Sliver

by Ira Levin

  Don’t Walk changed to Walk as she joined the people waiting. She crossed Madison and strolled back up on the other side, looking into a restaurant, Sarabeth’s; a hotel entrance, the Wales; another restaurant, Island, its front open to the mild weather. She went into Patrick Murphy’s Market.

  In narrow aisles stacked almost to the ceiling, she tracked down cat food and litter, yogurt and juices, cleaning supplies. The prices were higher than in the Village but she’d expected that. Her forties, she had decided, were going to be a decade of self-indulgence. She backtracked to the ice-cream case and took a chocolate chip.

  When she pushed her cart onto the shorter of the two checkout lines, the man in the Beethoven sweatshirt came along after her with a basket. He was in his sixties, his mane of gray hair unkempt. Beethoven was gray too, hair and face, white lines washed thin on the purplish sweatshirt. The basket held a pack of Ivory and some cans of sardines. “Hi,” he said, the slow shopper. Though maybe he’d gone somewhere else first.

  “Hi,” she said. “Why don’t you go ahead of me?”

  “Thanks,” he said, and went around her as she drew back her cart. He turned before it and looked at her, a bit shorter than she, light glinting in his dark-ringed eyes. “You moved in today, didn’t you,” he said. His voice had a rasp in it.

  She nodded.

  “I’m Sam Yale,” he said. “Welcome to Thirteen Hundred. A really rotten year.”

  She smiled. “Kay Norris,” she said, trying to remember where she’d heard the name Sam Yale before. Or seen it?

  “You brought a painting in the other day,” he said, backing into space by the end of the counter. “Is that by any chance a Hopper?”

  “Don’t I wish,” she said, following him with the cart. “It’s by an artist named Zwick who admires Hopper.”

  “It looks good,” he said. “At least from a third-floor window. I’m in three B.”

  “Are you an artist?” she asked.

  “Don’t I wish,” he said, turning. He moved over and put his basket on the counter before the clerk.

  She turned the cart against the end of the counter and unloaded it while Sam Yale—where had she seen that name?—paid for his soap and sardines.

  He waited by the exit door with his I-Heart-New-York bag, watching her, while the clerk tallied her items, made change, bagged everything, two bags.

  Streetlights shone under a violet sky when they came out. Traffic was jammed and honking, the sidewalk crowded. He said, “I figure that a woman who hires Mother Truckers wants to carry her own bags, am I right?”

  She smiled and said, “At the moment.”

  “Fine with me. . . .”

  Walking toward the corner, she looked beyond him at 1300’s towering tan slab. Violet sky filled the two lanes of windows climbing its narrow front. She spotted her own window all the way up, one from the top on the right. “It’s a goddamn eyesore, isn’t it?” Sam Yale rasped.

  She said, “The neighbors must have been thrilled.”

  “They fought it, for years.”

  She looked at him in profile. His nose had been battered long ago, his stubbly cheek was scarred. They were at the corner waiting. She said, “I’ve seen your name somewhere, or heard it.”

  “Son of a gun,” he said, looking across toward the sign. “Long ago maybe. I directed. TV, in the ‘golden age.’ When it was black and white and live from New York.” He glanced at her. “You were watching from your playpen.”

  “I wasn’t allowed to watch,” she said, “not till I was sixteen. Both my parents teach English.”

  “You didn’t miss much,” he said. “Kukla, Fran, and Ollie; the rest is overrated. Which isn’t to say it wasn’t better than today’s crapola.”

  The sign changed. They started across the avenue.

  “Now I remember,” she said, smiling at him. “You directed a play Thea Marshall was in.”

  He stopped, dark-ringed eyes looking at her.

  She stopped. “I saw a kinescope at the Museum of Broadcasting,” she said. “Last year. I’ve been told a few times that I look like her.” People hurried past them. “Let’s not get killed,” she said.

  They walked on across the avenue.

  “It’s a strong resemblance,” he said. “Even the vocal quality.”

  “I don’t see it at all,” she said. “Well, maybe a little . . .” She stopped on the sidewalk, faced him. “That’s why you followed me,” she said.

  He nodded, his gray hair lifted by a breeze. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to pester you,” he said. “I just wanted a better look. She wasn’t the love of my life or anything. She was someone I worked with a few times.”

  They walked toward the canopy.

  “What did she die of?” she asked.

  “A broken neck,” he said. “She fell down a flight of stairs.”

  She sighed and shook her head.

  The doorman hurried toward them—tall and thin, middle-aged, in glasses. “Hi, Walt,” Sam Yale said.

  Walt took her bags as she introduced herself.

  “I have to get something in Feldman’s,” Sam Yale said. “Which play did you see?”

  “It was set in a beach house,” she said. “Paul Newman was in it, about twenty-two.”

  “The Chambered Nautilus.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “The Steel Hour, Tad Mosel. She wasn’t bad in that.”

  “She was excellent,” she said. “Everyone was. It was a moving play, beautifully done.”

  “Thanks,” he said. Smiled at her. “See you,” he said, and turned and went.

  “See you,” she said, and watched him go toward the housewares store farther up the block, walking briskly—black sneakers, jeans, the faded purplish sweatshirt. She turned. Walt stood inside the lobby in his gray uniform, his back against the open door, looking at her, holding her two bags of groceries one-handed at his side.

  “Sorry,” she said. She went past him into the lobby and across it toward the open left-hand elevator, unsnapping her wallet as she went.

  He brought the bags in after her and set them down on the floor by the door.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling, offering her hand.

  He stood up tall, his face lined, his steel-rimmed glasses blank with reflected light. He took her hand. “Thank you, Miss Norris,” he said in a baritone surprisingly deep and resonant for his thin frame. “It’s nice to have you in the building.” He withdrew his hand and stepped back.

  “Thanks, Walt, it’s nice to be here,” she said, and touched the 20 button alight.

  The door slid closed.

  She watched the changing number above it.

  Sam Yale . . . Interesting. And amusing.

  Sixty-five at least.

  She called the folks and Bob and Cass, to tell them she was in and how great it was. Ate a strawberry yogurt gazing at glittering high-rises nearer the river, Matchbox traffic down below. She’d opened the window a few inches at either side; the traffic sounds were a pleasant urban hum compared to the grinding and growling outside the old apartment’s second-floor windows.

  She washed up, fed the portable player the first cassette of John Gielgud reading Dombey and Son, and—feeling uneasy, she wasn’t sure why—went to work on the bedroom cartons.

  Even with Kay Norris of the copper-brown eyes—a far nicer color than the green he’d expected—even with Kay Norris of the cream skin and the sable hair, even with Kay Norris of the bosomed shirt and the buttocked jeans, hanging up dresses and putting things into drawers got boring after a while. John Gielgud reading Dombey and Son didn’t help.

  He kept her on 2, switched the sound to 1, and scanned the monitors, swiveling in the chair, sipping the celebratory gin and tonic.

  Half of them were out, either for the evening or the whole damn Indian-summer weekend. Half of the ones who were in were in their kitchens or watching the tube or reading.

  He watched the Gruens arguing about their bridge signals, Daisy against usi
ng them, Glenn insisting. Frank and his fiancée coming to play.

  He watched Ruby taking Polaroids of Ginger.

  Mark coming in with flowers—a sound move but a night too late.

  He watched the week’s man from Yoshiwara setting the low dark table for two. Kay was arranging shoes on the closet floor. Both crouching in their different cultures. Nice bit.

  He listened to Stefan and a fireman in Cincinnati who had answered the ad. Liz giving her mother the week’s dirt from Price Waterhouse.

  Bonanza! Dr. Palme came into the lobby, nodded to John as he went to the elevators. On a Friday evening? Of an Indian-summer weekend? Somebody had to be in desperate trouble.

  Nina? Hugh? Michelle? Or could the good doctor be up to hanky-panky?

  Kay was still doing shoes. He put Dr. Palme’s office on 1, turned the sound higher, got up. Stretched—a good groaner, punching the small of his back—and brought the empty glass to the kitchen, went on into the bathroom.

  Stood thinking about her, recalling her colors. . . .

  Zipped. Flushed the black bowl.

  He went into the kitchen and made another gin and tonic, lighter this time, hearing the creaks of Dr. Palme’s leather chair, the ping and click of the fresh tape being put into the recorder. Stirring the drink with a fork handle, he looked out through the pass-through. She stood by the night table, a white phone at her cheek. He threw the fork on the dishes in the sink and hurried back in, switching the sound to 2 and the phone link on as he sat down in the warm chair. “—FOR THE MOON, DAMN IT,” a man boomed—he turned the sound lower—“just a few minutes somewhere talking face to face! Is that such a big fucking deal?”

  The clock said 9:53 when she hung up. She rolled onto her back, drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, blinked a few times. Lay with an arm across her forehead, looking at her miniature self hovering beyond the foot of the bed in the center of the ceiling light.

  Good for you, Tiny.

  Over and done with. Finally. Forever.

  She lay there a while longer, then reached to the night table and gathered the damp tissues. Got up and went into the bathroom, blowing her nose. Tossed the tissues into the black bowl and flushed it; moved to the black sink, patted cold water on her eyes and face. Took up the soap and scrubbed.

  Looked at herself in the mirror as she toweled.

  Good for you too.

  And enough work for the day.

  She called Roxie and got the machine. “Don’t bother,” she said, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’m turning in.”

  She replaced Dickens and Gielgud with Segovia’s guitar. Made the bed with stiff new clean-smelling linens, the yellow-flowered set.

  She went into the kitchen, took a taste of the chocolate chip. Yum. Got the cleanser and sponge from under the sink, went into the bathroom.

  She scrubbed the large black tub, bending and stretching, sweeping it rim to rim with sponge-strokes of foam. Gripped the chrome Art Deco spout and muzzled its mouth with her fingers; sprayed the foam down the curving black walls, chased it into the chrome-rimmed drain.

  She ran the water hot on her wrist and started the tub filling. Squeezed a jade loop of Vitabath into the water, watched foam grow and spread. Dimmed the ceiling light—beautiful, those lights—dimmed it to a pale glow on the black glass and porcelain.

  She undressed in the bedroom, lights out, the blind up. The distant cliff of light was Central Park West. Lights twinkled in the park’s darkness, except where part of the reservoir lay.

  She opened the left-hand side of the window; tugged with both hands at the rim of the bronze-bound panel, slid it a foot or so in its stubborn knee-high track. A warm breeze brushed her bare skin; the weather forecasts had been right for a change.

  Ahead and far below—fourteen floors, she had worked it out—the pinnacled Gothic roof of the Jewish Museum lay lit by the windows of the apartment house alongside.

  She smiled down at the dollhouse mansion.

  Heights didn’t bother her. Her office at Diadem was on the forty-eighth floor, one wall of it glass from floor to ceiling.

  Once again and worse than ever he wanted to kick himself for not having changed the bathrooms to white. Or gray, which would have been best. He had thought about doing it when he bought the building but the black fixtures had already been ordered and the Colonel had sworn that the Takai Z/3, which had just come onto the market, could pick up newsprint by matchlight. And it would have been hard explaining to Edgar and company, who already thought he was bonkers, why he was giving up a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit to change the color of the bathrooms. So he had stayed with black, Barry Beck’s idea of classy design.

  Between the black and the dim light and the damn foam, he could have been watching Dynasty.

  Just about . . .

  He had the brightness at max, so no contrast at all—everything soaked in gray, worse than a kinny. She was beautiful though, lying with her head resting on the corner of the tub by the wall, copper-brown eyes closed, her feet coming out through the foam now and then in the opposite corner. Sometimes just her toes. You could tell by the foam’s slow rolling that she was stroking herself underneath it—nothing heavy, just relaxing, easing herself after the long day moving and the shit Jeff had dumped on her.

  She had looked over at him—at her reflection in the light, of course—twice. The first time she’d smiled and waved a little. Knocked him out of the chair. He’d waved back and said “Hi, Kay”—gin and tonic number three. The second time she’d swung her head slowly from side to side, gazing at him.

  He had her on both masters and was taping Dr. Palme and Hugh, which was too painful and distracting for simultaneous viewing. Rocky was in Chicago overnight for his nephew’s wedding, so he was able to focus on her completely.

  No, not completely. He had to look around in Rocky’s apartment later on. No more drinks after this one. Seriously. It was a golden opportunity; maybe he could find an appointment schedule and settle whether or not he was being paranoid.

  Her hand came out of the foam and stroked her throat, massaging; stroked the side of her neck. The sloshing water sounded glassy, brilliant. Behind it, the ventilator hummed, the guitar plinked. Segovia?

  She frowned. Still thinking about that bastard Jeff most likely. How could she have lived with him for two years? It boggled the mind, despite Babette and Lauren and the other women he’d seen put up with exactly the same kind of turd. Jesus, Kay . . .

  He leaned back, swiveled, fished with a foot under the console. Hooked out the leather pig and pulled it closer; crossed his feet on its back, wiggled his bare toes. Drank from the glass, watching her. Held the glass in his lap, its wet base pressed in his hair.

  He had undressed when she did.

  He sucked a sliver of ice, watching her. The two of her, side by side on the masters.

  Beautiful . . .

  . . . the quick-fingered guitar, the pine scent, the hissing foam . . . the hot silky water, herself so smooth in it . . .

  But something was bugging her. . . .

  A sense of a missed signal. Of odd vibes that had come at her that day, before Jeff, vibes she’d been too rushed to pick up on . . .

  From Sam Yale? When he’d stopped in the middle of the avenue and looked at her with those insomniac eyes? Had he been lying about his strictly professional relationship with Thea Marshall? In a Gothic or thriller he would have been. . . .

  What was definitely odd about him was his living there, in 1300 Madison Avenue. Old directors in sweatshirts and jeans lived in rent-controlled apartments on the West Side, or down in the Village or SoHo, among the actors and artists and writers. What was he doing in a new high-rise on the Yupper East Side? When had he stopped directing? Why?

  What did Pete Henderson do, shopping for groceries on a Friday morning?

  Worked nights, worked at home, was on vacation, had won the lottery. Whichever it was, what a doll—the dynamite smile, the vivid blue eyes, the reddish-brown hair. Nothing odd
about his vibes; he was young and smitten, like assistant editors. If he were fifteen years older . . . Or ten . . .

  The jogger in his hooded sweatsuit, jogging in place, watching her—was he the one who was bugging her? He’d been attractive in the glimpse she’d gotten, the rawboned cheeks and sandy mustache. Marlboro Country. Married or gay, be sure.

  Walt, when she’d tipped him? His light-blanked eyes . . .

  The blond mover? No missing her signals . . .

  She shifted under the foam.

  Maybe what was really bugging her was being alone. . . . No Felice, no nobody, on the first night in a new apartment. Strangers above and strangers below, a stranger next door. (V. Travisano, the 20A doorbell said. Victor? Victoria?)

  She sat up and leaned back, her arms along the end and side of the tub. Looked at the glowing ceiling light, the curved pale patch in its dark iris, the tiny figure seated in it.

  She blew foam from her breasts—left, right, chilling her hard nipples. Peered at the tiny dark-haired figure . . .

  Lifted her leg from the water, watching the tiny leg, foam sliding from her heel . . . Arched her foot . . . watching . . .

  Touched her toe to the tip of the chrome Art Deco spout. . .

  Slid low in the water, foam islands breaking . . .

  Maybe what she really needed . . . maybe? . . . was an easing of the tension. . . .

  He timed it so they came together. It was great. For what it was . . .

  Sprawled with one foot on the pig and one on the floor, he caught his breath, his hand full of tissues and himself.

  He stayed for a while without moving, just breathing, watching her doing the same in the foam-flecked water. Both of her, turned toward the wall, showing their Thea Marshall profiles, eyes closed. So doubly beautiful . . .

  He must never put himself in her path again.

  He knew. He wasn’t planning to . . .

  If it happened, all right, but it was to be AVOIDED.

  He knew.

  Remember Naomi.

  He did. And felt rotten about her, still.

  He got up, holding himself with the tissues. Kay was back in business too, the two of her, sitting up, soaping their underarms.