No Time to Die (24 page)

I lay across the bed, trying to concentrate, to stretch memory. Perhaps the car accident had caused me to forget certain things. I had seen something, not quite like this sketch, but close.

An hour later I sat up and eased my legs over the edge of the bed. The sun had vanished and the room was shrouded in gray. My leg ached but not enough to keep me from slipping into my sneakers and leaving the house again.

Outside, the sky had taken on the color of mottled silver and most people had retreated indoors. Lightning cut through the clouds and a faint rumble followed. I was practically alone as I strolled toward Malcolm X Boulevard.

At 130th Street the lights of the supermarket looked unnaturally bright, like a ship looming suddenly through a treacherous fog. I didn’t know what I expected to find when I stepped inside, but something hidden in memory had drawn me here.

The aisles were nearly empty of shoppers and I wandered over to the frozen food section and gazed at the dozen varieties of ice cream: low-fat, no-fat, no-sugar, all-natural, all promising “rich” satisfying taste. My reflection, superimposed on the small cartons, stared back, frowning. I turned away without buying any and walked toward the empty checkout counter, toward
the empty place where image and memory suddenly came together.

He had been standing near the door that time, wide-eyed, scowling, and had turned away when I looked at him.

The humidity was so high by the time he reached 139th Street, his T-shirt clung to him and his face shone in the dampness. It was not quite rain, but heavy enough to persuade most people to retreat indoors to cooler, climate-controlled territory.

Ache lingered awhile on Eighth Avenue near the Sugar Shack and watched the door of the restaurant open and close and open again, allowing a faint strand of music to drift toward him in unconnected notes.

One couple, before they entered, leaned near the door to scrutinize the menu taped to the window and he caught their chatter—the man wanting a full dinner plus dessert, the girl reminding him of the need to watch his weight and select a sensible salad.

He eyed them and remembered that he had not eaten all day and the anger that brought him here rose in his chest again, nearly cutting his breath off.

He moved away quickly and turned onto 139th Street, walking east against the traffic pattern. The block was deserted, just as he imagined it would be.

Windows were closed against the humidity, and air
conditioners hummed efficiently. The houses, trees, and streetlights appeared distorted in the haze. He walked slowly, not only to gain traction on the slick, leafy pavement but to check the windows of the parked cars and to spot anyone before he approached her house. The car windows were frosted with fine mist, so he gave that up and moved on warily.

Two nights ago, he had again gotten his foot on the bottom step when a car alarm had gone off and the dog started to bark. He had pivoted quickly and continued down the block without missing a beat. The alarm died when he had gotten several yards away, then suddenly he heard the pad of the paws and the dog growl directly behind him.

He froze. He had been too surprised to turn around and too paralyzed to run. He couldn’t reach for the razor, and if he did, what good would it have done? If it was the girl and he got her, the dog would have gotten him. If he got the dog, the girl would have woken up the whole block.

But they had moved past him, the girl and the dog, walking so near he was able to see the glint of her small dark earrings, the pattern and whorl of her haircut. Her perfume, light and smelling faintly of flowers he could not name, drifted in her wake. He watched her walk. Had she been alone, he could have reached out and opened her throat in one gesture.

But that Great Dane. The animal was beyond big. It stood as high as her waist and its head was larger than most horses he’d seen. Its spotted black and white coat had gleamed under the streetlight as it trotted at her side. And she’d held the leash loosely in her hands like a trainer guiding a thoroughbred.

He had hung back, increasing the distance between them until they reached the corner.

Ain’t this some shit. Just like last time. Damn dog make Godzilla chill. And she ain’t movin’ too swift. Like maybe her foot or leg or somethin’ got spiked. Probably headin’ for the park, but she ain’t gonna do no whole lot a runnin’, I can see that. Man, if that damn dog wasn’t—

He had watched them move slowly across Frederick Douglass Boulevard and walk toward St. Nicholas Avenue, toward the park. The traffic light changed twice but he remained on the corner, watching until they disappeared.

She was definitely limping and he hoped she hadn’t hurt herself too badly because that’s what he was supposed to do. No one was going to cheat him out of that.

Things different tonight. This damn soggy air. Need to go on and rain and get it over with. But rain or shine, the old man got a lotta gigs someplace and the limo probably picked him up by now
.

He made his way to the middle of the block, treading on the slick pavement as if he expected to trip a land mine. One car moved down the street, its headlights throwing narrow spears through the haze, but it did not slow down. Somewhere in back of him, a few yards away, he heard a door slam, but when he turned, he saw that he was alone.

In the shadow of a full-leafed tree, he paused and again scanned the parked cars.

The house was directly across the street, and although he could not make out the detailed carving on the door in the faint reflection of the streetlamp, he knew it was the house. The windows downstairs were dark but lights shone through the blinds on the second floor. He waited, listening as footsteps approached, padding on the thin carpet of fallen leaves. An old man
with glasses fogged by the mist walked past, turned onto Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and disappeared.

Ache was alone again and the hum of the air conditioners came back, filling him with a sudden, alien feeling of apprehension. His shirt, boldly inscribed with “Don’t Ask Me for Shit,” now clung to him in the moist air and made his skin itch. Then he started to tremble as apprehension warred with anticipation.

I should ring the bell. Just step on over and ring it. If the kid answer, say I made a mistake. Got the wrong house. And come back some other time. No. Can’t do that. Maybe he ain’t home. Maybe if he is, I take care of him too. No. The dog. The damn dog. I been standin’ here. Nobody walk him yet. Maybe
 …

He drew his breath in as the lights came on downstairs and the door opened. The boy stepped out with the dog at his side. He watched the woman hand the boy a yellow jacket and stand on the stoop. Her voice drifted toward him.

“Twenty minutes is enough. If it starts to rain, come right back. I don’t want you catching cold.”

The background light illuminated her slim, long legs. She wore denim shorts and a yellow cut-off T-shirt and she was barefoot. Even without shoes, she was still taller than most women, but that didn’t matter. He watched as she closed the door. He waited another minute for the boy and the dog to disappear in the fog and then he glided across the street.

Ain’t gonna miss this time. Can’t miss
.

Apprehension. Anticipation. It didn’t matter. His heart began the familiar racing and the dizziness came over him. His stomach felt as if a snake had coiled inside. His chest was pumping so hard he could feel it
through the thin cotton shirt. He smelled his sweat, stronger and more sour with each step he took. Finally he felt the tension, rare and exquisite, come up between his legs as he took the razor from his pocket, palmed it open in his gloved hand, and pressed the bell.

 … Don’t tell me that boy’s back so soon. It took all evening to pry him away from that television just so he could walk the dog, now he’s laying on the bell. Maybe it’s started to rain. Where’s his key? Why doesn’t he use it?

“Hold on a minute!”

 … I knew I should’ve walked him myself. I’d have taken him out earlier. Mama always said if you want something done right, do it yourself. Dammit, now there’s the phone …

When I picked up the receiver, Tad’s voice came on. He sounded low and thoughtful and I knew he was onto something. “Hey, baby. I’m at the supermarket, checking delivery slips. Did Claudine ever—”

“Tad? Hold it a minute. Alvin’s at the door. He doesn’t have his key.”

I walked slowly toward the door, feeling the pain grip my leg with each step. Every time it rained or the humidity crept beyond a tolerable level, my leg acted as a barometer and I found myself thinking of James. His
smiling face loomed large, crowding my thoughts, and in my anger I yanked the door open.

It happened so fast. The hand came down so fast I thought it was a bird, a bat, darting toward me. I fell back against the door, astonished. It slid past my face and I jerked my head and it slid past my ear.

Suddenly my shoulder felt as if someone had slammed it with a rock and red splashed down my arm. I looked beyond the bird into the face and the scream came from somewhere.

“Damn! It’s you!”

The supermarket. The poster.

I stared at the face with the mouth drawn back and eyes bulging with a hatred churned up from some unimaginable place. Only a glimpse. I saw the razor and had no time to think, only to fight for my life.

His arm locked around my neck and I felt his weight against me as we wrestled through the foyer and into the living room. I dropped to my knees pulling him with me but he pulled me up again and we fell against the sofa, pushing it, heavy as it was, against the table, causing the lamp to fall over. The shade cast a slant of shadow against the wall and I battled to hold onto the hand that held the razor. The hand felt dry. He was wearing some kind of plastic gloves and he raised his arm, preparing to slice down again. We were face-to-face and his breath spewed out, thick and sour. I felt his spittle spray against my skin.

“Bitch! Make me lose my job! Come in there like you don’t fuckin’ know me! Like all them others! Fuckin’ bitch!”

I didn’t waste time or breath trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. One hand, strong as
a wrestler’s, gripped my throat so tightly my vision blurred. I gasped for air and raised my knee and got him hard in the groin. He dropped the razor and I managed to kick it under the sofa. He fell back, doubled over. But only for a second, not in slow motion or freeze-frame, like in the movies. He rebounded so fast that when I stumbled behind the sofa, he was right behind me, his face bloated with rage. He had forgotten the razor and was coming at me with his hands.

“You ain’t the first and ain’t gonna be the last, you white-eyed—thought you could get away …!”

I leaped back and scrambled around the sofa, like a child in a manic game of musical chairs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know you! Know your old man, your dog, your son. I know all about you. Came in for that ice cream. You know me! Yes you do!”

He was talking fast and the words spilled in a torrent of anger. “Fuckin’ bitch. Just like that white-haired one. You know me and look right through me. Come in for that ice cream and look at me like I ain’t nuthin’. None a you get away with that … None a you. I got everyone. Every time.”

“Listen,” I said, still moving, knowing he was beyond reasoning with. I needed to keep him talking, talking, talking. My arm was bleeding and my leg was about to cave in under me. Keep him talking. Keep him talking.

“What did the white-haired one ever do to you?”

I was yelling and he stopped short, apparently surprised that I didn’t know.

“Plenty. That bitch did plenty!”

“What? What?”

I shouted again, trying to hammer through his confusion.
He looked around, scanning the floor. “She—she—she was like them others. Mercy Anne and Natalie and all them others.”

“Like the girl on Edgecombe? The girl on Seventh?”

“How you know that? See! I knew it. All along you was eyein’ me. Those damn eyes. Make me lose my job.”

He spun around, still searching for the razor. “Made me lose my job!”

Memory overwhelmed me and I knew I wasn’t about to let this madman get me or get away. That was not going to happen. He didn’t have the razor and I forgot about the pain in my leg. My arm was bleeding but I ignored that. I intended to fight to the finish.