Pariah

by Bob Fingerman

  “What constitutes ‘not much’?”

  “Enough. You want?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’ll try some of that Zoloft.”

  “Takes awhile.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple weeks.”

  “And the others?”

  “Couple weeks. Maybe more.”

  “Never mind, then. I’ll just deal with it.”

  “Valium’s quick.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with that.”

  Two tabs later Abe slipped off into narcotized slumber, his body in the exact spot Ruth’s had been. He slept the untroubled sleep of a babe.

  29

  “You can’t be thinking of keeping it,” Alan said, trying to sound as reasonable and nonjudgmental as possible.

  “And why not?”

  “Why not?” Alan had so many reasons at the ready he was at a loss for words. How could she be seriously considering taking this baby to term? He was astonished she’d even been able to conceive. Maybe it wasn’t even his. That was possible. But what the hell did that matter? His, Mike’s, whoever’s. This was no time to be bringing new life into the world. He tapped the home pregnancy tester on his knee. “Why not? I really want to phrase this right. I don’t want to be patronizing or insulting or anything like that, because you’re an intelligent woman and . . .”

  “And you’re already being patronizing. If you’re going to hammer me with a whole laundry list of how shitty it is out there, spare me. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid. I’m fully abreast of the state of the world.”

  “Then how can you justify such a selfish act? How could you even remotely think having a baby is a good idea? Just explain it to me. I really want to hear your rationalization, because that’s all it will be. Fuck it, I’m sorry, but there is no good rationale for it. None. Forget telling me. I don’t want to hear it. It would be some irrational female desire to procreate. You need something that will love you unconditionally? That’s the apex of selfishness.”

  “Who said anything about that? Don’t go putting words in my mouth!”

  “Then explain it. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m totally wrong. Please. Enlighten me.”

  Ellen smacked Alan across the face, hard. “You’re totally patronizing me, you asshole.”

  “I don’t mean to be,” Alan said, rubbing his stinging cheek, suppressing the innate urge to retaliate. “This is a very emotional moment. Let’s calm down.”

  Ellen sat and stewed, eyeing Alan with newfound scorn. Sure, she was good enough to fuck, but like most men it was only if the rutting was consequence free that it was desirable. Alan hadn’t seemed to object to boning her without the benefit of a condom. What, did he assume she was taking precautions? Didn’t most men put the burden of responsibility on the woman? Alan had seemed so atypical at first, but now? Since the reintroduction to creature comforts like video he’d been a lot less attentive to her needs. Sex, at times, seemed a chore that she’d cajoled him into performing. He’d rather watch movies and comedy shows.

  And Mona. Presently she was posing with her clothes on, but how long would that last? First a little “innocent” modeling fully draped, as the artistes say. Then, when she’s gotten used to posing, comes the suggestion of undraped sessions. Then, the artist—and Alan had elaborated his theory on the inborn oversexedness of artists during one of their own postcoital bouts of pillow talk—puts the moves on his quarry, and bango, Alan’s boning Mona. What would she be like in the throes of passion? Could she even feel passion? Would she suddenly become a chatterbox? Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Or would she just lie there like a corpse? Maybe Alan would like that.

  “You just don’t know what it’s like,” Ellen said, somewhat cryptically.

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “I lost a child! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

  That Alan had been through three abortions probably wouldn’t count, so he kept mum.

  “No, of course you don’t.”

  Even Mike, her daughter’s father, hadn’t been as psychically wounded by her death as Ellen had. Men just couldn’t feel that connection. With men the whole procreation equation came down to: SPURT! My work is done.

  “Does the human race just call it quits?” Ellen shouted. “Like Peggy Lee said, is that all there is? I can’t believe that. Those things out there can’t run on empty forever. Someday they’ll start dropping and then it will be time for us to rebuild and repopulate. That’s the function of every organism, Alan. To perpetuate its kind. Is that so bad?”

  “It’s not that it’s bad, exactly, but what kind of risk are you willing to take? What are you basing this optimism on? You see those things out there as being transitory? Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right. But since their advent they’ve shown no sign of going away. Sure, they’re rotting. You can see it. You can smell it! But they don’t give up the ghost and fall down. Not unless you put them down by force. Maybe I could see what you’re doing as a positive thing if they were keeling over out there, but they’re not. They’re not. Can’t you wait? Wouldn’t that be a reasonable compromise? I could make peace with being a dad a lot easier if I didn’t think that giving birth was the ultimate form of child abuse at this point.”

  “Who says you’re the father? Maybe this is Mike’s, in which case this is also my last piece of my husband. Plus, how can I get rid of it?”

  Alan had no answer. It was pointless to argue. He leaned over and gave her knee a tender squeeze, mute capitulation, if not actual encouragement. Ellen sat back on the couch and softly began to sing, “Is that all there is, is that all there is . . .”

  “They can’t last forever,” Abe said, his voice chemically softened.

  Alan paced Abe’s floor, periodically looking out the window at the mob.

  “Tell them that,” the younger man said, agitated by his exchange with Ellen. They don’t seem to have gotten that memo.”

  “Eventually they’ll run out of steam. Maybe not in my lifetime, but—”

  “I’ll repeat myself: tell them that. They don’t seem to be going anywhere. Who’s to say we outlast them? They’ve been running on empty for months. With the exception of Mike, none of us have gone and fed the flock, so what, they’ll just do us a kindness and drop?”

  “I’ve seen some of them do just that,” Abe said. “Drop. They can’t keep going on and on and on, eternally. And if we can outlast them, that’ll mean we can get out of this building and move on.”

  “To where?”

  “Anywhere. That’s immaterial at this point. But you’ve gotta cling to some kind of hope. You have to be optimistic,” Abe said.

  Alan looked at the old man with befuddlement. Though he wasn’t about to spill the beans about Ellen’s natal bombshell, Alan had come up here to commiserate with the resident curmudgeon, to buttress his negative worldview. Instead he was having a chat with Pollyanna. Abe sat in his armchair, shirt open and little round belly pooched out over his undone slacks. His face unnaturally beatific, he resembled a scrawny Jewish Buddha.

  “You’re going to make me laugh,” Alan marveled, “and I’m not sure I’m up for that.”

  “Why? Why laugh? Hope is the most vital asset we have. It’s all we as a species ever really ever had. Hope is the only reason to get up in the morning.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You’ve gotta have hope,” replied the old man.

  “If you start to sing, I’m gonna scream.”

  “The stuff I’m taking, I wouldn’t care.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Mona’s a heckuva pharmacist.” Abe closed his eyes, chuckling to himself. “A heckuva pharmacist.”

  “So I sent her out for more of that rope and some other stuff,” Eddie said, his smile devious.

  “Why?” Dave asked.

  “I got me an idea for some leisure activities, but mainly I wanted her out of the way for a while. I wanna check out her digs, snoop around and see if I can figure out what her secret is.”
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  “You still on about that?” Dave whined, pondering the vagueness of Eddie’s unspecified “leisure activities.”

  “Fuck yeah, I’m still on about it. She gets to go out, Einstein. She gets to leave the compound. She’s holding out, bro. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Dave didn’t feel like arguing. Instead he slurped another wedge of syrupy peach out of the can, letting it roll against his tongue and lips, hoping the suggestive visuals would derail whatever scheme Eddie was hatching. Instead, Eddie just snapped at him for eating like a pig and then left the apartment. Dave gulped down the rest of the sweet liquid and followed Eddie into the hall, then downstairs. Two flights down Eddie placed a small flashlight between his lips and, aiming the focused beam on Mona’s top cylinder, began to pick the lock with some small, spidery tools.

  “Where’d you get those?” Dave asked.

  “Had ’em,” Eddie said, his hushed voice slightly slurred by the flashlight. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want the rest of the jerks in the hizzy to catch me in the act.” And with that the top lock opened. “Fuckin’ Yale,” Eddie smirked, removing the drippy flashlight from his mouth. “Never would’ve gotten it open if it was a Medeco.”

  He opened the door and in they slipped. Dave didn’t feel like a groovy master criminal. He felt more like Dumber to Eddie’s Dumb. Or worse. The apartment was almost unchanged from when Mona had taken occupancy, the only difference being she’d moved Mr. Spiteri’s recliner next to the left front window. Also, various CDs littered that area, some in their jewel cases, others loose. Several were arranged haphazardly on the windowsill, some data-side up. Eddie scoffed and said, “Bitches never know how to take care of CDs.” He lifted one off the ledge and looked at its playing surface. “Look at this shit. Nicks and fingerprints all over it. Remember Gina Copaseti? She never treated shit right. I lent her my Bee Gees box set and it came back like she’d stuck it up an elephant’s asshole. I stuck somethin’ else up hers for good measure. Payback with interest.”

  “So what are we looking for, Eddie?” Dave said, nerves and impatience straining his voice.

  “Hey, you don’t have to be here,” Eddie snapped. “I’m perfectly happy to do this investigation on my own. You wanna help, great. But if you’re gonna honk like a woman, beat it, a’right? ’Cause I don’t need that shit.”

  After a cursory couple of circuits around the apartment, Eddie began to prospect in earnest, opening drawers and riffling through them, closing them in disgust when nothing extraordinary was unearthed. Though he’d never been here before, he had the sneaking suspicion all was as it had been in Spiteri’s time, and he didn’t even know from Spiteri because his building had a different super. Drawer after drawer revealed nothing but tools of the custodial trade, Spiteri’s family’s clothes, and other plebeian junk.

  “C’mon, Eddie, Mona will be back soon.”

  “How the fuck you know that? Sometimes she doesn’t come back for hours or till the next day. She left less than an hour ago. One more complaint an’ The Comet’s kickin’ you to the curb, bro. For real. Help or vacate. Your choice.”

  Eddie opened one of the hall closets and began rummaging, cursing softly as a small avalanche of shoeboxes pummeled his scalp. “Your mother’s ass!” he shouted, clapping a hand over his mouth and cursing himself for making noise. He lifted lid after lid, finding nothing. “These shoeboxes got nothin’ but shoes in ’em,” he griped, filing them back on the upper shelf. Board games for stupid foreigners, a scuffed soccer ball, a beat-to-shit toaster oven, two garbage bags full of ratty clothes—it was all rubbish. And clearly not one bit of it was Mona’s.

  Eddie stepped into the bedroom and switched on the solar camping lantern within. The bed was immaculately made, with taut hospital corners. Either Mona was quite the skilled domestic—which seemed unlikely—or she didn’t sleep in the bed. Who knows, maybe the little freak didn’t sleep at all. With diminished enthusiasm Eddie opened dresser drawers and foraged, turning up nothing but the former occupant’s unmentionables and workaday clothes. There was a box of condoms well past their fuck-by date, but Eddie palmed them anyway. What a waste of—

  “Hey, Eddie,” came Dave’s voice in a whisper-hiss. “Check this out.”

  Eddie stepped into the kitchenette and found Dave standing on the kitchen counter holding a bumpy sheet of something shiny—it was a blister pack of pills. “Whuzzat?” Eddie said, snatching it from Dave.

  “It’s drugs,” Dave said, sotto voce. “But check this out.” He opened the top cabinet. Inside were mounds of similar and identical blister packs, as well as prescription bottles of various sizes, all full. Eddie looked at the assemblage of pharmaceuticals and felt both vindication and annoyance that he hadn’t discovered the goods.

  “See what I told you?” he said. “You see?”

  “I see a lot of drugs, Eddie. But what does it tell us about Mona? That she’s a drug addict? That would explain her zonked out disposition, but . . .”

  “But, but, but. You sound like a fuckin’ Vespa. Maybe it’s her whole everything, bro. It could . . .”

  Both trespassers froze at the squawk of the home walkie-talkie, which heralded Mona’s return.

  “That was fast,” Eddie seethed, stuffing the blister pack into his pants.

  “Shouldn’t we put that back?”

  “Fuck that shit. I wanna know what this shit is. Like she’s gonna miss one sheet of it, whatever it is.”

  “But . . .”

  “But me no buts. We gotta lay low while they help her in. How we gonna get out without being noticed?”

  “We can’t be in here when she comes back,” Dave said, sweating.

  “Tell me something I don’t know. What’d I just say?”

  Dave pressed his ear to the door and when the clangor of footfalls subsided he looked through the peephole. He turned to face Eddie and gave the thumbs up. As he opened the door a crack, Dave felt like a burglar in an old-timey silent comedy. Everyone seemed to be in the neighboring apartment—he could hear Alan calling out to Mona. Dave and Eddie stepped into the hall.

  “What’re you guys doing in Mona’s place?” Karl asked. He was standing on the landing out of the fisheye peephole’s range, clutching his Bible. Eddie’s first impulse was to snatch the Good Book, give the top of Karl’s pointy head a good hard swat and growl, “The fuck is it to you, midget?” but he thought the better of it. Instead he stalked over to Karl, allowing the full impact of their disparity in height and brawn to sink in—physical intimidation was often more effective than verbal, Eddie found—then he smirked and thug-purred, “For all intensive purposes we were never here, capisce?” Karl nodded. “Bene,” Eddie said as he and his compatriot ascended the steps. “Molto bene.”

  30

  Alan didn’t share Ellen’s optimism, if that’s what you could call it.

  If anything, Alan took some comfort from the hypothesis that he and the others were the last of their kind. The reign of man—nature’s biggest mistake—was nearly at its end. What an honor, to be cognizant of the end of your own species, to be members of The Last Generation. The dinosaurs didn’t know that their number was up. Alan didn’t mourn mankind much. It was a shame that all of humanity’s finer contributions—art, literature, music, architecture, some science—would in time completely disintegrate, but the notion that the Earth would be free of man’s influence, that the planet could heal itself and be cleansed, was heartening. Certainly more so than giving birth to another stupid, miserable, pointless human being. Still, if he wanted to stay—or more to the point get back—in Ellen’s good favor—and he did—he’d have to quash that kind of thinking.

  Or at least dilute it.

  He swirled his brush in some linseed oil and studied his subject. Mona sat on a stool between the front windows, one leg perched on the footrest, the other dangling limply a few inches above the floor. Though fully dressed—Alan didn’t wish to invite further scorn from Ellen—Mona was barefoot and once again
Alan was attempting to not be aroused by Mona’s sumptuous calves and now, of all things, her well-turned feet. Most feet he’d encountered, male or female, were functional but unattractive collections of jutting tendons, knots and joints, often rough and calloused. Mona’s were just the opposite, their tops smooth and doll-like, almost like adult baby’s feet. How could a girl who did so much walking have such pampered-looking tootsies?

  An unbidden boner sprang to life and Alan’s posture involuntarily hunched. He wore another oversize shirt to mask any protrusions, but still. If her lowest extremities had this effect on him, what would total nudity do? He’d survived adolescence without ever having come in his pants or having had a wet dream. This was no time to regress. He concentrated on technique and execution, his strokes deft and provocative—but not too provocative. What a waste that no one of note would ever see these works. He’d always been modest about his art, having been raised to believe humility a virtue. All diffidence had ever gotten him was a whole lot of nothing. He’d never gotten any public accolades and never would. Not that doing art had anything to do with that, but, well, yeah, yeah it did. Art for art’s sake was pure, sure, but it was also masturbation with a fancier pedigree. Ellen thought he was a genius, even if that was an audience of one. That counted for something, even if she was sore at him.

  His erection hurt.

  Alan looked away from the canvas he was working on to the most cluttered wall. Amid the myriad zombie studies hung six sizable portraits of Mona. Unconsciously he’d spread the zombies away from the paintings of Mona, manifesting the old precept of art imitating life. Zombies. Mona. Sure, she was alive, but in spite of her fetching appearance she lacked vitality, her eyes communicating no more than those of the undead outside. Reptile eyes. Insect eyes. And yet still the hard-on persisted. Alan tried to will it away, thinking of disgusting things. But what was more disgusting than his waking life? In the old days if he wanted to suppress a boner he’d think about maggots and rotting cantaloupes and roadkill.