by Jack Livings
The phone was ringing but neither of them moved.
Take it off, she said, pointing at the offending article.
He retracted his toe, then, as it reappeared from the hole, said, Mothra emerges from her cocoon and warms her wings. Wiggle wiggle.
Take it off and I’ll … mend it. They were swimming through syrupy air, and after what might have been ten minutes or an hour, the sock arrived in Turk’s hand and she set out for her brother Seamus’s former bedroom, the de facto storage shed that was home to an assortment of steamer trunks, her mother’s foot-pump Singer, stacks of sheet music, old tax forms, a set of dining room chairs, disintegrating linens, and somewhere inside the little rolltop desk at which her brother had done his sums, a sewing kit in a blue velvet bag.
The room was at the farthest end of the hallway, rarely visited, an expedition into her childhood, and it took ages for her to navigate the Sarab floor runner, her cannabinoid receptors having transformed the patterns thereupon into a down escalator she was trying to ascend.
The phone was ringing again.
She was sucking wind by the time she got to the door, yet when she opened it she summoned enough air to push out a full-throated, Hiwatt! that brought him running, if unsteadily. He kept nosing into the wall like a balsa-wood glider that had its wings trimmed wrong, and thought it would be proper to announce, as one must, as surely as the sky is blue and cats meow, This is some good shit! But he was outthinking himself two-to-one, and felt pointedly that he’d already revealed too much of himself to Turk, upon whom he’d developed an if-not-quite-debilitating then definitely goo-goo-level crush, and the utterance of that particular cliché would bring into stark light the creaky apparatus of his altered state, thereby throwing into question the intimacy they’d shared earlier that evening when they’d rapped about their families and Turk’s memories of Hiwatt’s grandfather and her own doubts about the efficacy of her upbringing. He worried because, of course, there is the question of authenticity that lurks around any confessions or intimacies shared while on drugs, since in an altered state one can no longer be considered oneself, but some other, uninhibited, even alien, person. He worried his brain into somersaults over it.
Hiwatt was a passionate guy, strong on desire, weak on restraint, a connoisseur of inhibition when it came to the game of exposing himself, whether physically or spiritually. He had certain needs, one of which was to experience the struggle between shame and the desire to share himself with strangers, a little saga that played out every time he entered the booth, unbuttoned his jeans, and began to masturbate, separated by only a pane of glass from the naked girl oozing around in front of him. His excitement relied entirely on being observed. Classic exhibitionist. He would have preferred that his observer be clothed, but he hadn’t yet been able to bring himself to offer any of the dancers money to put her clothes back on, feeling that it might cross a line of perversion that not even the official live girls at Show World would put up with. He had shared this concern with Turk, and she, given her own line of work having a bead on the full spectrum of New York’s rarest fetishes, had shrugged. What’s the harm in asking? she’d said. It seemed to have no effect on Turk when he talked about the girls and how quickly and explosively he ejaculated on the matte-black wall beneath the window. She listened, nodding, sipping from her coffee, offering no indication that she admired his courage at all. Perhaps she had no inhibitions of her own, he thought.
Hiwatt was, at the tender age of eighteen, primarily interested in re-creating a lost relationship, specifically the one he’d shared with his nanny, who since his birth had performed all the functions of mother and, after he’d reached puberty, the physical functions of a girlfriend, to a point. She let him feel but never see, and she stroked him off most nights before bed, with a bored, distant look on her face that Hiwatt would forever seek from his sexual partners, followed by praise for the velocity and quantity of his ejaculations. The nanny saw nothing out of the ordinary in their ritual, no more shameful than scrubbing his ears in the bath, proving yet again that, begun early enough, practiced often enough, anything can achieve the splendiferous normalcy of oatmeal.
The silhouettes didn’t line up, but it was close enough. Turk reminded him of his nanny at the hairline, a Transylvanian peak that announced itself when she pulled her graying hair into a ponytail, and sometimes if he squinted he could, at a distance, make it all fit. That Turk gave no indication she meant to care for him in the only way that would cure his homesickness was no deterrence. He’d understood that he’d have to convince her; New York was not the same as home. Here, he would have to express his manhood.
Commenting on the goodness of the shit did not, therefore, align with his master plan to project himself as a cool, enterprising, and altogether responsible, if horny, young man worthy of her attentions, and by the time he’d completed his spectacularly uncool journey to the end of the hall, he’d decided to say nothing at all. When he saw what was inside the room, he blurted out, Oh my word! then, as a corrective, Shit! an overreach, and as a corrective to that, Gee-dog! which was followed by a groan of despair, the realization that his spirit was weak, his mind weaker, and he’d be alone forever. Good shit, indeed.
Gee-dog is right, Turk said.
Before them lay an eleven-foot-seven-inch Scots pine. A mystery conceived and solved in the same moment. The tree, not unfamiliar to either of them, was still wearing its ornaments and lights, tinsel draping sweetly from its brittle branches. It was on its side; specifically, it was canted at about thirty degrees as a result of the crown’s contact with the far wall, bending up now like a creepy curled finger, in any case positioned to indicate that it had been carelessly discarded and left to disintegrate all over boxes and chairs and the rolltop desk Turk had set out for in the first place. The stump had oozed a little resin onto Turk’s sewing machine.
There was disappointment in her voice, her first genuine expression of that emotion in the six months Hiwatt had lived with her.
I truly thought it had gone over the balcony, Hiwatt said, affecting the Commonwealth tone he employed when he required authority in the face of authority. He pondered the tree, stroking his chin. How on earth? he said. He kept stroking his chin because it felt wonderful.
It didn’t climb back in the window, now, did it? Turk said.
Most definitely not, Hiwatt answered, still stroking his chin.
It was February 6. At the end of December, Turk had taken her annual trip to St. John, leaving Hiwatt alone in the apartment through New Year’s. Having no children of her own and lending no credence to anecdotal evidence about the expansive sense of social charity that overcomes a young person left home unsupervised for longer than a day, she hadn’t issued ground rules. She was no fool, but she wasn’t the enemy of fun, either, and when she returned on the evening of January 1, tan, hungover, bearing a bruise or two from her own revels, she set up a pot of coffee and asked Hiwatt to join her at the kitchen table.
Get up to anything fun? she said.
I did! he replied with a lush gargle of a laugh. Hiwatt was doing his straight-backed, good-breeding routine that could sometimes cross the line into fawning maître d’, which actually relaxed Turk a hair, as he only put on the college interview voice when he was nervous. Plus, he was stoned out of his gourd. He went on: I hosted a splendid party, what I can remember of it. I was told an African prince attended, but I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have had more attractive options.
I’m always sweeping them out of the corners after my parties, Turk said.
Hiwatt nodded as if chewing on a piece of particularly interesting information.
I’m sure you were a charming host, Turk said.
I am. It’s a well-known fact.
So, everything seems to be in place, Turk said.
Yes.
So where’s all the carnage? Surely all the furniture’s been replaced, or something.
There was one minor incident.
Yes. Where’s the
tree?
Of course you know! You did fail to mention the ceremony before you left, though, Hiwatt said.
Which, now?
The—the what do you call it?—the ritual.
Did I?
We counted down the final minute of the year, as is customary, yes? And then my guests gathered at the windows overlooking the courtyard, as there was a commotion outside.
They called us over. I was very drunk, but I made it in time to see a few of the trees. I had not been told about this practice, though it was, in its way, elegant.
Everyone was throwing their trees off their balconies, Turk said.
Yes, the trees, raining down into the courtyard and all the men in their tuxedos and the women in their evening gloves—quite elegant, you know, throwing their champagne flutes after the trees, Hiwatt said.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen that.
A building tradition, I assumed? We felt compelled—my guests felt compelled—I was, as they say, plowed by then, ha ha—to join in. I was apparently unable to contribute in a meaningful way and my classmates carried me to the sofa, where I awoke only this very afternoon. Shoeless and wearing a feather boa!
So your friends tossed the tree out the window, Turk said.
I can only assume that is the case. The Christmas tree is gone, ergo … I’m truly sorry, Miss Turk. I should have waited for your return?
No, no, Turk said. It’s just strange. No one’s done that for years.
We acted properly, I believe, in the spirit of the season? Perhaps next year you can stay in the city for New Year’s?
Perhaps, Turk said.
Oh, and there was something else, but … It’s strange—it’s the alcohol. I’m not used to it. Give me a bowl of hash any day …
Turk waited for a couple of beats, then said, Something happened?
Oh yes. I can’t say exactly. I believe something happened. There was a Russian student here, and I believe my classmates—no, some friends of theirs, perhaps—it was very crowded, a smash hit of a party … Hiwatt, smiling faintly, drifted off into a recollection of the night’s grandeur.
What about the Russian? Turk said.
Oh yes! He arrived wearing a tuxedo! Isn’t that funny? And his hair was black, and like an explosion, an atomic bomb. I don’t know who invited him, but he was very demanding, ordering everyone around. He repeatedly called me boy, even after I made clear that I was the host. Strange fellow. There were so many people here I didn’t know.
Turk looked around the kitchen, out through the door into the dining room. Not a picture askew, not a bowl out of place.
Then, later, I was on my back, on the sofa, perhaps even then shoeless, and the Russian fellow was being held aloft, like this, you see, on everyone’s hands? He was kicking and twisting, and everyone was laughing at his predicament. They were moving toward the balcony—the doors were open and the curtains were streaming inward quite beautifully on the wind, and everyone was shouting over the music. Their faces were so bright and the girls were all flushed, the backs of their arms splotchy and red, as if they’d been exercising vigorously.
And what was this Russian boy saying?
As I recall, he was shouting, as well, though with Russians it can be hard to tell whether they’re shouting or just speaking in that imperious manner of theirs—anyway, he was making noises as they approached the balcony doors. Some of the boys were wearing skirts! I’ve just remembered this. Isn’t that funny, how these images drift in and out?
What happened to him?
Obviously, I believe they intended to carry him to the balcony, you know, to pitch him out like a Christmas tree.
To pretend to throw him over. To frighten him.
To frighten him, yes. Or, perhaps, to throw him down to the courtyard with the trees. Hiwatt shrugged and went on. I’ve seen instances of this sort of behavior. Crowds can be very excitable. Generally speaking, one can expect a crowd to behave badly.
I assume no harm came to the boy, since I didn’t come home to an apartment full of cops, Turk said.
If only I could say for sure. I fell asleep.
Turk went to the window and peered down into the courtyard.
And the tree? The tree went out before or after the Russian?
After? No, before. It’s hard to remember what happened, in what order.
We should call one of your friends to get the story, don’t you think?
That’s a splendid idea, Hiwatt said, but neither of them made a move for the phone.
What else did they throw out? Turk said.
Hiwatt smiled, his lips peeling back to expose the perfect arches of his white teeth. I’m terribly sorry, Miss Turk, he said. There was one other thing.
Turk raised an eyebrow at him.
Yes, I regret to inform you that your big earthen bowl, for the cheese—the, ah—what do you call it—the heavy one you put over the fire?
The fondue pot?
Yes. I regret to inform you that I have not been able to locate it.
Turk fell back in her chair as if she’d been punched in the chest. She threw her arms over her head and shrieked. Savages!
Hiwatt giggled.
Out the window? Turk said.
No doubt out the window, Hiwatt said, whistling.
Wish I’d been here, said Turk.
* * *
There was a somber air to Turk and Hiwatt’s work. Branches came off in their hands, cracking sharply, shedding waves of brown needles that disappeared into crevices to await a distant, yet unborn great-niece or -nephew, onto whom someday would fall the task of conducting the posthumous cleaning of Great Aunt T’s apartment.
Maybe, if we conduct a thorough enough search, we’ll uncover the Russian, Turk said.
A mummy, Hiwatt said.
Hiwatt, did you actually have a party?
Oh, I’m certain I did.
You weren’t here alone, eating pills?
That’s possible. All things are possible, are they not? Without corroborating evidence, who could say whether there might or might not have been a party? Perhaps even both. A party and not a party! Perhaps at this very moment in a parallel universe, we are not cleaning up a Christmas tree!
Lucky us, Turk said.
Silently, with the singular focus of the deeply stoned, in blissful harmonic coordination, they wrapped each ornament in crepe paper and stacked them in cardboard boxes; floated tinsel into paper Zabar’s bags; crammed the lights into little shoebox coffins to be buried in a closet for another year.
We could burn it, Turk said when they were finished.
Even in his altered state, Hiwatt knew this was a bad idea.
Too large for the fireplace, he said.
Ah.
We’ll call one of the servants, yes? Hiwatt said.
Tanawat, they’re employees of the building. They’re unionized.
So should we not call the unionized employee-servants of the building to carry away the tree?
No. Yes. Yes, we should call them, but … be respectful.
Am I not respectful? Hiwatt said, genuinely wounded by the implication that his behavior could be interpreted any other way.
On occasion you reveal the royal aspects of your upbringing.
I am far from royalty, I assure you. The blood connection is on my mother’s side, and fairly distant.
Turk got up to call the lobby, but when she dialed, no one answered. She tapped on the switch hook, tried again, no answer.
It’s late, Turk said. He’s probably in the basement playing cards, she said. After a long draught of pot-fueled contemplation she said, We’ll do it ourselves.
Pardon?
Grab a branch. A sturdy one.
As you wish, miss.
They managed to work the tree loose and get it through the doorway, taking out a few hallway pictures and upending a console table in the process, and leaving a massacre of needles in their wake. They grunted and heaved the thing through the apartment, claiming a few mo
re victims—a set of jade figurines, a small flower vase—and arrived at the service door soaked in sweat.
What’s that smell? Turk said when they opened the service door.
A fire. A cooking fire, Hiwatt said, testing the air. That is undoubtedly burning fish.
All right, tallyho! Turk said, giving the tree a shove out the door.
They managed to get about seven linear feet of the tree into the trash chute before it jammed. Hiwatt climbed onto the trunk and, bracing his hands on the ceiling, jumped up and down in an attempt to break it, but succeeded only in stabbing himself in the legs with the branches and sending a shower of needles to the floor. He executed a precarious dismount and stood squinting at the tree as though it had deliberately defied him.
Stop smelling your hands, Turk said, and get in here. With her bare foot she swept at the detritus on her doorstep while Hiwatt tiptoed past her.
We can’t leave it like this, she said.
Oh, absolutely not, Hiwatt called from the sofa, where he was lighting up another joint. Turk backed into the apartment and joined him. Before long, she had embarked on an inventory of the bones of her hand while Hiwatt was sketching up a revolutionary theory of hydrodynamics on the back of an envelope, a schematic composed of blocks and circles to indicate sluices and valves, each connected by double and triple integrals signifying water. The tree was long forgotten. The phone was ringing again.
* * *
By the time my father came upon the tree, Hiwatt had left for the Vornados’ party and Turk was passed out on the sofa.
To my father, the tree was a deliberate act of sabotage. He thought: This is exactly how it begins. This is step one.
Having banged on Turk’s service door long enough to stir Hastings Sebenlist from his burrow a second time, my father relented. He and his bag of burned fish went back into our apartment and out the front door, intent on the little tray of notecards by the elevators. A dozen blue Bics were in a leather dice cup on the table opposite the elevators, and he fell into one of the antique armchairs to compose a complaint, which, according to custom, he would slide under the perpetrator’s door.
