Transgressions

by Ed McBain

  “Let me repeat that I’m no shrink,” she said, and with more than a trace of uneasiness. The grin was gone. “I majored in German and minored in European history.”

  You and your husband must have a lot to talk about, I thought. What I said out loud was that it didn’t have to be her, necessarily, just someone.

  “All right. Just as long as you know.”

  A waiter took our drink orders, decaf for her, regular for me. Once he went away she asked me what things I was talking about.

  “This is one of them.” From my pocket I withdrew the Lucite cube with the steel penny suspended inside it and put it on the table. Then I told her about the other things, and to whom they had belonged. Cleve “Besboll been bery-bery good to me” Farrell. Maureen Hannon, who wore her hair long to her waist as a sign of her corporate indispensability. Jimmy Eagleton, who had a divine nose for phony accident claims, a son with learning disabilities, and a Farting Cushion he kept safely tucked away in his desk until the Christmas party rolled around each year. Sonja D’Amico, Light and Bell’s best accountant, who had gotten the Lolita sunglasses as a bitter divorce present from her first husband. Bruce “Lord of the Flies” Mason, who would always stand shirtless in my mind’s eye, blowing his conch on Jones Beach while the waves rolled up and expired around his bare feet. Last of all, Misha Bryzinski, with whom I’d gone to at least a dozen Mets games. I told her about putting everything but Misha’s Punch doll in a trash basket on the corner of Park and 75th, and how they had beaten me back to my apartment, possibly because I had stopped for a second order of General Tso’s chicken. During all of this, the Lucite cube stood on the table between us. We managed to eat at least some of our meal in spite of his stern profile.

  When I was finished talking, I felt better than I’d dared to hope. But there was a silence from her side of the table that felt terribly heavy.

  “So,” I said, to break it. “What do you think?”

  She took a moment to consider that, and I didn’t blame her. “I think that we’re not the strangers we were,” she said finally, “and making a new friend is never a bad thing. I think I’m glad I know about Mr. Yow, Git Down and that I told you what I did.”

  “I am, too.” And it was true.

  “Now may I ask you two questions?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much of what they call ‘survivor guilt’ are you feeling?”

  “I thought you said you weren’t a shrink.”

  “I’m not, but I read the magazines and have even been known to watch Oprah. That my husband does know, although I prefer not to rub his nose in it. So . . . how much, Scott?”

  I considered the question. It was a good one—and, of course, it was one I’d asked myself on more than one of those sleepless nights. “Quite a lot,” I said. “Also, quite a lot of relief, I won’t lie about that. If Mr. Yow, Git Down was a real person, he’d never have to pick up another restaurant tab. Not when I was with him, at least.” I paused. “Does that shock you?”

  She reached across the table and briefly touched my hand. “Not even a little.”

  Hearing her say that made me feel better than I would have believed. I gave her hand a brief squeeze and then let it go. “What’s your other question?”

  “How important to you is it that I believe your story about these things coming back?”

  I thought this was an excellent question, even though the Lucite cube was right there next to the sugar bowl. Such items are not exactly rare, after all. And I thought that if she had majored in psychology rather than German, she probably would have done fine.

  “Not as important as I thought an hour ago,” I said. “Just telling it has been a help.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Good. Now here’s my best guess: someone is very likely playing a game with you. Not a nice one.”

  “Trickin’ on me,” I said. I tried not to show it, but I’d rarely been so disappointed. Maybe a layer of disbelief settles over people in certain circumstances, protecting them. Or maybe—probably—I hadn’t conveyed my own sense that this thing was just. . . happening. Still happening. The way avalanches do.

  “Trickin’ on you,” she agreed, and then: “But you don’t believe it.”

  More points for perception. I nodded. “I locked the door when I went out, and it was locked when I came back from Staples. I heard the clunk the tumblers make when they turn. They’re loud. You can’t miss them.”

  “Still. . . survivor guilt is a funny thing. And powerful, at least according to the magazines.”

  “This . . .” This isn’t survivor guilt was what I meant to say, but it would have been the wrong thing. I had a fighting chance to make a new friend here, and having a new friend would be good, no matter how the rest of this came out. So I amended it. “I don’t think this is survivor guilt.” I pointed to the Lucite cube. “It’s right there, isn’t it? Like Sonja’s sunglasses. You see it. I do, too. I suppose I could have bought it myself, but. . .” I shrugged, trying to convey what we both surely knew: anything is possible.

  “I don’t think you did that. But neither can I accept the idea that a trapdoor opened between reality and the Twilight Zone and these things fell out.”

  Yes, that was the problem. For Paula the idea that the Lucite cube and the other things which had appeared in my apartment had some supernatural origin was automatically off-limits, no matter how much the facts might seem to support the idea. What I needed to do was to decide if I needed to argue the point more than I needed to make a friend.

  I decided I did not.

  “All right,” I said. I caught the waiter’s eye and made a check-writing gesture in the air. “I can accept your inability to accept.”

  “Can you?” she asked, looking at me closely.

  “Yes.” And I thought it was true. “If, that is, we could have a cup of coffee from time to time. Or just say hi in the lobby.”

  “Absolutely.” But she sounded absent, not really in the conversation. She was looking at the Lucite cube with the steel penny inside it. Then she looked up at me. I could almost see a lightbulb appearing over her head, like in a cartoon. She reached out and grasped the cube with one hand. I could never convey the depth of the dread I felt when she did that, but what could I say? We were New Yorkers in a clean, well-lighted place. For her part, she’d already laid down the ground rules, and they pretty firmly excluded the supernatural. The supernatural was out of bounds. Anything hit there was a do-over.

  And there was a light in Paula’s eyes. One that suggested Ms. Yow, Git Down was in the house, and I know from personal experience that’s a hard voice to resist.

  “Give it to me,” she proposed, smiling into my eyes. When she did that I could see—for the first time, really—that she was sexy as well as pretty.

  “Why?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Call it my fee for listening to your story.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good—”

  “It is, though,” she said. She was warming to her own inspiration, and when people do that, they rarely take no for an answer. “It’s a great idea. I’ll make sure this piece of memorabilia at least doesn’t come back to you, wagging its tail behind it. We’ve got a safe in the apartment.” She made a charming little pantomime gesture of shutting a safe door, twirling the combination, and then throwing the key back over her shoulder.

  “All right,” I said. “It’s my gift to you.” And I felt something that might have been mean-spirited gladness. Call it the voice of Mr. Yow, You’ll Find Out. Apparently just getting it off my chest wasn’t enough, after all. She hadn’t believed me, and at least part of me did want to be believed and resented Paula for not getting what it wanted. That part knew that letting her take the Lucite cube was an absolutely terrible idea, but was glad to see her tuck it away in her purse, just the same.

  “There,” she said briskly. “Mama say bye-bye, make all gone. Maybe when it doesn’t come back in a week—or two, I guess it all depends on how stu
bborn your subconscious wants to be—you can start giving the rest of the things away.” And her saying that was her real gift to me that day, although I didn’t know it then.

  “Maybe so,” I said, and smiled. Big smile for the new friend. Big smile for pretty Mama. All the time thinking, You’ll find out.

  Yow.

  She did.

  Three nights later, while I was watching Chuck Scarborough explain the city’s latest transit woes on the six o’clock news, my doorbell rang. Since no one had been announced, I assumed it was a package, maybe even Rafe with something from Federal Express. I opened the door and there stood Paula Robeson.

  This was not the woman with whom I’d had lunch. Call this version of Paula Ms. Yow, Ain’t That Chemotherapy Nasty. She was wearing a little lipstick but nothing else in the way of makeup, and her complexion was a sickly shade of yellow-white. There were dark brownish-purple arcs under her eyes. She might have given her hair a token swipe with the brush before coming down from the fifth floor, but it hadn’t done much good. It looked like straw and stuck out on either side of her head in a way that would have been comic-strip funny under other circumstances. She was holding the Lucite cube up in front of her breasts, allowing me to note that the well-kept nails on that hand were gone. She’d chewed them away, right down to the quick. And my first thought, God help me, was yep, she found out.

  She held it out to me. “Take it back,” she said.

  I did so without a word.

  “His name was Roland Abelson,” she said. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “He had red hair.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not married but paying child support to a woman in Rahway.”

  I hadn’t known that—didn’t believe anyone at Light and Bell had known that—but I nodded again, and not just to keep her rolling. I was sure she was right. “What was her name, Paula?” Not knowing why I was asking, not yet, just knowing I had to know.

  “Tonya Gregson.” It was as if she was in a trance. There was something in her eyes, though, something so terrible I could hardly stand to look at it. Nevertheless, I stored the name away. Tonya Gregson, Rahway. And then, like some guy doing stockroom inventory: One Lucite cube with penny inside.

  “He tried to crawl under his desk, did you know that? No, I can see you didn’t. His hair was on fire and he was crying. Because in that instant he understood he was never going to own a catamaran or even mow his lawn again.” She reached out and put a hand on my cheek, a gesture so intimate it would have been shocking had her hand not been so cold. “At the end, he would have given every cent he had, and every stock option he held, just to be able to mow his lawn again. Do you believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “The place was full of screams, he could smell jet fuel, and he understood it was his dying hour. Do you understand that? Do you understand the enormity of that?”

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak. You could have put a gun to my head and I still wouldn’t have been able to speak.

  “The politicians talk about memorials and courage and wars to end terrorism, but burning hair is apolitical.” She bared her teeth in an unspeakable grin. A moment later it was gone. “He was trying to crawl under his desk with his hair on fire. There was a plastic thing under his desk, a what-do-you-call it—”

  “Mat—”

  “Yes, a mat, a plastic mat, and his hands were on that and he could feel the ridges in the plastic and smell his own burning hair. Do you understand that?”

  I nodded. I started to cry. It was Roland Abelson we were talking about, this guy I used to work with. He was in Liability and I didn’t know him very well. To say hi to is all; how was I supposed to know he had a kid in Rahway? And if I hadn’t played hooky that day, my hair probably would have burned, too. I’d never really understood that before.

  “I don’t want to see you again,” she said. She flashed her gruesome grin once more, but now she was crying, too. “I don’t care about your problems. I don’t care about any of the shit you found. We’re quits. From now on you leave me alone.” She started to turn away, then turned back. She said: “They did it in the name of God, but there is no God. If there was a God, Mr. Staley, He would have struck all eighteen of them dead in their boarding lounges with their boarding passes in their hands, but no God did. They called for passengers to get on and those fucks just got on.”

  I watched her walk back to the elevator. Her back was very stiff. Her hair stuck out on either side of her head, making her look like a girl in a Sunday Funnies cartoon. She didn’t want to see me anymore, and I didn’t blame her. I closed the door and looked at the steel Abe Lincoln in the Lucite cube. I looked at him for quite a long time. I thought about how the hair of his beard would have smelled if U.S. Grant had stuck one of his everlasting cigars in it. That unpleasant frying aroma. On TV, someone was saying that there was a mattress blowout going on at Sleepy’s. After that, Len Berman came on and talked about the Jets.

  ______

  That night I woke up at two in the morning, listening to the voices whisper. I hadn’t had any dreams or visions of the people who owned the objects, hadn’t seen anyone with their hair on fire or jumping from the windows to escape the burning jet fuel, but why would I? I knew who they were, and the things they left behind had been left for me. Letting Paula Robeson take the Lucite cube had been wrong, but only because she was the wrong person.

  And speaking of Paula, one of the voices was hers. You can start giving the rest of the things away, it said. And it said, I guess it all depends on how stubborn your subconscious wants to be.

  I lay back down and after a while I was able to go to sleep. I dreamed I was in Central Park, feeding the ducks, when all at once there was a loud noise like a sonic boom and smoke filled the sky. In my dream, the smoke smelled like burning hair.

  I thought about Tonya Gregson in Rahway—Tonya and the child who might or might not have Roland Abelson’s eyes—and thought I’d have to work up to that one. I decided to start with Bruce Mason’s widow.

  I took the train to Dobbs Ferry and called a taxi from the station. The cabbie took me to a Cape Cod house on a residential street. I gave him some money, told him to wait—I wouldn’t be long—and rang the doorbell. I had a box under one arm. It looked like the kind that contains a bakery cake.

  I only had to ring once, because I’d called ahead and Janice Mason was expecting me. I had my story carefully prepared and told it with some confidence, knowing that the taxi sitting in the driveway, its meter running, would forestall any detailed cross-examination.

  On September seventh, I said—the Friday before—I had tried to blow a note from the conch Bruce kept on his desk, as I had heard Bruce himself do at the Jones Beach picnic. (Janice, Mrs. Lord of the Flies, nodding; she had been there, of course.) Well, I said, to make a long story short, I had persuaded Bruce to let me have the conch shell over the weekend so I could practice. Then, on Monday morning, I’d awakened with a raging sinus infection and a horrible headache to go with it. (This was a story I had already told several people.) I’d been drinking a cup of tea when I heard the boom and saw the rising smoke. I hadn’t thought of the conch shell again until just this week. I’d been cleaning out my little utility closet and by damn, there it was. And I just thought. . . well, it’s not much of a keepsake, but I just thought maybe you’d like to . . . you know . . .

  Her eyes filled up with tears just as mine had when Paula brought back Roland Abelson’s “retirement fund,” only these weren’t accompanied by the look of fright that I’m sure was on my own face as Paula stood there with her stiff hair sticking out on either side of her head. Janice told me she would be glad to have any keepsake of Bruce.

  “I can’t get over the way we said good-bye,” she said, holding the box in her arms. “He always left very early because he took the train. He kissed me on the cheek and I opened one eye and asked him if he’d bring back a pint of Half and Half. He said he would. That’s the last thin
g he ever said to me. When he asked me to marry him, I felt like Helen of Troy—stupid but absolutely true—and I wish I’d said something better than ‘Bring home a pint of Half and Half.’ But we’d been married a long time, and it seemed like business as usual that day, and . . . we don’t know, do we?”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Any parting could be forever, and we don’t know. Thank you, Mr. Staley. For coming out and bringing me this. That was very kind.” She smiled a little then. “Do you remember how he stood on the beach with his shirt off and blew it?”

  “Yes,” I said, and looked at the way she held the box. Later she would sit down and take the shell out and hold it on her lap and cry. I knew that the conch, at least, would never come back to my apartment. It was home.

  I returned to the station and caught the train back to New York. The cars were almost empty at that time of day, early afternoon, and I sat by a rain- and dirt-streaked window, looking out at the river and the approaching skyline. On cloudy and rainy days, you almost seem to be creating that skyline out of your own imagination, a piece at a time.

  Tomorrow I’d go to Rahway, with the penny in the Lucite cube. Perhaps the child would take it in his or her chubby hand and look at it curiously. In any case, it would be out of my life. I thought the only difficult thing to get rid of would be Jimmy Eagleton’s Farting Cushion—I could hardly tell Mrs. Eagleton I’d brought it home for the weekend in order to practice using it, could I? But necessity is the mother of invention, and I was confident that I would eventually think of some halfway plausible story.

  It occurred to me that other things might show up, in time. And I’d be lying if I told you I found that possibility entirely unpleasant. When it comes to returning things which people believe have been lost forever, things that have weight, there are compensations. Even if they’re only little things, like a pair of joke sunglasses or a steel penny in a Lucite cube . . . yeah. I’d have to say there are compensations.