The Waiting Room (14 page)

Leslie went on, as if in explanation of my rudeness, "I'm afraid Sam has hurt himself."

"Love me, love me!" screeched the woman in the air.

"For God's sake!" I looked at Leslie, at Orrin, at the woman hovering in the air. "For God's sake, don't you hear that?!"

The woman in the air screeched, "Love me, love me, love me!"

Leslie shook her head; a little frown appeared on her mouth. Orrin said, putting his hand on my wrist as if to steady me, "Are you drunk, Sam? Have you had a little too much to drink?"

Leslie said, "No, Orrin. I don't think Sam's drunk."

"Oh, Good Lord!" I whispered, and groped behind me for the car door handle, found it, pulled
the
door open, and scurried into the car, my eyes on the woman in red all the while.

Orrin said, "He shouldn't be driving if he's drunk."

"For God's sake, he's
not
drunk!" Leslie snapped. "He's hurt!"

"Love me, love me, love me!" screeched the woman fluttering in the air.

I closed the door, started the car, put it in gear, and floored the accelerator. In the moment before the car shot away from the curb, I glanced at Leslie. She still wore that little frown. She looked disappointed. "I'll—" she began, but the sound of the car's rear wheels screaming on the pavement drowned her out.

I was halfway down the block moments later.

I looked into the rearview mirror. I saw the woman in red at the back window; she was mouthing the words "Love me, love me, love me!" over and over again.

At the Queens Tunnel she drifted off into the gathering dusk and was gone.

~ * ~

I stayed in the apartment for the next three days. I didn't answer the phone, though it rang repeatedly. I didn't go near the bedroom. I left the curtains drawn on all the windows, and the doors locked, most of the lights on. I left the television on, too, and the volume turned up, though, at the end of the second day, after listening to the mindless, feel-good jabber of game show hosts, smarmy soap operas, and commercials that screamed
ad nauseam
about the "movers and shakers" and their coffee habit, I got to feeling awfully punk and surly, so I turned the TV down until it was just a soft, undulating, high-pitched hum, like a swarm of bees.

Abner's words came back to me a hundred times:
This ... disease is transient. It comes and goes. One day you've got it, the next day it's gone. Sort
of
like herpes
.

I felt like an eight-year-old who's convinced there are trolls living under his bed. If he lets any fingers or toes dangle over the side of the bed, then he'll be minus those fingers and toes. The bed is his sanctuary as long as he stays centered on it.

Two giggling girls in pink taffeta lived in the wall in
my
bedroom. But the rest of the apartment was my sanctuary. If I left it, if I even opened the curtains, I'd lose something far more important than my fingers and toes. I'd lose my sanity.

But after three days of isolation, after a dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and what was left of a box of stale Hi Ho crackers, after too much artificial light and not enough silence, even sanity can lose its appeal.

So when the phone rang for what could easily have been the hundredth time, I answered it.

It was Abner, and he was pissed. "Christ, Sam, when are you going to bring my damned car back? I had to walk a mile and a half just to buy a quart of milk and some cat food. I
need
my car, Sam."

I ignored him. "Abner," I said, "how do you cope?"

"Cope?"

"With this ... thing, with this disease you've given me. How in the hell do you
live
with it?"

"What does that have to do with my car, Sam? I wouldn't borrow
your
car and forget to return it."

I took a deep breath to help me hold my temper. "I'll bring your damned car back. Just, please, for God's sake, tell me how you live with this thing, tell me how you drag yourself from moment to moment and from day to day? It's like walking in a minefield, Abner. It's like being blind and in a room that's filled with tiny bottles of nitroglycerin."

He chuckled. "It really is, isn't it? I mean, that's
exactly
the way it is."

I took another deep breath, felt my anger building. I lowered the receiver, cursed, raised the receiver. I said tightly, "I'll make a deal with you, Abner. You tell me how you live with it and I promise I won't come over there and break your head."

He said nothing.

"Did you hear what I said, Abner? Are you listening to me?"

"I'm listening, yes." His tone had changed; it had become deadly serious. "You bet I'm listening. And don't you think, Sam—" I heard
him
breathe deeply, as if to hold his temper. "Don't you think that what you're asking me is precisely what I wanted to ask that woman two years ago? The one I ran into on the Amtrak out of Bangor. How in the hell, how in God's name do you
cope?
Don't you think I wanted to find her and ask her that? Don't you think I wanted to beat the answer out of her if I had to? But there is no answer, Sam. I'm sorry, there is no answer. You cope with it the same way . . . the same way a quadriplegic copes with having no arms or legs. You accept it; you live with it. Or you simply give up."

I said nothing for a moment; then, "And which have you chosen, Abner?"

He answered, "I don't know. I live in my memory. I enjoy the present. I enjoy what is. I don't know
what
I've done, Sam. But understand this, please:
You
found
me
. I didn't find you. You sought me out. And I warned you. I warned you more than once. So whatever kind of shit you're in is not my fault. I have a world of problems all my own." He paused. "Now, are you going to bring my car back? I'm stuck here without it."

"Yes," I answered. "Soon." I paused, went on, "Abner? Is it you that's been calling here so much in the last couple of days?"

"I called two or three times, that's all, Sam. I didn't want to sound impatient. Now I don't care
how
I sound because I'm
stuck
here, and I don't like it at all—"

"For God's sake, Abner, I'll bring the damned car back. It's a piece of crap, anyway."

"Good. And make sure it's got a full tank of gas in it, please."

"Sure. A full tank," I said, and hung up.

~ * ~

A half hour later, the phone rang again. I answered it at once.

"Hi," I heard.

It was Leslie.

"Hi," I said. "I'm sorry I haven't been answering the phone, I—"

"I was going to give up on you after tonight. I was going to stop calling."

"I'm glad I answered, then, Leslie. I'm—"

She cut in, "Can we get together for dinner, Sam?

There's an Italian place near here, on West 60th."

"Yes," I said, "I remember the place; we went there our second time out."

"No. That's on West 8Ist, Sam. This one's called Isadore's, and we've never been there." She paused.

"Leslie," I said, "is something wrong?"

"No," she answered. "Not really. I'd just like it very much if we could talk." A pause. "I've been thinking about a lot of things."

"Sounds ominous," I said.

"No. It isn't. Probably just the opposite—at least I hope so." She chuckled nervously. "So what do you say—Isadore's at seven?"

I wasn't about to be put off for two hours. "If it isn't ominous, Leslie, if it's just the opposite, what is it?"

"I'd rather we discussed it—"

"Is it a yes?

Nothing.

"Leslie? Is it?"

"It is," she said. "At least I think it is. But we've still got to talk."

"Sure," I said. "Sure we'll talk. Isadore's, seven o'clock. I'll be there with bells on."

~ * ~

Things had begun to take a very definite turn for the better.

I showered, I shaved, I put on a gray herringbone tweed jacket, a pair of dark dress pants that I hadn't worn in years, ever since my cousin's wedding, and I whispered to myself again and again, "Jesus, things
are
getting better, things are really getting better."

Until it got to be six o'clock, time to leave the apartment and head for Isadore's, and I found that I could barely get myself close enough to the front door to touch it. And when I did touch it, when I reached out tentatively and turned the knob, it was like touching a coiled snake.

That's when I realized that I was still scared shitless. That the eight-year-old inside me had taken over and
he
was scared of the girls in pink taffeta who lived in the walls, scared of the woman in red who fluttered in the air, scared of the dead who pulled small boys flying
Star Wars
kites into the sand forever.

And that eight-year-old boy inside me wasn't about to leave the apartment. His sanctuary. He was stuck. And there was nothing at all that I could do about it.

After a good quarter of an hour, I backed away from the door and sat in a wooden rocking chair.

At eight, I heard the elevator doors open. I heard someone walk down the short hallway to my door. Then hesitate. And knock sharply.

I stayed quiet.

"Sam?" It was Leslie's voice.

I said nothing.

"Sam? Are you in there? Are you okay?"

My mouth opened. Closed. I clasped my hands, leaned forward in the chair, rocked slowly.

"Hey, we had a date, remember?"

I opened my mouth again. It stayed open. But still I said nothing.

"Sam? Are you okay? Are you in there?"

I made a noise that was supposed to have been
Yes. I'm in here. I'm okay,
but it came out only as a low, fear-ridden grunt.

Another knock. Sharper, more urgent. "Dammit, Sam—do you want me to get someone for you? Do you need help?"

"No," I managed.

"I think you do."

"Go away. Please." I was surprised that I was able to speak again. I pushed myself out of the chair, approached the door, got to within a couple feet of it. "Leslie," I called, "I'm okay. Maybe . . . maybe you could write me a note or something and slip it under the door. How does that sound? And tomorrow we could get together, we could talk—"

"It sounds stupid, Sam."

I smiled quickly, nervously. "Sure it does, sure it sounds stupid, but . . . but I have to be sure that you are who you say you are."

I heard faintly, as if she were talking to herself, "Good Lord, what is
wrong
here?"

"Nothing, really," I said, and moved closer to the door, reached out, put my hand on the knob, recoiled, put my hand on it again. "I'm just a little . . . nervous, very nervous, in fact—"

"Open the door, goddammit."

"Sure," I said. I turned the knob, hesitated, pulled on the door; it stopped against the chain lock. I closed it, released the chain, opened the door again.

She shook her head slowly, a small grin on her mouth, as if she were more amused than annoyed. "Hi," I said. "I'm sorry."

She was dressed nicely, in a loose beige blouse and long earth-colored skirt; she had a gray tweed jacket thrown over her arm. It was the same outfit she'd worn when we first met. "Forget Isadore's," she said. "I guess McDonald's will have to suffice."

I smiled nervously. "No, we can do better than that." I opened the door wider, motioned toward the inside of the apartment. "Come in. Please."

She smiled back fetchingly, nodded, came in, and stopped just inside, with her back to me.

I suggested, my voice creaking and tentative, "We can eat here. I have some . . . I can send out for something from the deli on the corner."

The phone rang. I snapped my gaze toward it. She stayed still.

"That sounds fine," she said.

The phone rang again; I decided to ignore it. I closed the door.

"Let me have your jacket," I said.

She turned a little, handed me the jacket. The phone rang again. "Are you going to answer that, Sam?"

I shook my head. "No. It's a wrong number." I put her jacket in a closet near the door. Again the phone rang.

"Wrong number? How do you know it's a wrong number?" She stepped into the living room and nodded at the rocking chair I'd been sitting in. "That's very nice, Sam. Antique?"

"No. No, it came with the"—the phone rang again—"the apartment. You've seen it before. I doubt that it's an antique."

She sat, rocked a little, stood. She looked agitated. The phone continued to ring. "Do me a favor and answer that, Sam. I hate the sound of a phone ringing. It gets my adrenaline going, you know? A ringing phone is something that
begs
to be answered."

"Yes"—it rang again—"I know. But that's a wrong number." I gestured at the phone. "I know it's a wrong number because"—another ring—“he's been calling every hour on the hour"—another ring—“for the past week."