He lay on the couch, in his clothes, too, but with no blanket. The lights were still on. It wouldn’t be the first time, he told himself. But, damn, it’s a lot easier to sleep this way if you’re in the bag. You didn’t notice the lights, the lumps, the cold. He got up, flicked off the lights, put on his winter jacket. Outside the Elbow, people still milled. The interior neon again escaped into the night before a giant silhouette blocked it momentarily. Same big guy leaving already? Or another Goliath like him? Like his niece’s boyfriend, the gorilla downstairs? Only, as far as he could tell, this guy looked well-proportioned. Not like the gorilla. Not, come to think of it, like those guys who were in NA because they were busted for using. What? They had the same over-developed upper body, the same skinny legs, the same bad skin, the same bad attitude. What had the leader called it? Road rage? That made no sense.
He settled back on the couch, then bolted upright. Where was that card the officer had flipped at him? The one who’d made the crack about playing with bottles. She wasn’t playing with the bottles, you horse’s backside, he muttered. A big man would have had to push the door open, would have knocked those bottles down, just the way the cops had. Not road rage, ’roid rage. Steroids, had to be. The guys at NA had bragged about how easy they were to get where they worked out, if you knew how to ask. The little girl saw or heard what happened and protected herself the best she could, waiting it out until her great uncle came by. It would only have been a couple more days until his next visit, he’d made sure since his sister died, just after her granddaughter was born, that his visits would be the one thing she and his niece could count on. The old boyfriend might have come back, if he’d known the girl had seen something, but if she’d been hiding, if he’d been in a blind rage about the new boyfriend or whatever set him off, he might not have seen or thought about her. Later, he could have just gone about his business, trying to avoid suspicion, still living in the building, still bodybuilding at the gym. The cops knew that he was around, they’d talked to him, and they’d moved on. But the little girl couldn’t have known whether he’d come back or not. There was no phone, just a building full of indifferent, unfriendly people. He’d seen them firsthand. Who would she trust?
Call anytime if you think of something, the cop had said. He picked up the phone, dialed. The phone rang and rang. He was relieved when the ringing stopped and he heard a voice unmistakably dredged up from the depths of sleep. Officer? I thought of something, he began.
HE’S THE ONE
Cynthia Benjamin
HENRY Stern noticed the sepia-tinted stain on his office ceiling as soon as he opened the door. The wincing, morning light always highlighted every imperfection in the room. Now, it scudded across the blob of color that seemed to spread, amoeba-like, before his eyes. It looked like blood.
“Just my luck,” Henry said to no one in particular. Then he picked up the phone.
Teddy Dunlop, the building handyman, repeatedly tapped the ceiling with the metal cane he had been using since his knee replacement surgery three months earlier.
“I like finding new ways to use this damn sucker,” he said, gingerly climbing down the ladder. Henry extended his hand to Teddy, but the handyman waved him away. Out of habit, Henry rubbed the port-wine stain on his right cheek instead. Was it his imagination or did the morning sun snaking through the broken Venetian blinds deepen the discoloration? Henry awkwardly stuffed his hand into his jeans pocket and turned his head slightly to the left, so his good cheek was visible. “Putting your best face forward,” his Aunt Ida had called it. The thought of her made him shudder.
“Any leaks in the office upstairs?” Henry asked.
“Nope. None that I know of. Doesn’t mean it isn’t happening somewhere above you, though. Damn leaks can be tricky.”
“But the ceiling won’t come crashing down, right?”
“Now that’d be a hell of a way for a writer to go,” Teddy said.
“So there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t go that far.”
HENRY was writing in his black notebook, when the girl with the silver-blonde hair sat next to him in the crowded coffee shop near Union Square. For three years, Henry had eaten the same lunch, sitting in the same seat at the far end of the counter. That way, his bad cheek faced the wall, while his clear, clean-shaven one faced the seat next to him.
He had just finished the first page of an article about the best hotels in Shanghai, when the silver-blonde girl tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed to something on the counter near Henry’s right hand.
“The pepper. Please.”
She was the most beautiful girl Henry had ever seen. The sight of such beauty so close at hand left him breathless. Her eyes were a deeper shade of gold than her hair; her features were small and perfectly shaped. Her skin was flawless. The effect was so overpowering that Henry broke his own rule, and turned his head around to get a better look at her. Doing so exposed his flawed right cheek. The girl didn’t flinch at the sight of the thickened purple skin that pulled his mouth up when he tried to smile. Instead she smiled in return and— did he imagine it?— her fingertips skimmed his own as she picked up the pepper shaker.
“I’ve noticed you in here before. I always wonder about people I see outside the office,” she said.
“Me too. I call them the random people.”
“What a great way of putting it. I kind of like imagining what they do. Professionally, I mean. Like I just looked at you, and right away I said to myself, ‘he’s a writer.’ That’s right, isn’t it?”
Henry nodded.
“What do you write?”
“Travel articles, mostly.”
“How exciting. I love to travel. Not that I get much chance. But still, I love thinking about it. You know? So, where are you going next?”
“Back to my office, actually. That’s where I do most of my research. With the Internet, you can travel all over the world without ever leaving your home base.”
“What about your frequent flyer miles?”
It took Henry a minute to realize she wasn’t joking.
LATER, Henry and Elyse would refer to their meeting at the Union Square coffee shop as their first date. After lunch, they walked to the Farmer’s Market in the nearby park. As they strolled among the stalls, they talked about nothing of consequence to either of them. It was the most ordinary conversation of Henry Stern’s life. What made it extraordinary was that it took place at all. Forty-five minutes after meeting this beautiful woman, Henry was still talking to her. He knew what his Aunt Ida would have said. “It’s a mitzvah, Henry, that such a girl would go for a man like you. A mitzvah.”
Henry looked shyly at Elyse, who was chattering on about the cost of the organic food sold at the market.
“Jeez, can you imagine that? Seven dollars for a loaf of whole-wheat bread. I mean, come on. What does organic mean, anyway?”
What indeed? On his right side, a rollerblading messenger had fallen asleep in the warm spring sunshine, listening to his iPod nestled in his lap. The earphones straddled his shoulder, so Henry could hear snatches of the hip-hop songs. Normally, such an intrusion into his solitary world would have infuriated him. Today, he welcomed its normalcy. As he listened, the music floated above his head and was burned away by the sun.
WITHOUT saying a word, Henry and Elyse started walking back to his office building near Union Square. As he turned into the lobby of number twenty-five, he realized she was still beside him.
“Shouldn’t you go back to work?
“I am, silly. My office is in this building too. Fifth floor. Usually I go to lunch with my friend, Vera.”
“What happened today?”
“She called in sick, so I was on my own. I was going to do some shopping, but I ended up at the coffee shop instead. And I met you. Weird how these things work out. Guess it was just meant to be, huh?” She smiled her perfect smile.
“I guess so.”
Henry pressed the eleva
tor button and stood aside so Elyse could get in first. He noticed the other passengers look at her appreciatively. When he got off at his floor, the twelfth, he checked out his right cheek in the narrow mirror that bordered the elevator door. Was it his imagination, or did the port-wine stain seem smaller and paler?
ON Friday night, Henry invited Elyse to his small, one-bedroom apartment for the first time. It was in Patchin Place, a cul-de-sac, just steps away from the nail salons and take-out restaurants that defined the nearby stretch of bustling Sixth Avenue. All of that seemed a world away as Henry closed the iron gates behind them. As always, he felt as if he were stepping back in time. And, in that moment, he was.
Henry carefully watched Elyse, trying to gauge her reaction to his secret world. She stared in amazement at the ten identical, brick row houses framing the horseshoe-shaped courtyard. Henry pointed to a nineteenth-century gas streetlight standing in the far corner.
“There are only two left in New York City, but that’s the only one that lights, even if it’s now electric.” He shrugged. “I wrote an article about it for a travel magazine.”
Slowly, they climbed the narrow stairs to his top floor apartment. Standing on the fire escape outside his bedroom window, Henry slipped his arm around Elyse’s narrow shoulders and pulled her toward him. In the distance, the clock in the tower of the nearby library tolled the hour. Neither spoke.
Later, Henry and Elyse lay side by side in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. He stared at her body, looking for the slightest imperfection. There wasn’t any. Elyse slipped her hand into his as he raised it to his wine-stained skin.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Touch your birthmark that way. I don’t mind it at all. And please don’t think it has anything to do with what happened tonight.”
Henry sat up and turned away from her, but she grabbed his arm and, this time, held on.
“Don’t be angry at me, Henry. It’s not your fault. I just can’t, that’s all.”
“Did it ever happen before?”
“All the time. No matter how much I want to, like tonight, I can’t. My body shuts down.”
“Why?”
“Men scare me. Haven’t you ever been scared? Like when you want something so much you can hardly breathe.”
“And you can’t bring yourself to reach for it because your hands and feet won’t move?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I knew you’d understand. We’re a lot alike, you and me.”
Elyse rolled into him, and rested her perfect, heart-shaped face on his chest. It was like holding a doll.
“What did you mean, ‘all the time’”?
Her voice sounded so small and far away that Henry had to strain to hear her answer.
“Five years ago, I was raped. And, ever since, I can’t. I just can’t. No matter who I’m with, I see his eyes and smell his breath and feel his hands.” Elyse tightened her tiny bird hands around Henry’s wrists. The strength of her grip surprised him.
“You don’t have to tell me about it.” Henry said.
“But I want to,” she whispered. “I’ve never told anyone all the things he did to me. But if we’re going to be together, you should know.” Her bird hands tightened again. This time they had the strength of claws.
Henry kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”
Elyse sighed and settled her head on Henry’s right shoulder before beginning her story.
ELYSE and Henry’s life together easily settled into a routine that suited them both. Every morning, they left Henry’s small Patchin Place apartment and walked up lower Fifth Avenue to Union Square. On the way, Elyse would play her favorite game, a variation of the what-if fantasy that Henry dimly remembered from his childhood.
“What if we win the lottery and could buy any apartment on this block?” she would say. “Which one would it be?”
Henry, still enchanted by the sound of her voice, the slight breathiness she brought to every word, would point aimlessly at any apartment building. He didn’t care, as long as she kept talking to him. She would still be chattering as they entered the coffee shop, where they first met, to buy their morning coffee and pastry. The cashier knew them. Even Eddy, the counterman, blessed their union by setting aside two Danish: cheese for Elyse and apricot for Henry.
If it was warm enough, they took their breakfast to Union Square and sat side-by-side on a bench. Henry noticed the way other men looked at Elyse as she placed her hand lightly on his. Once, she brushed away a crumb from his mouth, tracing the outline of his lips with her forefinger. He had never known such joy.
One morning, they were entering the lobby of their office building, hand-in-hand, when Elyse made a choking sound. Her hand, resting easily in Henry’s, grew cold, her fingers rigid. Her right arm, quivering slightly, pointed in the direction of a balding, middle-aged man slowly making his way to the first elevator, his head bent. At nine o’clock in the morning, he already exhaled weariness. Elyse was muttering something, but Henry couldn’t understand what she said.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Tell me.”
“He’s the one.”
HIS name was Stanley Morris, and he was a paralegal for a small law firm on the sixth floor. For a week, Henry researched Stanley’s life as carefully as he researched his travel articles. He found his address on the upper West Side, the names of his wife and eight-year-old daughter, and the year he received his undergraduate degree. Every day, Henry followed Stanley when he left the office building for lunch. His routine was as dull as Henry’s had been before he met Elyse. Stanley always ordered the lunch special at a faded Chinese restaurant near Union Square. He ate hunched over the table, staring dully at a yellow legal pad. Henry noted that it was always blank.
One night after work, Henry trailed Stanley to the subway and followed him home to a rundown walk-up on West Ninety-Sixth Street. It pleased Henry to realize Stanley had achieved as little in life as he had. Not that it mattered. In another week, he would be dead.
HENRY had decided to kill Stanley Morris the first time he saw him in the lobby of their office building. As he held Elyse in his arms, and felt her body slump against his, he stared at Stanley’s hands. He had expected them to be strong and thick, peasant hands capable of inflicting wounds that would never heal. But the sight of Stanley’s small, carefully manicured fingers revolted him. The hands he showed to the world were pearly pink and white, polished, and soft to the touch. Stanley had used those hands to torture Elyse, long after she begged him to stop. Henry imagined what it would feel like to grab one of those soft fingers and bend it back until it snapped at the joint. Yes, he would kill Stanley Morris. There was no other way to obliterate those hands forever.
EVERY morning, Henry and Elyse sat at a window table in the Union Square coffee shop, eagerly awaiting their first sight of the man they would murder. When Stanley came into view, his back slightly bent, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his creased raincoat, they pressed each other’s hands with a ferocity that surprised them both.
Tuesday night, at Henry’s apartment, they reviewed their plan one last time.
“After tomorrow, it’s important that we don’t change our routines. I’ll go to my office Friday morning at the same time.”
Elyse fingered the ribbon of a white cotton nightgown that ended in a row of pink pearl buttons under her chin. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Please don’t get angry, but I told Mr. Alonzo I’d be taking a week’s vacation, starting this Friday.”
Henry’s body tightened. He willed his voice to sound normal. “What’d you do that for?”
“See, Vera asked me to switch vacation times with her. That was maybe a month ago, before we found out about . . . well, you know. And I figured it would look suspicious if I asked her to change things around now.”
“It’s not as if you’ll be a suspect.”
“I know, I know. I just thought.” She looked up at him shyly. “There’s a special rea
son I’m taking my vacation now.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Lake Placid. I made reservations at a beautiful hotel right on the lake.”
“You should have told me. I could have gotten you a special deal on the room.”
“No, no, I wanted to do this on my own. It’s a gift . . . from me to you. We’ve never been together in that way, and I want Friday night to be really special.” She turned up her head and kissed him on his right cheek.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Henry sighed deeply. He heard the hated voices one last time. “Hey, look at Henry tomato face. What’s that on your cheek, tomato face? Did a bird crash into you? Wash hard enough, maybe it’ll rub off.” Finally, he floated past them, higher and higher.
“Henry, you’re hurting me. Don’t squeeze my shoulder so hard.”
Henry loosened his grip. The voices were gone now. “You’ll see. Everything will be all right once he’s gone,” Elyse said, before falling asleep in the crook of Henry’s arm.
They chose Wednesday, because it was the only night of the week that Stanley brought his car to work. It was an old Toyota, shabby and beige, like its owner. He parked in the building’s small underground garage, but the video security camera hadn’t worked in over a year.
In the morning, before leaving for work, Henry and Elyse rehearsed their parts, like anxious children performing in a school play for the first time.
“You’ll come up to him just as he’s about to open the car door.”
“Suppose he has one of those automatic things. What do I do then?”
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