Invisible Man (63 page)

I looked at her out of a deep emptiness and refilled her glass and mine. What had I done to her, allowed her to do? Had all of it filtered down to me? My action … my—the painful word formed as disconnectedly as her wobbly smile—my
responsibility?
All of it? I’m invisible. “Here,” I said, “drink.”

“You too, boo’ful,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. She moved into my arms.

I
MUST
have dozed. There came the tinkling of ice in a glass, the shrill of bells. I felt profoundly sad, as though winter had fallen during the hour. She lay, her chestnut hair let down, watching through heavy-lidded, blue, eye-shadowed eyes. From far away a new sound arose.

“Don’t answer, boo’ful,” she said, her voice coming through suddenly, out of time with the working of her mouth.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t answer, let’er ring,” she said, reaching her red-nailed fingers forth.

I took it from her hands, understanding now.

“Don’t, boo’ful,” she said.

It rang again in my hand now and for no reason at all the words of a childhood prayer spilled through my mind like swift water. Then: “Hello,” I said.

It was a frantic, unrecognizable voice from the district. “Brother, you better get up here right away—” it said.

“I’m ill,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s trouble, Brother, and you’re the only one who can—”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Bad trouble, Brother; they trying to—”

Then the harsh sound of breaking glass, distant, brittle and fine, followed by a crash, and the line went dead.

“Hello,” I said, seeing Sybil wavering before me, her lips saying, “Boo’ful.”

I tried to dial now, hearing the busy signal throbbing back at me: Amen-Amen-Amen-Ah man; and I sat there a while. Was it a trick? Did they know she was with me? I put it down. Her eyes were looking at me from out of their blue shadow. “Boo—”

And now I stood and pulled her arm. “Let’s go, Sybil. They need me uptown”—realizing only then that I would go.

“No,” she said.

“But yes. Come.”

She fell back upon the bed defying me. I released her arms and looked around, my head unclear. What kind of trouble at this hour? Why should I go? She watched me, her eyes brightly awash in blue shadow. My heart felt low and deeply sad.

“Come back, boo’ful,” she said.

“No, let’s get some air,” I said.

And now, avoiding the red, oily nails I gripped her wrists and pulled her up, toward the door. We tottered, her lips brushing mine as we wavered there. She clung to me, and, for an instant, I to her with a feeling immeasurably sad. Then she hiccupped and I looked vacantly back into the room. The light caught in the amber liquid of our glasses.

“Boo’ful,” she said, “life could be so diff’rent—”

“But it never is,” I said.

She said, “Boo’ful.”

The fan whirred. And in a corner, my brief case, covered with specks of dust like memories—the night of the battle royal. I felt her breathing hot against me and pushed her gently away, steadying her against the door frame, then went over as impulsively as the remembered prayer, and got the brief case, brushing the dust against my leg and feeling the unexpected weight as I hugged it beneath my arm. Something clinked inside.

She watched me still, her eyes alight as I took her arm.

“How’re you doing, Syb?” I said.

“Don’t go, boo’ful,” she said. “Let Georgie do it. No speeches tonight.”

“Come on,” I said taking her arm quite firmly, pulling her along as she sighed, her wistful face turned toward me.

We went down smoothly into the street. My head was still badly fuzzed from the drink, and when I looked down the huge emptiness of the dark I felt like tears … What was happening uptown? Why should I worry over bureaucrats, blind men?
I am invisible.
I stared down the quiet street, feeling her stumbling beside me, humming a little tune; something fresh, naive and carefree. Sybil, my too-late-too-early love … Ah! My throat throbbed. The heat of the street clung close. I looked for a taxi but none was passing. She hummed beside me, her perfume unreal in the night. We moved into the next block and still no taxis. Her high heels unsteadily scrunched the walk. I stopped her.

“Poor boo’ful,” she said. “Don’t know his name …”

I turned as though struck. “What?”

“Anonymous brute ’n boo’ful buck,” she said, her mouth a bleary smile.

I looked at her, skittering about on high heels,
scrunch, scrunch
on the walk.

“Sybil,” I said, more to myself than to her, “where will it end?” Something told me to go.

“Aaaah,” she laughed, “in bed. Don’t go up, boo’ful, Sybil’ll tuck you in.”

I shook my head. The stars were there, high, high, revolving. Then I closed my eyes and they sailed red behind my lids; then somewhat steadied I took her arm.

“Look, Sybil,” I said, “stand here a minute while I go over to Fifth for a taxi. Stand right here, dear, and hold on.”

We tottered before an ancient-looking building, its windows dark. Huge Greek medallions showed in spots of light upon its façade, above a dark labyrinthine pattern in the stone, and I propped her against the stoop with its carved stone monster. She leaned there, her hair wild, looking at me in the street light, smiling. Her face kept swinging to one side, her right eye desperately closed.

“Sure, boo’ful, sure,” she said.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, backing away.

“Boo’ful,” she called, “
My
boo’ful.”

Hear the true affection, I thought, the adoration of the Boogie Bear, moving away. Was she calling me beautiful or boogieful, beautiful or sublime … What’d either mean? I am invisible …

I went on through the late street quiet, hoping that a cab would pass before I had gone all the way. Up ahead at Fifth the lights were bright, a few cars shooting across the gaping mouth of the street and above and beyond, the trees—great, dark, tall. What was going on, I wondered. Why call for me so late—and who?

I hurried ahead, my feet unsteady.

“Booo’ful,” she called behind me, “boooooo’ful!”

I waved without looking back. Never again, no more, no more. I went on.

At Fifth a cab passed and I tried to hail it, only to hear someone’s voice arise, the sound floating gaily by. I looked up the lighted avenue for another, hearing suddenly the screech of brakes and turning to see the cab stop and a white arm beckoning. The cab reversed, rolled close, settling with a bounce. I laughed. It was Sybil. I stumbled forward, came to the door. She smiled out at me, her head, framed in the window, still pulling to one side, her hair waving down.

“Get in, boo’ful, an’ take me to Harlem …”

I shook my head, feeling it heavy and sad. “No,” I said, “I’ve got work to do, Sybil. You’d better go home …”

“No, boo’ful, take me with you.”

I turned to the driver, my hand upon the door. He was small, dark-haired and disapproving, a glint of red from the traffic light coloring the tip of his nose.

I gave him the address and my last five-dollar bill. He took it, glumly disapproving.

“No, boo’ful,” she said, “I want to go to Harlem, be with you!”

“Good night,” I said, stepping back from the curb.

We were in the middle of the block and I saw them pull away.

“Noo,” she said, “noo, boo’ful. Don’t leave …” Her face, wild-eyed and white, showed in the door. I stood there, watching him plunge swiftly and contemptuously out of sight, his tail light as red as his nose.

I walked with eyes closed, seeming to float and trying to clear my head, then opened them and crossed to the park side, along the cobbles. High above, the cars sailed round and round the drive, their headlights stabbing. All the taxis were hired, all going downtown. Center of gravity. I plodded on, my head awhirl.

Then near 110th Street I saw her again. She was waiting beneath a street lamp, waving. I wasn’t surprised; I had become fatalistic. I came up slowly, hearing her laugh. She was ahead of me and beginning to run, barefoot, loosely, as in a dream. Running. Unsteadily but swift and me surprised and unable to catch up, lead-legged, seeing her ahead and calling, “Sybil, Sybil!” running lead-legged along the park side.

“Come on boo’ful,” she called, looking back and stumbling. “Catch Sybil … Sybil,” running barefoot and girdleless along the park.

I ran, the brief case heavy beneath my arm. Something told me I had to get to the office … “Sybil, wait!” I called.

She ran, the colors of her dress flaring flamelike in the bright places of the dark. A rustling motion, legs working awkwardly beneath her and white heels flashing, her skirts held high. Let her go, I thought. But now she was crossing the street and running wildly only to go down at the curb and standing and going down again, with a bumped backside, completely unsteady, now that her momentum was gone.

“Boo’ful,” she said as I came up. “Damn, boo’ful, you push me?”

“Get up,” I said without anger. “Get up,” taking her soft arm. She stood, her arms flung wide for an embrace.

“No,” I said, “this isn’t Thursday. I’ve got to get there … What do they plan for me, Sybil?”

“Who, boo’ful?”

“Jack and George … Tobitt and all?”

“You ran me down, boo’ful,” she said. “Forget them … bunch of dead-heads … unhipped, y’know. We didn’t make this stinking world, boo’ful. Forget—”

I saw the taxi just in time, approaching swiftly from the corner, a double-decker bus looming two blocks behind. The cabbie looked over, his head out of the window, sitting high at the wheel as he made a swift U-turn and came alongside. His face was shocked, disbelieving.

“Come now, Sybil,” I said, “and no tricks.”

“Pardon me, old man,” the driver said, his voice concerned, “but you’re not taking her up in Harlem are you?”

“No, the lady’s going downtown,” I said. “Get in Sybil.”

“Boo’ful’s ‘n ole dictator,” she said to the driver, who looked at me silently, as though I were mad.

“A game stud,” he muttered, “a most game stud!”

But she got in.

“Just ’n ole dictator, boo’ful.”

“Look,” I told him, “take her straight home and don’t let her get out of the cab. I don’t want her running around Harlem. She’s precious, a great lady—”

“Sure, man, I don’t blame you,” he said. “Things is popping up there.”

The cab was already rolling as I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“They’re taking the joint apart,” he called above the shifting of the gears. I watched them go and made for the bus stop. This time I’ll make sure, I thought, stepping out and flagging the bus and getting on. If she comes back, she’ll find me gone. And I knew stronger than ever that I should hurry but was still too foggy in my mind, couldn’t get myself together.

I sat gripping my brief case, my eyes closed, feeling the bus sailing swift beneath me. Soon it would turn up Seventh Avenue. Sybil, forgive me, I thought. The bus rolled.

But when I opened my eyes we were turning into Riverside Drive. This too I accepted calmly, the whole night was out of joint. I’d had too many drinks. Time ran fluid, invisible, sad. Looking out I could see a ship moving upstream, its running lights bright points in the night. The cool sea smell came through to me, constant and thick in the swiftly unfolding blur of anchored boats, dark water and lights pouring past. Across the river was Jersey and I remembered my entry into Harlem. Long past, I thought, long past. It was as if drowned in the river.

To my right and ahead the church spire towered high, crowned with a red light of warning. And now we were passing the hero’s tomb and I recalled a visit there. You went up the steps and inside and you looked far below to find him, at rest, draped flags …

One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street came quickly. I stumbled off, hearing the bus pull away as I faced the water. There was a light breeze, but now with the motion gone the heat returned, clinging. Far ahead in the dark I saw the monumental bridge, ropes of lights across the dark river; and closer, high above the shoreline, the Palisades, their revolutionary agony lost in the riotous lights of roller coasters. “The Time Is Now …” the sign across the river began, but with history stomping upon me with hobnailed boots, I thought with a laugh, why worry about time? I crossed the street to the drinking fountain, feeling the water cooling, going down, then dampened a handkerchief and swabbed my face, eyes. The water flashed, gurgled, sprayed. I pressed forward my face, feeling wet cool, hearing the infant joy of fountains. Then heard the other sound. It was not the river nor the curving cars that flashed through the dark, but pitched like a distant crowd or a swift river at floodtide.

I moved forward, found the steps and started down. Below the bridge lay the hard stone river of the street, and for a second I looked at the waves of cobblestones as though I expected water, as though the fountain above had drawn from them. Still I would enter and go across to Harlem. Below the steps the trolley rails gleamed steely. I hurried, the sound drawing closer, myriad-voiced, humming, enfolding me, numbing the air, as I started beneath the ramp. It came, a twitter, a coo, a subdued roar that seemed trying to tell me something, give me some message. I stopped, looking around me; the girders marched off rhythmically into the dark, over the cobblestones the red lights shone. Then I was beneath the bridge and it was as though they had been waiting for me and no one but me—dedicated and set aside for me—for an eternity. And I looked above toward the sound, my mind forming an image of wings, as something struck my face and streaked, and I could smell the foul air now, and see the encrusted barrage, feeling it streak my jacket and raising my brief case above my head and running, hearing it splattering around, falling like rain. I ran the gantlet, thinking, even the birds; even the pigeons and the sparrows and the goddam gulls! I ran blindly, boiling with outrage and despair and harsh laughter. Running from the birds to what, I didn’t know. I ran. Why was I here at all?

I ran through the night, ran within myself. Ran.

W
hen I reached

Morningside the shooting sounded like a distant celebration of the Fourth of July, and I hurried forward. At St. Nicholas the street lights were out. A thunderous sound arose and I saw four men running toward me pushing something that jarred the walk. It was a safe.