Specimen Days - Michael Cunningham 25 стр.

You think your kid feels the same way about Whitman?

I dont know. Im talking to a Whitman person at NYU tomorrow.

You tired?

God, yes.

Lets go to bed.

Cat slipped under the covers while Simon was still in the bathroom, performing his rituals. Simons bedroom was the sanctum sanctorum, the vault where the best stash was kept. Along the south wall, shelves offered row upon row of vases and plates and ginger jars, pale green and lunar gray. On the opposite wall a collection of old banks and music boxes looked back across at the pottery. Cast-iron Uncle Sams and horse-drawn fire trucks and dancing bears, carved boxes that still contained the favorite songs of people a hundred years dead. Little toys, behold the perfect serenity of a thousand-year-old jar. Pottery, never forget how much humans have always loved a sentimental song and the sound of a coin put by.

Cat let herself sink into the fat pillows, the zillion-thread-count sheets. Of course she liked it. Why wouldnt she? Shed gotten here by chance. If she and Simon hadnt happened to go to Citarella at the same time (they had the best crab cakes; shed had a craving for crab cakes), if it hadnt been raining, if they hadnt hailed the same cab at the same moment

Just like that. Just that quick and easy. A little banter in the cabs backseat. (You sell the future? That is heavy shit. You talk to murderers? No, that is heavy shit.) A cup of coffee and that thing he did with his thumbs, hooking them around the cup rim, tapping out a little tattoo. He had pretty thumbs (she was a sucker for mens hands) and a way of tucking in his lower lip that was what made it happen, initially. Soon after, he proved to be one of those men who cared if a girl had a good time, and she appreciated that. Okay, he was more focused than passionate, his lovemaking had some hint of the deal about it (got to close this one, got to keep the customer satisfied), but still, he was sweet in bed, and shed thought she could loosen him up, with time. There was his beetle-browed determination to see her come; there was the impossible beauty and sureness of his fat, white propitious life. His collections and his deep leather sofas, his gigantic chrome shower-head. Which had mattered more at first, the thumbs and lips and conscientious sex or the gear?

The man. She wasnt like that. Shed never gone for rich guys, even young, when she was proper bait.

But still, here she was, safe, in this bedroom, high above the streets. It was admit it a little fucked up. Probably. It was a little bit cold. Wasnt it? She gave him street cred; she tickled his edgy bone. She made him more complicated. He gave her, well this.

And love. She did in fact love him, and he seemed to love her, too. Shed gone years without anything she could call love. She hadnt expected Simon or anyone like him, but here he was. Here were his thumbs and lips and eyebrows; here were his gravitas and prosperity; here was his secret self, that tiny, harmed, indignant quality she sensed in him, thought she detected on his face as he slept.

Simon came out of the bathroom naked, got into bed beside her. He said, Do you think the kid will call again?

Its hard to say.

You must have some idea, dont you?

She said, Once a perpetrator has initiated contact like this, odds are hell want to reestablish.

Screw it, talk dirty to him. Youre too tired to resist. That figures, he said.

What you try to do, she told him, is supplant the existing object. If youre lucky, if youre very lucky, you can become the person he loves and wants to destroy. He starts redirecting all that feeling to you.

Shameless. Not even true. Just sex talk. Like you would in therapy, Simon said.

Yes and no. You need to be compassionate but authoritative with someone like this. Somebody like this usually wants a boss. A voice in his head is telling him to do things he suspects he shouldnt do. He wants a new voice. Thats probably why he called in the first place.

Was that enough? Now could they just have sex, or not have sex, and go to sleep?

He said, So, you try to become the voice in his head?

He ran a pink fingertip precisely along her forearm, as if he were reading Braille. They could make one beautiful baby together, no denying it. Caramel-colored skin, head of billowy curls. Cat was probably still young enough. Maybe she was.

Yeah, she said. As opposed to the aliens, or the CIA, or whoever.

You try to be the new, better delusion.

Right. And if that doesnt work, you track the fucker down and blow him away.

That did it. Simon kissed her and worked his hand up to her breast.

She woke at a quarter to four. She gave it five minutes, on the off chance, then slipped out of bed. She went into the living room, took Leaves of Grass from her bag, and started reading.

She put the book down and went to the window, looked out at the slumbering city. From here it was all lovely and remote, twenty-two stories below. It was lights and silence and the few stars bright enough to penetrate the city haze. There were the windows of Tribeca and then the empty sky.

Where was the kid right now? Was he sleeping? She had a feeling he was not. She imagined him out there, as wide-awake as she was; he might be looking through a window of his own.

Luke would be twelve now. Since he died shed been sure he was somewhere; shed known it as deeply as shed known his presence inside her, shortly after conception. Shed never been religious. She hadnt allowed grief to send her crawling to the church. That might have helped, but she hadnt had it in her; it had seemed if anything like a final insult, to concoct sudden hysterical convictions about what shed spent her childhood escaping. All right, take my baby, but dont expect me to don the veil and kneel before the statue. Dont expect me to clap my hands or raise my voice in song. If shed done that, shed have lost herself completely.

And yet, Luke wasnt gone. She had no idea where he might be. He wasnt in heaven, and he wasnt a ghost, but he was somewhere. He had not evaporated. She knew it with gut-level certainty. It was her only belief. That, and the workings of justice in a dangerous world.

She slipped into bed just before sunrise. She wasnt sleepy, not even a little bit, but if she simulated sleepiness, if she acted like someone about to fall asleep, she could sometimes fool herself. Simon breathed steadily beside her, murmured over a dream. He never had trouble sleeping. She tried not to hate him for that.

She was still wide-awake when her cell went off. It was ten minutes after six.

This is Cat Martin.

Cat, Ive got your caller. Im patching him through.

It was Erna, from downtown. Cats heart quickened. Simon opened his eyes, blinked uncertainly. She put her finger to her lips.

She said, Go ahead, Erna.

There was the brief electronic hiccup of the transfer. Then there was his voice.

Hello?

He sounded even younger than shed remembered.

Hello. Whos this?

Urn. I called before.

Yes.

Keep it calm. Keep it matter-of-fact.

I could get in trouble, he said.

Youre not in any trouble at all, not if you let me help you. Did you write something on a wall last night?

What?

Did you write something for me last night? On a wall?

Oh. Yeah.

What were you trying to tell me?

Well. What it said.

Simon was sitting up now, watching her, wide-eyed.

Do you think its lucky to die? she asked. Do you think dying is a good thing?

I dont think I want to yet, the boy said. Who is it who wants you to die?

Thats how it works. I didnt know. Its murder, if you dont go, too.

Is somebody telling you to hurt yourself?

I beat and pound for the dead.

Thats Whitman, isnt it? she said. Who?

Walt Whitman. Did you learn those words from Walt Whitman?

No. Walt doesnt talk like that.

Where did you learn them, then?

Theyre from home.

Listen to me. Listen very carefully. Someone is telling you to do things that are bad for you, that are bad for other people. Its not your fault. Someone is hurting you. Tell me where you are, and Ill come there and help you.

I cant.

You dont need to be afraid. Theres nothing for you to be afraid of, but you have to let me help you. Tell me where youre calling from. You can tell me that. Its all right.

Walt Whitman. Did you learn those words from Walt Whitman?

No. Walt doesnt talk like that.

Where did you learn them, then?

Theyre from home.

Listen to me. Listen very carefully. Someone is telling you to do things that are bad for you, that are bad for other people. Its not your fault. Someone is hurting you. Tell me where you are, and Ill come there and help you.

I cant.

You dont need to be afraid. Theres nothing for you to be afraid of, but you have to let me help you. Tell me where youre calling from. You can tell me that. Its all right.

The next one is today.

Tell me what hes making you do. You dont have to do it.

I have to go.

Dont go. Youre in trouble, and its not your fault. I can help you.

Do you think a great city endures?

What do you think?

Goodbye. He hung up.

Simon said, That was him. He all but quivered with fervent competence.

It was him.

What did he say?

Just sit tight a minute, okay?

Her cell went off, as shed known it would. It was Pete.

Jesus fucking Christ, he said.

Where was he?

Pay phone in Bed-Stuy.

Theyre doing another one today.

So he says. What do you think?

Off the top of my head, Id say Im not sure.

Thanks for sharing.

Id say hes serious.

Id say so, too. What was all that shit about Walt?

Frankly, youve got me there. The little fucker seems to have memorized the whole book.

He says the words are from home. Whats that about?

Theyre loose, Pete. As you know.

How soon can you be in the office?

Twenty minutes. Give or take.

See you there.

She clicked off. Simon stared at her, all executive readiness.