Stop-Time

by Frank Conroy

  “No, I don’t mean that. What did you say to her?”

  “Oh. Well, I was sitting there watching all that stuff pile up on the sidewalk and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let her leave it at eighty-one. We’ve got all that room and it’ll only be a day or two. She’s in a tough spot.”

  “She sure has a lot of stuff.”

  “You have to help people once in a while. This city is ruthless. You could die on the street and no one would lift a finger.”

  At her apartment house—a small brownstone in the East Sixties—Jean opened the front door and we walked down a carpeted hallway toward the back. “Luckily it’s on the ground floor,” he said softly. It took me a moment to realize we weren’t already in her apartment—the public foyer was luxuriously fitted with mirrors, heavy drapes, and antique furniture. The door in back was open and the lights were on.

  “You know what she paid for this place?” Jean asked, standing in the middle of the empty room. “Two rooms and a lousy little kitchenette? Almost three hundred dollars.”

  “Jesus!” This was life on a grand scale, and I felt excitement rising again. “Why so much?”

  “Location,” Jean said, waving his arm. “Snob appeal.”

  A short, fat man in a black suit came in from the hall and stood by the door. “You get the stuff out?”

  “Almost. There’s one more load in the bedroom.”

  “Okay. Good. I got somebody coming to see the place tonight.”

  I watched the two men. They both looked at the floor, avoiding each other’s eyes. Then Jean turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said, and moved off into the other room. I followed. “Take that bag and I’ll get the rest.”

  I hoisted a pillow case filled with high-heeled shoes over my shoulder and waited as Jean picked up some boxes and two small wicker chairs.

  The man in the black suit was still waiting by the door. He stuck out his hand. “The keys, please.”

  Jean put everything down and fished in his pocket. “You shouldn’t have put her stuff in the street,” he said, holding them out.

  Sighing, the man took the keys. “You don’t think so? No rent for four months. Screaming her head off at three in the morning. Breaking windows. I had to replace the mirror in the bathroom twice. The place like a pigsty.” He shook his head. “She brought the roaches. We never had roaches in here before. Nice people live here. This isn’t a crazy house.”

  “Not out on the street like that without warning.”

  “Warning! I been telling her nothing else for the past month. You think I wanted to do it? I know she’s sick.”

  “What’s the matter with her?” I asked Jean.

  “Never mind,” he said, picking up the chairs.

  The man preceded us down the hall. “You don’t know. I tried everything but she wouldn’t listen. I don’t think she understood the words. I’d say something and she’d go on as if she didn’t hear me.” He opened the front door and stood aside. As Jean passed he put out his hand and touched him on the shoulder, “Listen, you’re okay. You work for a living. Listen to me. Don’t get mixed up with that woman. She’s crazy. She can’t help herself. You understand? Crazy!”

  Jean went out the door without answering. As I passed I saw the man shake his head. “All right,” he said to himself, “don’t listen.”

  The druggist leaned over the counter and gave me back the prescription. “Tell Miss Smith she’ll have to pick this up herself. I can’t give it to you.”

  It flashed through my mind that she might expect me to return the quarter she’d given me to run the errand, a quarter already diminished by the price of two candy bars. “Just this once?” I asked. “You know me.”

  “I know you, Red, but there are laws. She’ll have to come herself.”

  I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. “What is it, heroin?”

  “Not quite.” Smiling, he went back to the rear of the store.

  I paused for a moment at the book rack by the door to see if anything new had come in. Only a few mysteries, and I didn’t read mysteries. Outside it was sunny and warm. I ran back to the house, making a point to jump over the cracks in the sidewalk. I didn’t run for fun, but most often out of nervousness. Sometimes anger. In the elevator I ate one of the candy bars. She came out of her room the instant I opened the front door. “He wouldn’t give it to me. He says you have to get it yourself.”

  She tossed her head and made a hissing sound with her teeth. “Stupid little man.” I followed her into the room. “I should have known,” she said. “They like to exercise their puny power.” With a jerk of her thin arms she pulled a drawer so smartly it almost came out of the bureau. “A glass of water, sweetie.”

  When I came back she was waiting with a large white tablet. It effervesced as it struck the water.

  “What’s that?”

  “A pill. Just a pill for that old zing.” She drained the glass and threw it to me. “Catch!”

  Luckily I did. “Hey!”

  She laughed and turned away.

  She threw off her housecoat without the slightest selfconsciousness and stood in front of the closet in her slip. “Ugh!” she said, leafing through the dresses with her long white arms. “Ghastly! Prehistorically old!” She finally selected one and pulled it out, letting the hanger fall to the floor. “This for the druggist. Ho ho.”

  Her body left me entirely cold. The way the stringy muscles sagged ever so slightly under the skin, the fishy whiteness of her, the quick birdlike nervousness of every move—she was thin soup when one wanted stew. Despite the time she gave to grooming, it was obvious that even to herself her body was beneath notice. She prettied herself with much the same air of dazed inattention as my mother washed dishes, not for pleasure but because it had to be done.

  Dressed, she picked through the confusion of jars, tubes, bottles, letters, lipsticks, notes, cigarettes, hair rollers that littered the top of the bureau. “Aha!” she said as she found what she was looking for, a black, dog-eared address book. It was characteristic of her to make small exclamatory noises of accompaniment with even the simplest act. “So!” she would say the instant before touching a lipstick to her mouth, or, as she polished her nails, “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home.” She did it even when she thought herself alone. “Time for a little chat with the outside world.” She sat on the edge of the bed, lighted a cigarette, and took the phone on her lap. “Be a dear and see if there’s any more coffee, would you?”

  In the kitchen I poured a fresh cup. Black, no sugar. Walking back down the hall I heard her on the phone.

  “It has been ages, sweetie, but it’s really the old story. Zillions of things to do. Running around like a headless chicken. To top it all off I’m moving. In the midst of everything.” She took the coffee without looking at me. “Utter chaos, of course, but the old place was getting me down. It was really too small, altogether too small. And the landlord! He simply wouldn’t leave me alone. Always lurking around with a wimpy smile and garlic on his breath. An absolute fiend.” She took a sip of coffee and crushed the half-smoked cigarette. “With friends until I find a new place. It’s so impossible to get anything good. I hope this week, though. I have a few leads. Hmm. Would you? That would be marvelous, sweetie, but don’t go to any trouble. Oh yes.” She glanced down at the dial of the phone. “Atwater nine, eight-five-nine-nine. Now the thing is I have an idea for a piece. I saw the last issue and since you girls are getting so daring and modern and everything I thought it might be right for you. I thought about two thousand words on career-girl dating. The new mores, you know. The thing about actually being afraid to meet mister right. The independence thing. A short piece. Aimed at the young. That’s right.” Very quickly, holding the phone against her shoulder with the side of her head, she lighted a cigarette and shook out the match. “Preachy! You know me better than that, sweetie. Of course it won’t be preachy. Am I the preachy type?” She stuck out the tip of her tongue, made a pincer of thu
mb and middle finger, and removed a fleck of tobacco. “If you mean on spec I don’t do that.” Her eyes closed, the lids trembling almost imperceptibly. “Well, tell them I’m a pro, for God’s sake. They must have read my stuff.” She listened, her eyes still closed, index finger tapping at the cigarette. Suddenly she sat up very straight and threw her head back, chin in the air, to stare at the ceiling. “No. Forget it. Too complicated. I’ll send it someplace else.” She grabbed the receiver with her other hand, holding it now with both hands as if anticipating the end of the conversation. “Yes. Maybe so. Thursday lunch? Just a sec, I’ll look in my book.” She remained motionless. I held my breath, unreasonably afraid that some action of my own might give the lie away. “Thursday’s bad, sweetie. I’m tied up with some Hollywood types. Why don’t I call you next week. Fine. Bye-bye.” She hung up, leaving her hand on the phone.

  “What does spec mean?” I asked.

  “It means you wait for your money.” She lifted the receiver and dialed a number rapidly, her fingers jabbing into the holes almost before they stopped spinning. “Tony? Nell Smith. All right. I’ll hold.”

  I went to the window and looked down into the alley. Two kids were playing handball against the wall. As I watched a point was lost and they exchanged places.

  “First of all, where the hell is that check? You said the same thing last week. Call financing, then. Call whoever you have to. I’m sick, don’t you understand? I need the money. I ... need ... the ... money,” she said, separating each word. “What happened with the screenplay? Did you call Harry?” Another point and the boys in the alley were back where they started. I turned from the window. “He didn’t sound that way last week. Tell him I’ll go out there if I have to. Expenses of course. I’m not counting on it, but for God’s sake see if you can’t do something. Push it. We’ve made it before.” She paused. “So what? Harry doesn’t know that. Why bring it up anyway? You’re supposed to be on my side. Yes, yes, I know. I want to see your man—what else do you want? Pompous little Jew telling me I’m too thin. Ridiculous. If you want to help get me some work.” Her mouth tightened in annoyance. “I’m typing it up. They’ll have it this week. Did you know Greg Peck is in town? What about an interview? Will you try? I’ll call him and you get me something in front. Really try now, Tony. I’m not kidding.”

  I walked past her into the hall to my own room two doors away. Sitting on the edge of my bed I listened to her voice while indulging in a favorite vice, the slow removal, millimeter by millimeter, of fingernails so short there was almost nothing left to bite. Sadness crept over me—a sadness I didn’t question, a sadness so profound I understood it could not have come from life, or any source within my conceptual scope, but instead seeped into me from the very air, from the whole extant universe in which I was less than a speck, sadness that was not emotion but the awareness of vast emptinesses. With my head in my hands I looked down at my feet, knowing that at any second my body might fade out, wavering into invisibility like Robert Donat in The Ghost Goes West.

  Jean parked the car at a hack stand just off Fifth Avenue and we got out. Nell Smith led the way, striding along the sidewalk with her head held high, looking splendidly fresh in spotless white shoes, a suit of blue silk, and white gloves. She smiled as people moved out of her way. The door to the shop opened magically and she entered without breaking her stride. Behind her, Jean and I strove to keep up. The man holding the door nodded as we passed.

  A salesman fell in alongside as she moved down the carpeted aisle between the glittering showcases. “I want a portable phonograph for my niece,” she said without moving her head. “Something very nice.”

  “Yes madam. This way.”

  We moved toward the back of the store. I almost collided with Jean as Nell stopped abruptly, her attention caught by something on one of the counters. “What’s that?”

  “Ah yes.” The salesman raised his arm in the air and snapped his fingers. “Mr. Chambers knows about that.”

  Mr. Chambers approached quickly on the other side of the counter. “First of all we have an exceptionally fine radio,” he said, snapping open the case. “Standard frequencies along this scale,” he pointed with a pencil, “long wave ship to shore here, short wave, police band, European, ham operators, and all the rest. The entire spectrum.” He opened the back. “Normal antenna plus a directional antenna.”

  “A fine piece of equipment,” said the first salesman at her elbow.

  “A map and radio log here m back,” Mr. Chambers went on, “and over here a complete weather system.” He pointed with the pencil again. “A barometer, delicate enough to be used as an altimeter, and a highly sensitive thermometer.”

  “There’s an instruction book explaining it all in detail,” the first salesman said.

  Nell extended a gloved finger and twirled one of the dials. “Very nice.”

  Everyone stood still. I found myself hoping desperately that she’d buy it. It would only be around a day or two, I knew, but what fun it would be. Paris. London. Rome. Police calls.

  “Where are the phonographs?” Nell asked, stepping away. “First things first.”

  “Yes madam. This way.”

  In another part of the store a selection of portable phonographs was on display, each on its own table. Nell went directly to a machine encased in fine leather. “This looks nice. Frank, pick out a record and we’ll hear what it sounds like.”

  Aware that I’d probably get to keep whatever I chose, I flipped through the musical comedies, vocals, and pop-music albums impatiently, my hands shaking with greed. I was being bought. I could sense it but I didn’t care. I deserved a piece of the action. When a boxed, sealed album of Benny Goodman’s 1938 jazz concert met my eye I didn’t hesitate an instant. It was satisfyingly expensive and heavy in my hands.

  After a minute or two of “Sing Sing Sing” Nell nodded. “I’ll take it. How much is it?”

  “Two hundred dollars plus tax,” the salesman answered, flipping the switch.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Our old ’36 Ford, the indestructible Ford that had carried us so many miles, cost two hundred dollars. The cabin and three acres in Connecticut hadn’t cost very much more. For two hundred dollars I could go to the movies for the rest of my life. It was fantastic, and yet Nell seemed almost not to have heard. “Get it ready, will you,” she ordered. “This gentleman will take it out to the car.”

  “Certainly madam,” the salesman said, opening his book. “Is that a charge or cash?”

  “Charge. The name is Nell Smith.” She sat down, crossed her legs and took out a cigarette. Her white foot moved gently in the air as she waited.

  The next day Nell and I watched Jean emerge from an Eighth Avenue pawnshop. He leaned over and spoke through the open window of the cab. “Seventy-five dollars. He won’t go any higher.”

  Nell tapped her foot. “God damn thieves.” She hesitated, her hand on the window shelf. “We’d better take it. I can always go back for the radio next week. Yes, go ahead. Get the money.”

  For the first two or three weeks Jean was happy. I remember standing with him at the top of the hall watching Nell walk down to her room. “Quite a gal,” he said. He seemed about to break into a little dance. His eyes sparkled. “Look at those legs.”

  I threw a perfunctory glance. “Oh, I don’t know. She’s too skinny.”

  He laughed and winked at me. “Quite a gal, quite a gal.” Was he trying to tell me something? Was he so proud of himself he couldn’t contain it? It’s quite possible, given her hysterical state, that he never slept with her, but the more I think about it, the more it seems he did. Something about that wink, and the twinkle in his eye, something in his irrepressible good humor suggesting a boy with his hand in the cookie jar, something in the movement of his body, the hint of a dandified, cocky jig in his step....

  He would sit in the kitchen watching her whip up a soufflé. Every now and then she’d make some terribly elaborate meal employing every utensil in the shelves,
every bowl and dish there was, only to leave it all at the end for someone else to clean up. Her chatter rarely stopped—a bright, quick stream as she flitted back and forth. He laughed his hoarse, croaking laugh and never took his eyes off her. He told dialect stories by the dozens, keeping them moderately clean while I was around. He even started her on vitamins and wheat germ, ranting by the hour about how it was the only way to fight the poisons in refined foods. He half convinced her the sickness she talked so much about was due to improper diet. They talked and talked in the kitchen, over meals, over coffee, sometimes all day when Jean wasn’t working. A Niagara of words, round and round, back and forth in a marathon of gab. Jean emptied his bag of verbal tricks once more. All the techniques grown stale with my mother were fresh again, gambits that she had learned to see through or ignore worked anew. It was delirious! For an oral maniac the chance to pour word-magic into fresh and captive ear satisfies a need as deep as sex. His delight in himself was reborn.

  He must have been at his most charming the night they went to Bill Miller’s Riviera, an expensive night club on the New Jersey Palisades. He might even have looked around the table at the other members of the party, people Nell knew, successful men and beautiful women—a producer, perhaps, a gossip columnist, a famous actor, a writer—he might have lifted his champagne and believed that at long last he was going to get the break he’d been waiting for. At any moment a word spoken by one of these powerful men might change his life. An invitation that would lead to other invitations. Recognition of his unique talents. The offer of a high-paying job in which his unorthodox ideas would be shown once and for all to be viable, in which he would have a completely free hand.

  Why should he have expected these things? Because for all his knocking around his view of the world was incredibly naive. He believed important jobs were handed out in night clubs by impulsive millionaires and that he was the sort of man they might be given to. Spoiled all his life, supported and fussed over by one woman after another, he deeply believed that the good things in life were given to one. Food, clothing, and the bare necessities had to be earned, but after that, to move on to anything grander than that, it was a question of being in the right place at the right time, or knowing the right people or simply being lucky. It never occurred to Jean to work hard at anything except menial labor. He was always above his work, the secret possessor of an inner wealth untouched by the world —his image of himself.