“Fuck you, I don’t,” I said. I could count the number of times I had mainlined. So I had been chipping, so big deal.
“All right,” McKay said. “All right, all right.”
“I mean it,” I said.
A Ford Falcon full of girls stopped beside us at a red light; the girls were staring at McKay.
“And I said, all right,” McKay said.
The light turned green; McKay lit a cigarette. The car next to us did not move and the girls still stared at McKay.
“The light changed,” I said.
“I know it,” McKay said, ripping the Chevy into gear.
The Falcon followed us. I knew there were giggles and sighs in that car.
“Do you get high every day?” McKay asked. I drained my Coke, threw the cup on the floor, and didn’t answer. It was true: I got high every day on something, but only because there was nothing else to do, and only because McKay was always high and I knew he wanted me with him. “Well, is that normal?” McKay sneered. “You going to tell me you’re straight?”
“Drop dead,” I said.
The Chevy was too fast for the Ford to keep up; we lost it at a bend in the Avenue. McKay parked in front of Munda’s City Line Liquor Store. “That makes you happy,” I said. “It really makes you happy to think I’m a junkie like you.”
“Watch it,” McKay said.
But I knew it did; of course it made him happy. I could be satisfied with marijuana and a Budweiser, but McKay smiled when I sat with him at the kitchen table measuring out heroin from a glassine bag.
“No junkie ever thinks they’re a junkie,” McKay said shortly.
I had heard that Omen House platitude enough times. “And no asshole ever thinks they’re an asshole,” I said. I left the Chevy, slammed the door shut, and stared into the liquor-store window. When I turned, McKay still sat in the driver’s seat of the Chevy, both his hands grasping the wheel tightly. I thought perhaps he might be right: in faking love there was the danger of falling into it; was there the same danger in faking a habit? McKay opened the Chevy door; he stood on the sidewalk in black leather.
“Don’t start up with me,” he warned.
“Do you know what you can do?” I said.
“Now, watch yourself.”
“You can keep your heroin. Keep it,” I said. “I don’t fucking need it.”
“Get over here,” McKay said as Perez pulled up to the curb in a ’62 Corvette with New Jersey plates. “Get over here, because if you make a scene or if you embarrass me, I’ll kill you.”
Perez walked over the ice. He was wearing a suit of burgundy velvet. He greeted McKay with a handshake. In his other hand he carried a large leather briefcase. McKay held my arm tightly. We walked past the liquor store, and then down the cement steps that led to the clubhouse. McKay opened the padlocked door with a key I did not know he still had. We went into the basement and McKay switched on the light. Perez placed his briefcase on the floor.
Perez cased the room. “If only,” he said, “I could communicate to you in the Gypsy tongue of Romany; for that is a language with words to describe this place.”
“A dump,” I said.
Perez nodded. “A dump,” he agreed.
The clubhouse was indeed a mess: one window had been broken into, by the Pack or by some corner kids; snow, which had been blown inside by the Avenue wind, had melted and now flooded the floor where the mattresses lay. The odor of mildew was everywhere. Cans and bottles were littered about; posters had been ripped from the wall, and Mick Jagger now stared down at us from the wall with only one eye.
I walked across the room surveying the wreckage. “Just lovely,” I said.
“Shut up,” McKay said. “Just shut up.” He began to pick up cans and newspapers from the floor. I sat down on an orange crate. Perez pulled up another and also sat.
“Mildew on velvet, you can never get that off,” he confided to me.
I did not know if McKay had forgotten that Perez and I sat in the clubhouse, for he ignored us; he continued to clean.
“Let’s get down to business,” Perez said finally. McKay dropped a load of wet newspapers and magazines in a corner. “First of all,” Perez said. “You come to me; I don’t come to you. From now on we meet in the Bronx; none of this commuting shit for me.”
“All right,” McKay agreed. He leaned on the table, around which the soldiers of the Orphans had once held council meetings.
“I expect to make a two-hundred-percent profit at all times,” Perez said. He looked at me. “It’s the Gypsy in me. You be cool with me and I’ll be cool with you,” he said to McKay.
McKay lit a cigarette; his hands shook slightly. He needed a fix, and I wanted to divert Perez’s stare from McKay’s unsteady hands.
“That briefcase alligator?” I said.
“No, no. Crocodile,” he said.
“Hear that, McKay?” I said. “Crocodile.”
McKay grabbed my arm. “You either shut up …” he said.
“Or what?” I said. I was not afraid of McKay’s threats.
“Dig yourself,” Perez said. “All the chick said is ‘It’s crocodile.’ ” Perez smiled. “Ah,” he said. “That mean something special between you two?”
The code of lovers? It amused me to think Perez believed so. Any words between McKay and me could begin an argument—no code was necessary, any words would do.
“You are one edgy dude,” Perez said. “You are one edgy dude for a man who’s kicked his jones. And you are straight, right?”
“Shit, yes,” said McKay, stomping his cigarette out on the clubhouse floor.
“You don’t mind if I see your arms?” Perez said.
McKay backed away.
“What about Starry?” I asked. “Was Starry all right when you drove her to the doctor’s?” If he looked at McKay’s arms the tracks would betray a habit begun when McKay had not been out of Omen House more than a week.
“She’s a bitch, but the dude said she’s a fairly healthy bitch,” Perez said. As he answered me, he continued to look at McKay. “Your arm,” he insisted. “Just for the sake of business, you understand.”
“See, I’m only gonna get off on the weekends, then I can be straight and deal during the week.”
“Only on the weekends.” Perez laughed.
“We did some partying to celebrate the end of the Dolphin,” McKay said. “But I got it under control.”
“Don’t be shining me on,” Perez warned. “Because I will not have a junkie dealing for me. A junkie dealing is a junkie stealing. You know what I mean?”
McKay nodded. “I know what you mean,” he said.
Perez rested his briefcase on the tabletop. When the case was clicked open, three separate compartments appeared. “Cocaine, amphetamine, heroin,” said Perez.
“Nice,” McKay said.
“You bet your ass it’s nice. And nicer still when this case is returned to me and it’s filled with money.”
McKay eyed the white powders. “I don’t need the briefcase,” he said; he removed the leather jacket and showed Perez the pockets sewn into the inner lining.
Perez appraised the secret pockets. “Very hip,” he said. “You got a tailor that does that?”
McKay laughed as he began to store the plastic bags in his jacket. “No, I ain’t got no tailor.”
Perez shrugged. “I guess I don’t care what you got, as long as you don’t got the mind to beat me. You know what I mean?” Perez smiled. “Because I mean I’ll kill you if you pull any double crosses. Business, you understand.”
“Sure, sure,” McKay said. He held the bag of heroin to the light. “Looks good.”
“Is good,” Perez answered.
“I want to know what I’m selling,” McKay said.
Perez nodded, and McKay motioned me to hand him the tiny silver spoon I carried in my pocket. He snorted a bit of heroin; he waited for a while; and then McKay said, “Very ace.”
“So then, it’s solid,” Perez sa
id. They shook hands once more. “Same time next week, only you’ll be coming to me, you hear?”
McKay cloaked himself in the black leather jacket lined with dope; we left the clubhouse, leaving Perez figuring out some equations on a piece of legal-size paper balanced on his briefcase.
“Later,” Perez called out. Once on the Avenue McKay took my hand.
“We could make it, you know,” McKay said. “We could make it if you could only learn when to shut up and when to talk.”
“I didn’t do good in there?” I said.
“You did good,” he had to agree.
I thought we might make it if we left heroin and the Avenue behind; but once we were in the Chevy McKay was already talking about dealing.
“First I’m gonna take what’s mine,” he said as we drove back down the Avenue, past the White Castle, past Monty’s and St. Anne’s. “Then I’m gonna cut the rest of the shit with sugar and make a fortune.”
“McKay,” I said as we pulled up at a pump at the Esso station across from our apartment, “what happens when Perez checks you for tracks?”
McKay told the attendant to fill the tank. “What happens is he won’t find shit. I’ll shoot it under my tongue or behind my knees; Perez will never know.”
I looked at McKay and sighed.
“Don’t look at me and sigh,” McKay said.
The back door of the Chevy opened, and Tony got in the car. “Brother,” the kid said.
“Just who I be looking for,” McKay said. “You ever bag dope?” he asked. When Tony shook his head, McKay said, “We got to cut the shit and then bag it into dimes.”
“The whole Avenue knows you’re the main man now,” Tony said.
McKay had taken over the Dolphin’s position as the Avenue’s dealer. Soon our telephone would be ringing; in the night our door would be knocked upon and tense voices would whisper and deals would be made. “The whole Avenue knows where to come when they’re in need.”
McKay smiled. He paid for the gas and steered the Chevy across the Avenue. The three of us went upstairs. “Got to get some locks on this here door,” McKay said. It was now common Avenue knowledge that our apartment would be the place to find dope. McKay emptied the contents of his jacket on the wooden floor.
“Holy shit,” Tony said.
McKay laid down newspapers, and from the dresser drawer he produced glassine envelopes, a scale, and a pound of sugar. I went into the kitchen, thinking of making dinner, thinking of banging pots and pans and running the water so loudly as to block out their talk. I looked in the cupboard and refrigerator—there was only oatmeal, beer, bread, tuna fish, and the .22 stored next to a can of coffee.
“Fuck it, McKay,” I called. “There’s never anything in this house. There are never any eggs. And there’s no butter. What the hell?” I sat at the kitchen table; I began to cry.
McKay came into the kitchen. I covered my eyes. He lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I didn’t look at him. McKay sat down at the kitchen table with me. Finally I looked at him: his eyes were dark and warm upon me.
“There’s nothing to cook,” I said. Tony sat on the wooden floor in the other room.
“Do you want me to take you out somewhere?” McKay asked. I shook my head. “Do you want to get high?” he said softly.
“No,” I said. “No.”
McKay reached for his wallet and placed a five-dollar bill on the tabletop. “Go to the grocery,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. I’ll be here.”
When I went into the other room, McKay’s arm was around me. But it was too late in the day or the season, and my eyes were already too wide to close. I decided to leave him.
After all the nights, the waiting, the lies, I knew that the Avenue was still the same—it would remain between City Lines, surrounded by fast Chevys and Fords, coated by ice and leather and fine white dust. And the mood would still be there—still wedged between the unturned pages of movie magazines, still breathing in the back seats of convertibles. The same pattern of snow would fall on the sidewalks, the ivy would grow along brick walls; the waves of liquid in the veins would be constant. McKay’s eyes would still be as dark, and the tracks of the needle would always find the same vein.
McKay helped me into my winter coat. As I left the apartment, McKay and Tony were already testing cocaine. I walked down the Avenue, past the gas stations, to a small grocery store. I picked up eggs and milk; my eyes felt tired. I followed the length of the dairy case; I began to cry. When I reached inside my coat pocket I discovered I had left the five dollars on the kitchen table—it didn’t seem to matter anymore; I was not sure I would have ever been able to decide between small curd and large. I was sure only that if I moved one foot outside the circle I could walk away: what held me was only air, what held me was dust.
The Avenue was stuck in the mood; I was not. And what I left would not be McKay, would not be heroin or the Avenue. It was only the mood. I slowly moved a foot that had been paralyzed by air; I decided to leave the circle.
2
When I woke, the first thing I saw was his arm on the pillow. Abscesses had already begun to form on his skin, pale white marks ran in tracks.
I left the bed, and though the air was cold, and though I stood naked, I threw open the window. Outside on the Avenue was January and ice. I turned from the window. McKay slept with his mouth open. I smiled and lit a cigarette; with the first intake of smoke, I felt my morning blood live. Now I would leave him.
I sat down again on the bed close to McKay; I watched him breathe. I moved my hand along the skin of his shoulder, and in his sleep he moved closer. He was a beautiful sleeper. I reached over to the floor and killed my cigarette in an ashtray that overflowed with matches and ash onto the wooden floor. Beneath our apartment the auto mechanic was already at work; finely tuned engines hummed and shook our floor with a gentle vibration. Winter sun and air fell through the open window; I was not cold because I lay close to McKay.
I slowed my breathing so that our bodies moved and breathed together. I moved my hand along his face as if recording the planes and angles with my fingers; I avoided touching the scar on his cheek. I moved my hand along his body; I touched him as though I were blind, as though I read his body as Braille. I wanted to wake him right away and tell him, and at the same time I wanted to continue watching him sleep.
While I waited for McKay to wake, I began silently listing the items I would pack in my suitcase. The list was not long. There was more sun as time passed, but the room grew colder. I could not wait any longer. Finally I whispered his name. McKay would not open his eyes. He held me close and whispered, “Shut up,” but I would not let him sleep.
“McKay,” I said.
He held one finger to his lips. “Don’t talk,” he said.
I moved so that I lay on top of him. “Just let me tell you one thing,” I said.
“Quiet,” he said.
I touched my tongue to his lips; his arms were around me. “I’m leaving you,” I said.
McKay laughed.
Up through the open window filtered the sounds of the Avenue—engines and skidding tires. Outside pigeons circled, and snow froze hard as ice.
“I’m leaving you,” I said again.
“Did you leave the window open?” he asked.
I stood up, went to the window, closed it, and then returned to bed.
“McKay,” I said.
“I heard you. I heard you,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere.” I did not answer. “It’s heroin,” he said finally.
I shook my head. No, it wasn’t heroin. I had been with McKay on heroin, off heroin, strung out, hooked again. He had a habit now. He had money enough to support it, and he would get busted again and would kick again. And again.
“What is. it? What is it?” he asked. “Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changed.”
“I know,” I said.
“So?” he said. “Don’t tell me this makes a difference?” He touched the scar on his face.
“Do you mean are you still beautiful?” I asked. “You are still beautiful.”
“Uh huh,” McKay said. “You ain’t leaving.”
We made love for a long time. And for once I did not have to fake love; this time I made it. I forgot old movements and sighs; I forgot the Avenue, its spells and faces. I was myself; I felt and moved as myself. It was because I was going that I was able to come. When McKay moved away from me, I did not feel the need immediately to leave the bed; there was no reason to hurry.
“No,” McKay said. “No, you’re not leaving. Tell me that wasn’t good,” he said, “and I’ll tell you you’re a liar.”
I smiled.
“I knew it,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “I knew it.”
I left the bed and reached underneath the mattress where my suitcase was stored. I rested the suitcase on the bed and clicked it open. There would not be much to pack. Dust that had collected around the edges of the suitcase fell in strings onto the sheet.
As I began to go to the closet McKay stood up and grabbed my shoulder. “Stop this shit,” he said. I looked into his eyes and then, when he released his hold, began, again, to move away.
He reached out for me again, but grabbed the chain of my silver locket as he touched my skin. The chain broke; the locket fell onto the floor. The metal sounded softly on wooden planks. “Do you hear me?” he said.
“I hear you,” I said. “Did you hear me?”
We stood in the middle of the room and kissed. And then McKay laughed. “I don’t think I did hear you,” he said.
He walked away from me and opened the dresser drawer where the envelopes of heroin were stored. Then he went toward the toilet. I sat on the bed and watched him move away. At the door McKay hesitated and turned. “You wait there for me,” he said. When he closed the door of the bathroom, I stood up. I dressed in jeans and a sweater, and then folded some clothes into the suitcase. I looked at the bathroom door and I was slow—there seemed no need to hurry.
As I walked down the stairs and out past the auto repair shop, I knew McKay had begun to roll up his sleeve. When I passed the Chevy McKay planned to race again in the spring, he was already measuring the heroin into a silver spoon. I walked to the subway station, and, as the doors of the train closed behind me, I imagined he had pulled the belt tightly around his arm. The heroin would melt like snow into the blue liquid that ran through his veins. I knew that, as he sat on the rim of the bathtub, his dark eyes were closed.