The Paper Dragon (38 page)

On Friday, November 12th, he hit upon the idea (and dutifully recorded it verbatim in his notebook) of perhaps asking a second-year art student about Ebie. Outside an illustration class, he stopped a girl with her arm in a cast, her hair pulled back into a pony tail, and asked her if she knew Ebie Dearborn.

Late that afternoon, he spent the last of his week's allowance on a dozen red roses, and went up to her apartment without calling first. The building she lived in on Myrtle was a crumbling red brick structure with enormous bosses on either corner, a simulated keystone arch over the front doorway. The elevated trains roared past the building, but he scarcely heard them over the pounding of his heart, or so he wrote faithfully in his notebook that night:

"Come in," she said.

He tried the door, found it unlocked, and stepped into a narrow corridor that seemed to run the length of the apartment. An ornately framed mirror hung directly opposite the entrance. He looked at his own image and shouted, "Where are you?"

"Where do you think I am?" she shouted back. "In here."

He shrugged at himself in the mirror and followed the sound of her voice. She was sitting up in a large bed in a small bedroom facing the street and the elevated structure. She was wearing a blue nightgown, and there was a blue ribbon in her hair. She looked thin and pale and very tired as she turned to greet him. She blinked once in surprise and then said, "What are
you
doing here?"

"Who'd you think it was?" he asked.

"Peter."

"Who's Peter?"

"The boy who lives upstairs. He's been bringing me chicken soup and such." She paused. "How'd you know where I lived?"

"I've been searching for you."

"What are those?"

"Roses."

"For me?"

"Yes."

Ebie nodded, and then stared at him and continued nodding. At last she said, "I'm sick."

"Yes, I know."

"Who told you?"

"A girl with a broken arm."

"Cathy?"

"I don't know her name."

"With a pony tail?"

"Yes."

"That's Cathy Ascot. She's accident prone."

"She told me you were sick and that you lived on Myrtle Avenue. Why are you listed in the book as Dearborn, E. B.?"

"So everyone'll think it's a man living here and I won't get calls from all the nuts in Brooklyn."

"I know one nut who's going to be calling you a lot."

"Who? Oh. You mean you?"

"That's right."

"Well, I don't guess I can stop you from calling."

"No, I don't guess you can."

"Are you going to just stand there with those roses in your hand?"

"I should put them in something, huh?"

"I think there's a vase in the kitchen. The cabinet over the stove."

"You won't disappear, will you?"

"What?"

"When I go for the vase."

"I don't usually disappear," Ebie said. "I just happened to get sick the day after I met you, that's all."

"What've you got?"

"Oh, it's so cliched it makes me want to puke."

"What is it?"

"Mononucleosis."

"I never heard of it."

"Peter didn't know what it was, either. Hey, can you see through this gown?" she asked suddenly, peering down at her breasts.

"No."

"I wasn't expecting anyone but him," she said, and shrugged.

"You mean Peter?"

"Yes. He usually stops by in the afternoon."

"I don't think I like Peter."

"He's very sweet."

"What's his last name?"

"Malcom. Peter Malcom. He's an actor."

"Mmm?"

"Yes. He works mostly in television. Usually, he plays heavies. He's blond and has sort of a curling lip. He can look very sinister when he wants to."

"I'll bet."

"But you didn't come up here to talk about Peter," she said, and looked down at the bed covers. "Did you?" she said.

"No."

"I didn't think so."

"I don't even know Peter, you see," he said. He was beginning to get very angry. He stood at the foot of the bed, foolishly holding the goddamn roses, and wishing he had not bought them, and wondering what mononucleosis was, and wondering if it was contagious; it sounded like something you sprinkled on meat to tenderize it. "Look, uh… where'd you say the vase was?"

"In the kitchen. Over the stove."

"I'll just put these in water for you, and then I'll take off."

"Why?"

"Well, you're expecting Peter, and I really…"

"Well, he may not come. He doesn't always come."

"I see."

"And…" She shook her head.

"And what?"

"Nothing."

"Okay." He walked out of the bedroom and down the corridor and into the kitchen where he found a cut glass vase in the cabinet over the stove. He filled the vase with water, put the roses into it, and carried them back to the bedroom.

"Where shall I put these?" he asked.

"On the dresser yonder, I guess."

"Yonder," he said.

"Yes. Please."

He put the roses down. When he glanced up into the mirror, he saw that she was staring at his back. His eyes met hers, and she quickly looked away. He turned and leaned against the dresser. Without looking at him, and in a very small voice, she said, "What
did
you come up here to talk about?"

"You," he said.

"What about me?"

"I came up here to tell you I love you."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Oh, I see," she said.

"Yes." He shrugged. "And so, having said it, I will clear the premises so that Peter can come down with his chicken soup and such, and look through your nightgown."

"You
can
see through it, can't you?"

"No."

"Tell me the truth."

"That's the truth."

"Is it true what you said before?"

"What did I say before?"

"That you love me?"

"Yes, it's true."

"I think that's very sweet."

"Yes."

"Really," she said.

"Mmm."

"Gee," she said, and grinned, and heaved her shoulders in a massive sighing shrug. "I've never had anyone fall in love with me just like that. I really think it's so sweet I can't tell you."

"Well, I think it's pretty sweet too," he said.

"Oh, it is," she said, "it
is
."

"Well."

"Mmm."

They stared at each other silently. He decided he would kiss her. He leaned against the dresser gathering courage, turning to touch one of the roses, plotting. He would cross the room swiftly, cup her face in his hands, taste her mouth, risk all,
now
, do it now, go ahead, go, man. The outer door to the apartment opened. It opened with the speed of familiarity, banging back against the doorstop, no knock, nothing, bang went the door, and heavy footsteps pounded surely through the apartment toward the bedroom. "Ebie!" a man's voice shouted, and he knew with certainty that this was Peter, enter Peter, would he be carrying chicken soup? and hated him at once and intensely, even before he laid eyes on him.

He was a tall blond man of about twenty-two, handsome, with the curling lip Ebie had described, blond eyebrows thick over pale gray eyes, a clean profile, even white teeth that looked as though they had been capped. He was smiling when he came into the bedroom, but he saw immediately that Ebie was not alone, and the smile dropped from his face.

"Oh, hi," he said. "I didn't know you had company."

"Peter, this is… what's your name again?"

"Jimmy Driscoll."

"This is Peter Malcom."

"Hi," Peter said.

"Hi."

They looked each other over. Unexpectedly, almost unconsciously, Peter reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of eyeglasses. Perching them on his nose, he turned to study Driscoll with deliberate scrutiny.

"You go to Pratt?" he asked.

"Yes."

"That where you know Ebie from?"

"Yes."

He nodded, took off the glasses, replaced them in his jacket pocket, and then turned toward the bed, completely dismissing Driscoll. "How do you feel?" he asked Ebie.

"Much better," she said.

"Good."

"She's got mononucleosis," Driscoll said.

"Yes, I know."

"It's what you put on meat to tenderize it," Driscoll ventured cautiously, and was immediately relieved when Ebie burst out laughing.