Later that afternoon
the heat would break, through a crashing thunderstorm
that would freeze the skyline in a series of blindingly
bright vignettes, send thick washes of rain surging
and bouncing along the rooftops below his terrace,
shiver the maple tree outside his bedroom window
and provide a sonic boom timed perfectly to her
shuddering explosion beneath the knowing ministrations
of his practiced tongue. But at that moment in
the late June weekend morning it only hung over
them, over them and the streets that sprawled
away from them down the hillside, as an invisible
but palpable weight, a truckload of heavy air.
Sitting at the table in
the sunlight in her pink slip, discarded bathrobe
beneath and behind her on the white wire chair,
she nibbled happily on the bits of pulpy canteloupe
sprinkled with lime juice and chili powder he'd
diced into the small round Japanese ceramic bowl
she'd brought with her as a gift -- bringing only
one, knowing that he disliked sets. It was white
and light blue, little flecks of color, almost
watery, almost transparent, like an improbably
blue tapioca pudding, setting off the yellow,
pink and orange of the melon. Which in turn set
off the slip, and the healthy glow of her fair
skin, within both of which she moved with the
unconscious vitality of a girl and the emergent,
heedless carnality of a woman learning that she
was at long last beautiful to someone.
He watched her, as he did
often, enjoying the act for itself, knowing also
what it meant to her to feel or find his eyes
on her, her disbelief in the possibility that
someone might take pleasure in seeing her slowly
fading into the realization that she delighted
in being seen. At the moment, though, she was
preoccupied -- with the bright blue sky and its
billowing draperies of cloud, with the sweet fleshy
texture of the fruit on her tongue, with the urban
vista baking at their feet. She speared another
bite of melon. Her motion as she did so brought
her forward, giving him a glimpse down the front
of her slip, damp shadowed curves. Her skin was
dappled with tiny beads of moisture.
She motioned with her head,
indicating something out of his field of vision,
over his shoulder. Turning his head to the left,
he saw Emil, the neighbors' teenage son, and Peter,
his friend from around the corner, in a furtive
transaction -- packages of fireworks, in their
distinctive Chinese wrappings, being exchanged
for a wad of dollar bills. "He's got them
hidden under the ivy," she remarked, "and
he's chosen a spot where his family can't see
him out any of the windows." She was right.
In a minute, his customer presumably satisfied
and certainly departed, the boy bent down to slide
his stockpile under the green camouflage. As he
looked around, from his kneeling position, he
discovered himself the subject of their observation,
and started guiltily. From the terrace, the man
waved nonchalantly to him, offering a "Hello,
Emil," to which the boy responded with a
relieved nod, assured that if his actions had
been understood they would not be reported, and
that his cache was safe. A moment later he disappeared
around the corner of the house.
"I've known him since
he was six," the man explained. "He's
the youngest of three -- two older sisters, including
the one we scared last night." Coming home
after midnight from the opening of a friend's
film in the city, they'd passed a large sedan
parked halfway up on the sidewalk in front of
the neighbor's house. As they moved alongside
the open window on the passenger side, there was
a girl's loud scream -- the eldest daughter's
face, terror-filled, jerking towards them, mottled
streetlight on her distorted features. He'd apologized,
though the car was in fact blocking the sidewalk,
and they'd walked on. ("Must've just come
from one of those teen hack-and-stab films,"
he said, unlocking the vestibule door. "Why
don't they park around the corner, where no one
will see them?" she wondered.)
"The mother's a divorcée.
Emil's had to fend for himself quite a bit; he's
become something of an entrepreneur -- a newspaper
route, comic-book sales, fireworks," he continued.
His thoughts turned to the nineteen-year-old boy
upstairs in his own house, angrily packing his
belongings, leaving home, and he fell silent,
closed his eyes.
Images from the years of
tension that, like some implacable kudzu, had
overgrown the love between the boy and himself
flickered half-realized in his mind, like heat
lightning. Finding letters addressed to him --
important professional correspondence he'd been
expecting but never seen -- opened and discarded
in the kitchen trash. All those moments when the
bad blood between them (he'd come to think of
adolescent hormones as a poison that had infected
them both) made it impossible to express whatever
affection they still felt. Himself standing in
the kitchen, waving at the food-caked skillets
and pots the boy had piled in the sink, left as
usual for him to clean up, shouting his refusal
to let his son "niggerize" him, using
the term as he'd learned to in his days as a civil-rights
activist. And the boy's defiant retaliation, his
cartooning skills put to use on a large poster,
a stylized self-portrait towering over a happy
slave, captioned "Mr. Democracy and His Personal
Negro."
After a few minutes he
opened his eyes. "Did I tell you what I saw
on the subway this week?" he asked her. "These
two black men came on the IRT at Union Square.
They came on with powerful energy crackling between
them -- one of them had evidently recognized the
other as having robbed him at knifepoint 'back
in 1978' in front of or near someplace called
Disco Fever in the Bronx. The one who claimed
he'd been robbed, a well-mannered, casually-dressed
man, said he'd know the other anywhere -- 'and
your partner too.' Challenged him by taking his
cash out of his pocket, a wad of bills, laying
it down on the floor of the subway car between
them, daring him: 'Let's see how brave you are
-- try to take it from me now, without your friend
or your knife.' Then, the other man making no
response, he dressed him down in front of the
whole rush-hour car full of people -- passengers,
black and white, edging away, leaving room around
the two in case of violence. 'Look at you now,
just a bum on the street,' he said bitterly, viciously,
sneering at the down-and-out aspect of the man's
clothes, his obviously unwashed hair, his overall
street-person appearance.
"The accused man just
stood there, taking it like a deserved punishment,
not turning away from it, not agreeing but not
denying, not pretending that this wasn't addressed
to him, that he didn't know his accuser (or at
least believe that this could be a true accusation),
not acting innocent. Also not meeting his accuser's
eyes. Like a penance of mortification through
which he had to pass.
"The recognition had
apparently taken place on the platform because
as they were getting on the once-robbed man had
already begun his monologue, telling the other
to 'stand right there in the car and listen to
me.' And so the robber stood right in front of
me, his back to me; I could see the muscles knot
and twitch on his neck, the face of his angry
accuser visible over the man's shoulder. Then
I moved away, to another seat, though I really
didn't expect anything physical to happen -- more
to get out of the accuser's line of vision, to
give them a kind of psychic space in which to
act out this ritual of recrimination.
"It was wrenching
and gripping at the same time. When we reached
Whitehall Street I got off, but I thought about
staying on, to watch it play itself out. I mean,
where could they go from that? Do they ride together
to the end of the line, the man's anger never
dissipating? Does the accused eventually try to
get off -- perhaps even at his intended destination
-- only to be followed by his accuser shouting
'I'm not finished with you, nigger!' Does the
once-victim interrupt himself and leave at his
own stop? Or does the man finally exhaust his
anger, let it go after all those years, maybe
even take the other to dinner -- in order to ask
him, over coffee and pie, 'How did we come to
this? What system has put us at each other's throats?'"
She'd listened to all this
in silence. When she spoke -- it was an aspect
of what he'd begun to love in her -- she sliced
through cleanly, to the issue and the need. "You're
taking this pretty hard, aren't you? Come on upstairs
and let me hold you for awhile. We'll get the
dishes later." She took his hand, leading
him into the house. Down in the field below a
string of firecrackers erupted like gunfire. The
sky answered with a premonitory rumbling.