Specimen Days

by Michael Cunningham

  Cat summoned a regal bearing of her own. I have no intention of slipping any of your sorry shit into my handbag.

  “Hello,” the woman said, without a hint of malice or suspicion. She might have been sitting here among these things for years, waiting to see if tonight someone would finally come in.

  “Hello,” Cat said. Regular voice. “I wonder if I could see that bowl in the window.”

  “Bowl.”

  “Yes. It’s right there. It has jewelry in it. Is it for sale?”

  “Oh, the bowl. Just a minute, please.”

  The woman stood. She was violently thin. She wore a lank dress covered in roses and some sort of purple shawl over her shoulders. She went to the window, leaned over, and dumped the jewelry out of the bowl. She brought it to Cat.

  “Here it is,” she said.

  The bowl was, in fact, something. Anyone could see it. It was about the size of a sparrow’s nest, luminous; it seemed to amplify the room’s stagnant illumination. Cat took it from the woman. It was lighter than she’d expected it to be, almost weightless. Even up close, she couldn’t tell what the symbols painted along its outer rim were meant to be. They didn’t look Chinese. Each was different from the others, but all were variations on the same design: a circle that emanated slender spokes, some straight and some wavy, some long and some short.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cat said.

  “I don’t know where it came from.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  “It’s ten dollars.”

  Cat paused, briefly and absurdly doubtful—if it was really as lovely as it seemed, would it cost so little?

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  She gave the woman ten dollars and waited while she wrapped the bowl in a sheet of newspaper. Cat thought she would give the bowl to Simon. She’d never bought him anything like this; she’d only bought him books, and once a tie he’d admired when they were in Barneys together. She’d never before given him anything that involved her own sense of beauty, anything meant to join the carefully selected prizes he kept up there in his aerie. She hadn’t dared to.

  The woman slipped the wrapped bowl into an old plastic Duane Reade bag. She gave it to Cat.

  “Enjoy it,” the woman said.

  “Thank you,” Cat answered. “I will.”

  As she left the shop, she heard a clatter. Horse’s hooves, galloping. She froze. Here it came, toward her. A bay horse, riderless, running up Broadway. For a moment, the world tipped on its axis. Something dreadful and impossible was happening. And then the world righted itself again. It was a runaway horse. It was only that. A car pulled over to avoid it, another laid on its horn. The horse was running up the middle of the street, its hooves sparking on the pavement. After a moment a patrol car appeared in pursuit, lights flashing and siren blaring. There was a stable down there, wasn’t there? Where the police horses were kept. Cat stood sheltered in the doorway of the shop. The horse ran by. It was beautiful, no denying it. Black mane fluttering, brown flanks glossy and strong. An ancient and marvelous manifestation, slipped through a dimensional warp. It did not appear to be frightened. It was only running. The squad car came after, flashing its lights. The horse galloped on, pursued by the car.

  The woman from the store came out and stood beside Cat. “Terrible,” she said.

  “My God.”

  “It’s the second time this month.”

  “Really?”

  “Something’s spooking them,” the woman said. “This didn’t used to happen.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Something in the air. Animals know.”

  Cat stood with the woman, watching the horse disappear up Broadway amid screeching brakes and car horns, carrying with it the steady hollow sound of its hooves and the wail of the siren. What would happen when it got to Canal Street?

  “You didn’t drop the bowl, did you?” the woman asked.

  “What? Oh, no.”

  She was, in fact, holding the bowl close to her breasts, as if to protect it, or as if she’d believed in some reflexive way that it could shield her.

  “Good.”

  The shop woman nodded. It seemed for a moment that the incident had been meant to deprive Cat of a ten-dollar bowl and that the woman was glad to know things hadn’t turned out badly after all.

  The two women watched the horse as it receded. There was no sound of collision. The horse stopped at Canal Street, reared halfway on its hind legs. The cops jumped out of their car. There was a noisy confusion of people and lights, corner of Broadway and Canal, and above it all the horse’s head, tossing. There was a flash of the horse’s eyes and teeth, a string of its dangling saliva, bright in the streetlight.

  “Wow,” Cat said.

  “Something’s spooking them,” the woman said.

  “I guess so,” Cat answered.

  At nine (was it a bad idea, was it desperate-seeming, to be always so exactly on time?) she presented herself to Joseph the doorman and went up. Simon met her at the door. He held her, kissed her hair.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Nasty business,” she said.

  He settled her onto one of the couches, fixed her a drink. She told him the story. He listened with scowling avidity.

  “My God,” he said, when she had finished.

  “So it looks like that’s it,” she said.

  “That can’t be it.”

  “No, I mean, that’s it for me. The boys are dead. I’ll be going back to talking to the regular nuts.”

  “So now it’s all just what? Postmortem?”

  “Mm-hm. It shouldn’t take too long. Two fucked-up kids who made some kind of pact, inspired by terrorists. Went on the Internet, learned how to make pipe bombs. We can’t figure why no parents have called.”

  “What’s your guess?”

  “Denial. Pure and simple. If you call the police and get the confirmation, then it’s really and truly happened. If you don’t call the police, you can still tell yourself that your kid has just run away.”

  “You think these boys were abused?”

  “Probably. Or maybe not. Some of the time, these people turn out to have had relatively ordinary childhoods.”

  “You hungry?”

  “No. I ate.”

  “You want another drink?”

  “Please.”

  He took the glass from her hand. Her throat constricted, and then she was crying. One moment she wasn’t, and the next moment she was. It came out of her in great, heaving sobs. He took her in his arms.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

  She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. She let herself go on. She choked on her own sobs, struggled to catch her breath. It was as if a stone were lodged in her gullet and she were trying to weep it out.

  “It’s okay,” he said again. “It’s okay.”

  Finally the crying subsided. She lingered in his arms.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s just. I fucked up.”

  “I don’t think you did.”

  “Those little boys called me, and I didn’t help them.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She paused over whether or not to go into the part about sounding white to a black kid. Decided against it. She knew his reassurances wouldn’t mean anything to her. She thought she should talk to him about it anyway—for, you know, the sake of their closeness—but she was beat, she was worried about other things, she didn’t have it in her at the moment, it was just too hard right now.

  What she said was, “I’m not sure if I can do this anymore.”

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “I know. But I don’t think it’ll be any better in the morning.”

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  “I think I may need to find some other kind of work.”

  “Wait and see, okay?”

  “Right. Oh, I brought you
something.”

  “You did?”

  “Just a second.”

  She got to her feet, a bit unsteadily. She was slightly tipsy already. She took the bowl from her bag, gave it to him.

  “Didn’t have time to wrap it,” she said.

  He removed the bowl from its plastic drugstore sack, pulled away the newspaper. And there it was, in his hands. Yes, it was in fact a marvelous thing. It was all the more apparent here, in this room, where only the rare and marvelous were permitted.

  “Wow,” Simon said.

  “It just came from a junk shop. But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it Chinese?”

  “No. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”

  He set the bowl on the coffee table. It glowed like an opal, seemed to be studded with tiny sparks.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You like it?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I just…I saw it in this strange little store, and I thought you’d like it.”

  “I do. Very much.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  He stood up. “And now,” he said, “it’s time for you to go to bed.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  She knew when he put his hand on her shoulder. His touch was tender and kind, but something had changed. She slipped her arm around his waist. Something had changed.

  “Come on,” he said.

  They went into his bedroom. She started undressing.

  “Are you coming to bed, too?” she asked.

  “Not yet. It’s early. I’ve got a pile of shit to do.”

  She got her clothes off, got into bed. Simon sat on the edge of the mattress, adjusted the covers over her. He could not have been gentler. Still, something was wrong.

  She said, “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  She took his hand, stroked his fingertips. “Simon,” she said.

  “Uh-huh?”

  Say it. Sooner or later, one of you has to.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Easy. Natural. No strangeness. And yet.

  He kissed her. He turned off the light and left the room.

  It came to her after he’d closed the door. She’d wept in his arms. She’d brought him a present, nervously anticipating his response. For the first time, she had failed to be strong and cynical, wised-up, policelike. For the first time, she’d been like the other women (there had, of course, been a number of other women): fragile, in need, eager to please him, grateful for his attention.

  She tried to push the thought away. It was one night, for God’s sake. It was a goddamned crisis. Who wouldn’t fall apart? She’d be herself again in the morning. (Wouldn’t she?) This was what happened when two people got to know each other. Nobody stayed in character all the time. This was intimacy. You saw each other through the dark spells. You didn’t need—you didn’t want—to be spared the fears and doubts, the crying fits, the self-recriminations.

  And yet, she had a feeling. She was damaged now, in his eyes. She was no longer rare and marvelous. She wasn’t a stern black goddess of law enforcement. She was someone who collapsed, who needed help, who awaited his judgment.

  She could see how it would play out. She thought she could see it. Simon wasn’t a bad man; he was not out there in the other room wondering how he’d get rid of her. What he had, she suspected, was an empty spot where his admiration and his lust had been. He would think nothing of it. He’d make coffee for her in the morning. He’d be more than kind. He wouldn’t desert her when she needed him. But an unraveling had begun. She could feel it, she could see it, still months away, but coming: the end of his interest in her. The beginning of her life in his mind as someone he had dated once. It wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t exactly surprising. Simon was a collector. She understood now that he was collecting the incidents of his own past, and that one day he would arrive at his present, married to a smart, pretty white woman his own age or a few years younger, raising children, referring every now and then to his youth, when he had bought art and antiques instead of paying tuition, when he had gone to the restaurants and clubs known only to the few, when he had dated a dancer from the Mark Morris company and then an installation artist who’d been in the Biennial and then, briefly, an older black woman, a forensic psychologist who’d been involved in those terrorist attacks, who had spoken to the actual terrorists.

  He was programmed for this. Smart boy from Iowa, perfectly formed, ambitious—he’d naturally want, he’d need, a wild phase before he took up the life that had been waiting for him from the moment of conception. It had been all but predetermined. If he and Cat hadn’t met when they did, he’d have met another colorful character soon enough. And all the while his true and rightful wife was out there, waiting for him.

  She, Cat, was a collector’s item, wasn’t she? She was an exotic specimen—men had always thought so. No-nonsense, ultracompetent black girl who’s read more books than you have; who doesn’t give a shit about domestic particulars and can beat your ass at any game you choose. They liked the tough girl, but they weren’t quite so crazy about the nervous one. They hadn’t signed on for that. She and Daryl might have survived Luke’s death together, but they hadn’t survived her remorse. Daryl could have comforted her for a month or two. He couldn’t manage a year of it, not when she had nothing left for him. Not when she kept telling him, over and over again, that she had killed their child and that he was an idiot for thinking he loved her. Say something like that often enough, anybody will finally start believing you.

  Who could blame these guys, really, for bailing when the messy shit came out? She didn’t like it either.

  Her cell rang. She bolted awake, accustomed to listening for it. Where was it, though? Where was she? Simon’s. Simon’s bed. He wasn’t there. Clock said twelve forty-three. She got up. She was naked. She went into the living room, where Simon sat at his thousand-year-old Greco-Italian table, working at his laptop.

  “My cell,” Cat said groggily.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should wake you up,” he answered.

  She got the phone out of her bag, checked the readout. Pete.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Guess who just walked into the Seventh Precinct station? Walt Whitman.”

  “What?”

  “You ready? Some old woman who says she’s Walt fucking Whitman. Walked into the Seventh, said she wanted to turn herself in. I’m there now.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Never more serious. Says she’s the mother of the perpetrators and her name is Walt Whitman.”

  “What the hell.”

  “She knows about the Whitman business. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “You know where it is, right?”

  “I do.”

  She clicked off. Simon was out of his chair, all thrilled capability. “What’s going on?”

  “Walt Whitman has turned himself in. Walt Whitman, however, turns out to be a woman.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  She went back into the bedroom and got dressed. Simon was right behind her.

  “Cat. What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Hell if I know.”

  She couldn’t help thinking about how he must want to fuck her now.

  She got into her clothes. Simon walked her to the door. She kissed him there. She took his face in both her hands, kissed him softly and lightly.

  “Call me as soon as you can,” he said.

  She lingered a moment. There on the coffee table was the bowl, perfect in its modest way, bright as ice under the track lighting. It wasn’t rare or fabulous, it wouldn’t have a place among the ancient treasures on the shelves, but she’d given it to him, and she knew he’d keep it. He could put his keys and loose change in it when he got home at night.

  �
��Goodbye, sweetheart,” she said. Queenly bearing. Schoolmarm diction.

  The woman sat in interrogation room three at the Seventh. Pete was with her, as were portly Bob (eyes like a pug’s, smell of burnt toast) and scary Dave (Duran Duran haircut, tattoo tendrils creeping up his neck from God knew what he had crawling over the rest of him), FBI. Cat was escorted in by a sweet-faced Hispanic detective.

  The woman was sixty or so, sitting straight as a hat rack in the grungy precinct chair. Her white hair—arctic white, incandescent white—was pulled into a fist at the back of her long, pale neck. She wore a shapeless coffee-colored dress and a man’s tweed jacket with the sleeves turned up at the wrists, revealing modest bands of gray striped lining. Her long-fingered hands were splayed primly on the tabletop, as if she were waiting for a manicure.

  For a moment Cat thought, It’s the woman I bought the bowl from. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. Still, this woman could have been her older sister.

  “Hey, Cat,” Pete said.

  Portly and Scary both nodded.

  Cat said to the woman in the chair, “They tell me you’re Walt Whitman.”

  “The boys call me that,” the woman said. Her voice was strong and clear, surprisingly deep; her diction was precise.

  “It’s an unusual name for a woman,” Cat said.

  “I’m an unusual woman.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I’ve come to tell you that it’s starting,” the woman said.

  “What is it that’s starting?”

  “The end of days.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “The innocents are rising up. Those who seemed most harmless are where the danger lies.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “Urge and urge and urge, always the procreant urge of the world.”

  “Listen, lady—” said Portly.

  Cat cut in quickly. “You know your Whitman.”

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” the woman asked.