The brownstone, p.11
The Brownstone, page 11
Fein lifted his lean body from the chair, and in a soft, low voice said, “I’m sorry, but we don’t have to take this abuse. If you don’t like the way we do things, you should step down as director.”
“Gladly!”
And that was the end of that. Justin hit the door, brushed through a sea of people, and hollered—“Next!”
Justin had a hard time keeping his eyes open as the number 10 bus lazily made its way up Central Park West. Producers! that was a laugh. Produce my ass, Justin thought, sliding farther down in his seat. They weren’t bull-shitting him. There was only one real producer—the older kid. Who, no doubt, got his money from his father. The invisible man. The play was just one more nice expensive present for the Harvard brat. Jesus, he despised that kid. You work and you work and along comes an imbecile with a wad of bills in his hand and a fat-assed, pimple-faced yes-man at his side and he takes it all. Goddamn this business. Goddamn that black-haired, eye-glassed, suited, vested, sanctimonious adolescent. Some kind of a genius, probably, without a granule of common sense. Ambitious, ruthless, smooth, Harvey Fein.
Passing the museum, his thoughts shifted to Chandal. On top of everything else, now he had to feel guilty. He could hear the conversation in his head. The baby, the money, ad infinitum, but at the bottom of it all—he was sorry. Ashamed and sorry. He made his way down the aisle, feeling his eyelids weighting down. He needed sleep.
Stepping from the bus, he felt the cold air hit him in the face like a parental slap. Hastily, he pulled up his collar and headed for the brownstone. He had acted like an ass. A real ass. Childish was a more accurate description. He had just created an ugly scene. Anyone observing would have regarded him as a son-of-a-bitch, a really spoiled brat. This made him mad, because he wasn’t that at all. He knew that. Deep down inside his guts, there was a nicer person. Still, he hadn’t given those two guys half a chance. Why? What the hell was wrong with him lately?
He took the concrete steps in front of the brownstone one at a time, slowly, stopping on the third step, trying to figure it all out. He dreaded telling Chandal that he had just lost his job. That would be the worst of it. Justin suffered a sudden shiver of apprehension. Moving into this building—had it really been the right thing to do? Normally, he had jumped into things without giving them a second thought. Even after they hadn’t worked out, he still never looked back with regret. Yet, here he stood, shivering with fear.
Objectively, he could see that Chandal had been right. Suddenly he couldn’t justify his own reasons for taking the brownstone, and wished now that he hadn’t. He despised himself for this thought, not for any other reason except that what he was feeling was something terribly akin to self-pity. His father had always moped around the house feeling sorry for himself, and look where it had gotten him.
He slipped the key into the lock, wishing Chandal was home. He needed her and wished that she was here to take away the self-doubt.
The brownstone was unusually still.
Justin sat down in his leather armchair, closed his eyes, and repeated to himself again and again: I do love you, Chandal. I do. His eyes rolled back under his lids and his head fell forward. As he slept, he watched himself rise, cross to the foot of the stairs, and start upward to the second floor. After walking down a long corridor, he entered Magdalen’s bedroom. There she lay in flowing white, with her hands resting comfortably across her chest. Her face was pale and calm; her eyes blazed with youth. She smiled.
“I will not be with you much longer,” she said softly. “But, if I must leave you, I wish it that you should not forget me; therefore, I want you to have this.” He felt the sensation of touching her and of his caress being returned.
She wore two rings on her left hand, both identical. She drew one of the rings from her finger and gave it to Justin. “I want you to wear it and think of me when I am no longer with you.”
A sharp pain shot through Justin’s chest and tears welled in his eyes. He would awaken later that evening and not remember any of this.
CHAPTER TEN
WILD CRIES ECHOED DOWN THE CORRIDOR OF THE museum as Chandal covered her typewriter. Thank God it was Friday. She watched the guard escort four unruly youths from the building. Arm in arm, they lurched away from his grasp and dashed around the corner to cause more trouble.
Chandal’s appointment with the doctor was at six.
“You look done in. What’s the matter—you sick?” asked Sheila, helping Chandal with her coat.
“Oh, no. No—I’m just not sleeping well lately.”
Sheila opened her mouth to ask why, but the look on Chandal’s pale face as she turned away forbade questions. Opening the door for Chandal, she said, “Have a nice weekend.”
Chandal nodded her head. Sheila had become a good friend in a very short time. She’d covered for Chandal during the week, typing when Chandal’s fingers couldn’t find the keys, sorting out the important correspondence from the mundane, suggesting the best way to handle cataloging, tagging, doing the inventory. What to eat, where to go. Yes, Sheila had been a good friend.
Something different, Chandal thought, from Sissy. Sissy had changed when she started to climb the executive ladder. She was not quite ruthless. Only a little more aggressive, less sensitive to their friendship, less time for lunch, less time for phone calls.
Sheila, on the other hand, had come to peace in her life. That was it. She had accepted who she was and was willing to share herself with others. There was a calm that seemed to follow her about. An openness. Chandal had responded immediately to this calmness, allowing it to stabilize her own anxiety. With Sissy, there was always a hectic flush to the atmosphere, as if something was about to happen. That’s what had first attracted Chandal to her. The excitement. At first, it was a relaxed kind of excitement, an excitement that was nice to be near. But lately, Sissy brought a falseness into the room with her, a pretentious air of importance, displayed in the way she dressed, the way she talked, the sunglasses, always the sunglasses, and more. Sissy’s thoughts were on success. Not just in order to succeed, but success for power’s sake. It was as if she were trying to prove something now. To her ex-husband? To her constant stream of boyfriends?
“Hey, you going to be all right?” Sheila asked, still hanging comfortably in the doorway.
Chandal turned, nodded tensely, and left the office.
The room was large, with lots of windows and light. Wearing a white gown, Chandal sat on the doctor’s examining table. Dr. Axelrod had just completed her checkup. It had been a slow and very thorough examination, painful for Chandal, who had never learned not to tense against gynecologic probings. The nurse had also jotted down a medical history and had taken urine and blood specimens. The doctor was now standing with his back to Chandal, talking to the nurse and making a few notes on her chart. Absently, Chandal ran her hand through her hair, straightening it.
“Well, any questions?” The doctor’s face was kind, his lips curved into cheerful lines.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. I was—”
“In another world,” finished the doctor, chuckling. He studied her for a moment and then made a notation on her chart. “I’ve given you a prescription that should give you a little more energy. Nancy will give you a diet and make another appointment.” He indicated his pretty nurse with the tip of his pen and Chandal wondered instantly if they were having an affair. “All right?”
“Oh? Oh, yes—thank you.” She stared at the doctor but didn’t move.
“You are in deep thought today, aren’t you?” He laughed.
“Doctor, do any of your patients, I mean—during their pregnancies, start to imagine things?”
“Like what?”
“Nothing specific.” She looked away.
“I think I understand.” He sat beside her on the swivel stool. “This is going to be your first baby, right?”
She nodded.
“Keep in mind that it is not only a physical experience, but an emotional one, as well. Fear is sometimes involved. Extreme anxiety often triggers the imagination.” He saw the uncertainty on Chandal’s face. “Is it a personal problem?”
She said nothing.
“Be patient with yourself—and with your husband. I was a nervous wreck during my wife’s first pregnancy. Take my advice—relax. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Chandal felt oddly relieved. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll try,” she said. “Thanks, Dr. Axelrod.”
“You’re welcome. And next time, we’ll talk again—if you’re still imagining things.”
Only a few blocks from the brownstone, Chandal was forced to take a cab. It was snowing hard and the sidewalks were iced over, making it impossible to walk. She snuggled down into the back seat. She was in a better mood and anxious to be with Justin.
When she arrived home, Mintz was waiting for her.
“And how are you? I’ll bet anything you’re hungry!” Moving down the hallway, Mintz in her arms, she saw Justin asleep in the easy chair. Poor Justin, she thought. He’s tired. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sleep sitting up before. Not that I forgive you for staying out all night, she said silently, but not harshly. Tiptoeing past his sleeping body, she went into the kitchen, fed Mintz, and plugged in the percolator. After freshening up, she woke Justin.
“Oh, hi, babe—you just get in?” Justin looked around the room, to get his bearings.
“Yes, and you should see it out there. It’s a blizzard! I made some fresh coffee.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
Of course, thought Justin. He was in the living room. He got up and stretched just as the telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said. “Hello?”
It was Harvey Fein, the producer. Anxiously, he asked if Justin would reconsider. He was sorry and hoped Justin wouldn’t hold it against him. “Tell you what,” said Harvey, “we’ll hold the last open call ourselves Saturday. How’s that? You don’t have to be there. Take the weekend off—relax.” They agreed to start fresh first thing Monday morning. Actors through agents only—readings. Differences settled, they hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Chandal, bringing the tray.
“Oh, the producers. They just wanted me to know how pleased they were with the way things are going.”
Settling down on the couch, Justin and Chandal continued to talk over coffee. After comparing notes, they decided the rest of the world was crazy and they were happy to be alone together. “Very happy.” whispered Justin—“and very hungry.” She laughed, picked up the coffee tray, and moved toward the kitchen. The phone rang again. This time, it was her mother. “Here you go, honey.” Justin handed her the phone and lowered the TV.
“Hi, Mom. How are you? When are you coming over?”
Her mother told her in gloomy pleasure that she couldn’t. “I can hardly move—the worst pain. I’m so sick. I can’t tell you how I’m suffering.”
Chandal told her to stay in bed, call the doctor, and take fluids. She’d get better quickly.
“I won’t,” whined her mother.
“You will.” Chandal smiled. Barring sickness from her thoughts, she hung up.
“Ma got a bug?” Justin laughed.
“Right on schedule. She’s been healthy for almost two whole days now.”
Justin helped her with the dinner, and afterward they watched the George Burns special on television. Justin couldn’t stop laughing, except to kiss Chandal. They drank Brandy Alexanders and ate lemon chiffon pie. It was the first pleasant evening they had spent together since they moved into the brownstone.
“I like this, Del. Just sitting here alone, you and I.”
“I do, too,” she said and reached for his hand.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said sheepishly.
“So am I.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Not entirely. But maybe I should be.”
“Maybe you’re right. It’s hard to argue the point.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Billy’s.”
“Figures.”
“I missed you.”
“Did you?” Chandal sank deeper into the couch and looked at him as he rested his arm around her shoulder in a gesture of tenderness and such complete reconciliation that she took his hand, kissed his fingers. “I love you,” she said, and noticed that his eyes had lost their usual forcefulness. He was softer, reaching out, trying to explain himself. With both his arms around her now, he explained that Chandal in Latin meant “the place of the altar—a sanctuary.” Chandal smiled, still holding his hand, enjoying the softness of his touch.
Without realizing it, her eyes had been focused on the unusual ring that Justin wore on his little finger. She couldn’t take her eyes from it. “Justin, where did you get that?”
“What?”
“The ring—I’ve never seen you wear it before.” She lifted his hand.
For a split-second, Justin thought that she was playing a joke, that she had placed the ring on his finger while he was asleep. But, as a director, it was his job to be able to tell when people were acting and when they were not. She was not. He sat up and smiled. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes—it’s beautiful.”
“Well, it’s yours.”
“What?”
He looked at the ring again and then screwed it off his finger. “Just what I said. It’s yours.” He could already see the tears. “Hey, come on, don’t cry.”
“But—”
“No buts about it. I wanted to surprise you. I’m not sure it’s the right size. If not—we’ll have it cut down. Okay?”
She nodded.
Justin placed the ring on her second finger and reached over to kiss her. Suddenly the living room door flew open and smashed against the wall, sending Chandal’s picture crashing to the floor. A shrill moan cut through the brownstone.
Mintz leaped up on the back of the chair and started to hiss violently. Her claws dug holes in the chair’s black leather.
Chandal stood, knocking the coffee tray to the floor. The shutters on the front window smashed open and slapped against the wall. The left front window cracked, a sharp zigzag crack that ran quickly down the window like a sudden flash of lightning. Chandal shrieked, crushing a saucer under her foot, trying to reach Mintz.
Everything was exploding around her; the sound of metal and glass hit the room, and wouldn’t stop.
“Christ—what’s happening?” Justin spoke. Something started to ache in his head. He skipped a breath, panicked because he couldn’t breathe, stopped—swayed to his feet.
Chandal clung to him. “Justin? Justin!”
“I’m all right!” he said, trying to get his bearings. Chandal reached for Mintz.
Mintz’s head shot forward, her sharp teeth bared, her body twisted, contorted in agony. Her eyes dilated, she hissed, a stream of yellowish liquid spewing from the corners of her mouth.
“No, don’t touch her—” Justin grabbed Chandal’s arm. He could feel how rigid her body was. He started to speak, stopped. His head was now turned slightly to one side, listening.
The animal-like cry continued without pause and in full breath for almost a minute, until finally it died away like an echo into nothingness, replaced by the loud buzzing of TV static. The vertical had slipped within the picture tube, leaving a sudden jerky movement and strange shadows flickering across the four walls and the ceiling of the room.
“That’s the damnedest thing—” Justin flicked it off. “I’ll check the front door. It must have blown open.”
Chandal carefully picked up Mintz, patted her gently, and tried to reassure her that everything was all right. The cat remained motionless in her arms.
Justin appeared in the doorway. The front door had been securely locked and remained so. They both had heard the horrible sound, but were unable to explain what had caused it.
“I better see if they’re all right upstairs.” Justin moved unsteadily to the staircase.
“No!” Chandal let Mintz drop to the couch.
“Why? The same thing may have happened up there. They may need help.”
“But what if it didn’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe it just happened down here. A sudden wind—”
“From where, Del? Everything is locked tight.”
“Justin, don’t go up there.” Chandal was visibly shaking.
“You going to be all right?”
“Yes. But don’t go up there, okay? If they needed help—they’d have called down.”
Justin ran his fingers quickly through his hair. “I suppose you’re right.”
After cleaning up the broken glass from the living room floor, Justin put out the light and went into the bedroom. Chandal sat before the mirror, removing her makeup. Mintz rested comfortably at the foot of the bed. He switched on the radio and found a jazz station, sank into a chair, and listened.
Soft music filled every corner of the room. It was relaxing, full of unexpected flights and long, graceful sustainments. Without known melody, it swung in alternate directions, each direction a confirmation of life, and filled them with a reassuring calm. Time passed.
Chandal glanced into her mirror and saw Justin standing behind her now. “You look nice,” he said.
She smiled. “So do you.”
“Take my hand, Del.”
She looked up into his eyes and took his hand. “Are you tired?” she asked. She received no answer except his hand holding hers firmly for a moment. Then he pulled her up and kissed the ring on her finger. She could feel the heat on the back of her hand where his lips had pressed. Getting undressed, they slipped between the dark blue sheets. The glow from the reading light on the side table filtered down over Justin’s body. His chest was huge and strong and covered with matted hair. Chandal saw that he was looking at her and she was glad to be lying beside him.
