“What does he want?” Charlie asked, suspicious.
“He had some useful information. Now, you said a vigil. For what?”
He looked at her pityingly. “For the environment, Mom. Clean water. Gotta get ready.”
Amalie believed in clean water but also in her son’s safety. She tried to interpret, from the noises now coming from his room, what he was doing, what he was taking. “Have you got your ID?” she called. “You should always carry ID with you. Just in case.”
“Mom, I’ve been in training. I know what to do.”
“Just be careful, that’s all.” Amalie was remembering the dudes with switchblades. But this time it was the police she was worried about. Charlie had a pony tail. That might not sit well with New York’s finest. Sometimes violence is necessary…She could have killed Stewart for instilling this in their child.
“Will you be all right?” Charlie touched her arm, concern for her in those lovely dark, long-lashed eyes that elderly women used to exclaim about when he was a baby. Recently he had told her that he was “together” now. He had found his center. She studied this child-man whose mouth resembled his father’s. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed Stewart.
How lucky she was that Charlie was on speaking terms with her. Other mothers had given up on their kids who’d left home or were into drugs. Some were already parents. Charlie didn’t seem to be in a hurry to make up that gym class. Nor had he applied to any colleges. Amalie wasn’t going to pressure him. If he wanted to take some time off, that was fine. It was good to have him around.
When he left, she went into his room. The gas mask was gone from the closet. So he was expecting trouble. He could have been sitting glued to the TV for five hours like other normal seventeen-year-olds, but no, he was his father’s son.
Why should she be spared? Children disappeared every day all over the world: Argentina, Lebanon, Chile. Mothers carrying placards and weeping in the squares. She had never been tested, but some day, perhaps…
On Charlie’s windowsill there were ten open coffee cans containing twigs, upon which were fastened many cocoons. What kind of beast would emerge? She should have demanded that he clean up once in a while. How was she going to be able to assert herself in the corporate world if she couldn’t even ask her kid to clean up his room?
What to do tonight? She could have suggested to Evan that they get together but she was feeling too frazzled and she seemed to have a Cyclops of a pimple in the middle of her forehead. The women friends she tried were all out. Most of Stewart’s married colleagues had gradually stopped inviting her to their dinner parties. First she viewed it as a sign of exquisite sensitivity: Oh how lonely she will feel surrounded by couples. Eventually Amalie concluded that the wives were leery of having a single available female at their table especially if there was no male counterbalance. Or maybe her conversation wasn’t scintillating enough.
If she went to a movie, she risked having some weirdo sit next to her, or possibly getting into a fight with people explicating the movie for their companions. Through some bureaucratic glitch Amalie was still entitled to use the Columbia University gym, which was open late on weekends. She could go and strap herself to some of those sadistic machines in the training room like her friend Julie did whenever she had a free moment. Or she could run around the track with all those galumphing Nobel Prize winners and Guggenheim Fellows who seemed to enjoy blowing their noses with their fingers. She might go for a swim in the pool. Amalie drew the line, however, at entering the sauna. It was pure masochism to incarcerate yourself in a box that made you sweat. It was good for her, the attendant often told her. It drew out the poisons. “So do leeches,” Amalie said.
It was only in the last few months that Amalie had begun to feel like rejoining society. She’d had enough talk, enough spilling of emotion. In the year and a half since Stewart died she had been in a bereavement support group, a consciousness-raising group, group therapy, a book club, and very briefly a Kabala group.
Her grief would always be with her but distraction helped. A little music, a little theater from time to time, an occasional one-night stand—why not? But that would be hard to manage because Charlie always wanted to know where she was going and with whom. But Charlie wasn’t going to be living with her much longer, she was sure. Then what? She could already predict that her job at Warwick & Berger MicroPubs would settle into a dull routine with few challenges. All she’d get from it aside from the obvious would be tantalizing fantasies about the men who worked there. Her brain cells would atrophy, her newly discovered muscles as a tenant leader would wither. This was not very promising.
The local newspaper, West Side Spirit, listed some events for tonight:
Free. Ankh, not Angst. Workshop for the normal neurotic. (1) Pay a visit to your body. (2) A prize for your eyes: fondling objects. (3) Falling: trust exercises.
I’m a normal neurotic, Amalie thought, remembering the days back in the 1970s when people thought there was something wrong with you if you didn’t go to a therapist. Her doctor’s office was in his town house and he often interrupted their sessions to run upstairs to check on a roast. There were also phone calls from his stockbroker and a man who was building a boat for him. The doctor’s office was decorated in high-motel chic, with pictures of wide-eyed waifs and plaques of shriveled foliage adorning the walls. His comment that “there are actually some people who are enamored of chamber music” finally led Amalie to embrace her normal neurosis as long as she could be identified as a member of that group.
Here was something. Across the street at the Church of the Incarnation there was a free concert by the Oberlin Chamber Ensemble performing a piece based on Ouspensky’s Search for the Miraculous. Perhaps there was something to be learned from Ouspensky.
The church’s community room had been transformed for the concert. Rugs covered the walls, pillows were scattered over the floor for those who preferred them to the chairs. A cross-legged barefoot male performer waited for the audience to be seated. In front of him was a row of eleven candles—four white, four red, and three orange. The only instrument visible was a small brass gong. Perhaps this was a vocal concert. The program notes proclaimed that as audiences would soon be obsolete, the people should be free to come and go, walk about, talk, or even play “gin rheumy” if they chose.
A young woman took her place behind the young man. According to the notes she was on the Oberlin faculty and a specialist in Indian music (Ah, those sutures again!). She wore a fixed smile, either of beatitude or constipation. Somewhere in her travels she had learned that it was good to burp often and in public.
Amalie checked the audience, familiars from the neighborhood. Just as she spotted Alex Dobrin, the chief player blew out the red candles on his right and struck the gong. This must be the introduction. Alex seemed to be enjoying it. In silence the player relit the red candles and extinguished the orange ones on his left. Amalie was struggling with concepts of right and left (…left hand is the dreamer…sitting at the right hand of the Lord, etc.). With a flourish, the player whipped out a ram’s horn from the folds of his raiment and blew a warbled note while his assistant continued to smile.
The gong is gonging, the assistant has sprouted finger cymbals, candles are lit and relit at a furious pace. Amalie wonders if this has something to do with the concept of music unheard being sweeter still. Stewart would surely have walked out. Maybe there’s a mathematical pattern. Math was always Amalie’s weakest subject. For example, if the giant sixteen-ounce size costs $2.89 on special sale, is it preferable to buy the twenty-ounce size at the regular price?
She looked at Alex. His eyes slanted down a bit. His mouth was hidden beneath the moustache. He turned and saw her. A curious, appraising stare. She lowered her eyes.
The performance finally ended when the players leapt up and shouted in unison: “Logarithm!”
She made her way over to Alex. “OK, what was that all about?”
He carefully p
ut on his Greek fisherman’s cap and thought for a moment. “Not everyone can be Bach, may he rest in peace. Try and think of the rhythms and sonorities coming from the audience itself.”
“Coughing and snoring,” Amalie said. “I don’t buy it, even from you.” She let herself be guided across the street. It was the first time a man had put his arm around her since Stewart’s death. It was too comforting. “How’s your moon bug?” she asked, pulling away a little.
“You’re making fun of me,” he said. “I don’t mind. Your wonderful boy takes me seriously. I saw him go out before. He looked as though he was on his way to the Arctic.”
Wearing his padded jacket in the heat of summer, probably to cushion any blows he might receive.
The elevator was out of order again so they walked up slow-ly. “May I propose a neighborly cup of tea?” Alex’s voice shook a little. Perhaps he was winded from the climb. “Unless you have other plans…?”
Other plans. No such luck. But given her present susceptibility, it was probably best to decline the invitation. “Got some paperwork to catch up on. Some other time?” Alex seemed disappointed and relieved at the same time.
The phone was ringing when Amalie entered her apartment. Quickly she rehearsed what the operator suggested she do in case of another crank call.
“Officer Borelli, 24th precinct,” said the voice. “Are you the mother of Charles Price?”
Chapter 4
“Ma’am? You there?” Officer Borelli was saying. “You have a son—”
Have, he said, not had. “Is he—Is he hurt?” Amalie’s voice was shaking. “Where is he?”
“He’s just fine,” the officer said cheerfully. “We picked him up with some other kids for obstructing traffic outside the Dow Chemical building.”
“Why didn’t you let him call me?” she asked indignantly. “They’re allowed one phone call, aren’t they?” Now that she knew he was all right, she could be a little more belligerent.
Borelli explained that Charlie had tried to reach her from the precinct house a couple of hours earlier but there was no answer. Then he was transferred downtown to the courthouse. She could come to the local precinct where they would give her more information.
“Why can’t you tell me more now?” she demanded. What were they hiding? This is all my fault, she was thinking. For not trying hard enough to enter Charlie’s world. For dismissing his concerns, joking about them. Failing this fatherless boy who’s trying so hard to be a man, one his dad would be proud of.
“Just relax, ma’am. I know how you feel. I got two kids myself, Camille and Susan, four and six.”
Incipient Daughters of the Revolution I’ll bet, Amalie thought grimly after she hung up. She’d have to go to the precinct then, that cheery brick building a few blocks away, with a basketball court in the back so the cops could work off their excess fury instead of beating up on poor people and long-haired children.
Amalie put on a dowdy raincoat and kerchief so as not to attract attention. After stopping at the local precinct she planned to take the subway down to the courthouse rather than go by cab. A cab driver might get lost. Also she didn’t feel like competing with evangelical sermons on the radio or hysterical sports announcements in another language. She stuffed her subway kit into her purse. One never knew what emergencies might occur. The kit contained smelling salts, water, high energy candy bars, and a plastic bag for the call of nature in case the subway stalled for a couple of hours. Some people carried harmonicas and songbooks to keep up the spirits of their fellow passengers.
It was only 10:30, plenty of people on the street. Amalie walked with downcast eyes, not from modesty but from prudence, man’s best friend a reminder at every step. She passed the unfinished low-income building with its stone turtles in the front and the little door marked “perambulators,” and the lonely playground already in disrepair, the sandbox with broken glass.
What if this was a trap? Suppose it wasn’t the police who had called? Suppose she never found Charlie. There were cases of people locked up incommunicado for months. In America. She never believed Stewart when he told her these things. Until now.
Footsteps behind her kept pace with her own. Good thing she had a four-inch hatpin in her pocket. This street was fairly deserted. Stealthily she extracted the hatpin and whirled around.
“Don’t—Help!” A man staggered back. It was Ralph Dobrin, Alex’s son, dressed in civilian clothes.
“Oh, it’s only you.” She laughed with relief.
“Goddam!” He brushed himself off though there had been no contact. “What’s a nice girl like you doing out alone on a Saturday night?” Ralph had been at his accountant’s, he explained, and was heading home to Long Island. His car was parked on the street because the local garages were full tonight. He took Amalie’s arm. “Of course it isn’t any of my business why you’re out alone. I’m glad I ran into you. I been meaning to thank you for checking up on my dad. You seem to be the only person he’ll allow near him.” Ralph gave her a sidelong look and pressed her arm. “It’s convenient, isn’t it—same building. Naturally he can’t give you a really good time.” As Ralph spoke the odor of licorice floated out of his mouth.
“I’m not looking for a really good time, Ralph.” Amalie disengaged her arm. “I’m looking for my kid.”
“Kids can take care of themselves. Maybe not the girls. You know that Hunter College girls are working as domestics in Harlem? Work-study they call it. Seriously. I read it in the Enquirer.”
They were in front of the precinct house. Amalie didn’t give a damn about what Hunter girls were doing. She started up the stairs but Ralph pulled her back.
“What are you going in there for? I didn’t molest you or anything, did I?” He laughed uneasily. “You’re not really going in there.”
“I am as soon as you let go of my arm. For God’s sake, Ralph, I told you I’m looking for Charlie.”
“They’re good at finding people,” Ralph said and took off, dropping her arm as though it was a hot lamb chop.
Inside the police station a lieutenant presided behind a large raised desk, framed like an altar between architectural friezes that ran up the side walls. A faint smell of urine pervaded the room. It seemed like an ordinary evening, no doors clanging or prisoners shouting. But who knew what went on behind those doors marked “Community Liaison” and “Warrants and Liabilities”?
Beneath a chart labeled “Unusual Disorder Plan,. 24th Precinct,” two rookies were holding a discussion: “Einstein was really a moron,” one of them said.
“Except in math. You got to admit.”
“But a kid who don’t talk till he’s five?”
At a desk, a young woman was trying to control her crying. “Did he say where he was going?” an officer asked her. “Dijus have an argument?”
Amalie leaned against the dais. Her subway kit was weighing her down. Behind the lieutenant an entire wall was filled with walkie-talkies, charging and recharging themselves, as though transmitting their energy to the man behind the desk.
“Excuse me,” she said to the lieutenant, “I need to find out about the arrests—”
“—Speak up, young lady,” the officer said. He was so high up on his perch that it was no wonder he couldn’t hear her.
She raised her voice and tried to keep it steady. “The arrests you made outside of Dow Chemical earlier…?”
“Oh yeah.” He explained that some prisoners (prisoners!) had been booked here and then were taken downtown to be arraigned. Her best bet was to go to Criminal Court on Centre Street and try to locate the group. “It might take a while.”
Amalie was visualizing holding pens, billy clubs, abusive prisoners. Charlie was not big and husky. He had long hair. Oh let him be safe, she prayed. I’ll make a bargain with You. Let him go and I’ll send money to the Wilderness Society. I’ll give up meat altogether and I’ll remain celibate—easy enough now. Just keep Charlie safe.
There was a commotion near the entranc
e. An officer was trying to calm a distraught Ralph Dobrin. “I tell you my car’s gone!” he was shouting. “What do you mean how do you know if I’m telling the truth? There—she knows me. Hey—!” He waved frantically at Amalie. “Tell them who I am.”
“He’s a butcher,” she said, hoisting her subway kit over her shoulder.
“A lot of people do it for the insurance,” one of the rookies was saying as she left the station house.
#
We also have our sound and light shows, Amalie was thinking on the subway ride downtown. Who needs Versailles? The lights were flickering, illuminating different images—the student desecrating a book with a highlighting pen, the man enjoying his own conversation, a window washer asleep over his pail, some leather-clad twenty-somethings, nose rings glittering. The train whined like a one-note siren. “Death and destruction,” a rich contralto voice proclaimed, cutting through the whine. As the lights dimmed again, the voice rose—impossible to know where it was coming from. “Take me home,” it said, “Satan is here with destruction.” Maybe so, Amalie thought, patting her subway kit, but at least I’ve got water and a candy bar.
At the next express stop, the train slowed down, the lights came on and the speaker was revealed, a woman in a tan coat, neat scarf, modest hat, a mouth as big as her face, moving independently in every direction, emitting hisses, words, complaints.
At Times Square a large boom box blasted into the subway car, followed by a swaggering young man. If only I had the guts, Amalie thought. I’d like to walk up to him and politely ask him to turn it off. But then he might pull a gun and shoot. Then what use would I be to Charlie?
Fingering the Victorian hatpin in her pocket, Amalie caught the boom box owner’s eye. He grinned and turned up the sound, snapping his fingers. “Yo, lady. You like music? Wanna dance?” As he unwound himself from his seat the train pulled into Fourteenth Street. “Catch you later,” he said and bounded out of the car.
Amalie in Orbit Page 5
