Arthur tried to ignore the crying above him, but when it continued night after night, soft but insistent, he could no longer resist its supplication.
The door to her flat was ajar, as if she had been expecting him. He wondered if it had been left that way for the past few days until her tears on this blustery March night finally precipitated his appearance.
She was sitting in the chair used so frequently when serenading him with her guitar, the instrument of lovely sounds left unattended on the floor by her feet.
“Belinda?”
She kept her face buried in her hands, and he could hear the clear keening of a broken soul slipping along with salty tears through the slightly splayed fingers.
“Belinda? It’s Arthur. Is there something wrong?” Of course there was something wrong! “Can I help?” The green glint of her eyes looked through the mist of tears and they seemed to swim in an eternity of twinkling stars where the light from the lamp beside her reached them. His heart went out to her, and he realized that he had committed a great injustice with his superficial infidelities. Not only was she the most beautiful girl he had ever known, but also her gentle heart was more than he could ever hope to possess from any other.
The pain in the pit of his stomach was a knife sharpened on guilt and self-recrimination for having treated her with such callous disregard, and he would in this moment of her anguish give up anything in the world to put the broken pieces of her life back together.
As he approached she looked up at him and said without preface, “I’m pregnant.”
He didn’t have to ask. Certainly he could be heartless and demand who she thought the father was. But he knew. He knew without equivocation or doubt that this was the product of their union and it could not be denied. Yet even in his own quiet acknowledgment of the seed now growing in the depths of her womb, Arthur also knew that he was not prepared to hear this information. His confusion of what to say or do was commensurate with the lack of maturity he had brought to this and every other relationship of his life.
All he could do was turn around and walk speechlessly away, and shut himself up in the cold, dim confines of his flat and try not to think about the implications of what he had just heard.
The next day, still in shock, but determined not to let the weakness of his own inability to cope with a complicated situation repress him, he went to work and did all of those things required of a rising young star in business to maintain his status as a potential partner of the firm.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that there was a solution to this problem, and he regretted that the impact of learning about his impending fatherhood had not allowed him to think clearly enough when Belinda said the fateful words. He should have rushed to her and reassured her that it was the most wonderful news in the world! That’s what he should have done, and that is what he would do the moment he got home from work.
There was no sign of imminent spring in the city as Arthur finished work for the day. A full-fledged blizzard was blowing through the corridors of financial power, and he had to fight his way to the subway through snow and sleet, as well as commuters now deprived of alternative transportation. By the time he got to the brownstone, the darkness of the building was only a blotch in the pale street lamps that struggled vainly against the storm.
Arthur rushed up the short stand of stairs which led from the street into the building and, pausing only for a moment at his own flat to throw off his wet coat, hat and gloves, took the stairs to the second floor two at a time in leaps and bounds of suppressed excitement.
Again the door was ajar, and the slim runnel of pale yellow light that wandered out into the hallway beckoned him with the promise of warmth inside.
But he found no warmth.
In the ochre light of the weak lamp he could see her on the chair by the guitar.
Even from the door he knew that she would never be ready again to greet him, nor would she ever pluck mystic music from the crimson saturated instrument at her feet. The thrust of the gunshot into her temple had flung her head over to the side and allowed the blood to drip from the copper-colored beauty of her hair into the instrument of beautiful melodies. Arthur stood and stared at the desecration before him. He had always been unable to comprehend the hopeless despair that could encourage someone to take this desperate escape from problems. But now he understood; and because of the irony that he was just now on his way up here to alleviate that lonely anguish with a protestation of love, he could finally fathom the mind which would seek absolution from life with the indifference of a single bullet.
He took the pistol from her cold but yielding hand, unable to consider how she had been able to gain access to it. Had she not given it to him? Yes, she had, and he had placed it in a dresser drawer, in the back, beneath clothing he seldom wore; and yet here it was, again in his own hand, heavy and cold, its destiny fulfilled.
Arthur didn’t think to call anyone, nor did he even bother to close the door on her cooling beauty. Still in shock and consternation, he went downstairs and sat by himself in the cold darkness of his flat.
For the next week, he neglected his job and even the basic ablutions required to clean himself, as he pulled the shades and allowed the last of winter to wane away outside. In the dimness of day or the darkness of the next few nights he found no energy or coherent thought to accompany himself or the gun in his hand.
Idly, he wondered if the pistol had made love to her as gently as he would have been capable. He contemplated the singularly cold and impersonal piece of metal, which was Belinda’s last friend and wondered if it was the only real link between them worth anything now.
Margaret Claymore opened the door to the second floor flat with a small prayer that this time it would be different. The two-year extensive remodeling of the building was complete now for over nine months, and so far she had been unable to rent the second floor premises.
The word must be out, she thought. But that was no concern to the principals who owned the brownstone. Their concern was occupancy and income, not insubstantial rumors and strange stories that caused potential tenants to shy away. The tall young woman next to the rental agent looked in over her shoulder and pursed her lips in surprise. “It’s so big.” “Yes. These old buildings lend themselves to a more spacious living environment than more modern apartments and condominiums. I’m sure you will find it perfect for your needs.”
“Perhaps it’s a little too large...” The girl hesitated. “But the price is right, and you can always take a roommate,” Margaret Claymore suggested. “Oh yes, it is very reasonable. Maybe even too reasonable.”
With the concern of a lost sale, the agent looked into the large dark eyes set deep within shadowed wells above perfectly arched cheekbones. She thought that the young model would be an ideal renter. Most girls in that profession were so hard working, on the go from morning to night, and in constant need of their “beauty sleep,” that they were usually quiet and ideal uncomplaining tenants.
“I... we have some furniture in storage which we can let you use if you’re concerned about filling the place up,” Margaret urged.
“Is it true?” the girl asked apropos of nothing. Yes, the word was out on the street and there would be no denying with an innocent “is what true, dear?” “Is it haunted?” the model asked the rental agent, removing any doubt.
“No, of course it’s not haunted. That’s foolish nonsense,” Margaret exclaimed with conviction.
“But I heard that... that...”
“Yes, the girl who lived here did commit suicide,” the anxious agent admitted, knowing that she couldn’t hide the facts. “That much is true. It’s a very sad story. It seems that she was a very quiet and shy person when she met the young man who lived downstairs - a lovely boy - and they fell in love.”
Margaret Claymore shook her head in sad memory. “Unfortunately, she became pregnant - it’s a familiar story in this city - and for some reason
or another could not deal with it. “She took her own life, and of course the life of her unborn child. When her lover discovered what she had done, he evidently took the pistol and, after brooding over the loss for a number of days, ended his own life.”
The rental agent was surprised to see a small sensitive tear in the eye of the girl and hastened to reassure her. “But that was a very long time ago. At least two and a half years. Now the building has been remodeled and the flats completely refurbished.
“There’s a very nice young man - a stockbroker - who lives downstairs. I’ll introduce you to him when we have an opportunity. I’m sure he will be overjoyed to finally have a neighbor. After all, Mr. Crenshaw has been the only tenant in the building for the last nine months.”
But, before I make any introductions, Margaret Claymore thought, I’d better check and see what that god-awful smell is on the lower floor.
CHARLIE’S BIG TRICK
This one is for my son.
In the beginning, we bought Charlie, our ten year-old son, Dr. Bondo’s Amazing Magic Kit to shut him up. He’d been pestering his mother and I for the toy for over three months and Sarah finally conceded with the provision that his first report card of the school year was all A’s and B’s.
Charlie came through like a champ with the most spectacular scholastic statement of his young life, and I took him to Ye Olde Mystic Magic Shop to pick out his reward. After a lengthy and secretive consultation with the doddering old fart who owned the cluttered store — to which I was not invited — Charlie picked a small box which contained nothing more than a tattered black velvet glove and a little leather-bound book.
“Twenty-eight-fifty,” the old man croaked with a voice as dry as the dust that covered most of his merchandise. “That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?” I complained, inspecting my son’s meager selection.
“Oh, please, Daddy,” Charlie pleaded.
“Worth every penny,” the old man affirmed. “Don’t tell your mother how much we paid for it,” I whispered to Charlie as I plunked thirty bucks down on the counter and watched the old man make it disappear into his cash drawer as quickly as any magician with a rabbit in a hat. Sarah wasn’t impressed by our purchase, and even less enthusiastic when, after two weeks of practice, Charlie announced he wanted to show us his first trick. “Pick a card — any card.”
Carefully, Charlie fanned out a deck of cards, his small, inexperienced hands fumbling with the pasteboards. “Go ahead,” I urged Sarah. Maybe if she participated, she would be more prone to approve of our son’s new hobby. Already bored with this display of amateur prestidigitation, Sarah impatiently pulled a card from the deck. “What’s your card?” Charlie asked.
Sarah turned over the King of Diamonds. With a display of much ceremony, Charlie put on the velvet glove from his magic kit, held up the King of Diamonds in his gloved hand for all — his mother and I — to see, and slipped the card back in the deck. Awkwardly, he shuffled the cards with too-small hands and then held them out to his mother. “Find your card.”
Sarah rifled through the deck, and when she couldn’t locate the King of Diamonds, she spread the cards out on the table and went through them one by one.
No King of Diamonds.
Sarah acknowledged Charlie’s trick with a small smile and told him to put as much energy into making the litter on the floor of his room disappear before he came back downstairs for dinner.
The next day, when my wife’s friends came to gossip under the guise of their Bridge club, Sarah was perfectly livid to discover the King of Diamonds still missing from our best deck.
When Charlie was unable to produce the lost card, his mother roundly chastised him right there before the handmaidens of Oprah.
Two weeks later, Charlie insisted that Sarah and I sit again for another demonstration of his magical prowess. This time he had Michael Jordan, his pet hamster, in its cage on the dining room table.
“Get that filthy thing off of there and go do your homework.” Sarah never did like the hamster.
“He’ll be gone in just a minute, Mom,” Charlie exclaimed,
taking off the bath towel he’d pinned around his shoulders like
a cape and throwing it over the hamster’s cage. On went the
velvet glove. Charlie slowly moved his hand back and forth
over all sides of the towel-covered cage, and after muttering a sufficient amount of mumbo-jumbo, whisked off the cloth to display the empty container.
“Good riddance,” Sarah sniffed as she left the room, unimpressed.
I was mildly surprised later that week, when I found Charlie had stored the cage in the garage, evidently not expecting a reappearance of the rodent. I could imagine the furry creature wandering lost in our crawl spaces until it died of malnutrition.
When I confronted Charlie with this possible result of his negligence, he said, “Oh, no, Michael Jordan’s really gone —disappeared.”
Nothing I could say would dissuade my son of his little conceit, and no amount of argument could get him to back down, nor return Michael Jordan to the bosom of his family. When Ruggles, our collie, vanished from the back yard I didn’t know what to think. I have to admit I was grateful for the suggestion that the dog had run off during the previous night’s windstorm. I know how animals depend on a sense of smell and, when lost in rough weather, frequently have no trail of scent to help find their way back home. Returning last night from a hard day at the office, I was surprised to find the house quiet and Sarah’s usual culinary efforts absent from the stove.
“Hey! Anyone home?”
“No one here but us chickens,” Charlie said, bounding down the stairs with his customary ten year-old’s enthusiasm. “Where’s your mom?”
Charlie shrugged.
I went to the study and lost myself in paperwork until Charlie came to announce that dinner was ready. Looking at my watch, I was startled to find it was almost nine o’clock. “Is your mom home?”
“Uh-uh.” Charlie shook his head and added proudly. “I cooked dinner. Macaroni and cheese. I make good macaroni and cheese. I could eat macaroni and cheese every day.” In the kitchen, Charlie spooned out two heaping plates of over-cooked yellow goop and we sat down across from each other, waiting for the artificially flavored pasta to cool and congeal.
“Charlie, where’s your mother?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
Charlie shrugged. “Disappeared.”
I stared from my son to the plate before me in silence. “You wanna see a trick?” Charlie finally said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the crumpled velvet glove. “No, I don’t think so,” I replied, wondering how long the two of us could live on macaroni and cheese.
CHRISTMAS PAST
I first saw the old woman in the summer of that year — 1938 — my first in New York. She sat on a bench in the small park across from the diner like a delicate porcelain doll, her legs dangling a few inches off the ground as she fed the pigeons. The Great Depression grass had appeared greener on the other side of the country, so I rode the rails from the central-California town of my parents, convinced that I could make my career writing in New York City.
Finding even experienced journalists standing in line for copyboy jobs, I settled for long futile nights at a battered Underwood in a small room at the YMCA and considered myself lucky to barely make ends meet washing dishes and slinging hash at Bernie’s diner.
In my efforts to engender at least an image of literary success, I had taken to smoking a pipe, which Bernie banished from the diner with an oath of disgust and suggestion that, if I were to insist on poisoning my lungs and polluting the environment, I should do so outside, where the air-quality was already beyond redemption. Therefore, during my infrequent breaks, I would wander across the street to the small park, a sparkling emerald of grass set deep among the drab tenements that crowded the narrow streets of lower Manhattan.
I didn’t pay much attention to the old woman until, even in the growing humidity of summer, I noticed she continued to appear daily in a deep-blue, rhinestone-studded evening gown, black opera cape, and an outrageous floppy Easter-parade hat covered with bouquets of little multicolored silk flowers. At first she seemed to be just another New York character, and I was a wide-eyed small-town boy already grown cynical by Time Square street-preachers, preposterous panhandlers and outlandish Greenwich Villagers.
Curiously, I watched, as day after day she delved into a rumpled paper sack and pulled out slices of bread. She would carefully tear a piece in two, eat half, and pitch the shredded remainder to the eagerly waiting birds. When she was done, she would brush the crumbs from her hands, hold them out empty to the demanding fowl, and cluck sympathetically that their communal meal was finished.
At least, I thought, I had the luxury of working in a diner, where my meals were free, but the poor old lady appeared to be sharing a meager and bland daily repast on a park bench with a flock of unappreciative birds.
One day, impulsively, as the bird’s benefactor opened her brown bag, I quickly slapped together a roast beef sandwich behind Bernie’s back, wrapped it in wax paper, grabbed a fistful of stale bread, and headed out the door. Cheap tobacco-smoke pouring from the bowl of my pipe, like effluvium from the stack of an ancient train, I steamed across to the park. “Here, this is for the birds,” I blurted out, as I handed her the discarded bread, uncomfortable with my own awkward philanthropy. “And this is for you.” I proffered the sandwich. I was startled by the clarity and directness of her bright green eyes. Somehow I had expected that tired, rheumy, hangdog expression so often found in the old, but her bright gaze belied the translucent blue-veined parchment complexion that proclaimed she must have been at least eighty. She glanced from me to the wax paper package. “Who are you, and what’s this?” she asked, her voice soft and musical. “I’m Warren Crawford, and that is a sandwich.” I hastened to add: “I work in the diner across the street, and I saw you feeding the birds. I just thought you might like a little snack too.”