When I returned to the locker area I was startled to find a couple there, changing. For one thing, I’d figured the wording of the sign on the street was just a dodge to keep the police away—I hadn’t expected that any women actually came here as customers. For another, neither the man nor the woman seemed the slightest bit bashful about my walking in on them undressed. While I opened my locker and hung up my jacket, the man casually wrapped a towel around his waist and his girlfriend—wife?—unfastened her bra and slipped it off her shoulders. They were both quite a bit older than me, he with the short-cropped white hair of a distinguished senator and she with the slightly tight expression of a woman who’s discovered botox or facelifts or both. But they’d both kept in shape, as I could see with slightly off-putting completeness. Maybe it was all the time they spent in spas.
The man nodded to me as they walked past me toward the showers. The woman stopped, turned back, her robe unbelted. “See you in the sauna,” she said. She touched her fingertips to my cheek, patted twice. “But shave first.”
So it was that sort of place.
I wondered how the professionals felt about swingers horning in on their territory. Well, that’s what the hundred dollar door charge was for, I supposed. They got paid even if you provided your own entertainment.
I pulled off my shirt and pants, locked them up along with my shoes and socks, and quickly slipped a robe on. I didn’t want anyone walking in on me and wondering about the bandages. There’d be no communal shower for me and no soaking tubs, not today.
And I didn’t shave.
The wooden door was as heavy as it looked. I needed to pull with both hands to get it open and again, once I was inside, to draw it shut. The interior of the stone igloo was dark except for the orange glow of a heat lamp recessed in the ceiling, illuminating the woven rope mats on the floor. Around the room’s periphery, a circle of wooden benches stood in shadow against the wall.
It was hot, a hundred-something degrees—there had been a digital readout outside the door, and though I hadn’t paid close attention to what it said, the number had definitely had three digits.
Near the door, a unit the size of a small stove held a layer of stones in a tray over a glowing heating coil. The couple from the changing area was sitting close to it. I took a seat on the opposite side, put my towel down beside me, kept my robe on and closed.
After a minute, the woman said, in a soft voice, “Your first time?”
Why did everyone keep asking me that? Was it that obvious that I was, as Susan had put it, vanilla? “Yes,” I said.
“That’s sweet. Brian, isn’t that sweet?” The senator agreed that it was. She turned back to me. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
After another minute passed, she asked, “What’s your name? I’m Grace.”
This needed to be headed off. “Grace,” I said, “I’m sorry, I’m really just here to use the sauna. That’s all.” I added, “No offense.”
She looked like I’d poured cold water on her, which under the circumstances was not an easy way to look. She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Your loss,” Brian said.
He lifted a dipperful of water out of a wooden bucket by his feet and dumped it on the hot stones. It sizzled, and a smell of menthol started to spread.
My loss, I thought. Mister, you don’t know the half of it.
I unfolded the towel, draped it over my head and shoulders, and put my forehead down in my hands. I needed to shut the world out. I needed to close my eyes and bake my bones and let the horror of the last 72 hours recede. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago I’d been talking to Dorrie, that she’d been fine, she’d been happy—well, as happy as she ever was, but certainly not unhappy, and god knows not suicidal. Friday night, over dinner, she’d even sounded excited—she was better than halfway through her last chapter for Stu Kennedy and thought she could finish it in the next week. It’s why I’d e-mailed her all the material I’d amassed, so she could pull bits and pieces from it and work them into the second draft, make it what she wanted it to be. She always felt so good, so satisfied, each time she finished a draft of anything she was working on. It was what she’d come to Columbia for, and it gave her a taste of...of accomplishment, of having set and met a goal. It was good for her.
And then Sunday morning.
And then the plastic bag and the pills and the book on the floor.
Why had I even bought that damn book? What had made me pick it up when I saw it on the dollar discard rack outside the Mercantile Library? And if I had to pick it up, why the hell hadn’t I at least put it away where Dorrie wouldn’t see it, instead of leaving it splayed open on the table by my bed? Had I wanted her to ask me about it, to worry that I might be thinking about suicide? Had I been thinking about it? If so, I hardly needed a book to tell me how.
And I hadn’t been thinking about it. Not seriously. It had just been a bad stretch—too many nights of Miranda coming to me in my dreams, too many mornings of lurching awake at 2:00 am with Miranda’s voice echoing in my ear: You killed me, John. You killed me. But the bad stretch had passed, they always passed, and Final Exit had just been part of the bad. For both of us. She hadn’t meant it seriously either.
But the son of a bitch who’d put her in that tub had meant it.
I took my glasses off, folded them, and put them in the pocket of my robe. I had to wipe my eyes. It was the heat, I told myself—and that was true, I was sweating, enormously. But I knew I was wiping tears away along with the sweat.
And what’s sweat and tears without blood? But the blood I’d spilled I couldn’t wipe away. An image of Jorge Ramos with his throat slit flashed onto the inside of my eyelids. An image of Miranda, my love, my first love—dead before she turned thirty, a horrible death, and it had been my fault, my doing.
And Susan—I saw Susan lying in my arms, in the shadows of Corlears Hook Park, her blood pouring out of her through the wounds in her chest, her sweater soaked with it, my hands covered in it.
So much blood. I couldn’t sweat enough, couldn’t cry enough, to wash it all away.
Minutes passed, hours passed, I don’t know which. Time didn’t move properly in the dark, in the heat. I just sat, searing myself from the outside in. Meanwhile, on the real outside, out in the streets, I was sure the police were drawing near, asking, Where is John Blake? Where is New York’s newest murderer?
When someone dragged the door open, I didn’t even look up, just sat with my face in my hands, my head swathed in the towel. I heard steps, then the creak of a bench as someone sat, a pair of slippers being kicked off. The hiss of another dipperful of water landing on the stones. Then Grace’s voice, soft as before, but this time in an exaggeratedly seductive purr: “Mickey. I was hoping you’d come.”
And a man’s voice replied, a voice I knew, a voice that brought the temperature of my overheated blood from a hundred-something to absolute zero.
“It’s midnight,” Miklos said, in his heavy Hungarian accent. “Where else would I be?”
Chapter 18
I kept my head down, tried to angle my body away. I heard more footsteps, lighter ones, crossing the room.
When Grace spoke again, she was next to me, apparently sitting on the ground, her voice at the level of my waist.
“Mickey, Mickey. I didn’t mean I was hoping you’d be here. I knew you’d be here. I meant I was hoping you’d come.”
She said this as though it were the height of wit, and Miklos rewarded her with a laugh.