The Victorian house at 22 Humboldt Street appears large from the outside but inside, its rooms are surprisingly small and cramped. There are remote rooms which we rarely enter. Each of the rooms is lined with bookshelves and in one or two of these, out of playfulness (not malice) I have removed a book from a shelf and placed it elsewhere, on another shelf.
Has Professor Schrader noticed? I never check to see if the book has been returned to its original position for this would be a giveaway, if the Professor caught me.
Ida Schrader had been a renowned anthropologist, it seems. Until, in the 1990s, her field of aboriginal research had “collapsed.” Charges were made against (white) (American) anthropologists that they were exploiting native subjects—”aborigines.” Even worse, many anthropologists were accused of inventing data. In some cases renowned anthropologists were misled by their (canny, conniving) native subjects, who humored them as inquisitive fools or provided them with sham information, like counterspies. Such charges had been made against the most famous of American anthropologists, Margaret Mead, with whom Ida Schrader studied decades ago; so Ida Schrader felt herself hounded into early retirement, and ceased publishing. Her physical decrepitude made it unlikely that she could continue to travel to distant aboriginal fields of inquiry in such places as Australia and Papua New Guinea, in any case.
It is ever more fearful to me to enter the bathroom between Candace’s and my rooms and to sniff the air cautiously—(against my will: I do not want to be sniffing in such a place)—to detect if Professor Schrader, with her particular odor, has used it in my absence. My cleaning and scouring rituals have become ever more intricate. Of course I bring my own towels into the bathroom for I do not trust the Professor or my fellow tenant not to use them. The face in the medicine cabinet mirror is wan, blurred; the eyes are bruised and wary. (Are these my eyes?) I have to suppress a sob for I feel keenly the futility of my efforts to avoid contagion, as the drowned girl similarly failed not only to avoid the contagion of death but becoming, herself, in her physical being, after her death, an object of contagion. To become putrescent, to leak through plumbing and discolor water gushing from strangers’ faucets, to arouse terror and disgust in these strangers—it was a horrific fate for anyone but particularly for a beautiful young woman who had (surely) been conscientious in her grooming and cleanliness, and would have been stricken with shame if (for instance) she had smelled of her underarms in a public place, or appeared in public in soiled clothes.
A fate which (I told myself) I must avoid.
Though Candace Durstt left her toothbrush and toiletries in the bathroom, and sometimes even articles of underwear drying on a towel rack, like a shrike-bird who blatantly displays its prey, I took my toothbrush and toiletries, as well as my (damp) towels, back to my room. It was too great a risk, that one or both of the others might take my toothbrush and defile it in the toilet bowl; the mere thought made me nauseous. Sternly I told myself But no one would do such a thing. Not even these people who hate me.
Contaminated showerheads. Mold. You can become very sick from mold. Infectious spores. A kind of tuberculosis, a severe and chronic bronchitis. Your voice is faint, tentative. You are the bearer of a ferocious cough, that drives others from you in disgust.
The heat, the damp of a shower. Spores flourish, teem in such places. Colonies of mold spring into being, as much in the world as humankind. It is deflating to realize that you are not privileged over the mold in your showerhead.
In your lungs the spores breed wildly. Damp, heat, dark, secrecy. You find yourself thinking one day as the mold bids you think. You wake—But this is not the way I was yesterday. Something has changed.
I had read of Legionnaires’ disease. Waterborne mold spores, streaming over the face and body of an (unwitting) individual, a potentially deathly contagion.
Carefully I removed the showerhead in the bathroom, and replaced it with a shiny new showerhead purchased at the hardware store on Pitcairn at my own expense.
I told Professor Schrader that the old showerhead had fallen and cracked and that I had gone out at once to purchase a new one.
Professor Schrader was speechless at first. She heaved her bulky body up the stairs, panting, to examine my handiwork. How bright the new showerhead gleamed, like a stainless-steel moon! Clearly, this initiative on my part surprised Professor Ida Schrader and was forcing her to reconsider me.
At last she said, frowning: “All right. But I can’t deduct the price of the showerhead from your rent. I hope you are not expecting that.”
I had not even thought of that! (Well, perhaps I had thought of it: I had saved the receipt.)
“Because in fact you broke the old showerhead, Alida. That was carelessness on your part.”
Though it was not true, I could not deny this.
(Yet soon, within a few weeks, the gleaming new showerhead lost its luster. The interior of the shower was perpetually humid. A smell of drains prevailed. On the showerhead, as on the faucets, a splatter of soap scum which I took pains to clean away, with steel wool if necessary.)
Here is a strangeness. I do not want to think what this strangeness means.
In one of the remote rooms in the Professor’s house, on a shelf of antiquated-looking hardcover books, I have discovered a paperback chemistry textbook—so heavy in my hand, I can hardly hold it. On the inside front page of the textbook a name has been crossed out in black marker ink—a name that resembles, but may not be identical with, MIRI KRIM.
Quickly returning the heavy paperback to the shelf, before someone observes me.
(The possibility that Miri Krim rented a room here, before moving to The Magellan, is deeply disturbing. But I dare not ask Professor Schrader.)
Laundromat on Ninth Street. Has to be the Laundromat that Miri Krim used.
That smell of hot laundry, when you open the big tumbling drier.
Brushing a hand against another’s. Eyes averted. But we are smiling, we recognize each other.
Ours is a bond of vengeance. We are waiting!
Yeah she came in here sometimes. Think it was her. That girl who drowned in the water tank …
Hell no, for sure she didn’t drown herself. Somebody did that for her, that was never caught.
Had to be some guy works in the building. Or somebody connected with law enforcement, that there’s a cover-up for.
Terrible! Like her spirit is here, with us.
We are all that is left of her. Us.
Eighteenth-century University buildings. Gabled roofs, Gothic spires. Damp-gray stone hidden by ivy but if you look closely you see how much of the ivy is dead, desiccated. Brittle and brown rattling in the wind.
Great aged oaks buttressed by stakes. Secured by wires. And a foot-high wrought-iron fence surrounding.
You see how the ruling class maintains its dominance by such buttressing, such security. Where otherwise, with others of us, a “natural” death is allowed.
“Alida! I think you have something to confess to.”
Sternly Professor Schrader addresses me. The name “Alida” is an ax slash in her mouth and I am frozen with fear.
“What—what do you mean? Confess to—what?”
“I think you know, my dear. Perfectly well.”
“Know—what?”
Professor Schrader is teasing, I think. Blocking my way with her obese figure as I prepare to run up the stairs. Breathing, panting in my face.
Close by, Candace Durstt looks on, quivering with intensity.
“Did you think that I would not know? That I have not ways of knowing your deviousness?”
“But—what have I done?”
My face throbs with heat. My voice shakes guiltily. Though I am not guilty of misbehaving yet I am suffused with guilt.
Professor Schrader’s eyes are cunning behind the thick lenses of her glasses. Her elfin face is flushed with spite.
“You consort with unclean persons, Alida. You are risking the health of others with whom you live in int
imate circumstances—namely, Candace and myself. In the rental contract you signed, you promised cleanness. You promised community standards of decent behavior. And so, I must ask you to leave the premises, ‘Alida.’ That is all.”
“What do you mean—’leave the premises’? Why?”
“According to the rental contract you signed, your landlord is not required to explain grounds for eviction. This is a private residence, it is not the property of the University. You are to comply.”
I am stammering now, trying to comprehend. Cleanness—have I not been clean? In what way have I been unclean?
Still, it is a sensation of guilt that sweeps through me. Though (I am sure) I have done nothing wrong.
Candace, who has been listening avidly, shrinks a little now, abashed. But she will not defend me against this terrible woman, I know.
“What I will do for you, ‘AlidaLucash,’ is this: I will not report you to the University housing office, which would disqualify you from living in other University-approved housing; and I will not report you to the Dean of the School of General Studies, which might result in your being suspended from the University for a semester. Untrustworthy and devious as you are, still I will not accelerate your self-destruction.”
Professor Schrader presses a hand against her pendulous bosom, breathing audibly.
“But—please—tell me what have I done?”
“Enough! You know exactly what you have done. Like your friend before you—you have violated a trust.”
Your friend before you. This can only mean the drowned girl.
It seems to me very cruel, yet in a way comprehensible, that the Professor should want to evict us both.
In a daze I climb to the second floor, and begin to pack my things. It is devastating to me, to be turned out onto Humboldt Street in such a way. No warning!
Yet, it is not such a surprise, is it? With a part of my mind, I have been rehearsing this.
By nighttime I’ve found a room to rent at virtually the same rent as my room in Professor Schrader’s house—in The Magellan. For it seems that Miri Krim’s room has remained vacant since her departure.
To me, my life hasn’t really started yet. One of my dreams is of a large baby with shut eyes like blind eyes and a recessed nose like the nose of a little pig and thin lips like a slit and (I think) this baby is meant to be me for it has not yet lived—it is waiting to live.
3.
Her room. Now, mine.
Sleep! Sleep, and be healed.
And take my hand for you are no longer alone.
In The Magellan, in room 2D, there is a single window overlooking Humboldt Street. Across the way is a brownstone building resembling The Magellan, with a water tank just visible on its roof.
I have not (yet) seen the water tank on the roof of The Magellan (though I have seen photographs of it online).
I am happy in my new room. I am not so lonely here, I think.
Here, there is a (small) (private) bathroom. An enormous improvement over the shared bathroom in the “family” house on Humboldt Street.
Still, I am careful about germs, bacteria. I am careful about the toilet seat. The sink, that is permanently stained; the shower stall, with the dripping showerhead.
Careful to examine the water, that comes out of the faucet as if reluctantly. Not gushing-hot but lukewarm, or cold.
How crowded it is, this Thursday evening at the University Medical Clinic!
Familiar faces! Frightened eyes.
Lying on my side. Shut eyes. Close hand into fist. Take a deep breath. Slow exhale.
Many questions have not been answered by investigating detectives. For instance, how did the drowned girl manage to gain access to the roof of The Magellan when the door to the stairs leading to the roof is always kept locked; and how did a girl weighing scarcely one hundred pounds manage to lift the heavy cover to the water tank, that required two men to lift it? How could she possibly have climbed inside the tank, and lowered the cover over herself? Why would she have removed her clothes? And what has become of her clothes?
The manager of The Magellan insisted that the door to the roof is always kept locked and that it was locked at the time of Miri Krim’s disappearance. Custodial staff in the building were interviewed at length by detectives and not one of them was arrested.
“A key could be duplicated”—this is my suggestion.
One of the roof keys was stolen, and duplicated in a hardware store; the original was returned, and no one knew it had ever been taken. Armed with this key, the individual or individuals who abducted, raped and murdered Miri Krim could unlock the door to the stairs at any time, and bring their victim up to the roof to murder and dispose of her body.
Keys are duplicated all the time. Even those keys clearly marked Do Not Duplicate.
Some commandments are not enforced. Because unenforceable.
It was claimed, physical evidence had deteriorated in the water tank. Which was why (of course) the drowned girl had been brought to such a place by her abductor or abductors.
It was believed, in some quarters, that the coroner botched the autopsy deliberately. For why otherwise was the rape kit “lost.”
The coroner’s finding is that the drowned girl died as a suicide or “accidentally” in the water tank—as if the victim had decided to go swimming one night in the tank with the heavy cover lowered over her, and was unable to get out again!
Removing all of her clothes. Making herself naked, exposed to jeering eyes.
And where are the clothes? Clothes removed from Miri Krim’s body—where?
No one will ever be arrested, in the death of Miri Krim. Nothing will ever be resolved.
Something terrible will happen to us (again).
My math grade has risen: at mid-term, it is 46.
This is a considerable improvement over my dismal earlier grade. Almost miraculous.
Yet, it is a very low failing grade. It is far from the grade I require.
I have made an appointment to speak with the Professor.
I have rehearsed the words I will say to him—I must earn an A in this course. If I do not maintain an A average, I will be dropped from the student loan program.
I cannot afford even the interest on the loan(s).
I will not be allowed into the pre-med program which is my reason for coming to the University.
Please suggest ways I can raise my test scores, Professor.
I am willing to work, work, work. I am willing to do anything, I will be your slave.
(Just joking, Professor!)
Thank you, Professor!
Quickly, I ran through the underpass. Bodies lay wrapped in rags festering like grave clothes.
You’d think—Just bundles of old rags. Don’t look.
But if you look, if you pause to see, to listen, to smell—you realize that these are living beings, human beings in layers of clothing, filthy blankets. One bloated man rolled inside a garbage bag. His head is shaved, his face is a cartoon face with a dark O for a mouth. Smelling of stale sweat and much worse.
Heyyyy missy!
I did not hear. Heart beating too loud in my ears.
—need help standing. Get to my feet. Thank you, dear! Please.
At the steps poised to run up into the daylight where I can breathe. And the words come to me, it is Miri Krim who whispers in my ear Even as you have done unto the least of these, you have done unto me.
And so, I returned to help the bloated man, wrapped in a garbage bag, and reeking of his body, to his (swollen, unsteady) feet.
I did not make an appointment to see the math Professor.
I did make an appointment with the University Medical Clinic Blood Unit.
It is Thursday evening. Something seems to be wrong.
The procedure has been altered. At first, I am instructed by an attendant to lie down, on my side, as in the past; but no attendant comes to take my blood. At least five minutes pass, very uncomfortably.
Then, I
am being asked to sit up. The fluorescent lighting is unpleasantly bright.
A medical worker, an Asian woman, has appeared. She smiles at me hesitantly. Her eyes are wary, cautious. Her smile is a cautious smile that scarcely distends her mouth.
Choosing her words with care as with a tweezers she might pick broken glass out of an open, festering wound.
“I’m afraid—Miss Lucash—’Alida’—your blood work has come back positive for—”
It is not possible: HIV.
Or—is the woman’s mouth shaping another word: hepatitis?
A roaring in my ears. The shuddering of water, dark rippling water, in the tank.
I am not hearing this. (Am I?) Sitting on the edge of the examination table I stare at the doctor with a hopeful smile.
Positive is not what you want to hear, in the matter of infectious diseases.
Negative is what you want to hear, in the matter of infectious diseases.
Questions are put to me regarding sexual contacts, needle sharing.
White-coated medical workers do not seem to believe me when I insist that I had had no sexual contacts. Still less, that I have not shared needles with fellow addicts.
By this time I am feeling very weak. It does seem clear, something is wrong with my blood—anemia?
How close, anemia and amnesia.
Which is cause, which is effect, is not known.
The examination room, which is not a large room, is crowded with white-coated persons by this time. Dr. Liu (for that is her name) is a presiding resident, the others are (younger) interns or medical students.
Though I answer the questions put to me by these individuals truthfully not one of my words, not a single syllable, sounds authentic or sincere. The more agitated I become, the more likely that I am lying; or, as Dr. Liu suggests—”Confabulating.”
I am regarded with pity, sympathy, dismay, disapproval. My voice is hoarse with the desperation of a guilty person who has been found out, exposed in ignominy like a rat in a cage, a rat injected with disease, blinking foolishly at its tormentors.
I tell them I would like to come back another day, and take the blood test again. I have not been feeling well lately, and have not been sleeping well. I’ve been evicted from my rooming house and forced to move to an apartment building that, just the previous year, had been shut down by the Hudson County Board of Health.
Dis Mem Ber and Other Stories of Mystery and Suspense Page 12
