“Forget the Wall Street guy,” Claire said. “I’m not really seeing him.”
“What does that mean?”
“What I said,” Claire said. “I’m seeing you. Not him. I don’t sleep with him. Okay? He’s a friend. I don’t sleep with him.”
“Or me,” Conrad said.
Claire shook her head impatiently.
“Well?” he asked, angry.
“What do you want me to say? I don’t sleep with him,” she said.
He waited.
“I told you, I don’t care about the sex,” she said.
“But I don’t believe that,” Conrad said.
Claire shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe sex isn’t the center of everything.”
“Maybe it’s pretty close, though,” Conrad said. “Maybe it’s really important.”
Claire looked away from him, and her mouth turned down. Her face crumpled, her cheeks tightened. She was crying, tears spilling down her cheeks. To his horror, she gave a sob.
“Don’t do this to me, Con,” she said. “It’s bad enough without you acting like this.”
“Shit,” Conrad said. “I love you.”
“Yes,” Claire said. She closed her eyes. “Don’t do this to me.”
Conrad put his arms around her. “God, I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Stop crying, please stop crying. I don’t know what to do.”
“Just stop it,” Claire said into his chest. “Just stop.”
Stop what? he wondered. Stop telling her he loved her, stop seeing her, stop being impotent?
“We’ll just go on like this until you get better,” she said. “Just stop talking about it. Stop talking about it. I can’t stand it. Don’t talk about it.”
Beyond her the Dutch couple stood in front of the swan, speaking quietly. Conrad held her close, rocking her slightly.
“Shhh,” he said into her hair. “Shh, shh.”
But he didn’t know what he’d accomplished, after all that.
* * *
Toward the end of October, Conrad gave up running. The light came later and later. He didn’t like running in the dark, and he didn’t like setting out when the city was already in full daily gear, noisy, crowded, ordinary.
He was keeping to the rest of his schedule, though. Every day he spent two hours on the GMAT and two hours on his econ course. It was getting easier to understand the problems, he thought. His brain was beginning to focus, to enter into the strict rhythms of logic. But the headache had not gone away. The headache might have been getting worse. As soon as he opened a book, he could feel the headache approach, hovering, ready to set up its horrid factory. Sometimes he was able to last for two hours without it interfering. Sometimes the hammering was too bad for him to continue and he had to close the book and put his hands over his eyes. When the headache came on, it was more than pain: something happened to his mind; he couldn’t think in a straight line.
The nights were getting worse. He woke often, and now the nights seemed endless. The dreams kept coming. Olivera whispered, asking if he was going to die. Sometimes Olivera whispered, You lied to me, LT. Before Conrad could answer, Olivera’s hand became some soft, gummy substance he couldn’t bear to touch or even look at. Then shame flooded through the dream like ink in water, dark clouds blossoming slowly.
To stave off both the insomnia and the nightmares, Conrad took to staying up later and later. Long after Jenny had gone to bed, he lay stretched out on his sofa, drinking beer and watching TV. He held the remote control device like a scepter, clicking impatiently from channel to channel, flipping through old movies, game shows, talk shows. He kept the sound turned low so it wouldn’t disturb Jenny. To get to sleep, he drank, sometimes rum but mostly beer. He started each evening with a six-pack sitting on the floor beside the sofa. When it got late enough, he felt his eyelids drifting heavily down, his head dropping forward, his mind sliding off the edge of consciousness. At once he clicked off the TV and the light and lay down, bunching the pillow under his head and stretching out across the thin mattress. He closed his eyes, ready to sink into sleep.
Within moments, the darkness and somnolence had receded to some distant place. His eyes were wide open and his heart rate rapid. It was as though a switch had been turned on. Slowly his muscles began to clench, and he found himself lying on the mattress, his whole body completely tense: his stomach, his fingers, his neck, all taut, anticipatory. The night was another country. Lying in the darkness, willing himself to sleep, finding himself with clenched muscles and careening mind, thoughts came to him that weren’t present in the daytime.
Tools, process, opportunity. The words appeared, crisp and factual, like a phrase from a training manual. He didn’t know where it came from, but he knew what it meant.
* * *
Sometimes he lay awake until dawn seeped around the edges of the shades. When he saw the first light, some internal line of tension snapped. It was as though he’d been on night guard duty and his shift was over. He’d been relieved, and after that he could sink into a confused sleep for an hour or so. He was on a shitty rotation, since he never got anything but night duty. He could have used all that red-alert adrenaline during the daytime, but it seemed he was wired for night and alarmed against sleep. Only in the mornings could he drop off, though not for long. When he woke, he was heavy with exhaustion, like a sack filled with sand.
One morning, after finally drifting off to semi-sleep, he heard Jenny stirring. He was still half asleep; he heard her as though she were on another planet. He heard her door opening, water sounds in the bathroom. He fell asleep. Later he heard her come out into the living room. She stumbled, and then there was a thud, and the musical clunk of something skittering on the bare floor. It would be a beer bottle, one of his. Shit, he thought. He kept his eyes closed.
“Shit, Con,” Jenny said. He heard her pick up the bottle and walk into the kitchen, heard the clink as she tossed it into the bin. He lay still, his eyes shut. Jenny got breakfast noisily and kind of slammed the door on her way out, to make her point.
Okay, I get it.
Conrad sat up and leaned back against the sofa, legs spread, sheets tangled. The air smelled close and sour: that was him. His eyes felt heavy. He was tired and wired. He had class that afternoon, he had to get up. He rubbed his face hard with both hands, as though he could pummel his mind into activity.
He fixed himself cereal and went back to the sofa to read email. This was still a good moment, sometimes the best of the day. Hearing from his men made him feel good. When he wrote back, they couldn’t see him sitting in his underwear on his sister’s foldout bed. They pictured him in his cammies and Kevlar, in combat crouch, running down a street, under fire.
Anderson had written again:
So, LT, I don’t know if I can go on with this job. I mean I know I can do it, but I don’t know if I can make it. Do you ever have the feeling that people are all looking at you because you’re a vet? I have that feeling all the time. Not that Im a psyhco I don’t mean that but I get a funny feeling and I know I’m right. Fuck em. Maybe its differnet in New York. I don’t know, its not getting any easier I thought it would be by now. My parents think I should stick it out they dn’t know what its like. What do you think, LT? Best, Anderson.
Conrad wrote back:
Hey Anderson. I can’t know what’s happening at work for you, but I think you should look around before you quit. See what else is out there first. Are there chances for advancement within the company? Maybe if you stick out this first part it will get better. To be honest, I think it’s hard for all of us to come back home. My advice is to hang in there. It’s hard, I know, but I promise you it will get better. Charlie Mike. How are your hands? Are they still giving you problems? I’ve started taking a course at Columbia, and studying for the GMAT test in December. It’s finally getting cooler here, a relief. I think about the sandbox, and I don’t miss 120 degree heat. Semper Fi, Farrell.
Turner checked in again.
So
we had an intervention, with Abbott, not the girlfriend, who’s called Dail, by the way. That’s how she spells it. (Not her stage name. Her stage name is Angel Cake.) Anyway Abbott says she’s his girlfriend, and he can’t tell her she can’t come over. He got upset about it. We said she can come over but she can’t lie on the sofa and she can’t be in the kitchen. She can’t hang out in the kitchen. She can get coffee but then she has to go upstairs to his room and wait for him there. She can’t hang out anywhere but his room. He was pissed. He said you’re acting like she’s a housepet! Williams and I didn’t dare (dair) look at each other. Well?
Conrad answered:
I think you’re missing a bet here. You should befriend her. This may be your only chance to get to know a stripper. It’s knowledge you might need sometime. You could ask her to teach you her moves, that might come in handy. Widen your experience, Turner.
Ollie wrote about school:
Hey Con: Things are pretty good. Some kid in my dorm set fire to his room at 2:00 in the morning. I don’t know how he did it, there are a lot of rumors going around, all related to drugs, big surprise. Anyway the fire was a real scene, firemen in hats and boots dragging big hoses up and down the halls. We all had to go out in our underwear and stand on the lawn. We stood under Sean’s window and yelled, Jump! Jump! Of course he wasn’t still up there, he was down on the lawn with us. Nothing was damaged, it was just a fire in the sink, it turned out, but he;s in trouble. That’s all for today, when you coming up? Yah, Ollie.
Conrad wrote him back:
Watched football all weekend, did you see the Cowboys’ game? They put the wrong guy in at the half, I can tell you that. About the fire, you college kids are really something. I may have to warn you about rowdiness. NYC is quiet by comparison though someone drove a taxi into one of the trees outside our building. A lot of honking and yelling and all the dogs on the block began to bark. The cabbie was Russian and he started swearing, or at least it sounded like swearing. No one could tell what he was saying but it sounded pretty ferocious. When the policemen showed up they yelled at each other in two languages. You couldn’t tell who was winning until the policeman pulled out cuffs and then the Russian shut up. School here is going well. Yah, C.
Actually, school was not going well.
He had to keep going, as he’d told Anderson to do.
He set the cereal bowl on the floor. He could study just as well on the bed, in his underwear. He’d get up later, take a shower, get dressed, turn the bed back into a sofa. Right now there was no point, and he was whacked.
That afternoon in class the headache began to hover just over his right eye as soon as he sat down. It was disturbing to have the headache when he was in class. It usually came while he was studying at home, when he was tired or trying to figure out something complex. When it happened at home, he could close the book and wait until it went away. But in class he couldn’t wait, and he had to cover his eye with his hand. He tried to make it look as though he were just leaning his head in his hand. By the end of class his whole head was throbbing, and he walked home with his hand over his eye, as though he’d gotten something stuck in it.
* * *
Jock came over for dinner one night. When he arrived, Conrad was studying in the living room. His books and notebooks were spread out on the sofa.
Conrad looked up. “Hey, there.” His head was pounding. He’d had a headache all day.
“My man,” Jock said. “The scholar.”
Conrad stared at him. Was that condescending? Did Jock think he, the doctor, was in the real world, and Conrad, the scholar, was in some inferior place?
“Aren’t you studying, too?” Conrad asked.
“Am I not,” Jock said. “Am I not. Though it’s more like boot camp, at this point, than graduate school.”
“Yeah,” Conrad said. “But of course boot camp’s different. In boot camp you’re learning to kill people on purpose.”
Jock laughed uncomfortably. He took out his wallet.
“By the way,” he said, “I’ve got something for you.” He opened his wallet and handed Conrad a prescription.
“For me? You’ve already got doctor’s handwriting,” Conrad said, squinting. “I can’t read it. What is it?”
“Zolpidem,” said Jock.
“What is that?”
“Sleepmaster,” Jock said. “Ambien. The most widely prescribed drug there is. I give you the gift of sleep.”
Conrad raised his eyebrows. “Whoa! Thank you, my man.”
Jock shook his head. “Glad to help. But this is only for three months.”
“I will be happy for three months.” Conrad shook his head. “Man. Okay, I’m just going to step outside for a few moments. That drugstore on Broadway is open till ten.”
Outside it was dark, and the streetlights were on. He headed up the block toward Broadway. The woman from next door was on the sidewalk, taking slow, patient steps as her dog explored a little patch of grass. Conrad nodded and she nodded back.
The slip of paper was like money. Sleep was like money.
He reached Broadway just as the light was changing, and he ran across, dodging the traffic. A Duane Reade was on the corner, its window crammed with stuff, stacked with boxes of diapers and mouthwash. He went inside and was hit by the heavy smell of synthetic plastics. He went up the narrow aisle to the back, where a heavyset black woman, her hair in cornrows, stood behind the low counter. He handed her his slip. She took it disapprovingly, without meeting his eyes. She turned and handed the slip to the druggist behind the high counter. Without speaking to Conrad, she looked past him at the person next in line, a girl with dyed orange hair and black-ringed eyes.
The white-haired druggist peered at the paper through his glasses, then looked at Conrad.
“Fifteen or twenty minutes,” he said.
“That’s fine,” Conrad said. He felt euphoric. “I’ll wait.” He walked up and down the rows, cans of deodorant, boxes of gauze bandages, bottles of shampoo. Racks of candy, soda, potato chips: so much food. He should bring something back for Jenny, the household, he thought. Everything was processed, plastic-wrapped. He thought of buying something for Jock in appreciation, but nothing seemed right. Toothpaste was not a present, and deodorant was an insult. The thought of sliding down into sleep made him feel rich and happy. He walked around, cruising, until fifteen minutes were up. He came back and stood by the counter, waiting. The black woman frowned as she handed him the package.
Conrad smiled at her. “Thank you.”
He felt a surge of goodwill. She was saving his life, in a way.
Walking back to the apartment, the little plastic bottle in his pocket, he felt unfathomably rich. Before him were nights of sleep, spreading out before him like miles of treasure.
He stood waiting at the light while cars slid past in an endless current. A homeless man came up to the corner. He was in his sixties, long-haired and bearded. His face was seamed and tanned. He wore a grimy woven tunic and gray institutional pants. He looked like Tolstoy, broad-browed, intent, handsome, his face surrounded by a bushy mass of hair.
Conrad was thinking of Jock reaching for his wallet. I’ve got something for you. The smile on Jock’s face, wasn’t it a bit self-satisfied? That little turndown at the corners. But Jock was always like that, a bit self-satisfied. Like he was the Man.
Tolstoy moved next to Conrad and leaned over the metal trash can. He put his hand into it and began pawing gently. Conrad heard the rustle of paper.
He wondered if that was actually how Jock felt. As if he were in charge of doling things out. Had Jock been patronizing him? Like, Here you are, my good man.
Tolstoy looked up at him, holding an empty bottle.
“Hey, man,” Tolstoy said.
Conrad nodded to him. “Hey.”
“I think this is the only bottle in this whole fucking trash can,” Tolstoy said.
“Could be,” said Conrad.
“I have to go all the way down, though,” To
lstoy said. “You gotta go all the way down.”
“Right,” Conrad said.
Tolstoy stared at him. He had narrow blue eyes, and his mouth was surrounded by the streaming beard. His teeth were surprisingly white against his dark skin. “You ever done this?” he asked. “You know what I’m talking about?”
“Not exactly,” Conrad said. “But close enough.”
Tolstoy wet his mouth, running his red tongue over his lips, staring. “So you know what it’s like,” he said. “It’s for shit.”
He stared straight into Conrad’s eyes.
“What I do,” he repeated. “It’s for shit.”
He was old. He smelled bad, a rank mix of body and dirt, some kind of animal scent. He was old and he had nowhere to be. On his feet he wore thick sandals, no socks. His life—wounded, shattered—stood around him like an aura. Conrad wondered where he had been when he was twenty-six, in what city, with what plans. This, now, wasn’t what he’d wanted, but it was where he’d turned up. Somehow his whole life had miscarried, veered off onto this faint, wandering line. It was a mystery, a loss. He’d lost his own life.
“I know,” Conrad said. “I’m sorry.” He raised one hand, as though to touch him, but made the gesture into a wave/salute. Probably touching the guy was not a good idea.
Tolstoy stared, holding him in his blue beam, the bottle still high in one hand. “It’s better than being inside,” he said. “That’s where they fuck you.”
The light changed. “Yeah,” Conrad said. “Good luck.”
He walked across the avenue, now starting to feel angry. What was the point of things if people ended up like this, old and homeless and destitute? No socks, and pawing through the filthy trash. What was the matter here? What was he supposed to do?
He headed down Jenny’s block. The dog woman was gone. The sidewalk was empty, just the streetlight’s cone of light. A car drove slowly past, blasting out a dull, booming bass line.
He wondered again about Jock, if he had been patronizing. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it was condescending. He didn’t want charity from Jock. If he wanted prescription drugs, he could fucking well get them from his own doctor. He didn’t need to get his little sister’s boyfriend to sneak something out to him. Jock was treating him like some kind of charity case. Opening up his wallet, as if this were a birthday treat. The tone of his voice.
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