And Now You Can Go (20 page)

"You drove?" I ask.

"Yeah. I thought it all out. My adrenaline was making me think with, like, astounding clarity."

I nod.

"I decided that if we left his car there, he couldn't do anything to me because his car would still be next door to my house. Evidence."

"What'd he do while you were driving?" I ask.

"He admired the cars leather." "Where was the gun?"

"Still in his hand. But it was never pointed at me."

Our drinks come. G.P's teeth are blue. I run my tongue over my teeth, trying to scrub away color. It's midnight and crowded and loud in the bar. I'm leaning into him, listening.

He tells me how they went to the bank and he got out the money. "Three hundred dollars?" I say.

"Yup," he says.

"Then what happened?"

"We drove back to my house and I parked the car and we both got out. The kid didn't go back to his car right away, though. Instead, he walked up to the window, and while he was peering in, I grabbed his gun."

"You're kidding!"

"No," he says. "It's silver—a nice one."

"Why'd you do that? You figured he owed you or something?" "Nah," he says, "the other way around."

"You owed him?"

"Well, I don't know. It was three-hundred bucks. And it was for Christmas presents—that, I believe."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it," I say. I'm serious. I ask again why he took the gun; I ask if he was scared.

"Of course not," he says, and I feel ridiculous for even asking. "At that point, you see, I figured we were even."

I see him check out a girl in red leather pants to my left. I ask if he turned the gun in to the police as evidence.

"No, I kept it." "You kept it?" He says nothing.

I take a sip of the blue drink.

"Quite a story," G. P. says. "Huh?" He looks content, expectant. "I've got a better one."

"Did you ever see him again?" he asks.

I pretend I don't hear. I look around for Sarah. She and the ROTC boy are in the other room, dancing. It's seventies night, or maybe when it gets late enough any bar becomes seventies night. Sarah catches my eye and mouths along with the music. "Dancing Queen," she says and points to herself with two thumbs. Everyone else is wearing sneakers or boots and she's in her white high heels.

"Did you ever see him again?" he repeats. "Yeah," I say. "I saw him today, actually." "Today?"

"Yeah, he was hailing cabs at some hotel that Sarah and I went to because she knew there was a Maxfield Parrish painting in the bar. We went in to see the painting. And there he was. He looked so innocent. He's a doorman."
He's a doorman like Danny
.

I look at G. P. and then at the empty glasses that held the blue drinks.
What is in those blue drinks
?

The bartender puts down a shot of tequila in front of G, P. and one in front of me. I don't want a shot. I'm suddenly regretful.

"Hey," I say. "Promise you'll keep what I just told you a secret." "Promise," he says.

"Especially that last part."

He clinks his glass against mine. The shot bums down my throat. G. P. slams his glass down on the sticky bar. I do the same.

At 1 a.m. we all go outside to get a cab. Sarahs feet are bleeding from dancing in her cheap new shoes. The ROTC boy tries to play his car-dodging game, but there's not enough traffic. A garbage truck trembles down the street. The ROTC boy and G. P. look at each other, then run after the truck and jump on. Sarah and I wait for them to jump off, but they wave to us as they ride down the block and around the corner.

When a cab comes, I support Sarah as she limps into the backseat. I close the door behind her and get in on the other side. Sarah unstraps her shoes. Her feet are red with cold and blood. "They burn," she complains.

"I have frozen peas at home," I tell her.

I fall asleep on the couch with Sarah's feet on my lap, the bag of peas on her long, hairless toes. When the buzzer rings, the tops of my thighs are wet and cold from the melting.

Sarah's eyes open. I go to the intercom. "Your friends are here," Danny says. "Who?'

"These two big guys." "Tell them it's late."

"They have someone else with them," Danny says.

I'm picturing a woman they've brought home from a club. Maybe they've picked up a prostitute. They're disgusting.

"Tell them to go away," I say.

"They have your guy from the park," Danny says. "Do you want me to call the police?"

I sit down on the floor, facing the intercom. My forehead hits the wall, my hands fall into prayer. I shut my eyes. I see the outline of weapons in the distance, but when they get close I can only make out shadows. I open my eyes and suddenly my vision is extraordinary. I kneel so the intercom is at eye level, and I stare at it as though I might be able to see whoever's in the lobby.

"How do they know it's him?" I ask.

"They're pretty sure. The guy fits your description to a T." I hear the ROTC boy's gruff voice in the background: "Stop squirming, fuckhead."

"I'll be right down," I say to Danny. "Don't do anything—I'll be right there." "Okay," he says, and I release the intercom button.

"Sarah," I call in the direction of the couch. "Please."

In the elevator, I watch the numbers as we descend. Sarah's standing with her back to the door, her legs planted and her arms out, as though she's protecting me from whatever I'm about to see.

The doors open and reveal the ROTC boy and G. P. on either side of a man in a leather jacket. Beneath the jacket he's wearing a dark green vest.

It's him.

Without the black hotel hat, I can see the man's hair is longer—or shorter. Shorter, I decide. His glasses are off. On the floor I see their smashed remains. I know if I look closely at the arms of the mangled glasses frames I'll see the tiny, precise lettering of the brand name.

The side of his head above his ear is bleeding and he's been gagged with a red bandanna.

"El," the ROTC boy says, "tell me if this is your guy, because if it is, he's a dead man." He's holding the man's arms behind his back. Everyone's eyes are on me, including the man's.

"El," G. P. says. "Say something." I say nothing.

"Where'd you find him?" Danny asks.

"It wasn't hard," the ROTC boy says. "We went back to the hotel and there he was. We waited until he got off his shift."

"The hotel?" Sarah asks.

Danny's more excited than I've ever seen him. "Should I call the cops, Miss Ellis?" "We can handle this," the ROTC boy says.

How did they get him here
? And then I see it. G. P. is holding a gun to the man's back. "El," Sarah says. "Is he the guy?"

I hear a bang. At first I think the gun's been fired.

"Jesus," Sarah says. She's been standing next to me, and now she grabs my elbow and thrusts her chin in the direction of the glass door to the lobby. The door is locked after 11

p.m. But the representative of the world is standing outside, in his green coat, knocking. He points to me. "Sorry about Melissa," he mouths. I try to wave him away. He presses his walnut-colored face to the glass and sees the ROTC boy and G. P. holding the man. He knocks on the glass door with a gloved hand. Then he takes off his glove and knocks harder, with his knuckles.

"Should I get rid of that guy?" Danny says, nodding toward the door.

I hear a grunt. The ROTC boy has punched the man from the park in the stomach. "Should I get rid of him?" Danny says again, thumbing toward the representative. "Fucking freak," the ROTC boy says, looking at the door.

"Let him in," I say to Danny. "Unlock the door, please." I want the knocking to stop. I want everyone to stop talking so loud.

Danny moves quickly to the door with his keys and unlocks it. The representative of the world bounds in wearing his New Balance sneakers. "What the fuck is going on?"

I can smell his soap from twenty feet across the lobby. Danny relocks the door.

"We're trying to get El to say if this is the dude or not," the ROTC boy says. G. P. is still holding the gun to the mans back.

The elevator makes a low-and then a high-pitched sound, signaling its ascent; someone in the building has pressed the button. Someone will be coming down, the lobby doors opening onto this scene.

Sarah links her arm through mine but I move away from her. I don't want anyone to touch me.

"I'm calling the cops," Danny says. He picks up the phone, but doesn't dial.

Everyone is looking at the guy from the park except Sarah. She's looking at me and I know she knows.

I see the gun and feel it at my temple. I look the gagged man in the eyes and he looks back at me. Without the glasses, his face has more depth—his eyes are set further back than they appeared that day in the park. Behind the bandanna, his mouth is moving. I know what he's

trying to say to me. I consider asking the ROTC boy and G. P. to ungag him, and then decide against it. I don't want them to hear him say what he's mouthing, what he's been writing on the posters. If they hear, they'll know it's him.

"El, say something," says the representative of the world. "Is this the guy or not?"

The elevator stops on the eighth floor, then begins its descent. Danny watches the elevator lights; I turn back to the man. He's in the same position I was. Gun held to him, eyes unblinking.

"No," I say. "That's not him."

"Are you sure?" the ROTC boy says. "Yes," I say.

Danny hangs up the phone.

No one knows what to do next. The elevator has stopped on the sixth floor. The only thing moving is the man's gagged mouth.

"Please," I say. "It's not him. Let him go."

The ROTC boy and G. P. look at each other and the ROTC boy gestures toward the door with his head.

They walk the man to the lobby stairs, and I get a full view of the gun at his back. It's silver, polished. Danny runs over to unlock the door with his keys. The representative goes out first. The ROTC boy and G. P. shove the man from the park onto the sidewalk. Sarah and I follow them out and watch as they let him go. The ROTC boy gives him a push in the direction of the subway station. The man doesn't look back, just runs. It's the same thick-thighed run, but faster this time. I strain my ears to hear if he's saying anything, humming anything, as he heads toward Broadway. He's not.

"I don't ever want to see your ugly face again," the representative of the world yells as he chases the man up the block.

We stand outside the building, in a half circle, watching the representative of the world run after the man. The wind blows a sharp slap of cold against my face. Everyone's looking at me: Danny, Sarah, the ROTC boy, G. P.

"Too bad," G. P. says. He's still holding the gun, but now it's pointed toward the sidewalk.

The ROTC boy tells me not to worry, that they'll go back tomorrow to the hotel and keep looking until they find the guy. "I cannot fucking wait," he says. "Now I'm pumped!"

Once the others have left, Danny calls the elevator for Sarah and me. "Thanks, Danny," I say.

"Sleep tight," Danny says.

Sarah and I are silent on the ride up to my apartment. When I open the door, she enters first, and while looking for the light switch she runs into one of the fly strips.

"Let's take these down," I say.

The fly strips stick to our fingers and we help each other pull them off our hands. Into the trash goes the fly strip with the poster sticking to it.

"What next?" Sarah says. She can see I'm looking around the apartment, searching for distraction.

I know she'll do whatever I want. I could suggest we take the subway to JFK and have breakfast in a passenger lounge, and she'd agree.

"I feel like cleaning," I say. "Okay," she says.

I wash the pots and pans and she dries them with a towel my roommate picked out that says "Hers." She bought two of them, one for her and one for me, and I hate them both.

We sweep the apartment; it's too late to vacuum. "Do you think it smells in here?" I ask.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," I lie.

Sarah sniffs the air so hard she snorts. "No, it's fine," she says. "It smells good."

When we're done with the kitchen and living room, Sarah goes into the bathroom to clean the mirrors.

I sit slumped on the lip of the bathtub. Now I'm exhausted. Neither of us wants to sleep alone tonight. Sarah puts a towel around her feet so they don't bleed on the sheets, and we get into bed, head to toe.

I'm awake and tired and awake again.

Sarah can't sleep either. She gets up and rummages through her bag. "What are you looking for?" I ask.

"The sleeping mask they gave me on the plane," she says. "It's almost morning." Her foot knocks against my shoulder as she gets back into bed.

I prop myself up on my elbows and make out her shape. She's putting on the mask. "You look like one of the patients in the Philippines," I tell her. •

I've told Sarah a few stories about the Philippines, but I haven't told her about the blind woman from the church. I tell her how the woman couldn't see her own daughters, but still did their hair.

"Is she okay?" Sarah asks. "Can she see now?"

I tell her yes, out of one eye. Two days after the operation I ran into the woman with her daughters by the ocean. The daughters were wearing eye patches over their right eyes too.

Sarah laughs and we both put our heads back down. The flannel sheets on my bed haven't been washed in weeks. I turn my face into the pillow and inhale its bready smell of sleep. We lie in silence for a few minutes.

"El?" Sarah whispers. "Yeah."

"I don't know what to make of that." "Of what?"

"You letting him go."

The woman in the apartment above us flushes the toilet. At my side, Sarahs leg is twitching. I place my hand on her shin to still her.

"Did I ever tell you how I used to count to infinity?" I say.

My father had left home that summer and by fall it was clear his absence would not be temporary. My mother had stopped telling neighbors and friends that he was away on business. The only one who didn't know was Freddie, and that was my fault.
He called when you were out. Shoot, you just missed him
.