City of the Dead, Part One
I didn't make this story up. Well, a lot of it I made up. But the broad plot is based on an American Indian legend--it's Navajo, I think. Anyway, here it is--this probably represents about half of it. The other half is considerably darker, and it will come in time.
. . .
Who’s seen Jezebel? / She was gone before I ever got to say / “Lay here, my love / You’re the only shape I’ll pray to, Jezebel.” / . . . Who’s seen Jezebel? / She was certainly the spark for all I’ve done / Her window was wide / She could see the dogs come running / Singing: “Wait, we swear / We’ll love you more, and wholly / Jezebel, it’s we, we that you are for / Only.”
- Iron & Wine
This much is ours: to touch one another like this.
The Gods may bear upon us more fiercely—but that is a matter for Gods.
Might we not find somewhere secret—simple and decent
and human? Some strip of our own fertile ground
to lie between river and rock? . . .
- Rainer Maria Rilke
“She tried to tell me something—something about stories. I didn’t really get it at the time, but I think I do now. It was just what I needed to hear, and now I know that. See, when you’re in one, in a story, I mean—or enacting one—being one, I don’t know, the point is you’re locked in. Your course is already set. But that’s not right either, not at all. I’m sorry . . . Okay. It’s not that your actions are outside of your control, but it’s that you’re doing what you must do, all life being a story and stories following certain patterns that are there from the beginning, and in fact exist in all times, simultaneously and singly. Okay.”
He took a sip from his glass of Scotch. He set it back down on the bar, wincing. “Okay. So how many times has this happened?—given that time is linear, which let me tell you right now is a big goddamn assumption to make, but whatever. How many times . . . How many times has someone fallen in love, but not with a whole person, only a part of her. Him. Whichever. The part you see, the part they let you see, a certain facet of the crystal-face. And then, given time and pressure (enough of which, science tells us, can turn even coal into diamonds), you begin to realize some of the other facets. The other sides. And you realize you can’t live with these. That this person, this diamond you love is, in fact, worse than coal: a monster. Something monstrous. Something you can’t possibly live with. What do you do? Some people learn to love the monster. Some, if they’ re assertive enough, can chip away all the other facets until only the one they love remains . . . But then again, can you call a love for only one side of a person true love? Some manage to just walk away, slip out the back door and go. And then you have people like me, who are too trapped and sick at heart to do anything other than, eventually, fall back on death. Kill the one I love. The whole thing. But it’s what I have to do, because that’s the story. ‘All the world’s a stage, and we are but players.’ God—why didn’t they tell us what horrors there are in life?
. . .
Who’s seen Jezebel? / She was gone before I ever got to say / “Lay here, my love / You’re the only shape I’ll pray to, Jezebel.” / . . . Who’s seen Jezebel? / She was certainly the spark for all I’ve done / Her window was wide / She could see the dogs come running / Singing: “Wait, we swear / We’ll love you more, and wholly / Jezebel, it’s we, we that you are for / Only.”
- Iron & Wine
This much is ours: to touch one another like this.
The Gods may bear upon us more fiercely—but that is a matter for Gods.
Might we not find somewhere secret—simple and decent
and human? Some strip of our own fertile ground
to lie between river and rock? . . .
- Rainer Maria Rilke
“She tried to tell me something—something about stories. I didn’t really get it at the time, but I think I do now. It was just what I needed to hear, and now I know that. See, when you’re in one, in a story, I mean—or enacting one—being one, I don’t know, the point is you’re locked in. Your course is already set. But that’s not right either, not at all. I’m sorry . . . Okay. It’s not that your actions are outside of your control, but it’s that you’re doing what you must do, all life being a story and stories following certain patterns that are there from the beginning, and in fact exist in all times, simultaneously and singly. Okay.”
He took a sip from his glass of Scotch. He set it back down on the bar, wincing. “Okay. So how many times has this happened?—given that time is linear, which let me tell you right now is a big goddamn assumption to make, but whatever. How many times . . . How many times has someone fallen in love, but not with a whole person, only a part of her. Him. Whichever. The part you see, the part they let you see, a certain facet of the crystal-face. And then, given time and pressure (enough of which, science tells us, can turn even coal into diamonds), you begin to realize some of the other facets. The other sides. And you realize you can’t live with these. That this person, this diamond you love is, in fact, worse than coal: a monster. Something monstrous. Something you can’t possibly live with. What do you do? Some people learn to love the monster. Some, if they’ re assertive enough, can chip away all the other facets until only the one they love remains . . . But then again, can you call a love for only one side of a person true love? Some manage to just walk away, slip out the back door and go. And then you have people like me, who are too trapped and sick at heart to do anything other than, eventually, fall back on death. Kill the one I love. The whole thing. But it’s what I have to do, because that’s the story. ‘All the world’s a stage, and we are but players.’ God—why didn’t they tell us what horrors there are in life?
“Do you know what Freud said about love?”
“No. What did he say?”
He lit a cigarette with hands that were shaking a little. “Happiness is transient. Okay? Right? That’s something we can all agree on, surely, something we can fit in with our picture of the world, such as it is. Happiness is transient. Much more so than, say, un-happiness, which seems to be our natural state. Unhappiness can last for a long time. Happiness, real happiness, a genuine feeling of joy, usually only lasts for about ten minutes. As soon as you notice ‘Hey, I’m happy!’—it’s gone. Basically the best we can hope for amounts to something vaguely like apathy, a sort of feeling of stressed-out drudgery, an inexplicable will to continue plodding. That’s what keeps us going. Not happiness, by any means. That’s clear, isn’t it?”
“What does this have to do with what Freud said about love?”
“Hold on. Bear with me. I’m getting to that.” He drank some more Scotch. On the stage, the band started a new song. “Given this unfortunate state of affairs, everyone—everyone alive—is forced to find some kind of method which can allow them to cope. Freud has a list; it’s really pretty comprehensive. I can only remember a few. Of the coping methods, I mean. Like you, for example, might choose religion.”
“I doubt that.”
“But people do, that’s the point. People find life more bearable if they feel they’re working for some kind of higher purpose, their conception of God or gods. Very similar are those who choose simply truth as their ultimate goal. A scientist can ignore his or her private unhappiness, if it’s accompanied by a sense of striving in the service of truth. Then, too, you might choose art, aesthetics, as your own personal survival tool. People do. Or, say, drugs, alcohol, anything that puts you in an altered state of mind so you don’t have to deal with this brute existence. These are all valid choices. But do you know what the most common choice is by far? Do you know how most people make it through this unhappy life without, I dunno, committing suicide at puberty?”
“I can guess,” taking a swallow of beer. “Love?”
“Right. Love. Or, to be more broad, other people. This includes all types of love: love for your family, for your friends, for your significant other. Different types of love, but all working for the same purpose, which is to keep you going, to keep you putting one foot in front of the other one until your feet won’t move anymore. Ha. So. But there is a caveat to choosing people as your means of survival, and it’s this: people let you down. People walk out on you. People die, and break your heart, and lose interest, and disappoint. Freud characterizes love as the most volatile of all the coping mechanisms, in that it can give you the greatest joys and also the greatest miseries. It’s a horribly unstable reason for living, because it’s based on other people, and people are inherently untrustworthy and generally selfish. Art won’t sneak out at night and leave a letter on the dresser. Truth won’t get drunk and slap you around. You’re not going to find drugs in bed with your best friend —sorry, buddy, just an example. The point is just that love hurts . . .”
“Isn’t that a Ray Orbison song?”
“. . . Or at least has the greatest potential to hurt. So that’s what Freud said about love.” He finished his glass of Scotch, noticed his cigarette had burnt down to the filter, and stubbed it out.
“So the solution is . . . what? Not to love? You’re not saying anything new there. Or rather, Freud wasn’t. I think every country and western singer since the beginning of time’s picked up on that before.”
"I know. But didn’t Freud find a pretty way to put it?” He half-laughed. “I just keep thinking about that poor cat . . . Its poor eye . . . I have to do this. I know it. But—oh, Jesus, look, my hands are shaking again.”
“They’ve been shaking for ten minutes, Isaiah.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“Didn’t see the point. It’s just nerves.”
“Yeah. Heh. It’s been a long week, y’know?”
“They’re coming,” said Keith, turning around on his bar stool. “Get ready. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“You really ready?”
“I’m ready.”
The door to the bar opened, and a line of people in black robes, men and women alike, walked in single file, ranging themselves on either side of the doorway. They all had masks, shaped like stylized animal faces, resting on the crowns of their heads. Boars, birds, and wolves, they trooped in; a few had cuts or bruises on their faces, and at least a couple walked with limps. Last through the door was a tall, dark man with tightly curled black hair and a panther mask. There were a few layers of athletic tape on his nose, which had evidently been broken. He walked between the two lines and over to the bar where Isaiah and Keith were sitting.
“Red Bird,” he said, nasally through the tape. His accent was vaguely Greek. “I told you this would happen. One can only desecrate so many rituals without punishment.” He turned slightly to acknowledge Keith. “I see you have brought along your goatish friend.”
“Fuck you, Tony,” said Keith pleasantly. On stage, the band started a new song.
“I am afraid not. You are naturally welcome to die with your friend, Mr. Sterling. The spirits have never complained when given extra blood.”
“Love the nose brace,” said Keith.
“You’re getting bold, Tony,” Isaiah told him. “Wearing the robes and masks and everything in the street?”
“Special occasion,” smiled panther-mask. “There were too many of us for anyone to dare cause trouble. And you’ll find us better-prepared than last time.” He sighed theatrically. “You never had a chance with her, Red Bird. You never could have realized that. You were only an affair: her true lover and spouse has always been power. When we put you on the altar she will be the one to cut your heart out.”
“Now you’re getting redundant about things,” Isaiah muttered. “Look, can we just get to it? Your last-minute speeches are getting damn old.”
Panther-mask raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I am sorry. Very well,” and from the folds of his robes he produced a sharp, wicked scythe, a blade as long as a man’s arm, and brought it flashing down.
The song sped up.
. . .
When they were twenty years old and feeling a hundred the three of them went to New York City, Capital of the World, Alphaville, City of the Dead. They had been across the country and back, in both directions. School had been spottily acquired here and there, family life was for lesser souls. “Vagabonds and highwaymen,” James had bragged. “Goddamn, boys, we’re the genuine article!” So they had taken the act to New York City, picked up jobs somehow, and found a terrible loft apartment in one of the worst parts of Queens. They had no ambition, other than the ambition to escape time. They were still young.
They could have stayed there forever, but something happened. They hit critical mass; the sun of their youth engulfed them. Like meteors they went spinning away, each in his own direction, at the mercy of merciless momentum, gravity at the wheel the way it has always been It would be years before they found one another again, before they were all in the same place for longer than a few days. New York City was meant to be a crucible, but in the end it was only a scourge that wounded them, possibly beyond repair.
Every pre-dawn they drank cheap Folger’s to rid themselves of early-morning stupor, occasionally joined by one or both of their neighbors—one a Puerto Rican with a wife and kid, the other a Korean with neither. There would be an argument over which record was the best to listen to on that particular morning, and why. (The old record player and stack of vinyls were the only items, aside from his guitar, that Keith had somehow managed to establish everywhere he had lived since the age of ten.) Breakfast, when they had food, was usually a couple pieces of plain toast, and it was eaten more to offset the coffee than as any kind of sustenance. Then it was out into the cold and waking New York streets, steam rising from manholes, tired motorists holding travel mugs, zealot joggers wearing gym shorts and sweatpants, bums just beginning to shuffle out of alleys, stairs, and benches. They would separate for their respective jobs: Keith as a mechanic in a Mexican chop shop, James as a cab driver, and Isaiah as a member of a construction crew on Staten Island. The grueling days usually ended in a seedy little bar down the street with live music—occasionally Keith and James would play on the stage. Nights were dreamless. Life could have been worse.
After the first two and a half months, each of them had switched jobs at least once. “The beauty of minimum wage,” Isaiah observed, “is that you really don’t have to give a shit.” The city always had room for a few more goalless derelicts who cared for nothing but food and a roof, even if the food was rotten and the roof was leaky. Isaiah, who had vague aspirations toward law, studied heavy books on free weekends while Keith and James practiced on their guitars, read, or scrawled in notebooks. It was enough, and that was the most important thing.
They had learned that aspirations come at too dear a price; they seemed always to be accompanied by disappointments, and that, they felt, was far too dear a price. The idea of having more was a little nauseating. How much easier to have a job which could be left at any time, where there was no need to climb any sort of ladder nor any ladders to climb, life a matter of simply eating and working and sleeping and surviving. They believed they were jaded. Nothing could surprise them anymore. They were each twenty, and felt a hundred.
. . .
Six months into the year Isaiah was feeling jaded while sitting in a coffee shop—the artsy kind in the West End that Keith could not bear to visit, and James only occasionally. He was scribbling aimlessly in a torn red notebook, nursing the last triple espresso he would be able to afford, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. A shadow fell over his table.
“Hello,” said the shadow’s owner. “I’m the wicked witch of Greenwich Village.”
Isaiah lifted his eyes. “Hello,” he said. “Are you really a witch?”
“Yes, I am. I came over here because I thought you might want to buy me a coffee.”
He studied her, and asked “Is this witch-style mind control? Are you going to brainwash me into wanting to buy you a coffee?”
“No,” she said cheerfully. “Not mind control. Just a hunch.”
Isaiah considered it for a moment. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he decided, “but I can’t. See, I just spent the last of my money on this drink.” He gestured to it apologetically, as if to implicate
the espresso as the wrongdoer. “I’m poor, you see. Sorry.”
“That’s nothing to be sorry for. Everybody in here is poor.”
“Ah. But, you see—” he leaned forward, and dropped his voice to a mock-whisper—“I’m not a starving artist. Just starving.”
“No? Pity. I had you tagged as a brooding poet. You get a lot of those in this place.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But, no. Unfortunately. I just do manual labor, or basically anything anyone’s willing to pay me for. What about you? What’s your chosen profession?”
“I write a theatre column in a little independent magazine.”
“Ah. Sort of a bottom feeder in the starving artist world, eh?”
“I prefer to think of myself as on the fringes.” She studied him for a second. “Well, can I buy you a coffee, then? Mr. Starving Whatever-You-Are?”
“Oh, uh—it’s Red Bird. My name, I mean. Isaiah Red Bird.”
“Indian, huh? The American kind.”
“Half,” he corrected. “Cheyenne. Never meant too much to me.”
“Sure.” She smiled, and her eyes crinkled. “I’ve known other Indians who said that. But isn’t that sort of like hearing someone say ‘I was raised Catholic, but it doesn’t mean much to me’? Or Jewish? I mean, you always know they’re lying at least a little bit.”
Isaiah smiled. “Good call, Ms. Wicked Witch.”
“Oh—it’s Raven, Raven Windslaw.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Windslaw.”
“Same to you, Mr. Red Bird.” They shook hands over the table. “It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re named after a red bird, and I’m named after a black one.”
“Can you turn into a raven? I mean, being a witch and all?”
“No,” she said. “It’s just a family name. But I can turn into a stone cold fox.”
He laughed, and she smiled. “Well,” she said, standing. “It was a pleasure. I hope I’ll see you here again.”
“Likewise,” he said to her back as she walked away.
He considered the encounter for a second or two, thinking of things he wished he had said, going through the standard self-examination before, semi-satisfied with himself, he returned to writing in his notebook. When he glanced up after a few minutes, Raven Windslaw was gone.
A moment later the tall ghoul barista leaned over him, and in a bassoon-voice (with a pronounced Brooklyn accent) said “You’re Mr. Red Bird, right, buddy?” When Isaiah nodded, he placed a second triple espresso on the table. “That’s from the girl what just left, man. The one that was talkin’ to ya. She said to make sure ya read the napkin before ya wipe your mouth with it.”
“Thanks,” said Isaiah, and the ghoul nodded and returned to the counter. He turned over the paper napkin that had come with the cup, and saw a phone number on the back, as well as a scribbled note: “how about we do more than hope?” He pocketed the napkin, rolled another celebratory cigarette, and started on the new cup of coffee. He began to ponder the advantages of having a telephone installed.
. . .
“I thought,” said James, “that part of the point of this place was not to have a phone. Did I make that up? Or are you just being a self-serving, waffling dick?”
“The second one,” said Isaiah.
“That’s what I thought.” James fished a beer out of a case near the door. He opened it and took a swig, then made a face. “Anyway, we can’t afford it. If we get enough money to install a phone, we have enough money to buy a fridge.”
“A fridge is an amenity,” Isaiah observed. “Some might argue that a telephone is a necessity.”
“I disagree. A refrigerator is a necessity, and I’ll tell you why: it’s ‘cause if I have to drink any more warm beer I. Am going . To snap. I swear to God.” He raised his voice. “Keith: fridge or phone?”
“Fridge,” said Keith sleepily from the couch. “No more warm beer.”
“Exactamundo,” said James. “Isaiah: call your new little girlfriend from a pay phone. Keith and I need cold beer more than you need your bone smooched.” Keith laughed.
“Okay,” said Isaiah, “fine. I’ll deal with it. But we digress from the real question, which is: what should I do about this girl? Should I call her at all?”
“Let’s review the facts,” said James, lighting a cigarette with pure relish. “Is she attractive?”
“I thought so. Redhead.”
“Redheads are a crapshoot,” called Keith from the sofa.
“Keith has a point, here. They always seem like they should be hotter than they are. How’s this one? Many freckles?”
“Well—yeah, I guess, a few. But it doesn’t make her any less attractive. Trust me, she has a pretty face. Dark eyes. Very round.”
James rolled his eyes. “‘Her eyes are very round,’” he laughed. “Keith, what’s the first thing you look for in a girl?”
“Round eyes. Love ‘em.”
“Okay, fuck you guys,” said Isaiah. “I’ll just sit here and think about her.” There was a moment of silence, then “She was really put together, you know? Really stylish. And I don’t notice that kind of shit in girls.”
“Few straight men do,” James said.
Isaiah ignored him. “She was funny, too,” he said. “I hardly ever really enjoy those opening conversations. This one I actually liked. It’s like we already knew one another . . .”
“You met this girl where, now?” James asked. “That pretentious little coffee shop you like so much?”
“Tom Waits says you don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops,” Keith interjected.
“I don’t care what Tom Waits says,” Isaiah told him. “I wanted you guys’ opinions, but you’re just too damn juvenile.” He fetched a beer, opened it. “But you know I think Waits may be right,” he said, “on second thought. That’s the main reason I don’t want to call her. She didn’t seem like, y’know, a ‘nice girl.’ She was pretty forward, actually, and I’m afraid she does this kind of thing all the time . . .”
“Juvenile, huh?” snorted James. “You’re the one who’s talking shit. Since when do you dig on nice girls? You’re too much of a bastard to hope for such a thing, and it’s not what you want, anyway. Let’s think.” He began counting on his fingers. “You find her attractive. She, for whatever reason, seems to find you attractive, even though she knows you’re poor. You like talking to her. She’s not a nice girl, which makes it more likely that she would be able to stand your sorry ass. And, and this is the most important thing—she bought you a coffee.” He tossed his hand into the air. “Isaiah,” he said. “To me, this sounds like your dream girl.”
Isaiah stared at his beer, then stood up slowly and drained it. “That’s it. It’s done,” he said. “I’m calling her tomorrow after work.”
Keith sat up and peered blearily over the back of the sofa at them. “So,” he said. “You’re going to be dating a wicked bitch? Well, won’t that be a nice change from your normal routine?”
“Wicked witch,” Isaiah corrected him.
“Oh,” said Keith. “And that’s better, is it?” He shook his head and lay back down. “I swear,” he said, “you kids never learn.”
. . .
On the second date, Isaiah told Raven about what Tom Waits had said. She laughed before observing “I don’t listen to that kind of music much, though.”
He stared at her. “This is something we’re going to have to work on. What do you listen to?”
“Umm—scores from musicals, mostly. Also international music. Music from all over. All over the world. I like songs best when I can’t understand the words.”
“To me that sounds crazy.”
“No, I like it. The words become part of the music—you’re not listening to what they mean anymore, just to how they sound.”
“That’s the best possible thing you could have said.”
Later they were walking down the sidewalk. “So what’s with the witch thing?” he asked her. “Do you have black robes and a tall, pointy hat?”
“And an attachable wart,” she laughed. “What the hell? You don’t know anything about witches, do you?
“Hardly anything,” he admitted. “Please educate me.”
“Well. I have black robes, but there’s definitely no hat. It’s earth-magic, animal-magic. A lot like what the American Indians do, actually.”
He frowned. “I’ve known a couple of medicine men, I guess. I was sort of under the impression that you had to be an Indian, though . . .”
“Not for this kind of magic,” she said quickly. “There’s no wand, either. And I can’t stand cats, let alone black ones.”
“I love them,” he told her. “My family raised cats. They could talk. Have you met any like that?” She nodded. “I left home when I was fourteen, but I had already seen three generations of these cats come and go. My parents had seen six. I saw them get born, get old, and eventually die. It’s interesting to be able to tell someone what their grandmother was like.” He thought about it. “I guess that, if I ever have a place of my own, I’ll see if I can get one of the kittens from my parents up north. Their dynasty’s tied up with my family, or that’s how I see it, and also how the cats see it. I can’t explain it too well, but it seems important. They’re more like family servants than pets. Anyway, that’s why I love cats.”
She smiled. “I understand that,” she said. “It’s sort of like my family’s house.”
“How do you mean?”
“My family’s from the north of the state; they’ve lived in Windslaw manor for almost two centuries. I’m the last heir.”
“Really?” Isaiah asked, interested. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, why would you? Anyway, after my parents died I came to the city to take a job, but the manor’s still there. There are a couple of people who I pay to take care of it, and I send back money for the upkeep and other costs. Mortgages left over from my father’s debts, things like that.”
“Does anyone still live in it?”
“No. It’s been empty for ten years.”
“So—if it burnt down tomorrow, the only palpable difference for you would be you would stop paying bills on it?”
She stopped walking. “It won’t,” she said. “It won’t burn down. Don’t talk shit.”
“Sorry, uh . . .” Isaiah shrugged, sensing a darkness and trying to stave it off. “Sensitive territory, I guess. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
She looked cold for a second longer, then fixed a smile on her face, took his arm, and kept walking. “It’s okay,” she said. “But it’s very important to me. It’s why I got into witchery in the first place: to have enough power to keep my family’s house and stave off the debt-collectors. Like your cats. It means a lot. Don’t be sorry.”
But she was distant for the rest of the walk, and she did not linger on her goodbye, and for that Isaiah was very sorry.
His comment, he decided, had probably been along the lines of suggesting to a different woman the possible murder of her only treasured child. Everyone had their hang-ups. It was nothing he couldn’t work through. The next day he bought her a Tom Waits album that he could not really afford.
. . .
The first time they slept together, he made the mistake of calling what they had just done “making love.” She laughed at him. “Is that what you call it?” she asked, curled up with her head on his chest. “Baby, you really are a hopeless romantic posing as a cynic. How clever of you.”
“What?” He was a little hurt. “Sorry. What would you call it?”
“Fucking,” she said with finality. “Sex is fucking.”
“No, no. That’s what you do with somebody you don’t like that much. That’s what animals do.”
“This from the boy with the cat-obsession? I would think you’d be more respectful of animals. Some of them mate for life, you know, which is more than I can say for most people.”
“Okay, okay, I was wrong to be species-centric.”
“Some Indian you are.”
“Okay. Fine. Animals can make love, too. Happy? It doesn’t change the point, which is that sex can be the physical act of love. Ergo, lovemaking. Yes?”
“No,” she told him. “That’s just a pretty name we made up so we wouldn’t have to say ‘fucking.’”
“Jesus, Raven! Doesn’t that sound, I don’t know, impersonal to you? I mean, do you really feel like there’s no magic in sex at all?”
“Sure there’s magic in sex. It’s the most crucial step in many important rituals.”
“You know what I—”
“But!” she continued. “That magic is not love. It has nothing to do with love. It’s all chemicals and instincts, babe —it’s conducive to evolution. What we just did, sweetheart, is what people and animals and everything else with sex organs have been doing since the beginning of time. Which is: fuck.”
Her crassness was genuinely beginning to annoy him, and he sat up abruptly, pushing her head off his chest. “So sex is only good for magic rituals and reproduction, is it? Then what did we use that for?” pointing accusatively at a box of condoms.
“Are you saying that you wish we hadn’t? Are you saying —” her eyes widened—“that you want me to have your baby?”
“No,” he said coldly. “Stop making fun of me.”
She laughed. “It’s not just good for magic rituals and reproduction, sweetie. See, it also feels good. In this case,” running her fingernails along his ribs, “very, very good . . .” Sensing attempted manipulation, and determined not to be mollified, he kept quiet. She sighed and gave up. “I don’t know why you’re so sensitive about a little difference in terms, anyway.”
“Because it’s indicative of a broader worldview,” he told her. “To me, it sounds like you don’t believe in love, and that’s one of the few things I still do believe in.”
She ran her tongue along her teeth, looking at him speculatively. “Are you in love with me? Is that what this is about?”
“No!” Isaiah felt trapped at every turn. “But—well—maybe someday . . . I just don’t want to rule out the possibility, that’s all. I’m not trying to be a romantic ass or anything; I just believe it can happen, and if it does happen, well, that’ll be great, won’t it?”
“No,” she said seriously, all the laugh coming out of her eyes. “Isaiah, I need you to understand something. Okay? I—will never—fall in love with you. I don’t love, sweetheart. What we are doing is spending time with one another because we enjoy it. We can share a bed occasionally, or more often than that if it’s convenient, although if you insist on calling it ‘lovemaking’ you must expect me to laugh. You can even call me your girlfriend, if you want. But don’t fool yourself. And don’t try to trap me. If you ever, ever tell me honestly that you love me, you may not see me again. Okay?”
Isaiah stared at her for a few seconds, then swung his legs over the side of her bed and began to get dressed. “Where are you going,” she asked him wearily, no question in her voice.
“Home,” he said briefly. “I need to think about this. I’m not used to being the one who’s afraid of commitment.”
“Not afraid. Just smart.”
“Whatever,” he told her. “I’ll call you tomorrow, or the day after.”
“Whatever yourself,” she replied unconcernedly, rolling over in the bed so her back was to him. “Turn off the lights when you go.”
He looked at her bare back, and wondered how desire could turn so quickly to loathing. “Turn them off yourself,” he said petulantly, and stalked out. Things could have done without that parting comment, he decided on the way down the stairs, and he wished to God he had not said it, but there was no way he was going back.
He took the subway home, walked the last fifteen minutes or so, climbed the old dripping cement stairs, graffiti sprayed all over the cold gray brick walls, and unlocked the front door. James and Keith were already asleep—they both had work tomorrow, while he did not. He climbed onto his cot, wrapped himself in a quilt, and stared at the ceiling for about an hour. He wasn’t sure how he should feel.
The next morning he made a decision, and called Raven from the payphone at the corner. “I can live with your terms,” he told her when she answered.
“Wonderful,” she replied, and he could hear her smiling. “I really do like you, Isaiah. A lot. I was hoping I’d get to see you again.”
And just like that, he was in love. No warning. Goddammit, he thought, of all the goddamn times. Of all the goddamn people. “Is it okay,” he asked her in a voice that sounded thick to his ears, “if I sort of secretly feel for you—uh—an emotion that might be called love, as long as it’s only once in a while?”
“As long as you keep your mouth shut about it. And as long as it’s only once in a while. Now get off your stupid pay phone and come over here. You still have the day off, right?”
“Right.”
“Here. Now.” She hung up. Isaiah leaned on the side of the phone booth, breathing heavily as if he had just finished a run, and then, gently, he kissed the probably filthy mouthpiece before tenderly hanging it up.
. . .
The first time Raven saw the loft apartment, she was appalled. “This can’t be how you live,” she kept saying. “It can’t be.”
Isaiah was tired from a long day; he had James’ old cab-driving job, and had been ferrying people across the city for almost forty-eight hours. He had not expected Raven to come and visit. “I’m afraid it is,” he said. “Now, Raven, I really need some goddamn sleep, if that’s okay with you . . .”
“What is that?” she asked, leveling her finger.
He followed the direction in which she was pointing. “That? That’s the trash corner,” he said.
“See, it’s a corner where we put our trash . . .”
“I understand the principle. I just think it’s disgusting. Don’t you have a trash can?”
“Yeah. It’s somewhere in the trash corner.”
“Buried?”
“Yeah.”
She shook her head despairingly. “And look at all these beer bottles! Do you and your friends really drink this much beer?”
“I’m afraid so. But keep in mind that it’s usually a couple of weeks before we throw them all into the trash corner . . .”
“There must be hundreds,” she said, cutting him off. “Maybe even thousands.”
“Look, Raven, we’re bachelors. We’re twenty-year-old bachelors who live together in one of the shittiest buildings in Queens. Okay?”
“Speaking of which, why isn’t this place condemned?”
“I think it is, actually. The city hasn’t gotten around to tearing it down yet. Anyhow, the point is, this is a bachelor pad. You’re not even meant to like it. Something would be very wrong if you did.”
“I’ve seen bachelor pads before,” said Raven with finality, “and they didn’t look like this. There has not been an apartment like this in history, probably.”
“Look, do you want a seat or something?”
“Yuck. No.”
He laughed. “I think it’s funny that my place just merited a ‘yuck’ from someone,” he told her.
“Trust me, it deserves it. How can you live like this? No one lives like this.”
“You’d be surprised. People do live like this: poor people who don’t care enough to buy things like drapes, or new furniture, or silverware, or . . .”
“A cushion for your chair?” she asked frostily, nodding at the exposed springs of an armchair.
“How can you sit on that thing?”
“We don’t. We just use it as a convenient surface on which to put cases of beer, and also ashtrays. Isn’t that obvious?”
“All too obvious. Look, baby,” she said, “I can’t stand to be here. I’m afraid of the germs in this place; they must have evolved consciousness. And not everyone has the natural defenses you and your friends have acquired from living in squalor.”
He laughed again. “Why do you think we use your place after dates? Why do you think I never invited you over here? I knew how you’d act.”
She was already halfway out the door. “Call me when you wake up,” she said.
He grinned and climbed onto his cot.
. . .
One week later, against all odds, Isaiah had a full-time job that brought him more than ten dollars an hour. “Ridiculous!” James cried. “How’d you get it?”
“That old guy in the bar two nights ago. He started talking to me, and out of the blue he offered me this job stocking shelves at his warehouse. I didn’t have to wheedle him or anything. He just named a salary, and asked me to come by and take a look.”
“A girlfriend, now a good job,” grumbled Keith. “Some guys have all the luck. It’s just not fair.”
“Speaking of girlfriends, guess what else?”
“What?”
“Raven found me an apartment I can afford. The rent is dirt-cheap, just a few hundred per
month, and it’s already furnished.”
“You’re moving out?” James frowned. “That’s no good. We moved to New York to live here, in this place. All together.”
“It’s just a ten-minute walk away. And the way I see it, it’s more like expanding our resources. See, now we will collectively own two apartments instead of one.”
“Bullshit,” Keith observed. “Raven found you that apartment so she can move in with you. It’s obvious.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“It’s almost the end of August. Her lease has probably expired, and she’d rather live with you than by herself. C’mon, it’s obvious. You two spend every waking moment together.”
“That’s not true. I’m with you guys all the time. Hell, I’m with you now, aren’t I?”
“Well, whatever. I just don’t think there’s much chance of us getting to use your nice new apartment. Not with Raven around.”
“Have you seen it yet?” James asked.
“No. Uh—actually, Raven wanted to look at it with me Saturday afternoon.” James and Keith exchanged significant glances. “Jesus, guys, stop being so suspicious.”
“Another one bites the dust,” James sang softly. “And then there were two.”
Within a month, Keith had the opportunity to gloat. It happened just as he had predicted. Raven’s lease expired and she did not renew it. She moved into the new apartment with Isaiah, which was cramped but nothing they couldn’t handle. She bought their food, while Isaiah paid the rent—and, guiltily, continued to pay his third of rent and food costs for James and Keith’s place. His new job had steady hours, and was nowhere near as exhausting as the others he had worked so far. The lump of cash he kept stashed under his mattress continued to grow. Things were looking up.
. . .
“Don’t worry,” Raven said cheerfully as she pulled on a white tanktop (one that had belonged to Isaiah before she appropriated it). “It will be fun.”
“I am worried,” said Isaiah, smoking a cigarette in bed, the ashtray on his bare stomach. “It will not be fun. It will be awful.”
“Come on, darling,” she said, bending over and kissing his forehead lightly. “This place needs a good housewarming party, anyway. And now that we’re living together, my friends want to meet you. And I want to meet your friends. It will be perfect.”
“You’ve met my friends,” he complained. “Lots of times.”
“Oh, sure. ‘Hi, James! Hi, Keith!’ Then a couple of ‘Hey, Raven’s. And then the three of you go to a bar, or to play pool, or whatever it is you do together, and I don’t see you again until you crawl into bed with me at three A.M. with booze on your breath.”
“Hey,” he said, frowning.
She padded toward the bathroom. “Oh, don’t be so hurt, little boy,” she called over her shoulder. “I don’t mind. I want you to have fun with your friends. I just want to know them.” She stuck her head around the door, pointing a toothbrush accusingly. “Unless you’re ashamed of me.”
“God, no,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”
“Ashamed of them?”
“Well . . .” He thought about it. “Maybe. Not ashamed, per se, but they can be pretty, uh, intense. Especially if they’re drunk. Believe it or not, I’m pretty civilized in comparison. I mean, I know you can handle them, but I don’t know about your friends, that’s all . . .”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, disappearing again.
Isaiah set the ashtray on the bedside table. “Stop being so optimistic,” he called, looking glumly out the window. “Trust me, I understand this shit. It always ends in tears. This will be so awkward. Jesus! What is it with girls, anyway? What in the hell would possibly possess you to make you think this is a good idea? It’s a terrible idea. My friends—and your friends—in an apartment together—probably sober—trying to make goddamned smalltalk?” He shuddered violently and swung his legs over the side of the bed, snatching a bathrobe. “Seriously, how could you think this would work? Do you know what this is? Do you? This is fulfillment of a goddamn social obligation, is what this is. What’s so bad about the status quo, anyway, that’s what I want to know. You have your friends, I have mine, and ne’er the twain shall meet. Right? Why pretend to be interested? Why should you be friends with my friends, and especially vice-versa?”
“Thank you,” she mumbled around toothpaste.
“I’ll tell you why,” he continued, pacing. “Because you feel—like—you should. I mean, what unbelievable shit we go through just because we feel like we should. Weddings for people we hate—Christmas cards to distant relatives we hardly know—idiotic chit-chat at the office—“Hey, how you doin’?” “Fine, how ‘bout you?” My God! That’s what I’ve been trying my whole life to escape! Who the hell sits and invents this loathsome bunk we’re all expected to do? I swear, love, I feel as if I’ll go mad if I have to take one more day of this societally conditioned, banal-ass bullshit!”
Raven was in the shower. “It was a beautiful tirade, dear,” she called. “One of your best. Please pass me a washcloth.”
Isaiah sat sulkily on the edge of the toilet, deflating like a balloon. “I don’t have any washcloths,” he muttered.
“Of course you do. I bought some last week. Under the sink.” Her pale dripping arm emerged from the steam, open-handed and expectant.
He grimaced as he passed her a cloth. “Royal blue, no less,” he sniffed. “Never in my whole life have I ever owned a washcloth, let alone a stack of washcloths. Let alone a stack of royal blue washcloths. None of my friends own washcloths. They are totally superfluous.”
“Actually, they’re quite necessary. And anyway, that’s what we like to call ‘compromise’ around here, sweetie. Part of being in something called a ‘relationship.’ For you, compromise is owning washcloths. Can James and Keith be here next week? Tuesday?”
“I’ll check,” he mumbled.
She leaned precariously around the shower curtain. “Don’t be grumpy, please. I think it’s awfully sweet when you lecture. Kiss me.” He stood up and did so. Her damp hand ran around the back of his neck, sending droplets trickling down his spine. She broke away, smiled brightly, and vanished behind the curtain again. “Thanks for being a good sport, Isaiah.”
“We’d better get a bottle or three,” he said morosely, plodding out of the bathroom. “More, if your friends want to drink, too. All I know is, I can’t do this sober.”
. . .
Isaiah could see he would soon die, and that his death would be long and excruciating. He had known it as soon as he answered the door and saw the first of Raven’s friends: a young woman with long, straight, shining blonde hair and eyes that seemed half-closed. Perfect body. Perfect make-up. Perfectly white shirt. Perfectly white pants that looked as though they had been painted on. She could have been a model. Isaiah hated her the moment he saw her. “Isaiah?” she asked, looking him up and down.
“Uh—yes. Yes, that’s me. And you must be, um, LaSheena?” He extended his hand. Her grip was limp.
“Yesss,” she said. “Very pleased to meet you. Hi.” She smiled meaninglessly. “Am I early?”
“No. No. We were just about to open a bottle of wine, I’m glad you got here when you did. So where do you—”
But she had already breezed past him, depositing her jacket in his arms. “Where are you, Raven, dear?” she called. “Raven?”
Isaiah hung up the coat and went into the living room—the two women were embracing, and they pecked one another on each cheek before separating. “What a sweet apartment!”
LaSheena was enthusing. “It’s a little like mine, but smaller, of course.”
“I think it’s about the same size,” said Raven.
“No, this one is a little smaller, dear.”
“You met Isaiah?”
LaSheena glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, yes. I’m not sure what I think about the two of you yet. I guess I’ll see tonight!” She laughed.
“What do you mean, you don’t know what you think yet?” Isaiah asked.
“Well, don’t be offended, dear, but I don’t think anyone could be more perfect for our little Raven than Jackson was.” Isaiah stiffened. He had heard the name of Jackson —Raven’s last boyfriend—mentioned before in passing. He was some kind of semi-professional singer and dancer on Broadway, and Isaiah had been simultaneously impressed and threatened by the man’s good looks in a couple of photographs Raven had kept.
“Jackson was a long time ago, LaSheena,” said Raven, giving Isaiah a soothing look.
“Oh, I know, but wasn’t he unforgettable?” She turned to Isaiah. “He picked up extra money as a tantric instructor at NYU, you know. The stories I heard!” She laughed again, loudly.
Isaiah thanked every god he had ever heard of when a knock came at the door. “I’ll get it,” he said, leaving quickly. He stopped in the hall, out of the women’s sight, to tear at his hair dramatically for a moment. “Tantra, eh?” he whispered. “Well, fuck you, Jackson!” He took a moment to compose himself, then opened the door.
A tall, sallow-looking, bald man stood in the doorway, his suit hanging baggily off his gaunt frame. He smiled shyly. “Hi,” he said. “This is for you,” and he held out a little box tied with a ribbon.
“You must be Gus, huh?” Isaiah took the box. “Wow, thanks, man. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you—together maybe we can break up the all-girl party, huh?”
“You can—you can open that,” said Gus, gesturing at the box. “It’s for you.”
“Oh. Uh—okay. He untied the bow, opened the box, and took out a small snow globe with a grinning snowman inside. “Jeez. Thanks Gus, it’s, uh, really great.”
Gus shuffled his feet. “It’s stupid, I guess, but new apartments are so bare, and you need little things to set on shelves and tables and, and things . . .”
“Bric-a-brac,” said Isaiah encouragingly. “Decoration.”
“Right, right!” said Gus, brightening. “Decoration!”
“You’re absolutely right. This place is bare as hell. Thanks, buddy.”
“Is that Gus?” LaSheena called. Isaiah felt his teeth clench involuntarily. “Get in here, Gus!”
Obediently, Gus trotted into the living room. The two women were seated, holding glasses of wine. “Oh, God, Gus!” said LaSheena, “look how rumpled you are! When are you going to trade your stupid bike for a car?”
“I like the bike,” Gus mumbled, half-waving. “Hi, Raven.”
“Hi, Gus,” Raven smiled.
“Personally, I’ve got nothing but love for the rumpled look, Gus,” said Isaiah.
“We can tell.” LaSheena model-smiled at him, and he forced himself to grin back rather than, say, throwing the snow globe at her head.
“I call Isaiah the genius vagabond,” said Raven. “His mind’s on other things.”
“Well,” said Isaiah, still trying to be nice, “if I had your sense of style, LaSheena, I’d dress up, too.”
“Don’t try,” said LaSheena. “What are you holding, anyway? Is that a snow globe?”
“Gus’s housewarming present,” said Isaiah, holding it up and shaking it before placing it on a table.
“Gus, that’s the stupidest present I’ve ever seen,” said LaSheena cuttingly. “A snow globe in September? Where’d you buy that, at a dollar store?”
Gus’s face fell. “It’s decoration,” he muttered, tugging at his hands. Isaiah stared at LaSheena in horror and disgust. Raven looked embarrassed.
LaSheena turned to Isaiah and laughed her loud laugh. “That’s Gus for you,” she said gaily. “A real character.”
“Want some wine, Gus?” Isaiah asked tightly. “I need some, too. And you—LaSheena? More wine? ”
“We just finished what was left of the bottle,” Raven told him. “You’ll have to open a new one.”
Isaiah picked up a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew—he pulled out the cork easily, and “Look how quickly he did that,” trilled LaSheena. “Raven, dear, I see why you keep him around.”
“That’s one of the reasons,” Raven smiled.
“Oh, is he good in bed, too? Not better than Jackson, I bet!” Again the laugh. Isaiah settled down onto the couch with his glass of wine, as did Gus. He checked the clock, a little desperately. Quarter after seven. At least four hours to go.
He wondered if he would make it.
. . .
After ten eternal minutes of listening to LaSheena’s voice, Keith and James finally arrived, accompanied by the girl Keith was seeing: Lila. They were obviously already drunk. Keith was still wearing his blue work shirt with his name patch over the pocket. James had a long streak of tar on his cheek from his day job as a shingler. “Isaiah,” James slurred, “Keith is going to embarrass you. He won’t stop talking about Lila’s thighs.”
“Aren’t they great thighs, though?” Keith asked, squeezing one lasciviously. “Don’t you think she has great thighs?”
“Stop! God!” giggled Lila. She was a short, plump girl, originally from Mexico, and eminently likable. She was also the only one of the three who had made any effort at dressing up: she wore a flower-patterned dress that had been hemmed along the skirtline, clearly by hand. “Hi, Isaiah.”
“Hi, Lila, thanks for coming. Listen, guys,” dropping his voice, “there’s a ninja bitch in my living room. I have no idea how Raven can be friends with this girl. You’ve got to help me.”
“This sounds like a job for the great and knowledgeable McMullen!” hooted James. “Hey-hey-hey, it’s a party, bitches!” He leapt forward and into the living room. Isaiah followed and found him shaking hands with everyone enthusiastically. “Pleased to meetcha,” he was saying, “pleased to meetcha. Call me James. I’m half-demon. The other half is Irish. That’s the bottom half—lucky for you ladies.” He winked hugely and laughed. Gus smiled, a little, obviously not sure what to say. LaSheena looked at him icily.
“James, Keith, Lila, meet LaSheena and Gus,” said Isaiah dutifully. “You all know Raven.”
“Hi, Raven!” chorused Keith and Lila. “We seem,” noted Keith, “to have overestimated how drunk everyone would be, but better safe than sorry, I always say!” Lila giggled and waved.
“Once Antonio gets here we can eat,” said Raven.
James had crouched beside LaSheena’s chair. “Those pants are great,” he said enthusiastically. “Where did you get them?”
“A clothing store,” she muttered.
“Yeah? No shit?” He laughed. “What store, though? Maybe I’ve been there.”
“I doubt it,” she said, smiling. “They wouldn’t let you through the door.”
“LaSheena, come on,” murmured Raven.
James’ eyes widened, and he stood up, stung. Then he laughed again, but this time it wasn’t friendly. “Wellll,” he drawled, “that may be. They wouldn’t let me in to a bar in California, once. I must have one of those faces that seems—”
“Poor?” LaSheena suggested with the model-smile.
He smiled back, flashing his sharp teeth. “Yeah. Yeah. That must be it. I’d tell you what I did to this bar, but it’s not a story for little girls. Might give you nightmares.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “I’m not scared of nightmares.”
“You are one,” said James, and strolled casually over to the couch to chat with Gus. LaSheena looked after him poisonously. Raven looked stricken, but did not rise to the other woman’s defense.
Keith leaned toward Isaiah. “This is already a disaster, isn’t it?” he asked cheerfully. Isaiah nodded.
. . .
At seven-thirty, a final knock came at the door. The atmosphere had been stiflingly tense; James had tried to chat with Gus, while Raven, the conscientious hostess, attempted to direct LaSheena’s attention away from James. Keith kept whispering to Lila, making her laugh. Isaiah had done his best at cultivating the twin virtues of patience and invisibility, and was failing. When he heard the knock he sprang to his feet. “I’ll get it,” he said, and sprang into the hallway.
LaSheena’s voice rang behind him: “That must be Antonio! Fashionably late, as always! Now this party might go somewhere!” Isaiah dreaded this person, to whom he would soon have to grant entry to his home. Anyone that made LaSheena that happy, he reasoned, had to be bad news for him.
He opened the door to a man in an expensive suit, about his own height, well-built, with tightly-curled black hair, almond eyes, and an obnoxiously firm jaw line. Isaiah stroked his own chin self-consciously on seeing him. “You’re Antonio? Hi, I’m Isaiah. Welcome.”
“Antonio is what other coven-members call me,” said the man smoothly, with a slight accent that could only, Isaiah guessed, make him more attractive. “You may call me Tony.” He shook hands firmly. “My deepest apologies for being late. Business matters required my urgent attention.”
“Oh, that’s all right. It’s no problem. Everyone’s been getting drunk, is all.”
“That can sometimes be a very good thing,” Tony smiled, “when dealing with new company.”
“Or a very bad thing,” said Isaiah, beginning to warm to the man despite himself. “Depending on the nature of the company. You’ll have to judge for yourself.”
“And so I shall. Is there a place I should put my coat?” he asked, stepping out of a long, pricey-looking black trench coat.
“Let me take it.” Isaiah guided Tony into the sitting room. Raven, LaSheena, and Gus all stood up when he entered. Isaiah’s friends looked at him questioningly, then followed suit. Isaiah handled the introductions quickly, while Tony went around shaking hands and smiling. Lila’s hand he kissed, making her giggle. Then he turned to Gus.
“There is a bottle of wine in my car,” he told him, handing him a set of keys. “Go get it and bring it up here. Passenger’s seat.” Gus nodded and loped out of the room. Tony turned on a thousand-watt smile and advanced on Raven and LaSheena. “You both look lovely,” he said.
Raven smiled and turned her eyes downward. LaSheena simpered. Keith looked at Isaiah with an expression that clearly said What the hell? Isaiah shrugged. “Have you been behaving yourself, LaSheena?” asked Tony.
“Oh, of course,” she laughed.
“Hmm. When Isaiah answered the door, he had the look of desperation on his face that you are so often responsible for. Remember you are a guest.”
LaSheena looked embarrassed. “Yes, Antonio.”
“Now, then.” Tony turned the smile on everyone. “Shall we eat?”
“Yes, Antonio,” said Raven. “Let me just get the table. Isaiah, will you help me?”
“’Scuse me for a second, I have to talk to Isaiah,” said Keith, seizing his elbow and guiding him into the hall. “About work. And stuff. James will help with the table.” He shut the sliding door, turned to Isaiah, and lowered his voice. “What’s this bouncing boy’s story? Huh? He comes in and starts seducing every woman he sees, giving orders like it’s his house. I mean, what the hell? Who does he think he is? He dresses like Calvin Klein and talks like the evil secret agent from a Cold War movie.”
“I don’t know,” Isaiah told him, “but if he can keep LaSheena on a leash, he’s okay in my book.”
“You weren’t kidding about her being a bitch, huh?”
“I certainly wasn’t. Now come on. Let’s hope Tony can keep things under control.”
. . .
The eight of them sat on cushions around a low table, munching on ethnic cuisine that James and Keith never would have touched except out of politeness. But they seemed to be enjoying it all the same, Isaiah noted. More importantly, it was sobering them up. Lila was not a danger and never had been, unless she got somehow drawn into the chaos spawned by one or both of her escorts. LaSheena had kept her mouth shut since Tony arrived. Gus was just nodding and smiling a lot, and obeying with alacrity any orders given by Tony or LaSheena.
Tony had held everyone’s attention since dinner started, telling diverting stories, complimenting Raven on the food, asking who had decorated which portions of the apartment, listening attentively to every question directed to him and answering fully and eloquently. Isaiah would have hated him on principle, were it not for the fact that he was stemming a greater evil. He began to believe he might escape with his life.
“The food’s damn good, Raven,” said Keith, munching. “Did you make all of it?”
“I did. Glad you like it, Keith.”
“I chopped vegetables,” Isaiah noted.
“Yes, Isaiah helped a little.”
“Credit where credit’s due.”
Tony turned to Isaiah. “So what do you do for a living? Not chop vegetables, surely.” He smiled. “I have to know what my Raven’s getting herself into,” squeezing her elbow.
Isaiah noted the elbow-squeeze with disapproval, and ignored a poke in the side from James (who had apparently also noted it). “I stock shelves, these days,” he said. “At a warehouse in Manhattan. It pays pretty well, comparably, so I can actually afford this place. You should have seen where I was living before.”
“Hey, I still call it home sweet home,” said James.
“You seem educated,” said Tony.
“Well, yeah, I went to school here and there. Most of what I know my mom taught me before I left home—I haven’t had too much structured education since the age of fourteen. And you need a diploma in this world to get a job better than shelf-stocking.”
“Was your mother an Indian?”
“No, she’s white.”
“Did your father teach you much about the old ways?”
“Not much,” Isaiah shrugged. “I was born Christian, for what it’s worth. Raised that way, too. But I actually wanted to ask you something, if that’s okay. The four of you—you’re in the same coven, right? Well, Raven’s told me a little about what you do . . .”
“Really?” asked Tony, glancing sharply at Raven.
“Not much,” said Raven quickly.
“Not much, no,” Isaiah amended. “Which is fine, it’s cool, but the way it sounds, you’re tapping into some kind of ancient earth-magic, and it all sounds, well, very Indian. But I was under the impression that you need to have Indian blood to practice that kind of magic. Am I wrong?”
Tony leaned back on his cushion comfortably. “I am glad you asked. There are, you see, different kinds of magic. What we use is drawn from Amerindian sources and knowledge, yes. But it is not the same as the primitive animism—if you’ll excuse my bluntness—used by your average village medicine man. Even before Europeans arrived on this continent, certain—exceptional individuals had mastered an altogether different, and more remarkable, source of power. That is what we have kept alive in our coven and others like it, with modern variations, of course.”
“I see,” said Isaiah, though he didn’t, really.
“Here’s what I wanna know,” interjected James. “If she’s a witch, what are you? A warlock?”
“We are all witches, Mr. McMullen,” smiled Tony. “Men and women alike. All the coven-members.”
“You look like you live comfortably, Tony,” said Lila. “What do you do for a living?”
“Well,” Tony explained, “as head of the coven, I have no need to rely on an extra source of income. One of the perks, you might say. I can focus entirely on my magic and be a witch, nothing more. Though I do dabble in photography.” He smiled at her. Keith looked disgusted.
“What do you do?” asked LaSheena suddenly. Isaiah had noticed that she was drinking much more wine that anyone else, and eating much less. Apparently her drunkenness and natural bitchiness had overridden her respect for Tony’s earlier chastisement. “If you stock shelves,” leveling a finger at Isaiah, “and you work—where? For an auto mechanic?” Keith nodded. “And you get your face dirty . . .”
“I’m a shingler,” James muttered. He had tried to avoid responding to anything LaSheena said since their initial encounter, and it was clearly becoming a strain. “I lay shingles.”
“. . . . Then what do you do? Lola?”
“It’s, uh, Lila,” she said, smiling uncertainly. “And I’m a waitress.”
LaSheena laughed, and it sounded like a whinny. James visibly gritted his teeth. “Oh, that explains the dress, then!”
Please say something, Tony, Isaiah begged in his mind. Stop this. But Tony was eating again, and made no move to curb LaSheena’s tongue.
“So you waitress for a living,” she continued, scorn dripping from her voice. “So when are the four of you going to get real jobs?”
“What?” asked Lila, still trying to understand. “What do you mean?”
“Well, come on. These are, like, summer jobs. Jobs students work before between semesters. Or are you going to be a career waitress?” Again the laugh. Lila’s mouth dropped open. Tears sprang into her eyes.
“Jesus Christ, LaSheena,” said Raven. “I’m sorry, Lila.”
Keith leaned forward slowly. “Excuse me. Are you saying that waitressing isn’t a real job? Is that what you’re saying? I just want to be clear on this.”
“Well, let’s face it, satyr,” smiled LaSheena. “Even being a mechanic is a little more respectable than that.”
“I see,” said Keith. “Well, then—bitch—let me tell you something.” His voice was rising. This was not a drunken rage. This was much more cold and murderous. Isaiah wished he could sink into the floor. “Are you listening? Huh? Because I want to be quite fucking clear on this, and to only say it once. So I want to be sure that you’re going to listen.” He paused. “Well? Say ‘I’m listening.’ Say it now, or I swear to God you’ll wish you had.”
“Keith . . .” Isaiah muttered warningly.
“Mr. Sterling, she’s a little drunk,” said Tony soothingly, “and I’m sure she didn’t—”
Keith didn’t divert his eyes from LaSheena, but his finger moved to point at Tony. “Did I say anything to you? Did I?”
“Well, no, but I feel that . . .”
“Then why don’t you keep your goddamn mouth shut?” Tony stiffened. Raven gasped. “That’s better. You seem like a nice enough guy, Tony. Stay out of this. My business is with your loud-mouthed friend here. Now. LaSheena—is that really your fucking name? That can’t be what your parents named you. What was it really? Doris?”
“You—” she spat, but Keith was not about to give up the floor yet.
“Doris,” he continued, “we’ll say it’s Doris. So, Doris. You don’t think waitresses have real jobs? Well, guess what? My mother worked as a waitress in a shitty little truck stop in Arkansas for fifteen years. That’s how she paid for my food when I was a little kid. She came home every night with blisters all over her feet and red streaks on her arms from carrying plates fresh out of the dishwasher. She worked herself to the bone on that fucking job. And now you try to undermine that? How dare you? Just because it was a job she didn’t have to go to college to do? I’ve seen you, by the way. On magazine covers. Photo shoots. All right, I’ll admit it: you may even be one of the ten thousand or so models I’ve fantasized about. It’s all very impressive. You’re used to guys eating out of your fucking hand in exchange for a smile. Right? All you have to do is spend eight hours every day on your makeup, get regular injections of silicone, and stay close enough to the edge of starvation that you’ll keep your precious, narrow, bony little ass just the way it is now. That and swallow enough rich-man cum to populate Antarctica. Well, guess what? I’m not one of those guys you can win over with a smile and a wink. Hell, I’d turn down a blow job from you even if you offered it to me. And that is because you are a frigid, loveless, pathetic cunt. And yes, I’m poor, but I’ll stick with my waitresses, thank you very much. Maybe it’s a dead-end job. But their lives, and our lives, are more real than yours will ever be. So I’ll thank you, next time, to keep your mouth shut, unless you want it busted for you. Normally I don’t hit women. But for you, madam, I will most definitely make an exception.” He leaned back again. “There. That’s my piece.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” said Lila. She was crying.
LaSheena took a deep breath. Her eyes were glittering. Isaiah got the feeling that this was the moment she had been waiting for. “That’s your piece, is it? Do you want to hear my piece? I think you owe it to me to listen . . .”
“Excuse me,” said James suddenly. “I want some more wine, so I can really enjoy this.” He leaned over, grabbed at the open bottle of wine, and suddenly seemed to lose control of it. It slipped out of his hand like a fish—falling, tumbling, and landing on the lap of LaSheena’s perfectly white pants, which would obviously never be white again.
She screamed. “Oh, shit!” said James. “God, I’m sorry, let me help you!” And then, as he leaned over, his glass slipped out of his fingers, spilling down the front of her shirt. “Jesus! I am so sorry, I don’t know why I’m so clumsy—here, let me wipe that up for you . . .” He leered at her as he seized a napkin and began scrubbing at her chest industriously. “See, it’ll be good as new, just give me a minute or two . . .”
“Get away from me!” she screamed, leaping up from the table and backing away. “Get the fuck away from me!”
“I was just trying to help,” said James, sounding hurt.
“Do you know what this outfit cost?” she shrieked. “Do you have any idea? It was worth more than you are!”
“Wow!” His eyes got wide. “That is a really expensive outfit, huh?”
“It’s ruined! Oh, my God!”
“Well,” said James virtuously, “at the risk of sounding preachy, I guess that just goes to show you what happens when you invest too much in material things.”
“Oh, my God! Stay away from me, all of you! You—you—you disgusting, poor, dirty creatures!” LaSheena was waving her hands in the air, her face contorted with rage. Raven had run to the bathroom to wet a towel. Gus and Tony watched the proceedings, one aghast, the other coldly.
“I may be dirty, but I’m not the one with wine all over me,” said James.
Keith was laughing. “Well, anyway, LaSheena,” he told her, “it looks better on you than it did in the bottle.”
“You little prick!” she hissed. “I’ll see you both burn for this!” She turned to Raven, who had just re-entered the room with wet towels. “What good will those do, you stupid bitch?” she demanded hysterically. “Give me some of your clothes! I have to take these somewhere they can be cleaned! Right away!”
“My clothes?” Raven asked incredulously. “What good will that do? LaSheena, your legs are a foot longer than mine, and your breasts are about three sizes bigger.” James snickered.
“Well, do something!” LaSheena bellowed. There was nothing even remotely attractive about her anymore. She looked like a monster. “Do something!” She turned to Tony. “Antonio! What are you going to do about this? Protect me!”
Tony sighed and stood. “Gus,” he said, “you’re tall enough. Take off your suit. Give it to LaSheena.”
“What?” she screamed.
“What?” demanded Keith and James, together.
“I’m not wearing Gus’s clothes, damn it!”
“Gus, don’t you dare take off your clothes!” said James vehemently. Gus had already started to unbuckle his belt, but now he froze in the act.
“LaSheena, you have no choice. Gus, what are you doing? Take off your suit right now!”
“You can’t make that poor guy take off his clothes!” shouted Keith. Everyone was on their feet now. “What will he wear?”
“Look, Sterling,” snarled Tony—his charm had dropped by several kilowatts. “I wouldn’t tell you how to treat your dog. Do not presume to order me about.”
Gus was out of his clothes, and he stood there shivering slightly in his boxers, looking more gaunt and pitiful than ever. He passed the suit to LaSheena, who seized it and stalked toward the bathroom. Raven stood indecisively for a second, but ultimately she was unable to take her eyes off the showdown between Keith, James, and Tony. Her eyes were filled with something like horror.
“People like you don’t deserve to own dogs,” snapped James, “and anyway, Gus is not a dog. He’s a man!”
“Gus, you’re a dog,” said Tony, taking a step toward James. “Aren’t you, Gus?” Gus was silent for a moment. “Gus, what are you? Answer me!”
“Whatever you say I am,” he finally mumbled.
“And I say you are?”
“A dog.”
“What?” Keith was shocked. Lila was tugging on his sleeve, trying to calm him, but he shook her off. “What is that? Gus, you’re two feet taller than this guy, why do you let him talk to you that way?”
“Because I am his master,” said Tony, smiling coldly. “Besides, Gus doesn’t mind standing around here in his underwear, do you, Gus? He enjoys it, don’t you, Gus?” He turned to the rest of them, and “Gus is a faggot,” he explained, smiling cruelly. “He likes men, don’t you, Gus?” Gus didn’t answer. “Don’t you, Gus? Didn’t I find you in bed with that new, handsome young witch?”
“He likes me,” Gus managed. He had turned crimson. “We—like each other.”
Keith and James stared at Tony in disgust. “Fuck you, Tony,” said James. “Fuck you. Gus is the only one of you who’s worth a damn. Gus, remember that. Don’t let this sick shit boss you around.”
“How dare you insult me?” snapped Tony. “Do it again and your life is mine.”
James stepped forward, until he and Tony were face-to-face. “Let me tell you something, pal,” he growled. “I told this story earlier, but I didn’t get to the ending, and it’s my favorite part. Once, somebody wouldn’t let me into where I wanted to be. Somebody threatened me. Somebody insulted me. Know what I did?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “I burnt this place down. While this somebody was inside. I didn’t go in and pull him out until he had almost burnt to a cinder. He was in the hospital for a year. So . . .” James raised his thumb to Tony’s eye-level, and then, suddenly, ignited a flame from under his thumbnail. Tony jerked back as it singed his foremost curl. “. . . Next time you feel like playing ball . . . Well, come find me. I’m half-demon and half-Irishman. I’m not scared of anything. Come near me, or any of my friends, and I’ll take out one of your goddamn kidneys and feed it to you. You can live with just one, you know. My father did, at least for a while.” He smiled toothily.
Tony stared at James with loathing, but made no motion to fight him. “I won’t dishonor my acolyte’s home,” he said at last, “with your death. But trust me: you will pay. I will not be satisfied until the streets have tasted your blood. All of it.”
“Talk is cheap. Whiskey costs money.”
Tony turned away abruptly. “Come, Gus,” he said. “We are leaving this place.” He stalked out, and slammed the door behind him. There were sounds in the hall as LaSheena emerged from the bathroom and followed him.
Gus poked at the floor with one toe for a second, rubbing his arm. Then, “Sorry, Raven,” he muttered. “Thanks for the dinner. It was very nice to meet everyone.” He hurried out after the other two.
Silence reigned for a moment. “That was awful,” said Isaiah. “Thanks a lot, guys. Goddamn.”
Keith, James, and Lila slowly began shuffling out. “Sorry, Raven,” murmured Lila, “for wrecking your party,” and “Yeah, sorry,” chorused Keith and James.
“Please, just leave,” said Raven. Her hands were shaking. The door closed quietly, and Isaiah and Raven remained, staring at one another over the wreckage of dinner.
“Well,” said Isaiah. “Well.” Then, realizing he had nothing to follow it with, he said “Well?” He fished a half-smoked cigarette out of the ashtray and lit it.
“Everything is ruined,” she said slowly. “Everything. What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You saw me. I tried to be nice.”
She paid him no attention. “This is the worst thing that could happen,” she said. “Antonio’s furious with me.”
At hearing the name, his anger came back in a rush. “Who the hell cares what Antonio thinks?” he demanded. “I mean, okay, James and Keith were really, really rude, but they had a point, right?”
“That has nothing to do with the problem at hand,” she said levelly, “which is what to do about Antonio.”
“No, the problem at hand is: Who are those people, anyway? And also: How can you call them your friends? They’re not your friends. How can you call that friendship?” His voice was rising, and he wanted to stop it, but he couldn’t. “That’s a goddamn hierarchy, Raven! Friendship is people who like each other, and take care of each other when they can—that’s a pecking order, with fucking Tony at the top, you and that bitch in the middle, and everyone shitting on poor Gus at the bottom! If LaSheena heard you say anything wrong, anything at all, she’d run straight to Tony, wouldn’t she? Rise a couple of steps on the ladder, right? Knock you down a couple of pegs, huh? Admit it, isn’t that how it works? Admit it!”
Her eyes focused on him at last. “What the fuck do you think just happened here tonight, Isaiah?” she hissed.
Recognition, then; a dawning light. “This—tonight—this whole thing was Tony’s idea, wasn’t it?”
“He suggested the guest list,” she whispered. “He wanted to meet you.”
“Why? Does Tony have to approve of our relationship?”
“That’s how it works,” she said distantly. Her eyes had gone out of focus again, as if she was listening to someone else talk, maybe in her head. “We all made the vow. We all sealed it in blood.” She shook her head, back, forth, violently. “I can hear him. He’s sending me a message. He’s very displeased . . .”
Isaiah kicked the table aside, knocking a couple of plates to the floor, where they broke. He leapt across the room and seized her shoulders, shaking her. “What is it between you?” he shouted. “How does he own you? Have you slept with him?” It was not the question he had meant to ask, but it slipped out.
“Yes,” she said steadily. “Yes, I have.”
He released her as if he had been electrocuted, staggering backwards. He stared at her.
“LaSheena?” he asked hoarsely. “What about—has she done it, too?”
“Of course she has. And so has Gus. We all have. It was part of the price. Isaiah, you don’t know anything about this.”
“No,” he said. “No. And I don’t know you.” His heart was breaking. He could feel it breaking.
“You and your friends are in great danger,” she continued slowly. “Antonio is furious, and so is LaSheena. You have no idea what these people are like.” She moved to a chair, picked up her coat, and began to pull it on.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To find Antonio. I have to speak with him in person. I have to know what he’s going to do.”
“No!” he cried. “Stay away from him!”
She fixed her eyes on him. “Isaiah,” she said, slowly, clearly. “If I don’t speak to him, then you and maybe me, and certainly Keith and James, will all be dead by morning.”
“You’d be surprised,” he snapped. “Let him come! I’m ready for it.”
“Enough.” She waved her hand wearily. “Enough. None of the macho bullshit. Please. It’s cute sometimes, but not now, Isaiah. Not now.”
“Don’t sleep with him!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare sleep with him!”
“Isaiah, calm down. I’m not going to sleep with him, I’m just going to talk to him. And you’re going to wait. Right. Here.” She turned, marched out the door, and slammed it behind her.
Isaiah swayed on his feet. “Fuck,” he whispered, and then, “Fuck!” he screamed. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck this! Fuck!” He picked up an empty wine bottle and threw it at the wall, shattering it. He did it again. Then a plate. Then a glass. Then he sank into a chair, trembling violently. He found a half-full bottle of wine, tipped it back, and guzzled until it was gone. He lit a cigarette. After a while, he turned off the light.
Halfway into the third bottle, he began to worry dimly that someone might get cut on all the broken glass, so he got up and cleaned it, cutting his own hand deeply in the process. He wrapped it with a washcloth—“Royal blue,” he whispered, and felt like crying—then returned to his bottle and his cigarettes. Eventually he fell asleep in the armchair with the bottle still in his bandaged hand.
. . .
He woke to find Raven taking the bottle from him, kissing his damaged hand gently. “Go ‘way,” he muttered, pushing at her ineffectually. “Go ‘long ‘way. Don’ wanna kiss. Go kiss Tony.”
“Shut up,” she said tenderly. “Shut up. Keith and James are safe. Do you hear me? They’re safe. Here.” She pressed something against his chest. “I made you something. It will keep you safe. See? It’s a necklace. You have to wear it, okay, baby? Promise me you’ll wear it all the time. Will you promise me that?”
“What izzit? A necklace?” He peered at it closely.
“It will protect you from witchery. Mine and everyone else’s. Antonio mustn’t know I’m giving it to you. Promise me, Isaiah. Promise me you’ll wear it.” He was startled to see she was crying. He had never seen her cry before.
“Hey-hey, Raven. Don’ cry. Hey. Okay. I’ll promise. See? I’m wearing it now. Don’ cry, hey. Don’ cry, Raven.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him. She curled up on his lap, her shoulders shaking with violent, silent sobs. She put one hand on the back of his neck, pulling his head down to her, and entwined the other hand in the necklace. Her fingers clutched at it.
“Don’ cry,” he mumbled. “Makes me sad, too. I’m sorry for shouting.”
“What will we do now?” she gasped. “Where can we go now? Where can we go, Isaiah?”
“We’ll go ‘way,” he said drunkenly. “Far ‘way. We can go to Mexico. Me-hee-co.”
“Can we?” She smiled at him tearfully. “Tell me about Mexico. Can you do that?”
“It’s bright,” he said. “Diff’ren’ kinda air. Diff’ren’ kinda people. Much more sun, y’see, more sun in th’ air. More sun in th’ people.”
“Does it ever rain?” she asked, laughing a little, tremulously.
“Oh, yeah, rains sometimes. Better kinda rain. Firs’ th’ sun comes through the clouds in big, long rays. Then th’ clouds get together and dance for a while. Then they celebrate wit’ th’ rain. Lots of it. Warmer.”
“Can we dance in it?”
“Sure. Sure we can. Dance in th’ sun, dance in th’ rain. Dance all th’ time. That’s all they do in Me-hee-co, is dance. Dance everywhere.”
“It sounds wonderful,” she whispered.
“Yeah. Won’erful. Hey, you stopped crying.”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” she said, curling into a tighter ball.
“Raven?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, Raven.” She didn’t answer, and he hurried on: “I know I’m not s’posed to say that, but I’m really drunk, so I figured maybe it doesn’t count or somethin’, I dunno, but I just love you so much . . . Sorry. Sorry. Don’ go. Don’ go ‘way.”
“I’m still here,” she whispered.
“I’ll take you to Mexico. I’ll take you—to Mexico. I’ll take you ever’where, anywhere you wanna go. Don’ think I’ve ever loved anyone like this. Where do you wanna go? I’ll take you anywhere. Where do you wanna go?”
“I want to go to bed, Isaiah. Can we do that?”
“Sure. Sure. Bed’s good. Prolly couldn’t make it to Me-hee-co tonight, anyhow—too drunk, I guess . . .” He kept talking as she stood, took him by the hand, and guided him into the bedroom. She sat him down and helped him take his shoes off. “See,” he continued to mutter, “now I’ve gone an’ fucked up everythin’, an’ tomorrow you’ll leave, ‘cause you said you’d leave if I said that, an’ I don’ know why I did. So fucked up. Everything is—so fucked up. Please don’ leave. At leas’—gimme a chance to try to explain when I’m sober. God. Don’ remin’ me about this tomorrow. Please?” He was lying on his back in the bed, and she was climbing into it beside him.
“Don’ care that you slept wit’ Tony. Don’ care. Long time ago, prolly. Don’ care that you’re a witch. Don’ care about your friends. Jus’ wanna be with you. So fucked up. So—fucked up.”
“Shh,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m still here. Sleep, okay? Just sleep.”
“Okay. Good idea. Jus’—sleep. Talk tomorrow. Sleep tonight. Good. Smart.” He kept his arms wrapped around her, tightly, and she did the same. They were both fully clothed, but they clung as tightly to one another as they ever had, and that was how they fell asleep, and how they woke up again the next morning.
posted by Charles Croe | 11:50 PM
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