“He’s in his favorite restaurant,” she told me, “celebrating with the D.A.”
It didn’t make much difference — it’s hardly like I wanted him to step down off the wall and get all friendly with me, but Claire had a far-off look in her eyes, like she wanted to be asked about him, and so I did. She launched into a long story about a promenade, a walk she was taking, a man who came towards her in long white flannel trousers, how he was the friend of some famous poet, how they used to go to Mystic every weekend, to a little restaurant there where he sampled their martinis; she went on and on and on, her eyes towards the front door, waiting for him to come home.
What drifted across my mind was how unusual it must have been, if anyone could have watched us from the outside, sitting with the light dimming outside, letting simple talk drift over us.
I CAN’T RECALL what it was led me to the small ad that was in the back of The Village Voice. It was not a paper I had any particular fondness for, but it was there one day, like sometimes happens, Marcia’s ad, by the strangest chance, her, of all people. I sat down to compose a letter that maybe I wrote fifty or sixty times over, at the small counter in my kitchen. I explained everything about my boys, over and over again, the Lord knows how many times, saying how I was a colored woman, how I was living in a bad place but I kept it real nice and clean, how I had three boys and how I’d been through two husbands, how I’d really wanted to get back to Missouri but I never had the chance or the courage, how I’d be fine and happy to meet up with other people like me, how I’d be privileged. Each time I tore the letter up. It just didn’t seem right. In the end all I wrote was: Hello, my name, is Gloria and I’d like to meet up too.
IT MUST HAVE BEEN ten in the evening when her husband stumbled through the door. From the corridor he actually called: “Honey, I’m home.”
In the living room, he stopped and stared, as if he were in the wrong place. He slapped his pockets like he might find a different set of keys there.
“Is something wrong?” he said to Claire.
He looked as if he could have aged some and then stepped right out of the portrait on the wall. His tie was a little askew but his shirt was buttoned up to the neck. The bald dome shone. He carried a leather briefcase with a silver snap. Claire introduced me. He pulled himself together and walked across to shake my hand. A faint scent of wine rolled from him. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, in the sort of way that meant he had no idea whatsoever why it might be a pleasure, but he had to say it anyway; he was bound to it by pure politeness. His hand was chubby and warm. He placed his briefcase at the foot of the table and frowned at the ashtray.
“Girls’ night out?” he said.
Claire kissed him high, on the cheek, near his eyelid, and loosened his tie for him.
“I had some friends over.”
He held the empty gin bottle to the light.
“Come sit with us,” she said.
“I’m going to run and have a shower, hon.”
“Come join us, come on.”
“I’m pooped,” he said, “but, boy, do I have a story for you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Boy oh boy.”
He was undoing the buttons on his shirt and for a moment I thought he might take the shirt off in front of me, stand in the middle of the room like some round white fish.
“Guy walked a tightrope,” he said. “World Trade.”
“We heard.”
“You heard?”
“Well, yes, everyone’s heard. The whole world’s talking about it.”
“I got to charge him.”
“You did?”
“Came up with the perfect sentence too.”
“He got arrested?”
“Quick shower first. Yes, of course. Then tell you all.”
“Sol,” she said, pulling his sleeve.
“I’ll be right out, tell you everything.”
“Solomon!”
He glanced at me. “Let me freshen up,” he said.
“No, tell us, tell us now.” She stood. “Please.”
He flicked a look in my direction. I could tell he resented me, just being there, that he thought I was some housekeeper, or some Jehovah’s Witness who had somehow come into his house, disturbed the rhythm, the celebration he wanted to give himself. He opened another button on his shirt. It was like he was opening a door at his chest and trying to push me out.
“The D.A. wanted some good publicity,” he said. “Everyone in the city’s talking about this guy. So we’re not going to lock him up or anything. Besides the Port Authority wants to fill the towers. They’re half empty. Any publicity is good publicity. But we have to charge him, you know? Come up with something creative.”
“Yes,” said Claire.
“So he pleaded guilty and I charged him a penny per floor.”
“I see.”
“Penny per floor, Claire. I charged him a dollar ten. One hundred and ten stories! Get it? The D.A. was ecstatic. Wait ’Til you see. New York Times tomorrow.”
He went to the liquor cabinet, his shirt a full three-quarters open. I could see the protrusion of his flabby chest. He poured himself a deep glass of amber liquid, sniffed it deeply, and exhaled.
“I also sentenced him to another performance.”
“Another walk?” said Claire.
“Yes, yes. We’ll get front-row tickets. In Central Park. For kids. Wait until you see this character, Claire. He’s something else.”
“He’ll go again?”
“Yes, yes, but somewhere safe this time.”
Claire’s eyes skittered around the room, as if she was looking at different paintings and trying to hold them together.
“Not bad, huh? Penny per floor.”
Solomon clapped his hands together: he was enjoying himself now. Claire looked at the ground, like she could see all the way through to the molten iron, the core of everything.
“And guess how he got the wire across?” said Solomon. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed.
“Oh, I don’t know, Sol.”
“Go on, guess.”
“I don’t really care.”
“Guess.”
“He threw it?”
“Thing weighs two hundred pounds, Claire. He was telling me all about it. In court. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow. Come on!”
“Used a crane or something?”
“He did it illegally, Claire. Stealth of night.”
“I don’t really know, Solomon. We had a meeting today. There were four of us, and me, and …”
“He used a bow and arrow!”
“… we sat around talking,” she said.
“This guy should’ve been a Green Beret,” he said. “He was telling me all this! His buddy shot a fishing line across first. Bow and arrow. Into the wind. Judged the angle just right. Hit the edge of the building. And then they fed the lines across until it could take the weight. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Claire.
He put his bell-shaped glass on the coffee table with a sharp snap, then sniffed at his shirtsleeve. “I really must have a shower.”
He walked over towards me. He became aware of his shirt and pulled it across without buttoning it. A waft of whiskey rolled from him.
“Well,” he said. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t really catch your name.”
“Gloria.”
“Good night, Gloria.”