I dialed a number.
There was no ring, just three clicks and then a voice saying, “Enter code or wait for first operator.” There was silence for a few seconds and then the sound of a phone ringing.
“Hello?” someone answered on the second ring.
“Is this, ah, um, a friend?” I asked.
“Yes it is. How can I help you?"
“Uh . . . don‘t we have to do business first? Don‘t you want my credit card or something?"
“It‘s not necessary. Your number shows up on their records and the charge appears on your phone bill."
“Oh. Wow. It‘s that easy?"
“Yes, very easy. Now, what do you want to talk about?"
“I‘m lost,” I said, and the gloom seemed to recede. The pressure I had felt in my chest lightened. I took a deep breath and sat up straighter.
“What‘s your name?” the woman asked.
“Cordell."
“Nice to meet you, Cordell. My name is Cynthia."
“Hi, Cynthia. I have to tell you that even just talking to somebody makes me feel better."
“Where are you right now, Cordell?"
“I‘m in my apartment, in my bed."
“Are you alone?"
“Pretty much. There‘s this guy sleeping on the couch in my living room."
“Who is that?"
“His name is Enoch Bennett,” I said, and then I went into the whole story, everything that had happened except for my obsession with The Myth of Sisypha. That seemed a little too much like sex for sex‘s sake, and the ad for the dial-a-friend line had definitely said that this was not a sex line.
“Have you told Joelle that you saw her yet?” Cynthia asked.
“No."
“Why not?"
“I want to,” I said. “But every time I see her, I get obsessed, sexually. All I want is to be with her, to make her mine."
“But she cheated on you."
“She‘s my only friend,” I said. “I guess that‘s obvious, because I‘m calling you. Not that there‘s anything wrong with you, but you can see that I don‘t have anyone to talk to. Joelle has been the only person I‘ve been really close to in eight years."
“Don‘t you have any family?” Cynthia asked.
“No. I mean, yes. I have a brother, a sister, and a mother."
“Can‘t you talk to one of them?"
That made me smile.
“Cordell?” Cynthia asked. “Are you there?"
“I was just thinking that you aren‘t doing very good business trying to talk me into calling my family."
“This is a friend line,” she said. Her voice was very calming. “I‘m here to help you, not to get you to spend money."
“Excuse me if I doubt that,” I told her.
“That‘s okay,” she said. “I understand. Most people who call here, especially the men, think that this is either a secret dating line or a scam to get lonely people‘s money."
“And do you somehow convince them that you‘re not those things?” I asked. Just the act of conversation was having a profound restorative effect on me.
“All I can do is tell them how our little company came to be."
“How‘s that?"
“A very wealthy man decided a few years ago that America was slipping into a kind of melancholy,” she said. It sounded as if this was a speech she had given many times. “People were getting fatter, becoming less active, concerned with the lives of characters on TV shows but completely unconcerned with the millions who die yearly from war and disease. This man felt that most people were unaware, or mostly unaware, of the sadness that was daily descending upon them.
“He knew that he couldn‘t address this emotional dysfunction directly. He knew that even his great wealth couldn‘t stem the tide of melancholy, so he decided to do what he could. He hired a psychological testing firm to locate and hire hundreds of persons who have empathy and care for people with problems. Not psychologists or professional counselors, but people who feel compassion for others.
“He started this hotline so that people could call, not necessarily when they were in an emergency but when they just needed a friend to talk to."
“You‘re kidding,” I said. I was holding the big toe of my left foot with my right hand like I had when I was a child.
“ N o , “ Cynthia said, “ I ‘m not kidding. And so if I think your family would be better for you to talk to, I‘ll tell you that."
“Wow,” I said. I rolled onto my side. “How much time do I have?
“As much as you want, Cordell. But you were going to tell me about your family."
“My brother‘s in the army,” I said. “Special Forces. He‘s always off in some foreign country either killing people or showing others how to kill. We haven‘t spoken in seven years. He believes America is doing great things and I don‘t. Not . . . not that I do anything about politics. I don‘t even vote. It‘s just that I don‘t believe that the government cares for everyday people.
“My sister and I just don‘t hit it off. She was angry at me for not making my marriages work. She‘s married. They live in Utah and have very little time for anything but their children and their church.
“And, and my mother is in a senior apartment complex in Connecticut. It‘s not a medical facility, and my mom is okay on her own, but she won‘t talk to me about anything important. If I bring up something that makes her uncomfortable, she gets confused and starts talking about the old days when Eric, Phoebe, and I were kids."
“What about your father?” Cynthia asked.
“He‘s dead."
“But our parents are close to us our entire lives,” she said. “Your father will be with you until the day you die. What would he tell you about your girlfriend and her lover?"
In the wake of Cynthia‘s question, a wave of deep exhaustion washed through me. I yawned and pulled the pillow under my head.
“All of a sudden I‘m really tired, Cynthia,” I said. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. I guess talking to you relaxed me. Thanks a lot, but I think I have to get off."
“If you want to talk to me again,” she said, “when they ask you to enter my code—just spell out my name, Cynthia, C-Y-N-T-H- I-A with a three at the end of it."
I nodded and then hung up.
I don‘t remember anything after that until the dawn light shone in my open window. I suspected that Enoch and Cynthia were the product of my sleeping imagination.
I got up, stumped into the living room, and realized that my experiences from the night before were real. Enoch was in the same position I‘d left him. I was still dressed in the clothes I‘d worn the day before.
I showered and shaved, put on clean clothes, and brewed a strong pot of French roast coffee. As I was pouring my first cup, Enoch wandered into the kitchen. Across his shoulders he wore the camel-colored cashmere blanket I‘d covered him with.
“Good morning,” he said, his greeting couched on the bed of a wan, sensual smile.
“Hey. You back with the living, huh?"
“How did I get here?” he asked.
“Last night you stumbled down to my apartment and knocked."
“I must have been really drunk."
“Oh yeah,” I said with a smile. “I didn‘t understand a word you said. And then you just fell asleep."
“Did I say anything coherent?” he asked, staring into my eyes.
“No. You want some coffee?"
“Where do you live?” I was asking Enoch Bennett.
He sat at the small table next to the dishwasher in my kitchen. It was 6:36 AM.
“I live in L.A. with my mom,” he said. “I‘m planning to move out soon. But you know, rent is so high out there, and you really have to be careful about where you live."
I remembered that Sasha said he was thirty.
“Has it been fun visiting here in New York?” I asked.
“Yeah. Sasha‘s a blast, and I really love it here. But New York‘s even more expensive than L.A
."
He seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“You better believe it,” I said. “I‘m from San Francisco originally. I‘d leave, but I came here so long ago that I couldn‘t even imagine where else to live."
He smiled, his eyes welling with tears.
At that moment, someone knocked at the door.
“Excuse me,” I said, rising to go see who it was.
Enoch sighed, glad, I was sure, to be left to his internal devastation.
Sasha was standing at the front door. All she wore was a lacy nightgown that went down to her knees and showed a good deal of cleavage.
“Is he down here?” she asked me. Her voice was flat and uninspired.
“Yeah,” I said. “He came to the door, cried for a few minutes, and then fell unconscious on my couch."
“What did he say?"
“Nothing I understood."
“Not a thing?"
“No. Mostly he just cried, and the words made no sense in English, French, or Spanish."
Sasha smiled at my translator‘s note.
“Sasha?” Enoch was standing behind me at the entranceway.
“What happened, Inch?"
Instead of answering, he ran to her and threw his arms around her neck. He cried as hard as he had the night before. She put her arms around his back and held him loosely while he blubbered and wailed. Her face was without emotion as she held him. For her, you could see that this was just another phase in a very complex play.
After a minute or so, she patted his shoulder blade and said, “It‘s okay, baby. It‘s all right."
Her eyebrows rose in mild perturbation at his childish behavior.
“Thanks for taking him in, Cordell,” she said. “Inch gets emotional sometimes when he drinks."
“No problem,” I said.
“Come on, honey,” she said to her brother. “Let‘s go upstairs."
For a moment Enoch resisted. He turned his face toward me, and there was real fear in his eyes.
“Come on,” Sasha said. “Cordell has his own life to take care of."
“Yeah,” Enoch said, still looking at me. Then he turned away, and the door closed behind them.
I took in a deep breath that trembled on its way back out. The passion between the brother and sister was dark and bottomless. I realized that the trouble I had with my siblings was nothing compared to what it might have been.
I made my bed and opened the windows wide again. I wrote down Cynthia‘s name and number. I thought about her seeming concern with whom I had in my life. Just remembering our conversation cooled the sexual tension that had colored every moment since I‘d seen Jo and John Fry. Even then, when I remembered their sexual abandon, I had no emotional response.
Maybe, I thought, this time I could break it off with Jo. I had Cynthia now.
I wondered what the professional phone-friend looked like. Was she tall? Pretty? Asian? But I was happy to realize that it didn‘t matter what she looked like; Cynthia was a pure friend, an ideal friend, someone who cared about me for me. The money I paid meant nothing. I looked at it like a contribution to a charity committed to the eradication of loneliness and melancholia.
Cynthia was my social worker—that‘s how I saw it. Whenever I needed her, she would be there in my corner, asking questions about my well-being, my family, and my heart.
With those thoughts in mind, I lay down across my bed and slept for hours with no concern about Sasha and Enoch, Jo and Johnny, or Lucy and Billy.
I was a lone craft floating on a sea of unconsciousness. I had no destination, no point of origin. I didn‘t have a job or a girlfriend. I had no appointments or bosses to tell me what I should or shouldn‘t do.
When I woke up, the sun was shining on my bed—not directly on me but at my side, like a disembodied sacred lover, a goddess who graced me with her intangible presence for a few moments while I slept.
It was early afternoon by then. I took out the fax from Brad‘s office and called half a dozen galleries. I presented myself as Cordell Carmel, associate of Brad Mettleman. I told them that I‘d been working for Brad for some years and now I was going out into the field to help him with a new stable of exceptionally talented young artists.
By 2:00 I had four appointments to show Lucy‘s works.
I took the subway up the Westside to Jo‘s neighborhood. As I walked through the door of her building, I glanced at my watch. It was 2:58. It struck me that I was always on time, never late a moment, until the day I didn‘t go down to Philadelphia.
I couldn‘t understand when other black people talked about CP time: colored people‘s time. I was never late. And so many of my childhood friends had joined the armed services. You couldn‘t be late in the army.
Maybe punctuality was part of my problem, I thought. Maybe I felt oppressed by everyone else‘s needs. If I started to live by my own schedule, maybe people I worked with and people like Jo wouldn‘t feel that they could walk on me.
Robert the doorman was at his post.
“Yes?” he asked me.
“You don‘t know me, Robert?” I asked back.
This retort made him a little wary.
“You‘re here to see—Miss Joelle?"
“Yes,” I said, and I made to walk down the aisle toward the third bank of elevators.
“Wait,” he said.
“Wait for what? I always go right up. You know that."
“I have to call."
“Fuck that,” I said, and moved toward the elevators.
As I walked, I heard him ring the intercom bell. He muttered something; I‘m sure it was a warning for Jo, who must have had John Fry up to her place on many weekday afternoons.
But even this did not shake me. I was a bit angry at Robert for being so obvious about Jo‘s indiscretions. He should have let me go and then called so she and John could come up with some kind of plan.
I rode the elevator wondering who I would be when she opened the door and also who she would have become. We seemed to change with every meeting. There was anticipation in my chest and a tap dance in my heart. Who knew what would happen next?
Jo came to the door wearing a semiopaque white dress with nothing underneath. Her pubic hair and large brown nipples were as evident as her smile.
“Hi,” she said, bowing her head slightly.
“Take it off,” I replied.
Without hesitation she pulled the dress up and over her head. I closed the door.
She reached for me, but I said, “Put your hands down."
When she faltered, I said, “Put your fucking hands down and let me look at you."
A smile appeared on her lips and then went away.
As I stared at her lovely form, she began to tremble.
I could feel my nostrils flare. My cock was pressing against the fabric of my pants.
“Will you take off your clothes?” she asked humbly.
“No."
“Can we go into the living room?"
“No."
“You just want me to stand here?” she asked.
“Turn around. I want to see your ass."
“Don‘t talk to me like that,” she said, and I slapped her.
It wasn‘t hard. It couldn‘t have stung. It was just a brief touch with a violent gesture leading up to it. But her eyes opened wide, and she turned around holding her backside high for my inspection.
After a minute or more she said, “L."
“Shut up and lift that ass higher."
When she did as I said, a big grin formed on my face. In my imagination I looked like a hungry hyena about to tear into some dying creature‘s flesh.
This notion frightened me. What was I becoming? For a moment I considered turning around and leaving—never talking to Joelle again.
There was something happening in me that I was barely aware of, some emotion that was forming into actions without my permission or control.
“Spread your ass,” someone said. After a moment I understood that th
at someone was me.
Jo grasped her buttocks and pulled them slightly.
I slapped her right butt cheek hard and said, “I want it wide open. Wide."
She groaned and pulled her cheeks as far apart as Lucy had.
When I got down on my knees, I noticed that wetness was coming from her vagina, making her inner thighs a slick and shiny brown. I stuck my tongue as deeply as I could into the aperture of her ass.
“Oh my God,” she moaned.
When she tried to move away, I slapped her damp thigh. It made a wet sound, and she yelped.
“Move back on my tongue,” I said.
She did this timidly and moved off an inch—waiting for further instructions. Her breath was coming fast and her toes were gripping and releasing the carpet.
“Fuck my tongue with your ass,” I told her. “Make it go in and out."
At first she went slowly, groaning each time her anus enveloped the tip of my tongue. But then she started going fast and hard. Her groans became barks, and I could tell she was about to come.
I stood up quickly and opened the front door.
“What are you doing?” she asked, straining over the nascent orgasm roiling in her womb.
Without answering, I pushed her out the door and got down on my knees behind her. Instantly she began fucking my face again. The barking returned. She was just about to come when the bell on the elevator rang. She froze, and I rose up behind her, wrapping my arm around her middle.
“Come for me,” I whispered into her ear.
“Oh God,” she whispered hoarsely, and then she forced four fingers into her mouth. She was trembling and screaming into her fingers.
Down the hall, the door of the elevator opened.
I waited until I could see the woman coming out before pulling Jo back into the apartment and slamming the door.
Jo fell on the floor writhing, wrestling with her orgasm.
“Fuck me!” she pleaded. “Fuck me right now!"
She arched up on her feet and shoulders, making a perfect presentation of the bushy mound.
I looked down on her and sneered. Sneered.
“No,” I said, and I walked away into the living room. There I sat on the lush brown leather chair that faced the window. This was Jo‘s favorite chair, the chair that she‘d sit in when she wanted to read or when she needed distance from me. I never sat in that chair. I never touched her when she sat there.
Killing Johnny Fry Page 10
