After a while he returned to the living room, snapped on the television, and collapsed onto the sofa in front of it. Lucy came out of her room a few minutes later and eased herself beneath his arm, her eyes focused on the flickering screen. An old black-and-white detective movie was playing, and in the film, a wiry little snitch had just handed a battered-looking private eye a picture. “See. See,” he told him excitedly. “Now you know.” As Corman watched the screen, bethought again of Lucy, Trang, his work, all the other imponderables, and it struck him that basically what everyone needed was a skinny little snitch just like the one on television, someone who could clear things up, get to the bottom of something, hand over a single exquisite photograph of what had really happened.
CHAPTER
NINE
IT WAS STILL very gray at midmorning, but the rain had stopped and the streets had begun to dry slightly in the brisk fall air. Corman had been up all night by then, with nothing but a short nap around dawn. But the nap had been just long enough to rejuvenate him, so he was able to feed Lucy her breakfast of cereal, then watch leisurely as she did her usual Sunday morning chores, cleaned her room, straightened her closet, folded the laundry he’d washed earlier while she was still sleeping in her room.
“I guess we can go to Uncle Edgar’s now,” she said when she’d finished.
“We’re not supposed to be there until the afternoon,” Corman reminded her.
Lucy pivoted one of her hips out melodramatically. “Well, can we at least go to the park before that?”
“It’s not a very nice day.”
“It’s not raining now,” Lucy said. “We could try it. We could meet them there.”
“Okay,” Corman said, giving in. “Get your bike.”
It was the usual time-consuming struggle getting the two bikes out of the basement storeroom and into the elevator. They were rickety affairs, with nearly treadless tires, rusty chains, handlebars that were slightly off center. They looked old the way people looked old, used beyond their days. Corman had hoped to buy Lucy a new one by summer, but now that seemed unlikely, and as he finally managed to wheel his own bike into the elevator, the pinched quality of his life overtook him once again. He thought of Pike, Groton, the kind of work that made your nights better because your days were worse.
Once on the street, they turned west, rode quickly to Tenth Avenue, then swung north toward the park, with Corman in the lead, Lucy close behind. The whole distance was a worry for him. Traffic sped by at high speed, half-clipping bikers as they passed, a far cry from the old city, when taxis had been electric, and all other cars had been limited to nine miles an hour and forced to warn pedestrians with a gong. And yet Corman had long ago realized that despite the danger, he didn’t have the patience to walk, dragging the bike beside him, and he knew Lucy didn’t either.
They reached 59th Street in less than fifteen minutes. From there it was only a short pull eastward to Columbus Circle. The air was still very heavy, and the fall chill had not lifted. A spectral haze clung to the upper reaches of the trees, floating through their dark leafless branches, giving the whole area an eerie, moorish look that Corman found vaguely unsettling. He stopped dead and stared out toward a particular line of trees. Only a few days before, a woman had been raped and murdered beneath them, and during the last minutes of her life, she had probably lain on her back and stared helplessly at the same bare branches that spread out before him now. As his eyes lingered on the trees, Corman suspected that every inch of earth contained similarly wrenching ironies, and that a thorough knowledge of them would inevitably create a different way of seeing.
“What are you looking at?”
Lucy had come up beside him and was busily zipping her dark blue parka more tightly against her throat.
“Nothing,” he told her.
“It’s colder than I thought,” she said when she’d finished.
“Put up your hood.”
She looked at him sourly. “I don’t like hoods. You know that.” Corman shrugged. “Okay, you ready?”
“I’ve been ready,” Lucy said.
She pressed down on the pedal, shot forward instantly, then headed down the gently curved road that led into the park. Corman followed along after her, pedaling slowly, careful to keep his distance so that she wouldn’t feel surveilled.
Within a few seconds she was almost out of sight. It was her favorite trick, and he began pedaling a bit more rapidly to stay closer to her. He could see her parka billowing out slightly as she raced ahead, but it was little more than a blur which darted in and out from behind the other riders. Once again, he speeded up until he was near enough to see her glance back at him with one of her teasing, “gotcha” smiles.
They made two complete rounds of the park, then glided into the large esplanade that surrounded a white band shell which the city had erected for some of its outdoor concerts. Green wooden benches lined the area, and Lucy quickly plopped down on one.
“I went fast,” she said as she unzipped her parka.
“Yeah,” Corman told her as he pulled up behind.
“It gets you hot,” she said. “Can I take it off?”
“You’ll forget and leave it on the bench,” Corman said. “You’ve done that before.”
“No, I won’t,” Lucy said. “Please?”
“Okay,” Corman told her. “Just make sure you remember it when we leave.”
“I’ll put it in my basket,” Lucy said. Then she quickly stripped it off and crammed it into the small wicker basket which hung from the handlebars.
“Can I get a hot dog?” she asked as she returned to the bench.
“Why don’t we wait for Giselle?”
“She’s probably already eaten.”
“I doubt that.”
“How about a pretzel, then?”
“All right,” Corman said. He fished a dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to her.
“Be right back,” Lucy said as she dashed toward the hot dog wagon at the other end of the esplanade.
Corman leaned back and stretched his long, slender legs out in front of him. Here and there other people lounged on the benches or walked quietly across the brick-covered ground. From time to time a lone bicyclist would glide nonchalantly by, sometimes nodding quickly, but usually offering only a brief, apprehensive glance.
Lucy came bounding toward him, a huge salted pretzel dangling like a bridle bit from her mouth.
“It’s a good one,” she said. She stretched her hand toward him. “Want the change?”
“You keep it.”
She smiled brightly. “Thanks.”
For the next few minutes they sat together silently while Lucy finished off the pretzel. Some sort of band was beginning to set up on the orchestra shell. They were all dressed in black shirts and trousers. From the look of their instruments, it was going to be a fully electrified performance. Tangles of thick black wire hung over the side of the platform or spread out in ever-widening coils along the stage itself.
“It’s the Heebee-Jeebees,” Lucy informed him. “It’s heavy metal.”
“I see.”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
“I might.”
Lucy shook her head determinedly. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“I like all kinds of music,” Corman insisted.
“Not this,” Lucy said. She got to her feet. “Let’s go.”
She was pedaled away in an instant. Corman trailed after her, following her out of the esplanade then around the park again. He thought she might wheel back around the band shell, but she continued on, past the wide wet expanse of the Sheep Meadow, then to the whirling carousel, and still onward around the park, circling it again and again, stopping only once, briefly, near the exit at 72nd Street, where a lone troubadour stood almost within the dark shadow of the Dakota, crooning one John Lennon song after another, as if in perpetual reverence for the things he had imagined.
Toward early afternoon, Corman called Edgar and told him t
o bring Giselle to the large playground near the southern end of the park. They arrived a few minutes later, Giselle bounding happily ahead while her father lumbered behind, his somewhat portly body wrapped in a Humphrey Bogart-style trenchcoat and floppy hat.
Edgar glanced doubtfully at the bench as he came toward it. “Is this thing dry?”
“As much as it’s going to get,” Corman said.
“Okay,” Edgar said as he sat down. He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his knee, then abruptly stopped himself. “Christ, Dad used to do that.”
Corman said nothing.
“It’s weird,” Edgar added. “The stuff we pick up.”
Lucy and Giselle rushed up to the bench, hand in hand.
“Can we climb the rock?” Lucy asked.
Edgar looked hesitant. “That’s pretty high.” He cast an evaluating glance at Giselle. “You sure you won’t fall?”
Lucy squeezed her cousin’s hand. “I’ll watch her.”
“Let Giselle watch after herself,” Corman said.
Edgar unnecessarily straightened the collar which circled Giselle’s throat. “Just be careful,” he said to her. “And watch for glass.”
The two girls nodded obediently, then darted toward the immense gray stone which rested at the other side of the playground.
Edgar turned to Corman, smiled. “So, how you doing these days?”
“Okay.”
“Still shooting the city?”
“Yeah.”
“I cover the waterfront,” Edgar said, his standard line for Corman’s work. “Shot anything interesting lately?”
Corman thought of the woman, the blue blanket, nodded.
Edgar didn’t go into it. “I’m handling that plane crash outside Las Vegas. It’s a real tangle. Multimillion-dollar damages. Excluding punitive.”
“How’s Frances?”
“Sick,” Edgar said wearily. “Like always.” He shrugged. “The whole thing could be in her head.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m not so sure,” Edgar admitted. “But what can you do? Nobody can get to the root of it.” He stroked his sleek, clean-shaven chin. “When you get to be our age, things start to break down.”
“She’s only thirty-seven,” Corman reminded him.
“With some people, it starts early,” Edgar said casually. He glanced toward the rock. Lucy and Giselle had nearly made it to the top. “If she gets hurt, Frances’ll kill me,” he said.
Corman’s eyes drifted toward the traffic on Fifth Avenue, for an instant envisioning the carriage parades of the old city, opera singers in their barouches, couples in sleek white phaetons, the elegant black victoria of Madame Restell, the Avenue’s luxuriant abortionist.
After a moment, Edgar touched his knee gently. “It really is good to see you, David. We should see each other more often.”
Corman nodded. “Victor, too.”
Edgar frowned, waved his hand sourly. “Forget Victor. He’s in his own world.”
“You always say that.”
Edgar shrugged. “Anyway, as far as we’re concerned, the two of us, we should get together more often.”
Corman said nothing.
“But your work,” Edgar added tentatively. “It keeps you busy.”
“Yours, too.”
“But you’re out at night again,” Edgar said. He looked at Corman pointedly. “Or am I wrong about that?”
“Sometimes I work at night.”
“Sometimes? Or is it pretty much a permanent thing?”
“It varies.”
“Two, three nights a week?”
Corman sat back slightly, stared evenly into his brother’s eyes. “Why all the questions about how often I’m out at night?” he asked.
Edgar laughed edgily. “You’ve got a good eye,” he said. “You always had a good eye.”
“What’s on your mind, Edgar?”
Edgar cleared his throat sharply, glanced away, then returned his eyes to Corman. “I got a call from Lexie. She’s making noises. Like a couple of years ago.”
“About Lucy?”
“Yes.”
“What is it this time?”
“She wants to talk to you about a few things. She’s a little concerned about how things are working out.”
“Things are fine.”
“She doesn’t see it that way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know where she gets her information,” Edgar said. “But she knows you’ve gone back to working nights.”
“How could she know that? It couldn’t be Lucy. She knows to keep quiet.”
“No, I don’t think it came from Lucy.”
“Frances,” Corman blurted. “It must be Frances.”
“It could be,” Edgar admitted reluctantly. “She doesn’t mean to let things slip, but sometimes she gets on the phone with Lexie and, you know how it is, the ladies exchange information.”
“So she’s told Lexie I’m working nights again?”
Edgar nodded. “You’re not supposed to be working nights, David. You know that. It’s part of the custody arrangement.”
“I don’t have a choice right now.”
“Well, that’s also a problem.”
Corman looked at him quizzically.
“I’m talking about your ability to support Lucy,” Edgar added.
“I can support her.”
“But to do it, you work this night shift thing,” Edgar said. “That’s a problem when it comes to custody.”
Corman turned away. He could feel his blood heating and worked to cool it off. “What can I do?” he asked finally.
“My advice is for you to talk to her,” Edgar said. “You know Lexie. She’s not a bitch. She’s concerned about Lucy, that’s all. It’s not a spiteful thing. No bitterness. With you two, the whole thing was mutual. Even in the decree. Mutual. Mutual. Mutual. Every other word.”
Corman’s eyes shot over to Edgar. “It’s about money. It always is.”
Edgar stared at Corman sternly. “David, if I thought it was just the money, I’d tell Lexie to do her worst, and we’d see her in court.”
“But money’s what it comes down to,” Corman said. He looked at Edgar knowingly. “Look, Edgar, you and I both know that whenever anybody says it’s not just the money, it’s just the money.”
Edgar shook his head. “Not always. In this case, it’s part of it, but it’s not the whole thing.”
“What else?”
“Well, for one thing, where you live.”
“What about it?”
“Not just the apartment,” Edgar said. “Although that could be an issue too.”
“How?”
“It’s pretty cramped, you got to admit.”
“Cramped?” Corman blurted. “Cramped? Jesus Christ, Edgar, in this city in the nineteenth century people were piled into …”
“Nineteenth century?” Edgar cried. “Nineteenth century? Who gives a fuck about the nineteenth century? We’re talking about the here and now, David.”
“But you have to …”
“Face the facts,” Edgar said sharply, finishing the sentence. “That’s what you have to do.” Suddenly his face softened, his voice grew less tense. “Look, David, you’re my brother. I know how you feel about things. You have a—what would you call it—a romantic streak. Not everybody does.”
“Romantic streak?” Corman said. “Edgar, what are you talking about?”
“Photography, that sort of thing. Working the nights. It’s not the usual thing.”
“So I have to do the usual thing to keep my daughter?”
“No, but you have to make a living at it.”
“See what I mean?” Corman said icily. “Money.”
“Money,” Edgar repeated. “All right, money. I mean your apartment, where it is, the neighborhood around there, the school Lucy goes to.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “All of that’s a problem for Lexie. She has concerns about it.” He wai
ted for Corman to respond, then added cautiously, “Legitimate concerns.”
Corman gave him a withering look. “Christ, you sound like her lawyer.”
“Not at all,” Edgar said. “But I’d be a fool to ignore the nature of her complaint. I know how a judge can see it.”
“See what?”
“The way you live. Things you’ve done. Leaving your teaching job. At least Lucy could have stayed at that little private school if you hadn’t quit.”
“And been a society doll, like the other girls there?”
“A what?”
“A debutante at some stupid ball.”
“David, I hate to break it to you, but not everybody sees that as a fate worse than death,” Edgar said. “They see that Lucy had a few chances which she doesn’t have anymore because you quit your teaching job and ran off to be a photographer.”
“But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Corman said insistently. “I didn’t run off. Lexie did.”
“And maybe that was a little self-indulgent on her part,” Edgar said. “I’m not denying that. But quitting your teaching job, that could be seen as self-indulgent, too.”
“The bottom line is that Lexie gave me custody,” Corman said flatly.
“Yes, she did.”
“Well, doesn’t that mean anything?”
“It means something, but not everything,” Edgar said. “Lexie thought Lucy would be better off with you. Mainly because df the school. She hadn’t married Jeffrey yet. She didn’t have any money. You couldn’t have paid any alimony even if she’d asked for it. And without it she couldn’t possibly have supported Lucy. You could. At least at that time. The way she saw it, giving you custody was the best thing she could do for Lucy. That’s the way the court could see it, too.”
The City When It Rains Page 6
