Between features Richard took me into their bedroom and cracked a window and we got high. Richard didn’t seem to want Georgina to know. He rolled a joint out of a box of Chronic and at first I didn’t think anything of it. We exhaled into the chill whistling breeze and it seemed to me the smoke was all blown back inside, that its perfume would draft to Georgina, several rooms away, but I didn’t point this out. I was just grateful to be where I was. From the high penthouse window distant party noises rose to find us, sweetly harmless at this distance, though I hoped we’d shut the window before the appointed hour, not hear the popping of corks, the commemorating hollers. I didn’t want to think of the year’s end passing with Perkus’s whereabouts unknown. The smell of the dope was commemoration enough, and I grew wistful. In return for Richard and Georgina’s kindness in not mentioning Oona or Janice, I could have left another name unmentioned, but the impulse was too fierce. Though I’d brought Perkus to the party, I wanted Richard to feel as responsible as I did.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” I said, handing over the joint, and waving off any return.
Richard shrugged. He reached through the window opening to stub the remaining quarter-joint against the outer sill before replying. “I wouldn’t drive myself crazy over it,” he said. “He’ll reappear right when you’ve given up.”
“I keep visiting Eighty-fourth, thinking I’ll see him haunting the block,” I said. “Other tenants are at the barricades sometimes, pleading for access to stuff they left inside. That apartment was Perkus’s snail shell. I can’t picture him surviving naked.”
“He’s resourceful, Chase. You’d be surprised.” The words might be hopeful, but Richard’s tone was curtly dismissive. It only made me want to push him.
“Have you talked to the mayor’s people? After all, he was last seen at Arnheim’s town house-”
“That’s where he was last seen by you,” said Richard irritably. “I’ll bet he was last seen elsewhere. He’s a grown-up. Anyway, Perkus’s name wasn’t on the guest list. What do you expect me to do, barrel into Arnheim’s office and say, ‘Did anyone cleaning up after your party find a one-eyed rock critic dressed in purple, because one’s gone missing’?”
“You’re being deliberately callous.”
Richard’s sneer said What else is there to do? I had no answer. “Let’s go in,” he said. “She’s probably wondering what we’re up to.”
“What if he got away with the mayor’s chaldron?” I whispered. It was a possibility too terrifying and thrilling to speak aloud.
“Listen, Chase. No fucking chaldron talk tonight, okay? It isn’t good for Georgina. That word’s verboten around here.”
It struck me as peculiar and maybe suspicious that Richard had declared martial law. We’d lost Perkus, and now the crippled Fellowship of the Chaldron might be suspending the civil rights of one of its remaining members. “Does Georgina know you’ve made that decision for her?” I said, managing to get honestly indignant on her account, though I knew I was up against the tyranny of coupledom-what Perkus would have called “pair-bonding.” I reminded myself I’d met Georgina several times before Richard laid eyes on her, and that we’d all lusted for chaldrons democratically together.
Richard had judo for my righteousness. “Have you had a look at her?” He cupped his hand, low at his own slight paunch, and raised his brows, waiting for me to understand. Then he couldn’t wait. “You haven’t noticed she’s not drinking, I guess-”
“What? Wait, really?”
“Use your eyes.”
“When-?”
“We’re pretty sure the very first night. She’s three months along, but she’s built so flat there you can already see a bulge, like a sweet potato.” I heard a crazy wondering pride in Richard Abneg, a dreaminess that had colonized his patented tone of worldly grousing. In conquering the exotic ostrich-woman, seizing her from the bracket of privilege, that now-epochal night at Maud and Thatcher Woodrow’s, something else had conquered Abneg in turn, an unaccountable human possibility.
So I went in half tripping and gathered Georgina in an embrace, making a joke about my dimness and self-absorption in not noticing sooner, and insisting that no matter what the date happened to be, we really ought to open some champagne. Richard uncorked another Châteauneuf-du-Pape instead, but he did pour an aggressively protective thimbleful for Georgina, who didn’t blink at being stinted. Her mood was implacably mellow, as though bodily exalted by pregnancy, shifted to some elevated plane, past the flushed-and-vomity phase. (And indeed, I could make out the sweet potato she was sporting.) By contrast I felt Richard smoldering as he shifted around the room, ruminating through his beard while replacing one DVD with another and crushing white cartons slimed with sauce into a trash bag, his impregnator’s pride mingled with something more ambivalent and turgid. Our talk of Perkus felt incomplete, usurped by the news of the Hawkman’s pregnancy. Whatever was disgruntling Richard, I knew what I felt it should be. I wanted Georgina to hear about Perkus, too, before they sealed themselves in parental solipsism and forgot the floe-stranded polar bears of the world. My passive-aggression took form as the last thing I’d expected to hear myself delivering this night, a toast.
“Here we sit… in this city of apartments… in one of the most superb examples anywhere… such a perch you enjoy, Georgina! We’re lucky souls, aren’t we? And you’re bringing along a little Hawkboy, who’ll someday need an apartment of his own…” In my muddle I couldn’t remember whether Richard ever called Georgina “Hawkman” to her face. And I’d awarded them a boy child, with random confidence. “I’ll go home to mine tonight and give thanks, though by comparison it’s a tawdry shoe box… yet what a thing it is to have a place, any place at all, in the great conglomeration of apartments making up this mad island… so let’s drink, too, to our friend Perkus who’s been cast out in the cold, who’s lost his purchase on Manhattan…” I aimed at Richard’s weakness, real estate. By harping on apartments I’d remind him he’d lost one, too. I couldn’t have known, though, how exactly I probed a sore point.
“What are you driving at, Insteadman?”
“Nothing, just thinking of Perkus, on this night of blessings.”
Georgina asked. “I fail to understand. What has happened to Perkus?”
“Richard didn’t tell you? After the blizzard, the city condemned the tract of apartments around the Jackson Hole disaster. We don’t know where Perkus ended up.” I was restricted from saying the rest: that his actual departing gesture was to throw himself at Arnheim’s chaldron, on all our behalves.
“That’s terrible. Richard, did you know about this?”
Abneg bore a hole in me, his gaze like a cigarette ember knocked off onto a sleeve. “Perkus was just playing out the string in that place to begin with,” he said, his tone hard-boiled. “He was on borrowed time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Look, nobody’s entitled to live in a rent-controlled apartment forever. I protected him as long as I could. He was past his time, that’s all.”
Past his time? The era of Mailer and Brando? I tried to grasp Richard’s implications. “Protected him exactly how?”
“Protected literally. You don’t think he’d have been able to afford that apartment if he’d lost his sixty-year-old rent control, do you? Did you imagine Perkus was actually the legitimate holder? Wanna know why his name wasn’t on the buzzer? Because he and I pried off the old linoleum nameplate reading E. Abneg.”