“Mrs.—”
“Edge. Roberta P. Edge.”
“Mrs. Edge, I don’t have any news about Raymond, good or bad. I don’t even know him. I’m just trying to find him.”
“Good God. Why didn’t you say so? We’re very busy here. We don’t have time for—”
“If you could just tell me where I might find—”
“Why?” she demanded, hands on hips.
“Mrs. Edge, if I could only talk to Raymond’s mother—”
“Well, you can’t. She can’t be bothered. She don’t need the added heartache, mister.”
“Mrs. Edge, I know a little about what Raymond’s been through. I know why he drinks and I know that the stories he told, stories that got him locked up in a mental institution, are probably true. I believe in Raymond’s powers. I have to find him, talk to him. I need his help.”
She was shaking her head, but deep down she wasn’t tough enough to show him the door.
“Raymond’s long past being of use to anyone, including himself. And that’s the truth.”
“But he’s not to blame.”
“I know he isn’t.” She listened fiercely to the sewing machine, and fidgeted. “You didn’t give your name.”
“Peter.”
“Peter? That it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Somehow you’ve got that look. Oh, I’m not talking about the way you’re dressed. Don’t mean a thing, it’s the eyes and the style, how you just keep boring away quiet as you please until you’ve got what you’re after. We’ve had ’em here, back when they were still interested in Raymond, still keeping watch. And you could be one of ’em, and maybe it’s some kind of—trap for Raymond, some kind of trouble he’s in we don’t know about. What if I told you right now to get out of here and not ever bother us again?”
“I’d go quietly, Mrs. Edge. I don’t want to cause trouble. I can’t afford any.”
“Maybe,” she said, “maybe—you could be of help to us while you’re he’pin’ yourself.” She jerked her head toward the room behind her.
“Let’s sit in the parlor. Keep your voice down so Essie won’t hear when she stops sewing, and wander out: We have to finish that Oberdeck gown today. We need the cash, mister.”
There were two other gowned mannequins in the six-sided parlor. A plaque on a dusty desk with the legend Complete Wedding Service. Several dog-eared catalogues. Peter took off his trench coat, noting that in a matter of days one of his elbows would be through the sleeve. Mrs. Edge excused herself and was gone five minutes, long enough to worry him. He kept an eye on the drive for that police car he’d seen earlier. The sewing machine worked at random stitchings.
When she came back she had tea and a plate of cookies and a Polaroid snapshot with her.
“This was taken the Fourth of July at the Neptune’s Revels Community Barbecue. Here’s Essie and here’s Raymond. You can see how he was off the booze for a while and started to balloon up again.”
Peter studied the fat young man. He knew Raymond was just twenty-six, but he looked middle-aged. High, round forehead, hair long at the ears, a chipmunky grin. But there was woe beneath the brows and his hands were joined in the manner of someone accustomed to sudden fits of anxiety.
“Mrs. Edge, I know it doesn’t make things any better, but there have been a lot of Raymonds.”
“You know that much about it, do you?”
“I know enough.”
She drew her own conclusions about his reticence and lightly touched the back of his hand.
“Maybe your stomach’s in knots right now, but those are molasses and date-nut cookies. You take a handful with you when you go, they’re nourishing.”
“Where do I look?”
“He’s in New York City, or was. That’s the last we heard from him.”
She showed Peter a postcard: the Statue of Liberty. The card was dated shortly after Labor Day. He couldn’t read a word of the brief message. Only the signature was legible.
“Essie and me studied it together and finally made it out,” Mrs. Edge said. “He was staying at a hotel called the San Marino. But that was September. He probably moved on.”
“Down south?”
“No. He doesn’t migrate with the other—bums. For reasons of his own he wants to stay close to that place where they half killed him. I think they pay him, why I don’t know. He’s hoping that a miracle will happen, that he’ll get it back. All of his powers.”
“How good was he?”
“Give Ray some kind of object—ballpoint pen, a handkerchief—and if he never laid eyes on the person that owned it he could reel off a life history. I’m telling you, on his good days he was eerie. He could make the rest of the human race feel obsolete. But it was just a natural part of his life. He wanted to be liked, to be needed and help people. But Raymond wasn’t some kind of plaster saint. He has his bad habits and his weaknesses, and they’ve brought him down as we know. There might be one other place you could locate him.”
“Where’s that?”
“Central Park. Especially sunny days in winter. He liked to sit in the sun and watch the skaters.”
“I’ll do my best to find him. And if I do—”
Her red-rimmed seamstress’s eyes filled with tears.
“Tell him it’s not the drinking that bothers us. We can put up with that. It’s not knowing where he is or what’s happening to him. That’s what kills us.”
The sewing machine was silent. “Roberta!” Mrs. Dunwoodie called. “I need a little help if you’re not too busy.”
Mrs. Edge stood up, hastily wrapping cookies in a napkin for Peter. “Shhh, I guess you’d better go. I don’t want to stir up any hope in Essie. It’s too cruel.”
Peter let himself silently out of the house while Mrs. Edge went back to the sewing room. As he walked down the drive he had to squint to keep the sun from blinding him. It was beautiful here, and it would be beautiful in New York. Fifty-five degrees and not too windy, a day to bring out all the pale city dwellers, perhaps even those who thought they didn’t have all that much to live for any more.
With a little luck in making connections, he could be in Central Park by three o’clock.
Chapter Three
Gillian didn’t believe in pampering herself, and she didn’t want to ruin things for Larue, so for most of the day she rationalized her worsening symptoms, which included the swollen throat, aching joints and a slowly simmering fever that dulled her perceptions and made her session with Tynan Wells a catastrophe. If you were serious about the flute and could endure his temper then you took flute from Tynan Wells. But he had dismissed students forever for better readings than Gillian was able to provide on this occasion.
After a quarter of an hour he expressed his displeasure by leaping up from the piano bench, snatching the score from the stand in front of her (it was his own Sonatina for flute and piano, inspired by an Emily Dickinson poem), ripping the score into numerous pieces and scattering them across the Persian carpet. Following that he stood for five minutes at the windows, glowering, his lower lip stuck out, while Gillian sighed inaudibly and chewed her fingernails.
“If you are ever to be any good, you must learn the things that are not printed on the score. You have superb technique for one your age, but I’m not looking for polish right now. I could scarcely be less concerned if you are rushed, if you miscalculate notes, if you breathe abominably; but you must never be timid. It is a joyous ostinato! Reveal yourself to me, Gillian. Don’t bore me with mechanical repetition.”
Gillian smiled bravely, but the overpowering sweetness of the roses blooming on the baby grand finally got to her. She excused herself, ran to the powder room and threw up.
When she came out Tynan was waiting for her; he put a cool hand on her forehead.
“I didn’t realize you were ill. Better go home.”
“I’ll be all right,” Gillian said, but she didn’t feel any better for having heaved, just emptier.
Larue said, “All that dark, brooding fury; wow. Is he a good musician?”
“Probably the best American flutist, and one of the three best in the world.”
“He wants to screw you.”
“Does he?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“No.”
“He won’t get cute the way they do sometimes, and spoil it. Not him. He won’t say a word. He’ll just stare. Then he’ll give you like two seconds to take your clothes off before he starts tearing them off.”
“Sounds good so far,” Gillian said, laughing.
“Do you want to screw him?”
“I don’t know; do you suppose he’s that hairy all over?”
Larue whooped and leaned closer.
“Speaking of admirers, that bum back there can’t take his eyes off you.”
After a few moments Gillian glanced casually at the back of the bus. The bum had the bench seat to himself. He was sitting squarely in the middle. The hair that grew around his ears and clung to the back of his skull hung shoulder-length and shiny as snakes. For the moment his bald head was nodding as the bus jolted over a stretch of rough pavement. His knees were spread and his hands clutched the cord handle of the tattered Bergdorf shopping bag he’d found in a trash can somewhere. His pants were hiked up to mid-calf and his skin was dead white, which made the small sore on one shin all the more distasteful. All of his clothing looked too big for him, as if he’d suffered a drastic weight loss recently.
Pathetic, Gillian thought routinely, and at that he looked up quickly, catching her unawares.
He had one cloudy drunkard’s eye and one dazzling blue eye that shocked her, held her attention. He smiled strangely at Gillian, a fawning, worshiping smile, yet there was nothing lustful about it. He hitched forward slightly in his seat as if he meant to rise and approach her, and still she couldn’t look away. She was caught unawares again, but this time by something she felt rather than saw; it was like being bowled over by a strong cold wave on a beach.
Gillian jerked her head around and trembled so strongly Larue was aware of it. Larue looked at her, puzzled.
“What’s the matter?”
“The damn bus fumes,” Gillian explained. They were nearing Sixty-eighth Street. “Could we get off and walk the rest of the way?”
“Sure,” Larue said.
The bum got up too, making haste behind them. The bus doors closed on him before he could step down, and he howled in outrage. The doors reopened and the bus discharged him with a flatulent sound.
“Don’t look now, but—” Larue said, taking Gillian’s arm.
“We’ve got a buddy.”
“Do you want to give him money?”
“No.”
“Well, he probably won’t bother us. Gillian, you’re shaking. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
It was more like being afraid for him, almost dizzy with apprehension, but she couldn’t explain that to Larue, or to herself. She only knew she wanted to be far, far away from this derelict who shuffled half a block behind them. Either he thought he knew her, or he urgently wanted something from her.
He didn’t try to catch up, however, as they walked the short stretch down Fifth and cut through the zoo grounds. Larue forgot about him. Gillian couldn’t, but they chatted about other things until they were on the crowded ice of Wollman Rink.
Gillian was a much more advanced skater than Larue; she worked with her friend until Larue was executing turns smoothly and seemed to have the hang of skating backwards. Despite the intense sun in the hard blue sky Gillian was cold to the bone out there on the ice, and she had to grit her teeth to keep them from chattering. Great, now she had chills to go with her fired-up head. But in a little while she’d take a taxi home and crawl into bed, tomorrow she would be fine.…
A couple of times Gillian glanced up and saw the bum: he was just standing around, but at a reassuring distance. She was able to look calmly at him. Obviously he was still interested in her. Instead of disgust she felt empathy.
—Like most of the women in his family, who were willing to forgive Raymond almost anything.
Who? Gillian thought, startled.
“My ankles are getting weak,” Larue complained.
Raymond.
She had never seen him before in her life, Gillian was sure of that. Nevertheless he was Raymond. Ray … mond Dun … Dunwoodie! That was as clear as if he’d come up and introduced himself, instead of furtively hanging around.
Gillian looked again for her bum, but the sun was in her eyes. And the walks and benches around the skating rink were crowded with people.
This time she couldn’t locate Raymond. Maybe he’d gone for good. “Gil, you don’t have any color at all,” Larue said.
Gillian smiled gently. The face of her friend, and the skaters gliding around them, were slightly out of focus. She closed her eyes and almost lost her balance, but when she looked up her vision had sharpened.
“Why don’t we go up to my place and have something hot to drink?” Larue lived nearby, on Central Park South.
Gillian nodded. “I’ll just take a couple of turns around the ice, and then we’ll go.”
She pushed off, circled smartly to avoid a gang of little boys chugging along on double runners, and found herself looking at the body of Raymond Dunwoodie sprawled a few feet away on the ice.
The contents of his shopping bag had spilled: she saw a chipped perfume decanter with a few drops of amber liquid in it. Some wilted flowers. Old magazines. There were odds and ends of clothing, including a bra; a few galvanized nails. Raymond’s stony smile of terror was ear to ear; his utmost brilliant eye, pleading happenstance, peered at a sky of reciprocating blue. There was a drooling hole in his forehead an inch above the left eyebrow and a starburst pattern of blood and brains on the ice around his head. Skaters flocked obliviously past him. He was dead, but no one seemed to notice, or care.
What was left of her rational mind warned Gillian that it wasn’t real, that if she was the only one who saw him then Raymond couldn’t be lying there, but the taste of bile was bitter behind her locked teeth; she was already fainting as she made a clumping turn on skates and showed her ghastly face to Larue.
At the precise moment Gillian’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell, with a little murmur of apology, to the ice in front of Larue, Raymond Dunwoodie was at a telephone three hundred yards away looking for a dime. Behind him a polar bear prowled in a sunlit cage.
Raymond didn’t have a dime on him. He had nothing in his pockets except a few pennies and three subway tokens.
Raymond almost sobbed. He knocked his head against the cold metal phone box and shook with outrage. But, despite his habitual lack of control over himself, his hand went instinctively to the coin return cup, and—there it was, a dime someone had forgotten! Or maybe it had dropped late because of some mechanical disorder. Never mind, Raymond had spent entire days poking into the coin return cups of public telephones without finding a cent, but now just when he most desperately needed a break.… No doubt in his mind at all. On this day Ray Dunwoodie had been forgiven all his sins.
For a few moments, after he’d dropped his precious dime, he was afraid his memory would betray him, and he wouldn’t remember the unlisted number. His tongue dried up against the roof of his mouth. Then it came to him. He repeated the number twice before dialing to be sure he had it.
The girl picked up with the proper four-digit response and Raymond’s heart thudded as he tried to speak authoritatively.
“This is Raymond—Raymond Dunwoodie. Now don’t hang up! I’ve got one for you this time, no mistake. I’m absolutely certain!”
“Raymond,” she said, “we just can’t put up with any more of your—”
“No, no, listen! She’s just a kid, fourteen, maybe
fifteen years old—just the right age—I’m telling you, she’s a sensitive—hasn’t come through yet, but she’s on the verge—so let me talk to him, Kristen.”
“Oh, Raymond, I feel for you if this is just more of your shenanigans.”
“No! God, this one’s amazing! As worn-out as I am, she was reading me like a newspaper. But she isn’t all that aware yet, she either blocks what she doesn’t want to know or lays off her reading as a hunch, the usual reaction.”
Kristen hesitated. Raymond held his breath when he realized he was panting into the phone.
“All right, Raymond, he’s very busy but I’ll try. I’ll have to put you on hold.”
“Okay. But don’t keep me waiting too long,” Raymond said, with a touch of amor propio that pleased him. Then he remembered. “Hey!” he said frantically, “I’m calling from a pay phone. And I don’t have another—”
“What’s the number you’re calling from, Raymond?”
He edged back and focused on the numbers printed on the dial, read them off.
“Very good, Raymond. Expect him to call back within five minutes.”
Raymond hung up, then glanced around to see if anyone else was waiting. He was prepared to kill to keep them away from his telephone. He reached into the shopping bag for his last bottle of Annie Greensprings and fed himself gouts of wine.
It was cold in the shade where he waited, and the cold penetrated the layers of sweaters he wore. He waited with a hand on the receiver of the telephone. He heard the oompah music of the park carousel. He heard a siren. It seemed to Raymond that he waited much longer than five minutes.
At last the phone rang, and he snatched up the receiver.
“Yeh, this is Raymond.” He listened and grew ecstatic. “All right—right—and I promise you won’t regret it.” He listened longer and was cunning. “What do you want to know for? I mean, I can point her out to you when you get here, that’s good enough, isn’t it? Okay, I’ll be on the deck that overlooks the rink. But you’d better make it soon.”
Raymond hung up. He trembled from happiness. He gathered up his belonging and trudged toward the ice skating rink, taking the long way to avoid climbing all those steps by the bears’ cages.
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