Dem

by William Melvin Kelley

  Nancy tilted her face up toward the doctor and the light. He took the nose in his fingers, inspecting it from the left side and then the right, making faces.

  “Not broken. But your fans’ll be disappointed for a few days. So, did he do it?” He pointed at Mitchell.

  Nancy shook her head. “In fact, he rescued me.”

  “Is that so?” He glanced at Mitchell, his disbelief as real as his mustache, then fixed Nancy in a sad gaze. “When will you ever learn, Winky? Your mother—God rest her—would die if she knew how you’re living. Such men!” He looked at Mitchell again. “Six months ago you came in here with a broken arm; now it’s this…gentleman…and this nose. When will you give up this life?” He shook his head.

  Nancy stood up. “Thanks for the medical attention, doctor. It was nice seeing you, Elsie. You showing soon?” She had reached the front door before Mitchell realized it was time to go. He got up quickly.

  “In a few months, Winky. Hope you’ll come.”

  “Of course I will.” Nancy’s hands were working on the locks. When she had opened the door, she bent and kissed the old woman. The doctor was still standing in the living room.

  When once again they were seated in a taxi, Mitchell discovered he had deeply resented the doctor. “Why do they always think they can meddle in your life?”

  “They—who?” Nancy snapped.

  “Doctors.” He was not certain he meant that.

  “Oh.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about doctors. But fathers always think they can, I guess.” Before he could comment, she went on, her soft voice filling the back of the taxi. “You’re coming home to screw me, aren’t you? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  11

  HE HELD the glass door for her, then followed her to the elevator. For an instant, he imagined how they might look from across the street, through the window of The Sons of Erin Tavern. He wondered if anyone seeing them would know that Nancy was the daughter of a Jewish doctor. Riding uptown in the taxi, he had tried to discover his exact feelings on the subject. She had not seemed to change, although her father’s Jewishness might explain why every so often she acted strangely. At any rate, he decided, his love for her was not so rigid that it could not withstand even such drastic adjustments.

  The elevator was a long time coming, but they did not speak. He was staring at Nancy, still surprised that his most cherished dream was coming true. Nancy did not often look at him. When she did, she would shake her head. She too seemed overcome with disbelief.

  The apartment she was borrowing was really one large room. Off one end, there was an alcove which hid a stove, sink, and refrigerator. Clothes he had seen her wearing before, in Evansdale, were draped over the few pieces of furniture. She offered him a seat on a brown sofa. “I want to look at my nose.” She locked herself in the bathroom.

  Mitchell got up and inspected the room. There was a window above the kitchen sink, but it looked only into another apartment. As he watched, lights in the opposite window came on, like a movie screen, and, through filmy curtains, he was looking into a bedroom. A man and woman began to undress, facing each other across a large bed. When they were naked, the man, large and hair-covered, knelt on the bed, his head buried in the pillows, his buttocks high in the air. The woman went to the dresser, opened a small box, took out a long string of dark beads, crossed herself, and began to whip the man with the beads. A shining ornament hung from the beads, but Mitchell could not see well enough through the curtains to know what it was. When they began to make love, Mitchell turned away from the window.

  When Nancy came out of the bathroom, she looked as if she had been crying. Mitchell rushed to comfort her, but she did not want him to touch her. She backed away and sat on the sofa.

  “Is there anything I can do?” He rested tentatively beside her.

  She shook her head. “Just what do you think you can do, huh?”

  He had an answer for her. “I know some people. I can help get you a divorce.” He put his hand on her arm, but her eyes spit on it and he took it away.

  “I don’t need a divorce.” She kicked off her shoes, sighed, and stood up. “Okay, let’s go. You have to get up. This is a convertible sofa and I have to pull it out.”

  He skittered to a chair, a bit confused. “Why don’t you need a divorce?”

  “Will you cut that out?” She removed and stacked the cushions on the floor, and opened the bed. Then she unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt, let it fall to the floor. Her slip was black. She turned her back, presenting him with a row of buttons. “Help with those.”

  He reached out and fingered the buttons, but then pulled his hands back. Even though he knew her blouse front was covered with blood, the back was blinding white.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My hands are dirty.”

  “For God’s sake!” She turned, grabbing the blouse under her breasts, and pulled, sending buttons clattering across the floor. She unhooked her bra and slid off her underpants and half-slip.

  Even when he had dreamed of making love to her, he had never imagined a nude Nancy Knickerbocker. He had seen everything else clearly. The room was large with pink cloth wallpaper and large, stuffed pink chairs and sofas. The ceiling was low enough to touch and quilted pink. The bed was almost as large as the room itself. The weight of many thick blankets pressed them together. But never had he seen Nancy. And now, here she was, her body white, and soft. She straightened up, looming larger in the room, feeding on it, absorbing the air until he could not quite breathe. “I have to wash my hands.” He backed away, crashing into the half-open bathroom door; it banged against the tub. He closed and locked the door and took a deep breath.

  “Hey!” Her voice was muffled, but shrill through the door. “Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

  He sat on the hard edge of the tub, at first only relieved, then gaining courage. It was as if he drew strength from the tile walls, the porcelain sink, toilet and tub, the brass faucets. In any house, the bathroom was his favorite room, neat, functional, hard, and private. He gripped the edge of the tub, as Nancy pounded on the door. “Is anything wrong? You’re not slashing your wrists, are you? I couldn’t go through that again. Please don’t kill yourself in my john.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I do that? I’ll be right out.” He was not yet ready to return to her, but did not know why. It could not be only her nakedness. No man was afraid of a naked woman, except perhaps a homosexual. Something else was wrong, strange. He got up, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands, watching his face in the mirror.

  “Mitch? They call you Mitch, don’t they?” No one had ever called him Mitch, but he liked it. “Don’t you think it’s time to come out?” Her voice had changed, was now patient and even. “I want to talk to you. Maybe you can really help me.”

  His face smiled. She had stopped pretending. She was being truthful with him and with herself. She had been acting before, bravely maintaining a mask—and only then did he realize it was the mask that had upset him. “I’m coming, dear. I’m coming now.”

  “I’m glad,” she whispered through the door.

  He dried his hands and went out to her. She backed away and sat on the bed, her eyes big, waiting.

  “I really do want to help, you know.” He smiled.

  She nodded sadly. “I must need help all right.” She looked up at him. “Aren’t you getting undressed?”

  “Sure.” He began—folding his shirt neatly, straightening the creases in his pants, spreading his sweat-dampened socks across the tops of his shoes.

  When he was finished, she opened her arms to him. “You silly boy. You really shouldn’t be afraid of me. I’m not at all dangerous.”

  He knelt before her and kissed each white knee. “I know you too well to be afraid of you. It was someone else.”

  For an instant she did not seem to
understand, but finally gave him her sweet, brave smile and pulled him up on top of her.

  12

  SOME HOURS LATER, as he was putting his clothes back on, he assured her that he would handle everything. He was acquainted with several fine lawyers who would defend her in court; he would call movers who would pick up her belongings in Evansdale; if she could not open charge accounts in New York he would vouch for her. All this left her nodding her head, speechless with gratitude. He kissed her astonished mouth, telling her he would return later in the day.

  At home, he wanted a cup of coffee and went straight to the kitchen. After the fluorescent tubes had bubbled on, he found a saucepan and filled it with water.

  Sitting at the table, waiting for the water to boil, he thought about Nancy, and made decisions. First he would tell Tam that he was leaving her. He did not doubt that he would miss Jake, but if he left before the new baby arrived, he would not be able to form an attachment to it. He could not miss someone he did not know. Tam’s mother could visit to make sure Tam got to the hospital on time.

  The water began to boil, sizzling up the sides. He found the instant coffee and reached for a cup. At the last moment, he took his eyes off his hand. Without his supervision, it knocked over a stack of saucers, which crashed to the floor.

  He listened, hoping he had not awakened Tam. But a minute later, the bedroom door opened and his slippers came shuffling toward the kitchen.

  Tam was wearing his bathrobe too; her own no longer fit over her stomach. Underneath her nightgown, Mitchell knew, her navel had been stretched wide and her stomach was as hard as a leather basketball. Her wooden hair had rearranged itself so that it was flat on one side, ballooned on the other. She stood just inside the door, her eyes closed. “Couldn’t you pick some quieter way to tell me you were home?”

  He was kneeling, collecting the broken saucers. He smiled at her joke, avoiding her eyes, hoping she would not ask where he had been. But she did.

  “Would you like some coffee?” He carried the broken dishes to the garbage pail, spotless inside.

  “What time is it, Mitchell?” She sat down at the table. His bathrobe fell away from swollen breasts and the hard stomach. He brought the coffee and sat across from her, thankful that her stomach was now hidden under the table.

  “What time is it, I said?” Her eyes were half-open now.

  “It’s ten of five.” So much had happened, he was surprised it was so early.

  “Where were you? And don’t expect me to believe you were working late—at least not at work.” She began to empty the pockets of his bathrobe, of tissues, a comb, a book of matches. “You got a cigaret?”

  He handed her his pack, careful not to touch her fingers. The match flame forced her eyes completely open. “Well? Go on.”

  He sipped his coffee and decided to tell her. “I was with the woman I love.”

  “Your mother? She’s dead. Don’t you remember?”

  “No, Tamara, not my mother. You don’t understand, do you?”

  “Listen, Mitchell, you’re hard enough to understand at five in the afternoon, let alone at five in the morning.” She took a drag on her cigaret and stirred her coffee, spilling some onto the table.

  For an instant, he wanted very much to hurt her. “I don’t love you anymore. Do you understand that?” He leaned toward her, as if to push his words deep into her.

  She nodded, knocking her spoon against the side of her cup. “Next question: who’s your new girl, Mitchell?”

  He had expected more than that. He was disappointed but did not give up. “I know you’re shocked by all this.”

  “Shocked? Because you can’t put your full weight on top of me anymore and run out into the street and get some poor, dumb girl to tolerate you. Come on, Mitchell, be serious. You probably paid.” She was smiling at him, not a glimmer of a tear in her eyes.

  “It’s not like that at all. This is real.”

  She poked out her lips and nodded again. “Sure it is, Mitchell. But why don’t you get some sleep, sober up, and then—then see if it’s so real.”

  “That’s why, Tam. That’s exactly why. Your attitude. You think it’s sex—something dirty like that. But sex is the least of it.”

  “Who is it, Mitchell? Anybody I know?”

  He shook his head, lying. “Nobody you could possibly know. She’s kind and patient and sweet and decent. Things you’ve never been.”

  Tam got up and stretched. “She sounds very nice. I hope you’ll be…very…hap—” She could no longer contain her laughter. Her stomach and breasts shook in his face. “I’m going to bed. You working today or what?”

  He drained his cup. “Yes.”

  “Coming home tonight? Because if not, I’ll go visit somebody.”

  “I won’t be coming home at all.”

  She yawned. “All right, Mitchell, have it your own way. I’ll see you…when I see you.” She pushed through the door, then poked her head back into the room. “Give my regards to your ladylove.” She laughed all the way back to the bedroom.

  13

  HE HATED to admit it, but Tam had made him feel nervous and unsure. She knew him well—he did not like admitting that either—and if she sensed flaws in his love for Nancy, those flaws just might exist. When he realized this, he knew he would not be able to work, and that he would have to see Nancy as soon as possible after the sun rose. In the sunlight, he would learn the truth.

  He sat in the kitchen alone until seven when the German woman arrived. One look at her chubby, pink face was enough to tell him she did not want him in her kitchen. He went into the living room, and remained there as long as he could, but he was in front of Nancy’s before nine.

  The building was different in the daytime. The sun in each front window blinded him and the lobby was dark, a theater in the morning. The superintendent had already mopped the hallway and elevator; the building smelled of ammonia.

  Nancy opened only the peephole. It was the old-fashioned type, without one-way glass, and he could see her two eyes and a bit of her nose, which was still swollen. “What are you doing here?”

  He responded with a smile. “It’s Mitchell. You know, Mitch? I’m here because I love you. Is that reason enough?” He put his eye closer to the peephole. She was naked, her breasts creased where she had slept on rumpled sheets.

  “I know it’s Mitch. Go away, Mitch.” She began to close the peephole, but he stopped it with two fingers.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” She tried to return his fingers to him. “Come on, Mitch. Be a nice guy, will you? I have to get some sleep.”

  His fingers curled into her apartment. From Nancy’s side they must have looked like a lizard’s tongue. He leaned closer and whispered. “I just want to talk a minute. That’s all. Then I’ll go away and I won’t come back.” He smiled. “Until six, for dinner.”

  Through the peephole, her eyes blinked. “Look, Mitch, I really do have to sleep. I’ll look bad enough with this nose. So…” She tried to pry his fingers loose.

  “All right, Nancy, I understand. But I have to tell you something very important.”

  She squinted, then sighed. “If I let you in for five minutes, will you please leave after five minutes? Because I can see myself standing here all morning.”

  “Sure. I know you have a lot to do.” He placed his smile on view in front of the peephole, and, as an act of good faith, removed his fingers.

  The lock clicked; the door swung open, and he stepped timidly into her room, seeing first the bed where, only a few hours before, they had made love. The phrase the scene of the crime, or rather the feeling of the phrase oozed through him. He turned to her, found her leaning against the door. He could almost feel the cold steel on her naked back.

  “What’s so important?”

  He would have liked to sit next to her, to talk quietly for a
while and then tell her all he had done. But he could see she was very tired. “I told my wife,” he began, “that I love you and that I’m leaving her and that we’re getting married as soon as you and Greg are divorced.”

  With each word her eyes grew steadily larger, until she no longer seemed to have eye sockets, just eyes. “What are you talking about anyway?”

  He did not know what to answer; he was talking about so many things. He finally decided on one word: “Us. I’m talking about us, Nancy.”

  “Will you stop that? I hate that!”

  “What?”

  “That name, damn it!” She pushed away from the door and into the room—climbed into bed, pulling the sheet up to her shoulders. “Look, Mitch, I really don’t think we should see each other anymore. It’s been a pleasure knowing you, but you’re taking it too seriously.” She closed her eyes, then looked straight at him.

  “But, Nancy, I—”

  “Stop that!” She shouted at him, sitting up in bed, holding the sheet. “My name is not Nancy. Where’d you get that anyway?”

  “Where?”

  “Yes. Where?” She waved a hand at him. “Look, it’s not important anymore. Call me…Nancy…if…” She stopped, staring at him with fresh eyes. “You think…oh, boy.”

  “I think what, Nanc—” He did not want to anger her again. “I think what, Winky?”

  She continued to stare, her face softening. “You think that I love you.” She dropped the sheet and began to wring her hands. “And, oh Mitch, that’s my fault. Come, dear sweet Mitch, and sit by me.” She patted the bed.

  He was confused but did as she asked.

  “When I came to New York, lonely and afraid, you were the only person who was kind to me. And really, if things were as they should be, you and I would begin a life together. But, Mitch-dear, things in this life of ours are never as they should be.” She looked at her twitching hands. “I’m returning to Greg.”

  Mitchell’s breath left him. “But why?” he struggled out.