“I should have known,” Ellen spat.
“I’m just painting her portrait,” Alan said, defensive.
“Yeah, with a fucking hard-on.”
“It happens,” Alan stammered. “It’s sometimes an involuntary action, like breathing and the beat of one’s heart. Autonomic. I wasn’t even thinking about sex. It just happened, honest.”
Mona, eyes shut and oblivious to this exchange, kept time with her tunes.
“Yeah, a pretty young thing comes to model for you.”
“With all her clothes on,” Alan added. “With. All. Her. Clothes. On.”
“Yeah, for now. This time.”
“Don’t be crazy. I’m just painting.”
“You get wood when you paint the zombies outside? If you do, then all is forgiven. But look me in the eye and tell me you get hard when you paint them. Go on, tell me that.”
“I can’t. I don’t. But that’s different.”
“Yeah. You don’t want to fuck them. Well, that’s fine. This is fine. Go ahead and fuck that little girl on the couch. Get her pregnant, too. See if I care.”
“You’re the one who wanted me to paint again,” Alan whined, his words chasing her out the door. “What, I’m only supposed to paint zombies and you?” Ellen stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The room shuddered and Mona’s eyes opened.
“What?” she asked, looking at Alan.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh. Okay.” Mona closed her eyes and Alan began to correct the pink streak.
Wait a minute.
Get her pregnant, too?
“It just bugs me is all,” Eddie said. “She gets to go out and we’re cooped up in this dump forever. And I’m sick of her stock answer: ‘I guess they don’t like me.’ ” Eddie affected a nasally effeminate voice. “The fuck is that shit? No, she’s onto something and she’s too selfish to share the secret with us. This is some kinda bullshit power trip.”
“That’s crazy,” Dave said. “What could possibly motivate something like that? She doesn’t seem the type. That’s too, I dunno, devious.”
“Bitches are all devious, bro. All of ’em. I don’t buy the whole brain-damaged thing she’s putting over on us. The whole veggie thing. She knows what she’s doing and I don’t like it. Everyone in this lame building should be pumping her for how the fuck she does it.”
“She’s our savior, dude,” Dave said.
“Yeah. She’s our savior, dude. We’re her fuckin’ pets. She goes out and walks around and what? She’s touched by an angel or something? Yeah, right. She’s a person, same as us. She’s got some kinda secret and I wanna know what the fuck it is and I aim to find out.”
“And how do you propose doing that?”
“You know, sometimes you talk all fancy and I just wanna flatten you, Mallon. You pull that lawyery shit on me one more time—one more fuckin’ time—and I’ll lay you out. Count on it.”
“Jesus Christ, Eddie. What’s gotten up your ass?”
“Not you. Not ever. Look, just get the fuck outta here, okay? I wanna be alone for a while and sort some shit out.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“And thus endeth the nagging,” Abe said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Ruth’s wrist. No pulse. No breath. Dead. Abe sighed and moved his grip from wrist to hand, his fingers meshing with hers, his posture defeated. He didn’t look at her face, just stared ahead at the floor between his feet, nudging ruts into the pile of the carpet with the toe of his slippers, then smoothing them with the flats of his soles. “Ai, yaaaaaaah,” he sighed again, stretching it out. He tightened his grip on her hand. It had been years since he last held her hand, just held it. They used to walk hand in hand all the time. They even had correct and incorrect sides. It never felt right when he held her left hand; something seemed unbalanced. With his free hand he stroked his freshly shaven chin, a small scrap of toilet paper stuck there by a dot of blood. He plucked it free and neatly placed it on the bedside table.
“Oy, Ruthie,” he said, then sighed again. In place of tears a lot of sighing was in the offing, Abe not being given to displays of emotion, even when there was no audience. No living audience, at any rate. With reluctance he turned to look at Ruth’s visage; her eyes were still open. He hesitantly placed his fingertips on her eyelids and attempted to press them closed, but unlike the movies they wouldn’t stay shut. Even in death Ruth was contrary. He pulled the sheet over her, debating what to do next. Tell the others? He supposed he’d have to. It seemed unlikely that Ruth would be springing back to life—or unlife, take your pick. She died the old-fashioned way, free of zombie molestation. She was clean. Well, sort of. Abe wrinkled his nose. Ruth had, as it was euphemized, “voided herself,” filling the air with yet another bad smell and the sheets with something worse. How very un-Ruthlike. “Oy, Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie.”
So much for the family plot, he mused. Ruth had made such a to-do over her desire to be buried alongside her parents and sister. She also figured he’d predecease her—so much for woman’s intuition, too. What was he supposed to do now? She’d want a eulogy, a service of some kind. She’d expect the Mourner’s Kaddish, in Hebrew, no less, and since his bar mitzvah he’d forgotten pretty much everything. Did she have a prayer book tucked away somewhere? Probably. He seemed to recall her filching one from her sister’s funeral. Hopefully it was phonetic. He’d look later. But if he was to respect her wishes, which seemed the right thing to do, silly though it may be—pointless, even—so be it. She wouldn’t be getting the whole megillah, but he’d do his best to accommodate her superstitions as best he could. He stared across the room at his reflection in the mirror of Ruthie’s dressing table.
“Avel, vhat can you do?” Abe said in comic Yinglish inflection. In Judaism the mourner was called an avel. It was a self-admittedly bad pun. It brought him no comfort. “There goes that second Social Security check.” Again the joke didn’t help. He was bombing to an audience of none. Miriam, Hannah, and David had never laughed at his jokes, nor did their kids. Ruth had seldom laughed at them. It had been ages since he’d even attempted mirth, except for the lame waiter joke at the celebratory dinner on the roof. Everyone else in the building was listening to music again, and watching TV. Those little screens hurt his eyes. Most of Abe’s music was on vinyl. And what he wouldn’t do to be able to listen to some of his comedy records right now. The best medicine there is.
On shaky legs, Abe trudged into the living room and dropped into his threadbare upholstered chair, parted the dingy chintz curtains, opened the dusty venetian blinds. Déjà vu on top of déjà vu on top of feeling beaten down and laden with wearied grief.
More déjà vu.
A little Myron Cohen would be nice.
The door to 2B remained open at all times, that apartment being Mona’s point of entrance and egress from the building. Since taking up residence in 2A, she’d taken to keeping the door locked, especially when she was out on errands. Everyone agreed she was entitled to her privacy and security; after all everyone else kept their doors locked, so why shouldn’t she?
Karl’s knuckles barely grazed the surface of Mona’s door, his rapping so feeble even he could barely hear it. His chin mashed into the pit of his collarbone, his lower lip twitched in self-disgust. He was having such a hard time getting up the nerve to approach her. Well, duh, you think maybe it’s because you see her as some kind of heavenly force? Like some kind of earthly angel or at the very least some kind of saint or whatnot? It was absurd. Not that Mona was possibly imbued with some holy powers, but that he was petrified. She was mellow, Karl told himself. Fact was, Mona was mellowness incarnate. Nothing seemed to bother her. Not even the things outside.
Karl’s hair stood up all over.
Not even the things outside.
There was an angle he’d never considered. Maybe the things outside stepped out of her way not because she was imbued with the Holy Spirit, but rather was an emissa
ry of Lucifer and her minions knew better than to obstruct her path, let alone devour her. It made sense. Everyone in the building was on death’s door, starving, dehydrated, vulnerable, then along comes this pristine, beautiful young girl—temptation made flesh—offering every secular comfort. Maybe in their final moments the denizens of 1620 would have found their way back to God, and here was this serpentine interloper, sent to obscure their potential moment of spiritual clarity.
She dressed in black.
She even wore black nail polish. She listened mainly to heavy metal. Oh Jesus, he thought. Oh Jesus Christ. How could he have missed this? Everyone was so blinded by her gifts that they couldn’t see her for what and who she was: Lilith! Or if not capital L Lilith, then lowercase lilith, which was still not good. Even her last name was suspect: Luft. Luft was German for “air,” a tricky name. Mona’s personality seemed lighter than air. Air was a sustainer of life. She was keeping them all here, alive physically, but spiritually dead.
He was at last seeing through her deception. He’d seen The Light!
And now it was his job to let the others know.
28
Ruth’s naked body lay on their bed wrapped in a clean white sheet, as dictated by Jewish tradition—it was the least he could muster since she’d have to forgo the plain pine box. In the back of Abe’s mind he seemed to recall something about no coffin and the body being laid to rest, face up, and then concrete blocks being put on it, but the memory was sketchy. Sweltering in his mourning suit, tie cinched tight at his collar, Abe petted Ruth’s “earthly remains” and chewed his lower lip.
He’d disposed of the sheets and mattress pad she’d soiled and tidied as best he could, masking any residual odor with copious amounts of Glade air freshener. It was not a pleasant task and his estimation of those in the funeral trade became more sympathetic as he’d toiled to prepare the body. It wasn’t Ruth any more. Odd how once the life force had departed the body it ceased to resemble its former occupant. Sure, the face was the same, but the slackness removed the humanity. Her eyes were still open, damn them, and had caked over. Her jaw hung slack and cocked at an odd angle. Disturbing. Abe didn’t believe in the spirit, but Ruth’s death had transformed her, in spite of the homely details. It was the peacefulness. The body had relinquished her driving, vital force. In repose she didn’t look like the bitchy yenta she’d become over the years. It was simple as that.
He’d told the others. Ellen and Alan said they’d attend Abe’s ad hoc service, as did Dabney and Karl. It came as no surprise that the guinea bastard had shown nary a jot of sympathy or respect. At least his faygeleh friend had paid his respects, even if it was just lip service. What did come as a surprise was that the first to arrive was Mona, who’d made no sign of comprehension when Abe had mentioned news of his wife’s passing to the girl. On this occasion her customary black wardrobe seemed apt, as did the unheard-of absence of headphones.
“Mona,” Abe said, ushering her into his parlor. “Thank you for coming.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, but it didn’t sound unsympathetic. It was just her way.
“Can I, um, do you want a drink of something? Water? Juice? Seltzer?” Abe felt funny offering her provisions she’d furnished, but what else could he do?
“No, thanks.” Mona scratched an ear, no doubt feeling naked without her earphones. A few moments of silence passed, Abe standing there at a double loss, Mona looking at her feet.
“You know,” Abe said, “I was the only one in the building who had to fight his way home through the first—what would you call it—outbreak of the zombies? It’s true. The rest were home or nearby, but I was at work when it really began to hit the fan. Like you know, it spread like wildfire, but I managed to get home, all the way from the garment district to here. That’s three miles, give or take. I couldn’t leave Ruthie to deal with this alone. Oy, did she sound scared. Well, of course she did. She wasn’t an easy woman, but I loved her. Maybe I didn’t show it enough, especially lately, but I did.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mona sniffed loudly, and for a moment Abe thought this moment of human-scale tragedy had reached her, that she was moved. But no. It was just plain old congestion. She removed her backpack and opened a side pocket. “Uh, can I get that water?”
“Certainly, dear.” Dear? Abe blinked a few times as he walked into the kitchen to pour her a glass of water. Dear? Though she looked nothing like his daughters, save for the color of her hair, Mona put him in mind of them. Miriam and Hannah, his brunette beauties, having gotten his coloring, not Ruth’s. Abe returned to the parlor and handed Mona the glass, which she accepted with a simple nod. Into her mouth she dropped two caplets, washing them down with the room-temperature liquid.
“Allergies?” Abe prompted.
“No.”
“You, uh, ever encounter any other survivors out there in your travels? Any other enclaves like ours?”
“No.”
Her monosyllabic response hung in the air like a vague but disquieting smell until it was dispersed by the arrival of Ellen, Alan, and Karl, then Dabney and, shockingly, the faygeleh. Conventional condolences were expressed, handshakes exchanged as well as a couple of hugs and a peck on the cheek from Ellen. Considering he knew Ruth wasn’t exactly well loved—or even liked—it was an excellent turnout. She’d have been pleased. After pleasantries and so forth they adjourned to the bedroom and Abe fished out the little prayer pamphlet. Looking a trifle embarrassed, Abe put on his reading glasses and cleared his throat. He’d never liked orating before a group.
“Okay. Thank you all for coming. I know I said that already, but thank you again, anyway. It would have meant a lot to Ruth. Okay.” He cleared his throat again. “Okay, so I’m going to read this little prayer, even though I don’t go in for all this nonsense. Okay. I should skip the editorializing. Sorry. And to Ruthie I say sorry, too. I can’t do it in Hebrew. I don’t remember how.” Abe smoothed the codex and again cleared his throat. Sweat was pouring off him, his suit darkening further in the pits and back—like it mattered. “Okay . . .
“May His great name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed. May He give reign to His kingship and cause His salvation to sprout, and bring near His Messiah in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire family of Israel, swiftly and soon. Amen.
“May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the name of the holy one, Blessed is He beyond any blessing and song, praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. Amen.”
What a load of horseshit, Abe thought amid a chorus of hushed amens. So be it.
“Listen, there’s all kinds of nonsense you’re supposed to do for Jewish funerals, but let’s face it, we’re not equipped and I’ve done what I can. None of that malarkey means anything anymore anyway. I’d rather eulogize Ruth in my head than aloud. It’s too tough. You people never got to know Ruthie at her best. Quite the opposite, to be frank. But trust me, Ruthie was a sweet lady, way back when. She was a beauty, too, and a good mother. Maybe a little overbearing, but good. Anyway, there’s supposed to be a procession and all that rigmarole, but forget it. I don’t even remember which is supposed to come first. The tent of prayer. The rending ritual. Without a cemetery to orient me I’m at a loss.”
“So what do you want us to do, Abe?” Dabney asked. Maybe because he was the second oldest in the room he had some sense of the absurdity, as well as solemnity, of the situation.
“I just want Ruthie’s body removed from the premises. I know burial’s out. Same for cremation. So, all I ask is dispose of it in as dignified a manner as you can. But I don’t want to see. I’d rather lie to myself that she got what she deserved.”
“Okay, Abe. You got it.”
Abe sat on the upholstered bench before Ruth’s vanity and watched as Dabney and Alan lifted the enshrouded corpse of his wife of forty-eight years. Five minutes later, they
cast her from the roof of the northernmost building like a perished sailor at sea. That roof dropped to another roof, rather than the street, so her body would remain unmolested, to decompose in peace.
Hunched over Ruth’s vanity Abe held his head in his hands, the grief beginning to hit him and take hold. All her powders and liniments, her tinctures and paraphernalia neatly arranged on the low table reminded him of the great pains she’d taken to look attractive for him before it all went south. His nose ran but his eyes remained dry. He sniffled and kneaded his scalp. Wife, children, grandkids—all gone. He snorted back the snot and clenched his eyes shut.
“Allergies?” came a soft, female voice.
Abe started, nearly toppling from the bench. He thought he was alone, but there stood Mona in the doorway, clutching her childish bag.
“What?” Abe said.
“Allergies? Your nose.”
“No, not allergies. Just plain old anguish,” Abe said, adding with a touch of sarcasm, “You got anything for that?”
Rather than look insulted or display any recognizable emotion, Mona opened her bag and rummaged through it. “Valium. Prozac. Paxil. Zoloft. Wellbutrin. Parnate. Nardil. Effexor.”
Not five words in a row from this girl in the last month and now this checklist of multisyllabic antidepressants. Abe wiped his nose with a tissue and stared at Mona as she crouched by the door, still foraging in her cartoon backpack. The backpack reminded Abe of the baby snowsuits. The more he looked at her the more she reminded Abe of his granddaughter. Danielle hadn’t been as phlegmatic, but she took her job as a teenager seriously and was as sullen and uncommunicative as possible. Abe missed her.
“You take much of that stuff?” Abe asked.
“Not much.”
Pariah Page 20
