Doubt swallowed my fantasy. Even if I somehow managed to get through Obstinate Dust, and then to resuscitate Perkus’s interest in it, was reading Meeker’s opus in any way preferable to surfing eBay for chaldrons? Nonetheless, I felt I’d incurred a responsibility, was somehow doomed to the book. Biller had tricked me into taking a hot potato off his hands, just as Susan Eldred had booby-trapped her office by introducing me to Perkus in the first place.
“Is ‘listenality’ a word?” I asked Oona.
“So do you have, like, this whole network of spies on street corners giving you regular updates on Perkus Tooth’s mental health?”
“I realize this sounds weird, but Biller lives in the air space behind Perkus’s kitchen… part of the time, at least…” I attempted to explain the whole unlikely fact that Perkus had a dependent in this world. Meanwhile our train rattled out of the 145th Street station. The unfamiliar tunnels grew stained and decrepit, the tile more and more resembling Roman or Greek mosaic, those fragments entombed at the Met in dim vacant rooms one hurries through en route to the latest exhibition of Bacons or Arbuses.
Oona didn’t mask her impatience. “I’ve seen him lowering leftovers out his window. But what’s your role? Did you agree to keep buying back the junk Perkus gives Biller? A little triangular economy of pity?”
“I thought I’d return the book,” I said, feeling pathetic. “I thought Perkus might have given it to him… by mistake.”
“Tried to put Humpty together again,” she possibly muttered, her voice engulfed in the train’s clangor.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
“Why would pity be triangular?” I heard myself ask. “Perkus shouldn’t pity me. Or Biller.”
“Nobody pities you, Chase.”
“Why are you angry all of a sudden?”
“I’m not angry. It’s just I thought you and I were sneaking around behind her back.” Oona jabbed a finger upward. Though we sped through an underground tunnel in a dingy earth rocket, anyone would understand she meant Janice Trumbull, the sky’s noble captive. It was in the nature of orbit that Janice’s presence blanketed the planet, overhead of any given location. She was like a blind god, one helpless at our lies, deceived effortlessly.
“We are,” I told Oona, though I really barely did more than mouth the words, feeling dangerous stating it aloud. My guilt was as large as the sky, and I couldn’t escape it underground.
“Really? Because it mostly feels to me like we’re cheating on Perkus. Whenever you mention him, which is constantly, I feel like you’re talking about your wife and kids and dog, waiting in a suburban home where you’ll inevitably return.”
“I’m concerned about Perkus,” I blurted.
“Why aren’t you concerned about your girlfriend? She’s stranded in orbit with four horny cosmonauts, plus one American horticulturalist who’s begun barking like a dog and won’t come out of the storage attic. The plants are dying, the air’s full of carbon dioxide, and now she’s got these unspecified medical symptoms-”
My betrayal of Janice was compounded by Oona’s details. “What medical symptoms?”
“You really should read the letters more carefully.”
What had I missed? My shame took its place in a vast backdrop of shames-oxygen-starved astronauts, war-exiled orphans, dwindling and displaced species-against which I puttered through daily life, attending parties and combating hangovers, recording voiceovers and granting interviews to obscure fan sites, drinking coffee and smoking joints with Perkus, and making contact with real feeling unpredictably and at random, at funeral receptions, under rain-sheeted doorways.
Yet through shame and guilt I felt a sudden joy. Oona was jealous. To be jealous was to be in love. Oona would deny this on the spot, but the two were continuous territories on any emotional map I’d ever known. The realization unleashed delight in me, but Oona didn’t seem delighted. She was gnarled in herself, peevish. Maybe she was sorry she’d mentioned Janice. I wanted to embrace and protect her, but she’d angled from me on the seat. How odd, really, that Oona felt pitted against Perkus. With their small bodies and large heads, their persnickety outfits and smoke-tinged tenors, I’d first taken them for siblings or lovers. Even now, in their vibrant wit and impatience, and for their revitalizing effect on my own life, I associated the two, no matter that each spoke dismissively of the other. I’d certainly fallen into this skulking romance partly because it sprang from the magical site of the Eighty-fourth Street kitchen. But it was obvious that poor Oona had displaced her jealousy: to directly compete with the stranded astronaut was too abysmal, so she projected the feelings onto Perkus instead. Yet under the circumstances, it didn’t seem strategic to say so.
I had barely a chance to dwell on the dismaying cityscape as the train soared aboveground, the slate-brown monolithic prewar tenements, the rusted Coca-Cola-sponsored bodega signs, the glass-strewn lots full of twisted ailanthus shrubs, before we’d abandoned the elevated views and descended to that unfriendly map ourselves. I felt a little overwhelmed, being one who flinches from any wider world but prefers to feel at home in Manhattan, to glimpse the island’s own provinces and badlands, its margins. The bitter wind had died, and the pavements were full of drifting souls, men in porkpie hats leaning on parked cars or arrayed in beach chairs, packets of schoolchildren not in school. Oona knew just where she was headed, putting the commercial avenues behind us, and then the tenements, too, as we crossed Fort George Avenue, into the parklands at the island’s edge. I had to pee, but wasn’t too tempted by the prospect of any restroom I’d find if we backtracked. Anyway, Oona was impossible to slow. Consulting some inner compass, she drew us to the cyclone-fenced perimeter of a wild steep slope, the ground tangled with underbrush, nothing like the tended river’s edge I knew. A cleared ball field, its home plate caged to manage fouls, was partly visible below us, but I saw no evidence of a trail that would get us to it.
“We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“We just have to find the entrance. Come on, Chase. Your shoes will be fine.”
“I wasn’t worrying about my shoes.”
“Then stop looking at them.”
That was when they appeared, on the trail through the brush the way we’d come: two black kids, boys rather than teenagers, not threatening in any way, though one carried a stick, picking along as if with a shepherd’s crook. One wore a puffy fake-down coat, gold scuffed with black, and the other a New York Jets warm-up jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. They fell in with us easily, local guides to the forsaken zone, masking their curiosity with shrugging familiarity.
“Hey.”
“Hey to you,” said Oona.
“You lookin’ for the Ford?”
“Fjord-yes.”
“Fee-ord,” repeated Puffy Coat, lightly mocking. “You goin’ the wrong way.”
“So take us the right way.”
They steered us back uphill. The beaten trail at the base of the fence forced us into single-file, Oona ahead of me, the boys bracketing us protectively. It was Puffy Coat who led, foraging ahead with his broomstick crook. The one at my back, New York Jets, tapped my elbow.
“Where you from?”
It seemed odd to say Upper East Side. For one thing, his part of things was so much farther upper. “Downtown,”
I told him.
“You and her married?”
“No.”
“You Zoom, right?”
“Sorry?”
“From that show, Mister Pesty.”
There may be no way to say this sensitively: from my vantage, I’ve come to believe black people watch a lot of reruns. Or at least they tend to know me for my first fame, rather than my second, that social half-life at Janice Trumbull’s side or in cocktail photographs in New York magazine.