Nana had lived here with her husband when he was alive. And with the two boys after Mom died, after Dad declared he couldn’t raise them. She had not moved out to West Twelfth until after Zachie went to college. Then she had decided she could not handle the stairs anymore, and that she wanted a doorman for deliveries and so forth. But she hung on to the mews. She’d let Zach and Oliver stay there when they came to town on visits. And after Zach’s first breakdown, she let him move in and live there by himself. She was trying to sell the place now though. She felt certain that Zach was getting better. And she sure enough needed the money, with Zach’s expenses and his shrink and all. Too bad the market was so lousy, Perkins thought.
He reached the front door. Knocked with his fist. It made the sidelights rattle. In the silence that followed, he could feel the emptiness of the place. He cursed Tiffany. Why had she insisted Zach was here? She must have known it would scare Nana senseless. He rooted in his pocket for his keys.
Idiot broad, Perkins thought. He brought the key out. Unlocked the door. Pushed it open. Stepped inside.
“Christ!”
The smell hit him first. The shutters were closed downstairs and the place was in shadow. But the smell was thick; like liquid air; miasma. Wet and rotten as a sick old dog. Perkins gasped as it caught him. He took another step, came away from the door. Then the light slanted in from the alley behind him.
“Christ. Oh Christ.”
He saw the place, the big room downstairs. He saw the wooden pillars rising to the ceiling beams. The shape of them came out of the dark. Then the rest of it.
“Oh no. Oh man.”
It was a shambles. The studded leather chairs lay on their sides. The sofa was upended. The marble coffee table had been knocked off its stand, hammered to pieces on the Mexican rug.
With a curse, Perkins stepped to his left. He felt his way along the wall. Found the light switch, hit it. There was a loud pop. A spray of white sparks shot from a nearby lamp-stand, drifted to the floor. Only the chandelier went on; only one of its flame-shaped bulbs. The other lamps were all shattered, the jagged necks of the bulbs sticking up out of their sockets. The shattered glass was sprinkled among the broken marble on the rug. The rug beneath, he could see now, was burned. There were round black bits in it. One fringed corner of it had just been torn away.
Zach, he thought. His brain had seized up for just a second, but now he remembered his brother. Jesus.
“Zach?” he tried to call. His voice caught in his throat. He cleared it. “Zachie!” He kept walking farther and farther into the room. In past the kitchen alcove. In under the low crossbeams that went from the pillars to the ceiling. Glass crunched under his sneakers. “Hey, Zach!” This time, he managed to raise his voice. “You here? Don’t fuck around, man.” He stopped to listen for an answer. He heard his heart beating. There was nothing else. The old cottage sat broken and silent. Perkins’s eyes trailed over the wreckage. Over the shuttered windows. Over the littered floor to the foot of the stairs and there …
“Oh … Oh no.”
He caught his breath. He lifted his eyes from stair to stair. He gazed up toward the second story, his stomach clutching, his hands balled into fists.
“Zachie?”
It was only a whisper this time. His lips parting, he looked down at the stairs again. He looked down at the worn tan runner. At the stains on it.
The blood.
She was too exhausted now to think. She drove herself deeper into the subway tunnel. Deeper into the dark. The walls fell away from her. The tunnel fanned out. There were four sets of tracks before her, each curling off in a different direction. Shiny patches of steel gleamed in the light from bare bulbs overhead. Concrete pillars hulked in the shadows like giants, motionless, watching.
She stumbled on, her arms flailing. She couldn’t believe herself. Could not believe she was doing this. She felt at any moment she must stop, turn around, turn herself in. The rails, the ties, the white flecks of garbage in the gravel—they blurred and blended under her feet. It all seemed unreal to her. Faraway, foggy. Even the shouts of the officers on the platform behind her seemed part of a dream. They didn’t shoot or anything, there were no bullets zinging around her. Their voices just got farther and farther away, fainter and fainter.
Ahead of her now, the tunnel narrowed again. Two of the tracks peeled off to the right. The walls closed in on her. They were cement walls. They were washed in a swirl of graffiti. Writhing signatures and profanities covered every inch of stone; a snake’s nest of spray paint colors. She saw it through tears as she staggered on. She saw a glow pass over the face of it, making the letters seem to twist and coil. She panted hoarsely, her tongue hanging out. The glow on the walls spread. A wind began to rise behind her, cold on her neck. It blew her hair over her cheeks.
A train …
The tracks began to quake beneath her feet. The tunnel began to rumble. The glow grew brighter now. It glared on the walls. The coiling letters danced frantically.
Train, a train is coming …
For another second, she couldn’t get her mind to take it in. It was coming. Coming from behind her. Hammering the tracks, making everything shake. Making everything glare and tilt.
My God!
She spun around. It was right on top of her. A world of thunder. A wall of wind. Two lanterns like wild eyes burning her blind. The horn screamed. Screamed in her head. She screamed back. Tried to throw herself to the side, throw herself clear. She fell. Down onto the track. Her shoulder hit the rail. She rolled onto her face, screaming, pissing, covering her head with her hands.
“No no no!”
And then it was on her. As if the sky were on stampede. That long explosion of deafening noise. The track bouncing under her. The hot sting of urine on her legs. The wind like a wave crashing onto her back.
The express.
She could feel it. It was passing. Passing to the side of her, a flashing white line. A blue spark lanced the dark above her head. She felt a sharp, sizzling burn on the back of her hand. She looked up.
And it was past. The express train. The express train on the express track, which was the track next to the local track, which was the track she was lying on. She rolled over in time to see the train’s red taillights shivering off into the tunnel. The yellow rectangle of the rear window growing smaller as it pulled out of sight. The rumbling ground subsided beneath her. The noise grew distant. She lay gasping for air, giddy to be alive. The dark was quiet around her.
Gee, kids, don’t try this at home.
Now she could hear the footsteps. Hard shoes on gravel. The cops had come in the tunnel. They were moving toward her. She could hear their voices growing closer.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Are you all right in there, lady?”
“They’re supposed to stop the trains. These fucking people.”
“Lady?”
A moment later, she saw their flashlights. Beams sweeping back and forth, crossing each other. She saw the silhouettes behind the beams, moving forward among the pillars.
She tried to move, to stand up. Her body felt limp. Her face felt numb, as if she’d been shot with novocaine. She moved her legs and felt the damp.
Oh shit!
Oh, mortification! She’d wet herself! The idea that these cops—these men—were going to see … Oh, she wanted to shrink down to nothing.
Nancy, you …! Damn it!
She managed to climb to her feet. Stood unsteadily. She hoisted her purse strap over her shoulder. Rubbed the back of her hand. The spark had burned her there; there was a purple line in the flesh.
The cops came closer. Their flashlights picked out portions of brown tracks and white pillars. She looked around herself. She felt dizzy and weak, but her mind was clear.
She saw she was in an abandoned station. A ghost station. A platform above the tracks. Unused coils of electrical wires, bags of plaster. Those graffitied walls. Kids must have climbed in here to spray-paint the p
lace.
“You see her?” one cop called to another. His voice echoed in the distance.
“I don’t know. Hold on. I hear something.”
Right under the platform, Nancy saw, in the wall down there, at track level, there were alcoves. Low arching entranceways cut into the cement. Lightless nooks beyond them. Hiding places for subway workers, she thought. For when trains came.
Her hand went to the leather purse at her side.
“Come on out now, lady,” one of the cops called wearily. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
“We want to kill you,” another cop muttered.
“Shut up.”
“Just kidding. Just kidding, lady. Come on out.”
One of the silhouettes was moving away from the others now. He was coming toward the ghost station, toward her. His flashlight beam swept the track. It stretched out toward her feet.
If I could hide the gun …, she thought.
She touched the leather purse. Stared at the alcove in the wall.
If I could hide my purse and the gun …
Then they could not prove anything, she thought vaguely. Then they would have to let her go. She could go home. She could go see Dr. Bloom for a checkup. She could …
come back for the gun later.
Yes. She could come back for the gun when she needed it. When the time was right.
At the Animal Hour.
Yes. She started moving. She hardly confessed to herself what she was thinking. She only knew that she had to hide the gun. And, strangely enough, it sent a thrill through her. A coursing bolt of … maybe fear, maybe anticipation. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to hide the purse, the gun.
She moved. The policeman’s silhouette came closer. His footsteps sounded loudly on the gravel of the tracks. His flashlight beam stretched out to touch the edge of her shoe. She moved away from it quickly. Stepped over the rail. Ducked under the platform.
“Lady?” The cop was only a few feet away. He must have heard her moving. “Lady, is that you?”
She knelt down next to the alcove. The smell from inside it burned her nostrils. A juicy smell, sour and organic. It brought her stomach up into her throat. Something was in there, giving off that stench. She could see it against the far wall, some dead hump of something.
She swallowed hard. She stripped her purse off her shoulders.
“Lady?” He was almost beside her. Another step and his flashlight would sweep right over her. Pluck her right out of the dark. “Are you there?”
She screwed up her face. She held her breath. Turned half away. With a gasp, she shoved the bag into the alcove, stuck it into the pile of muck at the far end. She felt the clammy goo close over her hand, over her wrist, her sleeve. The stench washed over her. She shoved the purse in deep.
“Take it easy, lady,” the cop said tensely.
But then he stopped. She heard the gravel crunch as he pulled up. She heard another sound too: a loud click. A track switch turning over. Nancy pulled her hand free. Looked up over her shoulder. A faint glow was beginning to spread over the swirling graffiti on the walls again. A faint wind was beginning to blow.
“Oh shit,” the cop whispered.
And another cop called from the darkness: “Here comes another one! Damn it! The downtown local!”
“Dumb fucks! They’re supposed to stop them,” came a third voice.
“Goddamn it,” muttered the cop standing over her. “I hate this fucking city.”
He was backing away from her now. The glow was growing brighter on the walls. The police were shouting to one another, but the rumble of the oncoming train was drowning them out. The ground was shaking under her flats. The wind was whipping her face. The white headlights broke up out of the tunnel as the train pounded toward her. The local train. Her track this time. For another long second, she could only stare as the lights closed in, as they bore into her.
Then she ducked into the alcove. The juicy stench enveloped her. The air shivered and throbbed and roared with the on rushing train. She opened her mouth, strangling on the smell. The entranceway went white with light. She pulled her knees into her chest.
And then the train shot past the arched entrance. The streak of its silver sides, the churn of its flashing wheels. She pulled back, her head to the wall. All she could hear was the roar and blast of it …
And then a screech. It knifed through her. And what a screech—intolerably loud—the fingernail of God on the blackboard of heaven. On and on, the sound piercing her until she cried out in pain. She held her ears. She closed her eyes.
The screak tailed off. The shaking ground began to settle. The thunder died away.
She opened her eyes. The train had halted—right in front of her. Shivering, she peered out at it through the archway. She was looking up at the coupling between two cars.
She heard the cops’ voices in the distance. “Oh, nice going.”
“Fuckheads.”
“I hate this city.”
She sat still in the cramped alcove. Her legs drawn up, her arms around her knees. Her eyes teared with the stench. The smell of her own urine mingled with it. She was miserably aware of the chafing sting on her bare thighs.
She heard the policemen. Their male voices shouting commands.
“You gotta move it in. Move it in.”
“You want it in the station?”
“No, I want it in my living room. Bring it into the fucking station. These dickheads.”
“We’re bringing it into the station! Right.”
And Nancy sat still. Gazing blankly at the haunch of the enormous creature before her. The sharp gleaming wheels, motionless now. The safety chains dangling from the coupling.
They’re about to move it into the station, she thought. They’re going to pull the train into the station and the doors will open and passengers will get out. She gazed up at the coupling between the cars. She thought: any second now. She wanted to move. She wanted to climb out of the alcove and up onto the train. She could hide among the passengers. She could get out with them and escape …
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was too crazy—she would fall—she’d be killed. Still, she kept thinking: The train will pull into the station any second. And then she would have to come out of the alcove. With her hands up. And the police would surround her. And the idea that the police—these men—would see that she had peed on herself … She wanted to curl up like scorched paper and crumble to ashes.
Any second, she thought.
She came out of the alcove. Quickly. Uncurling. Ducking under the arch. She ducked again, down lower, twisted up under the safety chains. There was an iron rung on the side of one car. She took hold of the coupling floor, lifted her foot to fit it to the rung.
The subway jolted. It started to move.
Nancy cried out. She was sliding backward, off the coupling. The subway chugged slowly. She gripped the coupling floor but she was sliding off. Down to the tracks, down beneath the train, the big wheels.
Oh please.
Grunting with the effort, she pulled. Dragged herself up. Poked her toe into the rung. She grunted and struggled to haul her body back onto the coupling. Her arms strained. Her breasts were crushed painfully against the metal. The train bucked and cantered toward the station just ahead.
Then, with a cry, she made it. She was up on the coupling’s edge. Rolling onto her side, rolling against the car door. She reached up and seized ahold of its handle. The train whistle shrieked. The tunnel walls gave way to the light of the station. Nancy fought her way to her feet, crying with the effort. With a muscular shove, she pushed the door in. Staggered into the car. And it was …
Well, she could hardly believe her eyes. She pulled up short, blinking. It was as if she had come into another world, a world as sweet as harp music. The inside of the subway car was clean. The metal fittings were shiny. The fluorescent lights were bright, making everything soothingly clear. There were handsome busines
smen here, natty in their suits, substantial behind their copies of the Times. There was a mother cooing to her baby in its carriage. A pair of German tourist boys chuckling thickly.
Nancy stared. Look at them, she thought. All these good, calm, regular people going about their lives. And look at me! What must she look like to them? Her clothing torn, her hair disheveled. Her face and hands covered with filth. What must she smell like, for God’s sake?
Quickly, she tugged her trench coat closed in front of her. She prayed to the merciful mother of the Lord that the pee wasn’t showing through the front of her skirt.
I’ll become a nun, I swear, just dry that pee, merciful Mother …
And now, the train was coming to a stop. She could see the tiled station walls, the waiting faces outside the window. She thought she spotted some uniforms out there too. Some granite brows under blue caps. Badges. There was nothing for it now though. She had to brass it out. Go through with her plan and walk out with the others. She straightened. Lifted her chin. Clutched that trench coat tightly shut. And then …
painted lips, painted eyes,
wearin’ a bird of paradise …
… she paraded—practically sashayed—into the midst of the other passengers.
No one even looked up at her. They went on, reading their papers, cooing their coos, chuckling their guttural chuckles. She took hold of a shiny support beam, as if it were the staff of Columbia. Her head thrown back, she stood at attention as the train sailed into the station.
Oh, it all seems wrong somehow,
cause you’re nobody’s sweetheart …
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.” It was the voice of the motorman over the intercom.
Nancy swallowed hard. Don’t let him say it. She tilted her chin back even farther. If he announces there’s a fugitive … if he says they’re looking for someone … She held her breath, staring straight ahead. They’ll see. Everyone will see. I’m meat, I’m dead, I’m through …
The Animal Hour Page 9
