where shed been when she heard.
San Francisco, she said. Fast asleep in a Wradling Hotel suite with Edward beside me, undoubtedly snoring as usual. I was coming back here on September twelfth and Edward was going on to Los Angeles for meetings. The hotel management actually rang the fire alarm.
That must have scared the hell out of you.
It did, although my first thought wasnt fire but earthquake. Then this disembodied voice came through the speakers, telling us that there was no fire in the hotel, but a hell of a big one in New York.
Jesus.
Hearing it like that, in bed in a strange room hearing it come down from the ceiling like the voice of God She shook her head. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that her lipstick almost disappeared. That was very frightening. I suppose I understand the urge to pass on news like that, and immediately, but I still havent entirely forgiven the management of the Wradling for doing it that way. I dont think Ill be staying there again.
Did your husband go on to his meetings?
They were canceled. I imagine a lot of meetings were canceled that day. We stayed in bed with the TV on until the sun came up, trying to get our heads around it. Do you know what I mean?