The brownstone, p.7
The Brownstone, page 7
For a long time, she watched the flakes of snow zigzag down the glass panes. They gathered in the corner of the window, forming tiny clusters, until the wind sent them scattering in all directions. Vague ideas passed through her head. She saw Elizabeth bustling down the staircase with the butterfly tray held securely in her hands. She saw the face of the doctor as he told her she was pregnant. Other images came and went, fragmented, half-pictures, portions left out. Erased. The filmy past kept rolling behind her eyes. Her mind wandered.
The breathing came first. It drifted in from the living room, a low, harsh wheeze. A constricted sound, it floated through the doorway of the bedroom until it reached her. It encompassed her. Paralyzed her limbs with fear.
“Justin? Justin, is that you?” But there was no answer. She took a step forward, then collapsed on the bed, feeling that she was imagining things. She draped the blanket over her shoulders for warmth.
And then she heard it. Footsteps coming toward the bedroom.
“Justin!” Her voice was nearly inaudible. She gasped. Tried to remember. Had Justin locked the front door when he left? She always listened for the click of his key; tonight she couldn’t remember. Justin was in a hurry. She had turned and gone to the window—no. She was now convinced that the door was unlocked. Her heart dropped, beat in heavy, sickening thuds. She pressed a hard fist against her chest. Oh, my God—my baby. Slowly, her fingers opened and traveled down to her belly. Her face was flushed, her skin cold and clammy. Trembling, she tried to get up. She couldn’t. A loose floorboard creaked. The footsteps were closer. Think, for Christ’s sake! Don’t just sit there. Think! She would go very quickly, very softly to the connecting door. Wait. Feel for the right instant, and when she felt the exact impulse, run for the front door, past the intruder. Run screaming down the stairs, out of the building. Someone would hear her. Maybe Jerry, Lois’ husband. She took a long breath, steadied herself and picked up a heavy brass ashtray. It slipped; she grabbed for it. Her hands were wet.
Balancing easily on her good dancer’s legs, she took a determined step toward the living room, another, and then another. Breathe. She had to remember to keep breathing. Light footsteps retreated—did the front door open? No, she was sure it hadn’t. With a desperate twist of her body, she wrenched the door open and plunged full force into the living room.
It was empty and quiet except for the loud ticking of the antique clock. She glanced at it—nearly one in the morning. Had there been someone in her living room? She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to see what was keeping Justin.
She pulled at the door—it stuck. She clicked the lock, pulled again; it still didn’t open. Clicked it again and again until she no longer remembered if it had been locked or unlocked. Finally, she wrenched the door free and left the apartment.
A slight breeze moved the loose snow casually to and fro as Chandal began to walk to the corner of the block. The street was deserted and the snow had stopped.
She felt the cold night air pass over her face. She shivered. It was a cold, still, self-contained world and she was intruding her presence into it. She could feel that she was entering someone else’s territory. She came to a stop in front of the brownstone. The feeling intensified to a high pitch.
She was afraid to go forward, afraid to go back. She was caught. She stood and stared. In the half-lit night, the brownstone looked gray and old. The building had many windows, none of which showed any signs of life. And yet, she could feel herself being watched. She stood helpless, shaking. And that was observed, too.
Suddenly, she felt intensely angry. It steadied her. She clung to it. Let it build. Goddamn it! The anger burst forth, growing, billowing, pushing—she moved forward.
She reached the top of the steps, where, on either side, a mounted figure of stone stood sentinel. Pressing the bell, she waited. There was no reply. Looking into the octagonal glass window on the door, she could barely make out a light burning at the far end of the hallway. She pressed the bell again. No answer. Perhaps Justin had changed his mind. Perhaps he hadn’t come here at all. He was probably over at Billy’s place spilling his guts. Angry and cold, she returned to her apartment.
The bath felt very nice. It was warm and Chandal relaxed. She pushed the water around the tub and watched it circle over her knees and then back again over her belly. Then she soaped herself all over. She dipped deep into the tub and her entire body was hidden by the cloudy water. She stopped suddenly. Someone was walking around in the living room. Her body shot straight up. Slowly the bathroom door swung open.
“Justin!”
“Yeah?” He appeared at the bathroom door.
“Damn! You nearly scared me to death.”
“Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”
She watched him disappear into the bedroom. From the expression on his face, it was hard to tell what decision had been reached. By the time she dried off, it was too late to find out. Justin was asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
DEEP IN THE NIGHT, MAGDALEN SIGHED, AND HEARING herself sigh, she turned in sudden apprehension toward the darkened doorway and came face to face with her sister, Elizabeth. The features of Elizabeth’s face, half-hidden by shadows, seemed swollen, yet her childlike personality still remained embedded within its folds. With large luminous eyes and thick henna-colored hair, she was dressed entirely in white. The faded white silk sash around her waist matched the two bows she wore in her hair. The red corkscrew curls that were pasted to her forehead seemed shocking by comparison. Her legs and feet were compressed into white stockings and soft white sandals, which gave her the appearance of walking on a cloud.
“Would you like tea?” Elizabeth asked, moving softly into the room.
“I’ve asked you never to sneak up on me like that. Why do you do it?”
“Sneaking? I wasn’t sneaking!”
“You were.” Magdalen lifted her hand to the neck of her cotton blouse, pulling the opening more tightly closed. Seated, she had covered her legs and lap with an old wrapper of quilted blue satin. Her steel-gray hair was in the same state of wild disarray as it had been when she had first awakened. She wore no makeup, barely considered her condition of dress, and took pride only in the fact that she wore slick black patent-leather slippers on her feet.
“We’re going up to the attic again—aren’t we?” asked Elizabeth with a marked edge of wary defiance.
“No. Not tonight.” Her eyes upon her sister, she waited for her reaction.
“Good. You’re not well. You haven’t the strength. Perhaps in a day or two—” Elizabeth broke off and moved into the room.
Magdalen believed she heard genuine concern in her sister’s voice. Still she couldn’t help wondering what thoughts stirred behind her sleepy eyes. “It’s almost one-thirty,” Magdalen said softly, feeling now that her sister’s old jealousy was still within her, smoldering, through the years, as always; it would never really die. Elizabeth kept moving, past her sister, heading toward the window where she would close the shutters. Magdalen sat perfectly still, then leaned forward slightly, and stared after her.
A wash of silence broke over the brownstone.
It was the silence that each of the sisters so absolutely distrusted. After all these years, everything that had to be said had been spoken, and now there wasn’t anything else. Or was there?
Magdalen recalled the first day Elizabeth had brought her home from the hospital seven years ago. Elizabeth had broken down and cried, explaining she hadn’t meant to knock her forward, hadn’t meant to send her falling down the two flights of stairs. Magdalen let her speak, never accepting or rejecting her statement, her mind concentrating on other matters, filled with the shock that she would probably never recover now. She would be confined most of the time to her room, eating unbearable food twice a day. At first Elizabeth had made coffee for her. Now she drank tea, along with one egg, and toast, cold and dry and buttered with margarine. That was her breakfast. Never any meat, which she was sure Elizabeth had cooked for herself while she was asleep. The second meal consisted of watery vegetables, canned desserts—everything boiled and cold.
Magdalen steadied herself and looked into Elizabeth’s face, so shiny, so refreshed in a strange way. Perhaps Magdalen should have felt grateful. Her sister had never left her side. The thought made her feel remote from herself. She had heard people say that they couldn’t live alone and others say that they couldn’t eat alone, or simply be alone or die alone. She had also heard people mention that they couldn’t do anything alone, but she had never heard Elizabeth say these things. In fact, despite Elizabeth’s constant insistence that they were absolutely necessary to each other, Magdalen felt that her sister would prefer to see her dead. But this had remained a vague idea, a thought that was never spoken. Never discussed. Perhaps if she had spoken to Elizabeth that day, tried to understand her more, the silences they now shared would not be quite as long.
Elizabeth adjusted her shawl as she moved away from the window to the far corner of the room, away from Magdalen. She thought of the white lace dress. Whiteness was pure; whiteness meant that she was not guilty. The dress was proof of it. But the dress did not belong to her. In the beginning, everything seemed pretty and light. The girl in the white lace dress was her playmate. She had always wanted a playmate. Someone special for her very own. Her mother had given her a plush panda bear, instead. She was instantly afraid of the creature. “No! Take it away! Please, take it away!” she had screamed, but it was too late; her mother had left the brownstone.
The bear’s arm was raised up as if to strike her. And then fists were beating Elizabeth’s face. Her own fists. But she was sure that it was the bear that was attacking her. “He’s killing me!” she screamed, pounding her fists into her face.
When her mother had entered the room, she had been shocked to see Elizabeth’s face streaming with blood.
A mocking voice sneered at her. “Ah, ah, stupid girl. Eat. Eat!” Magdalen stood in the doorway laughing as her mother tried to calm Elizabeth.
“He... he wanted to...”
“There, it’s all right. You’ll be all right now. Mother is here. See? You’re all right now.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth whimpered and hugged her mother tightly.
Magdalen slammed the bedroom door shut, leaving Elizabeth cradled in her mother’s arms.
Now the two women sat at opposite ends of the room, like bookends, listening tensely for the next sign to continue with their conversation. Remaining perfectly motionless, they waited.
Shadows shifted, the night passed, and up the broad, creaking staircase, around the mahogany newel posts and fretted balustrades, against the blackened marble fireplace, the box-paned glass, congery of antiques, cracked, chipped, charred, the silence clung like a veil of Spanish moss in a grove of dead oak. It was a silence as big as the universe.
Intake Interview 2 (Excerpt)
I. Luther, M.D. 33236
Patient is receiving cold-water-bath therapy. At this point, I do not recommend electric shock treatments.
Note: What is reason for the obsession over hair? Demands to have hair removed, as short as regulations allow. I have permitted a slight cut, but it appears to alleviate no symptoms.
In session, there is no direct communication. Continues to talk in third person; wishes to know what the conspiracy is. Patient also reverts to childish humor to escape reality. Rejects identity.
As patient refuses to eat, force-feeding has to be induced. Due to its traumatic nature, I wish to discontinue. However, there is currently no alternative.
I. Luther
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING, JUSTIN AWOKE CHANDAL WITH a kiss. First on the lips, then one on each eyelid. Before she had a chance to wipe the sleep from her eyes, he reassured her—a kiss after every third word—that everything was going to be all right. That the Krispin sisters—he glowered like a vampire—had agreed to let them live rent-free for six months in exchange for his services. He was to help put the house in order and to act as super. They were planning a trip to Europe soon and would need him to maintain the building. If this arrangement was acceptable, Justin and Chandal would be allowed to stay on there at $200 a month, just a little more than they were paying now.
“Justin, that’s wonderful!”
“Didn’t I tell you exactly what would happen?” Justin stopped short, bowed, and sat down on the chair next to the foot of the bed. “My dear Chandal,” he continued.
“Is this going to be a speech?” she asked, pleased to find him in such good spirits.
He struck a pose. “My dear Chandal—I love you.”
They made love after that, the sensational kind of love that sent electrical charges through their bodies and turned each gesture into a sexual promise. Justin had always been a good and passionate lover, but there had been an excitement that Chandal had never experienced with him before. A roughness that entranced her.
Relaxed, partially dressed now, they sat on the edge of the bed and studied the brownstone’s floor plan. Justin had sketched it the night before, carefully marking each room and its dimensions. Where to place the new arrival? They decided on the small room next to the parlor.
Chandal was pleased.
Justin sat back and smiled. His gaze was locked on the soft creamy flesh of her breasts. They were full, rounded; her nipples in silhouette. Moving forward, he reached out with both hands and covered them. For a moment, she leaned back, letting him caress her gently. The feeling of warmth increased.
Chandal caught her breath and pulled him down on top of her.
“Again?” he whispered humorously.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He took her in his arms and pulled her slender body close to his own. Moving faster now, locked in her embrace, he entered her. The excitement spun through their bodies, undulating, gasping, until finally they had reached a mutual climax.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“Oh, Justin.” She clung to him. He was himself again. Attentive. Loving. Someone she understood. And someone she loved very much.
That afternoon, Justin made arrangements to have the entire apartment painted before they moved in, soft green and brown with white ceilings. They had to hurry. Four calendar days away from moving day; D-Day, as Chandal thought of it. Justin called Billy—Billy called three unemployed actors who in turn made other calls. By three o’clock, a work force had been assembled.
“Honey, I’m about to starve to death,” Justin said, poking his head into the kitchen.
“So am I.” Chandal smiled, relieved that Justin was going to break his two-day fast. She brought back a loaf of black bread from Zabar’s, his favorite Brunello cheese, and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon (she would have preferred a Rioja reserva). All during the meal, they played about, kissed, knocking their teeth together, touched each other. Only briefly did Chandal wonder why no one had answered at the brownstone last night.
The next three days went smoothly. Justin was hired to direct a new Off-Broadway play. Rehearsals were to begin in three weeks. Back in the theater again, Justin thought wryly, one last fling. A sort of thanks-for-the-memory bow. He’d make it the best damn play he’d ever directed, and get out. What he would do after that, he hadn’t decided. He ran the possibilities over in his mind. He had toyed with the idea of opening a small restaurant with Billy. Billy was too undependable. Justin would wind up doing it by himself. He liked sketching, had taken a few art courses at Cooper Union—but found it had begun to hurt his eyes. Headaches. He could still remember the violent headaches, the visits to the eye doctor. The long, endless “migraine nights” without sleep. The pacing, the waiting, the fear that perhaps he was on the verge of... He shook the thought loose from his brain. Anyway, he would do something.
Chandal applied for a job at the Museum of Natural History, leaving out her own recent history—i.e., pregnancy. She was immediately hired. Suddenly, their money problems were solved.
Getting the first floor of the brownstone ready was more difficult. The two women complained that the painters were making too much noise. The couch was too large to take down the stairs—it had to be dismantled. Dishes were broken and Mintz escaped through the open front door and couldn’t be found for hours.
Justin had also made the costly mistake of hiring a contractor to redo the floor and cabinets and modernize both bathrooms. Chandal had suggested that they restore the natural wood of the apartment wherever possible—incredible to believe that the sisters had actually painted over most of the woodwork and doors. Stripping paint was a difficult job and who had the time?
It was now Friday afternoon and Justin was doing odd jobs around the brownstone, only to keep an eye on the man who consumed brandy after brandy and, in spite of a vast consumption, remained sober.
“The paneling doesn’t look right,” said Justin, annoyed at the time that had been wasted.
“Nothing wrong with the paneling,” the contractor said and down went another brandy. “The cabinets in the kitchen could use another coat of varnish. Better not do it now, though. Maybe tomorrow.”
“You were supposed to finish today.”
“Can’t.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday!”
“Monday, then.” He drew out a crumpled cigarette and fumbled for a match. He’d done this throughout the day—groped for a match, then asked Justin for another book of matches, only to lose them again.
“Listen, I’ll finish the job myself,” Justin said. It was a relief to pay the man and get him away from the brownstone.
Justin didn’t start getting nervous until the man actually left the building. What the hell was making him sweat all of a sudden? He laughed and told himself he wouldn’t let the pressure build. He thought about going back to work, finishing odd jobs, but enough was enough. He’d been working since ten o’clock; better to let the rest go.
