Brainquake (12 page)

“You know I am.”

“Aren’t you afraid to face him?”

“Terrified…but if I run, he’ll find me. If I don’t run, maybe he’ll believe me.”

Zara turned to Paul. “You one of Frankie’s friends?”

“He certainly is not!”

“You’re Paul Page?” Zara said.

Paul nodded.

“How long’ve you known Michelle?”

Michelle blurted, “How do you know his name?”

“On his hack license. I saw him get out of his taxi and come in here carrying a rose.”

“Anything criminal about that?” Michelle snapped.

“Same sort that was taped to your carriage hood.”

“So?”

Zara turned to Paul again. “How long’ve you known Mrs. Troy, Mr. Page?”

“Couple days.”

“How did you meet?”

“Why are you cross-examining him?” Michelle’s voice rose.

“How did you meet her?”

“Delivering flowers.”

“Who sent the flowers?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Friendship.”

Zara eyed him. “How close is this friendship?” she said.

“Not like you’re thinking,” Michelle said. “He saved my baby’s life. My baby couldn’t breathe; his face turned blue. Mr. Page gave him mouth-to-mouth.”

Zara returned her gaze to Michelle. “I found one of Frankie’s friends, Mrs. Troy. He’s in prison. For fifty bucks and a carton of cigarettes, he gave me a rundown on your husband. He was a two-bit hoodlum, a pusher. A real sweetheart, pushed crack to kids.”

“Now you’re beginning to understand why I ran out on him.”

“I am.”

“And the Black Psycho?”

“The distributor he owed money to was black. Haven’t gotten any confirmation on the street name. But it’s a lead. A small one.”

“I know it’s hard. You’ve got so little to go on. I hope you don’t throw in the towel on the case…”

“I never throw in the towel.” Zara turned back to Paul. “I remember your name now. Officer O’Hanlon mentioned it. Said you were the closest witness to the shooting.”

“Big old cop?”

“Not young.” She stirred her memory, came up with a detail from the report. “Do you really live down by that old graveyard, in one of those abandoned shacks?”

“Not abandoned.”

“Where did you learn resuscitation?”

“Taxi driver. You have to know.”

She looked from one of them to the other. “Mrs. Troy can use a friend,” she said. “Just be careful, both of you. And Mrs. Troy… call me if you change your mind.” With that, Zara walked out.

Michelle got up, paced twice around the room. Zara’s presence still hung there, like she was still watching them. “I’m going to take the baby to the park,” Michelle said.

“
Now?
”

“Why not? He hasn’t had his walk in days.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Oh, Paul…thank you…but you must have places you need to be…”

“Can I walk with you?”

“Of course.”

For the first time, she saw a spark in his eyes. Then they went blank again, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d seen it. Somewhere in him there was emotion, the capacity for joy. She felt quite good that she had broken the barrier, and surprised that she felt good about it. Who was he? A stranger, practically. But also her self-styled guardian angel. And who was she to turn that down? Yes, there was something wrong with him; clearly there was. But whatever was wrong with him, it had to be some kind of harmless defect. Some kind of delay in his thinking. Certainly not in his acting. And what did she need most right now, a man who would think or one who would act?

These thoughts overlapped each other as she prepared her baby for the carriage ride.

* * *

They pushed the baby carriage in Central Park, but Michelle kept away from the path she’d been on the day of the gunshot and the bomb. She had taped the newest red rose to the hood.

“Why did you call me Ivory Face?”

“You have one.”

“Ivory is hard.”

“Ivory is beautiful.”

The baby began to cry. They sat on a bench. From the blue bag in the carriage pocket, Michelle pulled out a box. Paul watched her change the baby’s diaper. She placed the old diaper in a bag, dropped it in a trash can and was rejoining Paul on the bench when two men approached, stopped, stared at them. One looked older, one younger, both with black hair and long jaws, dark features. Paul was reminded of the two pirates. Brothers, the Boss had told him.

Michelle ignored their staring at her.

“Aren’t you…?” one of them said.

“No.” She glared at them, and after a time the two men left.

“They recognized me.”

Paul took out a folded page of the
Daily News
from his wallet. He’d slid it in beside his money, his driver’s license and the slot for his pencil. She saw a photo of herself in the ambulance, taken through the open rear doors. She couldn’t recognize herself, the picture was so grainy.

“Would you recognize me from that picture?”

Paul shook his head.

Michelle read the caption, pointed at two words the writer had chosen to describe Frankie. “Did you read that?”

Paul nodded.

“
Wife of mafia figure Frankie Troy
. You heard what Lieutenant Zara called him. A two-bit hoodlum. She should know.

Would you still want to be my friend if he had been a mafia figure?”

Paul nodded.

“You know why I married him?”

“Baby.”

“You read it in the paper.”

Paul nodded.

“You read a lot?”

“Every day.”

“Habit you picked up in school?”

“Never went to school.”

“Who taught you to read?”

“Parents.”

“And to write?”

Paul nodded. “And to talk.”

“Are they alive?”

Paul shook his head.

“You live alone?”

Paul nodded.

“Any friends?”

Paul shook his head.

“You
like
living alone?”

Paul thought about that for a moment, then nodded, and then said, “When I saw you…”

She waited.

“Had different feeling.”

“About living alone?”

Paul shook his head.

“What kind of different feeling, Paul?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know what kind of different feeling you had?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you ever have that different kind of feeling before?”

Paul shook his head.

Michelle smiled. “Maybe it was love at first sight.”

“Maybe.”

“You think you love me?” Then, before he could answer: “Never mind, Paul. Forget I asked that. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Hungry?”

The question came from left field and she smiled.

“Starving.” She laughed. “Right now I would kill for a steak.”

“Cold chicken?”

“I love cold chicken.”

She caught that spark again in his eyes. The spark lasted about three seconds. She was making progress.

“Got some at my place.”

“Where you live? The shack?”

He nodded.

“Paul, I’d love to have some cold chicken in your shack.”

* * *

Michelle sat in the back of the taxi, the baby in her arms, the blue bag on the seat beside her. She kept looking at Paul’s photo on the license. He looked younger, but his face was still blank.

“When was this picture taken?”

“Ten years ago.”

“Ever read Oscar Wilde?”

“Not up to W yet.”

“
Picture of Dorian Gray
?”

Paul shook his head. She caught his answer in the rear-view mirror.

“It’s about a man who kept his young face as he grew old.” Michelle smiled. “It’s a horror story.”

“Horror?”

“Well, he was a mean, selfish sonofabitch. But every evil emotion in him only showed up in the painting. His face stayed beautiful.”

“Like Jekyll and Hyde.”

She’d never read it, but remembered something from a movie. “Sort of. Every person has good thoughts and evil thoughts.”

She watched his face in the mirror. It remained blank. He was concentrating on driving carefully, with a baby in the car.

Again she looked at his picture. He looked like a priest, she thought. He behaved like one. She was suddenly conscious of the wall of celibacy between them. She wasn’t used to it. Conscious of a new experience having a man as a friend and only as a friend.

He pulled up near a liquor store. Took a deep breath. “Like some wine?” Thinking, can’t give her orange soda.

“I’d love some.”

He bought a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, the first of either he’d ever held. Handed the brown paper sack to her through the window, climbed in behind the wheel again, and drove off toward the Battery.

She felt his eyes on her, watching for her reaction as he helped her out with the baby and took the blue bag and her shoulderstrap purse and the paper bag from the liquor store.

Michelle studied the clapboard shack on its little patch of dirt and concrete, living in the shadow of its giant neighbors, close to the ground, lost, forgotten. Its survival in the towering forest of skyscrapers was inspiring. It was the perfect place for a character like Paul to hide himself from New York City’s barbarians. She couldn’t imagine anyone else but Paul living in this shack.

She smiled at him. “How did you find it?”

“Born in it.”

She glanced at the weeds, the puddle of rainwater, the one yellow flower growing between cracks in the asphalt.

“I don’t see any graveyard,” said Michelle.

He led her to the rubble, pointed at what was left of a gravestone. She could just make out the dates,
1675–1750
.

Paul brought her to the door, opened it without a key.

“This is still New York City, Paul. Anybody could just walk in and steal everything.”

“Nobody comes.”

They entered the three-room shack. Neat, almost bare, like his face and his life. He was living in his own world. The shack and Paul were one.

“There was no name on that alley we turned off,” said Michelle.

“Rain washed it off.”

“Yesterday’s rainstorm?”

He shook his head. “Night my father was born here.”

Paul helped her prop the baby on a pillow in the chair, tied it with his bathrobe belt so as not to fall off, went into the tiny kitchen to prepare the food.

Michelle passed an antique table in the middle of the room, looked into the curtained-off bedroom area. Spartan. A bed. A small lamp table beside it. An alarm clock near the phone. On the floor scattered sheets of paper and an old dictionary.

Back in the main area, Paul cleared some space on the table, moving pads, more sheets of paper. In a corner, a bookshelf held volumes of poetry, some battered novels, a cookbook. And another big dictionary. On the walls were many color photos of horses, including one of a jockey sitting high in the saddle holding one handle of a silver cup and a man standing next to the horse holding the other.

“You like horses, don’t you?” Michelle said.

“Yes.”

“You bet on them?”

“No.”

“Who’s the man standing by the horse that won the cup?”

“My father.”

“Did he own it?”

“He was a bookie.”

“Do you have a picture of your mother?”

Paul brought the chicken and the wine bottle to the table, took out his wallet, and plucked a photo from it. He handed it to her. She looked at the small, old photo. His mother was smiling and very beautiful.

“When did she die?”

“I was ten,” said Paul.

She returned the photo. He put it back and pocketed the wallet. He pulled out the chair for her. Opened the bottle, poured wine for her in a water glass, and water for himself from a water pitcher.

She lifted her wine in toast. He lifted his water.

“No alcohol?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Paul. For everything.”

“White or leg?”

“White, please.”

He cut off several slices for her, twisted the leg off for himself. They enjoyed the cold chicken. The baby had milk from its bottle. Paul went into the kitchen, found some baby food in the blue bag, warmed it up and brought it out in the smallest bowl he had.

He pushed the baby’s chair closer to Michelle, watched her feed the baby with a spoon, wiping off the dribblings from its chin.

“How long has your family owned this lot?” said Michelle.

“Since my Grandpa. He was a bootlegger.”

“And daddy was a bookie. What did your mother do, run guns?”

“Seamstress.”

She nodded. “How did you get interested in poetry?”

He got up, went to the shelf, returned with a very old book, turned to the poem, pointed at one word in a stanza. Solitude.

“How old were you when you first saw that poem?”

“Fifteen.”

“Who’s your favorite poet?”

“Emily Dickinson.”

“What did she write?”

“
If I can stop one heart from breaking
,” he recited, slowly, and she waited until he was done.

“That’s beautiful, Paul.”

He nodded.

“And you write poetry too. To woo women. You’re a taxidriving Cyrano.”

No reaction.

“You never saw
Cyrano de Bergerac
? They made a movie.”

Paul shook his head.

“It’s about this guy, Cyrano, who’s in love with a girl called Roxanne. But she’s in love with his friend. When they go to war, the friend gets killed, but Cyrano keeps writing letters to her from his friend so she won’t find out he’s dead. He doesn’t have the courage to tell her that he wrote the letters and that he loves her.”

Paul thought about it.

“He’s a soldier?”

“The best in France.”

“Why doesn’t he have courage?”

“He has a giant nose. He’s very sensitive about how ugly he looks and what people say about him and how they laugh at him behind his back. Of course, they never tell him to his face that his nose is too big and too ugly—he’d challenge them to a duel if they did, and they know they’d lose. He’s that good with a sword.” She drank the last of her wine. “What was your reason, Paul? Why didn’t you tell me the first time we met that
you
wrote those poems?”

Paul became flustered. He poured more wine for her but his fingers trembled. Wine spilled on the table.