Troika

by Adam Pelzman

  It’s good exercise for me, too, ’cause I don’t get much down in Florida. I’m on the pole, but that’s not really exercise. That’s just holding on for dear life. So we’re walking around the park, and there’s a lot of up and down here, and sometimes having to push Sophie in that wheelchair wears me out, but in a good way. I’m all sweaty and my tits are on display, and even though they’re not too big, every guy who passes me is taking a look. And it gets so obvious that Sophie turns around when I’m pushing her and says you think they’re looking at the cripple in the chair or the wet T-shirt contest you got going on back there? And I laugh and say maybe a bit of both. But what I’m really thinking is that if these guys have any sense at all, any idea what pure beauty looks like—crippled or not—then Sophie’s the girl they should be staring at.

  We’re standing near a clock tower and there’s animals on top, funny ones holding instruments, and next thing I know there’s music. It’s a kid’s song, and the animals are dancing and spinning around in a circle to the tune. Frère Jacques, frère Jacques. There they are, up on a stage, dancing to the music, children and their parents watching, some lovers too, and of course me and Sophie. And as I’m watching this, the dancing animals make me think about me, ’cause that’s exactly what I do. I get up high and dance and people have their eyes all fixed on me. And even though they’re just metal figures dancing up there, I’m pretty sure they’re more alive than I am.

  There’s a family standing near us, a big family with four or five kids and parents who look so young it’s hard to believe they have even one kid. But they’re a sweet family, tourists I think, and the kids get crazy when the animals start dancing. The little one, she can’t be more than four or five, she’s got cotton candy in one hand, a big fluffy pink cloud on a stick, and she’s pointing at the animals with the other.

  The girl’s so amazed that she keeps moving, step by step, toward the clock, like she’s being drawn to it. Next thing I know, she’s broken away from her pack and she’s standing alone next to Sophie and the wheelchair. She’s doing a little teeter-totter thing with her feet ’cause she’s so excited and she holds on to the big rubber wheel on Sophie’s chair. She looks at Sophie and smiles and points to the animals with her cotton candy. She doesn’t say anything, just holds on to the wheel all comfortable and natural.

  The music ends, and the girl lets go of the wheel and runs back to her family. We watch her jump on her daddy’s back, and then she’s gone. I look down at Sophie and I can see in her face that something’s wrong, that maybe this little girl being so close and sweet and intimate, maybe something about that got to Sophie. Maybe a memory? Or a fantasy? Or maybe it’s something different. It’s too early for me to tell, ’cause I hardly know her, but I can read a girl, and I know it’s time to get her the hell out of this park.

  WHO’S THE FOOL

  Sophie and I are back in the apartment and I think she’s finally settling down from seeing that little girl with the cotton candy. Like I said, I’ve been in some really weird situations in my short life, and having an asshole finger you in a booth is one of them, but sitting in a fancy apartment in New York with my customer’s paralyzed wife and a take-no-crap Trinidad maid is way beyond weird. And just when I think it can’t get weirder, just when I have my escape plan all worked out, something happens that makes me even more nervous.

  Julian’s off to D.C., so now it’s just me, Sophie and Norma. Sophie says to me hold on for a few minutes, and then she spins her wheelchair around like a top and goes into the kitchen with Norma. Now I can hear them talking, whispering who knows what, and it’s clear as day they don’t want me to hear what they’re saying. There’s a point where it almost sounds like they’re arguing, but still whispering, which is real funny. When people argue but keep their voices real soft.

  Sophie comes back out of the kitchen, and boy is she good at racing that thing around, moving her arms, weaving in and out of chairs, through doorways, and never bumps into anything. She’s back at the table for just a few seconds when Norma comes out of the kitchen holding her chest like she’s having a heart attack, all dramatic, and says Mum, I got an emergency on my hands, a big one. My cousin, my cousin, she’s in the hospital and I’m her only family so I got to get down to Saint Luke’s right away.

  Now, the way she says it it’s real obvious that either her cousin’s not sick or maybe she doesn’t even have a cousin at all, and she’s just trying to get out of the apartment. Sophie puts her hand on her chest, all fake and dramatic too, and she says oh, no, Norma, what happened? And I’m thinking does everyone up here take the same shitty acting course? Here we go, I’m thinking. These two bitches are setting me up to be alone with Sophie, God knows why, and there’s no fucking way that’s happening. She seems to move real good in that chair and of course she’s got a phone in case there’s an emergency and enough money to hire an entire hospital for a house call.

  Sophie looks at me with a fake-sincere look on her face and she says Perla, Norma has to run and Julian doesn’t get back from Washington until the morning, and I’m wondering if there’s any way you can stay here with me until then. I don’t mean to impose, she says, but it’s just one night.

  Now, a few hours with this woman is about all I can take, but another night? Norma’s looking at me, waiting to see if I’m fool enough to take the bait. And Sophie, too. I look around the apartment, then I think about that shitty club and my mom spending almost every night at Felipe’s and how lonely I’m gonna be down there.

  Of course, I say. Happy to stay.

  I HATE MYSELF AND WANT TO DIE

  Perla and I have just finished dinner, and we’re alone in the apartment—Norma having ostensibly left earlier to visit her very sick and very nonexistent cousin. It is nine at night, and I am tired both from our long walk in the park and from the intensity of this day. I ask Perla if she can help me on to the bed. I position my wheelchair at a slight angle to the bed and, despite my fatigue, use my arms to push the entire weight of my body off the chair. My legs dangle and swing like those of a jolly marionette, the tips of my toes brushing the wood floor. I can hold myself up for a few seconds, but I need someone, Perla, to guide me the foot or so over to the mattress. Perla leans forward and ducks her head low. She wraps her arms around my waist, then slides them up under my arms. It occurs to me that she has experience with this, that she is not a novice; Perla has loved someone who was either quite sick or hopelessly drunk.

  Again, I am impressed by Perla’s strength. With neither a grunt nor a wobble, she transfers me to the bed and rests me tenderly on my back. She covers me up and stands before me, her own fatigue apparent.

  “You mind if I go to sleep, too?” she asks. “In that guest room from last night?”

  “Of course, Perla.” She leans down, puts her arms around my shoulders and gives me something approximating a hug. Then she stands up straight, kicks her right heel in the air and, from just a couple of feet away, waves to me—an odd but adorable gesture from someone standing so close.

  “Good night,” she says. “See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Perla.” And as she exits the room, I watch her move away from me—a sexy swagger in her gait. I think about Perla’s keen observation, how she noticed the impact that the little girl with the cotton candy had on me, how she extracted me from that painful setting. I think about Julian’s arms around her waist, about the pleasure that she—and not I—can give the man I love. I look down to my useless legs and curse myself for destroying not just my own life, but Julian’s too. For what kind of stupid girl declines a beautiful walk down a beautiful seaside lane with such a beautiful man? What kind of stupid fucking girl does something so fucking stupid?

  There are times—and now is one of them—when I hate myself and want to die. Never have I had the courage to kill myself, to take the necessary and affirmative steps to ensure my own death. But tonight, I will do something that may
guide me further along the continuum and, in the process, determine what type of girl this Perla really is.

  I set the bedside alarm for one in the morning. I close my eyes and, as if I have not a single care, I pass seamlessly into sleep. When I am later awaken by the soothing chime of the alarm clock, I reach over to my left and lift a pillow. I toss it to the ground beside the bed. I then grab another pillow and drop it to the floor next to the other pillow. I do this two more times until there is an imperfect, cushioned row on the floor. The pillows are misaligned and there are gaps through which the wood below is revealed. Still, there’s some cushion below extending the better part of the bed’s length. I eye the expensive jewelry on the dresser: my watch, earrings, a diamond-and-sapphire brooch.

  My plan is this. I shall push myself up on to my right side. It will take me some time to do this, as turning on my side—for reasons having to do with angles and leverage—is harder than maneuvering out of the chair. Once I am on my side, I shall peer down to the pillow-covered floor below. With my left arm, I shall push off, creating momentum that carries my body toward the side of the bed. I shall rock back and forth several times, gaining speed as I go. Eventually, I shall pass that tipping point and my left shoulder will rotate forward, carrying the rest of my body with it. I shall fall off the side of the bed and crash to the ground, the pillows partially breaking my fall, but my body, my head, my face may be exposed to the wood between and around the pillows.

  Depending upon which part of my body misses the pillows and hits the floor, I may feel pain. If it is my lower body, then there will be no pain—just bruises and scrapes and possibly a broken bone. If it is my upper body that hits, I may have those things as well, but accompanied by severe pain. There I shall lie, in a paralyzed crumpled mass, awaiting Perla’s response to this manufactured tragedy. I wonder if she will seize the opportunity of my total incapacitation to rob the place. Or will she take no action, just sit in the chair and watch me die, thinking about how she’s going to redecorate the apartment once she has replaced me? Will she recoil at the pathetic horror of my deformed body in its soiled diaper and, rather than assist me, gather her things and flee? Will she make a sincere effort to help, then cradle me while calling emergency, comforting me until the medics arrive? Or will she do something else? Something entirely different.

  Using my left hand, I push down on the mattress and lift my shoulder off the surface, extending my arm stiff and straight until my body has turned over on its right side. I rock back and forth, back and forth, riding along the fulcrum that is my shoulder and hip, until my body gains enough speed and carries all of my weight over the edge of the bed. My body hits the ground in an odd way, such that my head and shoulders go first—which is the opposite of what I had hoped. The right side of my head misses the highest pillow and cracks with terrific force into the floor. My skull bounces off the wood like a bag of fruit and lands again on the floor. My shoulder slams into the hard surface, and the pain drives across my neck, across to the other side of my body. Soon, my legs follow, and I watch the two lazy ropes of wet dough slide off the mattress and land in the center of the pillows below.

  My right cheek rests on the cool floor. I am in agony. I moan loudly, a signal for Perla to save me. I open my eyes and wait, but I see and hear nothing. Where is she? Where are the sounds of her movement? Surely, I think, she would have heard the crash and my call for help. And then a terrifying thought occurs to me, one that I foolishly had not considered prior to this dangerous stunt: Perla is already gone, escaped earlier in the night. Smart girl. Julian was right.

  I look over to the phone, which is beyond my reach, and I wonder if I have suffered internal injuries. I wonder if I am bleeding from within, if I shall die before Julian returns from D.C. I wonder if my death will be ruled an accident or a suicide. Or if—something I had not foreseen—Perla will be suspected in my death. And I wonder if the circumstances of my demise will, for any number of reasons, prevent Julian and Perla from being together. Or if they will now be free to share a spectacular life.

  BROKEN DOLL

  I’m sleeping so deep in the comfy bed and I’m having a dream about what looks like Cuba, but could really be anywhere, and what happens but I get woken up by a big noise. I’m not used to this city, so who knows what it could be. I’m wide-awake now, staring at the ceiling and a little scared. I listen real close for another big boom, but it’s quiet now, so I figure it’s just nothing and try to get back to sleep. Then a few minutes later I hear something else. I hear a groan and some crying and I think oh, fuck, Sophie’s hurt. That’s the first thing I think, and I’m out of bed and in her room in a second and what I see is horrible.

  Sophie’s on the ground and her body’s in a real odd shape. Her upper half is going in one direction and her lower half the other, and it looks like she’s a broken doll. She’s wearing a top but her bottom’s naked and I guess her diaper got knocked off in the fall, ’cause it’s right there next to her on the floor, open and filled with her stuff. I kneel down next to her to get a good look, brush the hair away from her face. She’s got blood running out of her nose and her lips are swollen and I have no idea if she’s still breathing. I put my fingers on her neck, right under her jaw, and it turns out she’s got a pulse. Not much, but still a little beat.

  I look around the room. On the dresser there’s a sculpture of a lion, it’s made of green stone, jade I think, with jewels in the eyes, and next to it there’s Sophie’s fancy watch and some jewelry, gold with diamonds and blue stones that must be sapphires. I look at Sophie and her eyes are still closed with blood all over her face. I look back to the dresser, then down to the end table where the phone is.

  I jump up and grab the phone, call 911 and tell them I just found Sophie hurt bad, she’s paralyzed from the waist down, but that was from before, and I’m alone in the apartment and need some help real fast. I hang up the phone, hold on to her hand and pray hard that she doesn’t die. Now, there’s lots of reasons I don’t want Sophie to die. I don’t want her to die ’cause it wouldn’t be right for Julian to suffer any more. And also ’cause I sort of like her, even though I’ve only known her for a day and a night. And I don’t want anyone to die, except that guy who fingered me at the club.

  I’m holding on to her real tight. Sophie, Sophie, I’m begging. I start screaming help as loud as I can, hoping maybe a neighbor hears me or the doorman or someone who works in this goddamn building who’s not too fucking busy polishing the brass poles. But I guess ’cause the apartment’s so big and the walls so thick, nobody can hear me. In my neighborhood in Miami, everyone’s right on top of each other, the windows open, music playing, kids laughing. So there’s not much privacy, and that’s the way we like it. Real social. But nobody’s coming to help me now, and I think that’s one of the problems with being so rich—nobody can hear you scream.

  There’s blood all over the floor. Sophie’s eyes are open now, flickering real fast, and I’m nervous ’cause that’s exactly what you see in the movies right before someone dies. I don’t know how long it’s been since I called emergency, could be a minute, could be five. And then I hear some noise in the hallway, a door opening, and I scream help, help, we’re in the bedroom. Someone’s running toward us now and I turn around to the door, and standing right there just a few feet away is Julian. Now, he’s not supposed to be back until the morning, so boy, am I happy to see him.

  Thank God, I scream, thank God. Sophie’s hurt, I don’t know what happened. I just heard a big noise and ran in and she was right here on the floor. I hold up the phone—there’s blood all over it—and say I called 911 and they’re on the way. Julian runs toward me, toward us, and I stand up to get out of his way. He kneels down next to Sophie, throws himself down to the floor next to her really, and cradles her head with one hand, wipes the blood from her face with the other. He presses his lips against hers. Baby, baby, he’s weeping.

  Then he puts a pillow under her
head and lays her down real careful. Give me the phone, he yells, and I hand it to him. But it’s all slippery and covered in blood and he drops it on the floor, picks it up real fast and calls 911, says we’ve got an emergency, I need an ambulance and the police. Then a pause, and Julian says to the operator oh, you already got a call? I don’t say a thing, but I’m thinking that I already told him I called emergency, so maybe he didn’t hear me right. And I’m also wondering what we need the cops for. Julian hangs up the phone and strokes Sophie’s face, just keeps saying baby, baby, and I’m standing a few feet away not sure what to do with myself.

  As he’s holding her, he turns to me and tells me to get some towels from the bathroom and fill up a few plastic bags with ice. I’m out and back in a flash and I got a stack of fresh towels and two bags of ice. Julian pats the cuts on her face with a towel, then wraps up the cold bag and holds it to the bump on Sophie’s forehead. I’m squatting right next to them with a washcloth in one hand and ice in the other, and that’s when something strange happens. Julian looks at Sophie, then at me, and there’s a change in him. I can see it on his face first, then he says real accusing, what happened, Perla? What did you do to her? What are you even doing here?

  Well, I look at him for a sec, then stand up and back away ’cause even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this, I don’t like his tone. What did I do to her? I didn’t do anything to her, Julian. We went for a walk in the park, then Norma had to go ’cause her cousin got sick and Sophie asked me to stay until you got back. I was sleeping, we were sleeping, and then I heard a big noise and came running in here. Sophie was right there on the floor, right there, blood everywhere, and the first thing I did was call emergency. Then you walked in.