The south end of the basement was partitioned into what might be described as stalls. Square, equal areas divided by thick slat fencing that ran from floor to ceiling. There were spaces of about two inches between the slats. Each stall had a section of slats that swung open to provide access. These were the “storage lockers” of the apartments above. The ones that had items stored inside—about a third of them—were equipped with heavy padlocks. There was a number stenciled on each locker, corresponding with an apartment number.
Myra knew her way around down here. She reached up with a stocky arm and yanked a pull cord, and a low-wattage bare bulb winked on and lessened the dimness in a limited area. She gripped Hedra’s elbow tenderly and led the way down the corridor between rows of storage lockers, reaching up two more times to work a pull cord and shed light as they walked. From somewhere in the basement came a steady electrical buzzing, perhaps a transformer. The sound faded behind them.
Allie’s locker was about halfway down the row. It was empty. Hedra was disappointed. She’d thought maybe some of Allie’s things might still be down here, overlooked when Allie’s possessions had been moved out. Directly across from Allie’s storage space was the locker for 4H, Graham Knox’s apartment. Hedra saw that it still contained what was left of Graham’s possessions. In the shadows she could make out a dented file cabinet, and on top of it an old typewriter gathering dust. Probably the junk was tied up in probate court, Hedra thought, or maybe simply waiting to be hauled away.
“Damn,” Myra said, fumbling with a large ring of keys. “I don’t think I have anything that fits this lock, or I could open the door and you could get a better idea of how much space there is.”
“Well, that’s okay,” Hedra said. She ran a hand across the slats. “I can estimate pretty well from here. What I got’ll fit right in there.”
“I’ll get the key to you later, I promise.”
“You don’t strike me as the type that’d break a promise,” Hedra said. A large roach ventured into the light, then turned and scurried along the base of a storage locker and back into darkness. “Or go back on a bargain.”
“I’m not,” Myra said in a strained voice. She rested a hand on Hedra’s shoulder, near the base of her neck. “Are you?”
“No,” Hedra said, smiling into the brown, agonized eyes. Not unlike Lawrence’s eyes, only older. More resigned.
The two women left the dim basement and went back upstairs to the apartment.
Chapter 35
HEDRA hadn’t said good-bye to Lawrence. Well, he hadn’t known they were parting, so what did it matter? She’d given him some coke that was like none he’d ever snorted or smoked. The ultimate and final high. He lay curled in a corner of the bathroom while she’d methodically removed every trace of herself from his life.
Before leaving she’d looked in on him, and he hadn’t moved. He’d probably never move again under his own power. “Lucky Lawrence,” she’d said softly before walking out. “You got what you wanted.”
Hedra moved into the Cody Arms and began buying furniture. She’d taken the largest bedroom; it had a better view and more closet space.
Her first night back in the apartment she’d sat on the bare floor where the sofa used to be, sipping hot chocolate, watching a mixture of sleet and rain smear the dark window and cause her reflection to waver. She was wearing her dark slacks and favorite yellow blouse, her brown sandals that were slightly too large for her but comfortable. She studied her other self in the flat and undulating window pane and she and her Other exchanged smiles.
Sitting in the dim warmth of the apartment, listening to the splatter of rain dripping from the gutters onto the gargoyle stonework, she felt a contentment she hadn’t known since rare moments as a child. She was in a secret place, a place to hide, and in a way she could carry it with her wherever she went and it gave her an unshakable peace and confidence. It was her most precious possession.
The next morning she took a cab to a beauty salon on lower Broadway and had her hair dyed blond and trimmed in the old Allie fashion. It was also the first day of her diet.
No one in the Cody Arms seemed to pay much attention to her. If the pleasantly plump woman who’d just moved in on the third floor looked remotely familiar, it wasn’t mentioned. At least not to Hedra’s knowledge. And if it was noticed, the fact that she was rumored to be the previous tenant’s sister accounted for any resemblance of clothing or gesture. Hedra and the other tenants played the New York game of studiously avoiding eye contact and stayed out of each other’s lives. Random collisions of fate could cause problems.
When Hedra went out at night, she seldom drifted in the direction of the Village. In a city the size of New York there were countless places to go, countless men cruising for companionship. Looking for someone like Hedra.
Always she introduced herself as Allie Jones. The name had long ago faded from the news and caused no flicker of recognition and required no explanation. Allie Jones, one of the many on the make and available to be made.
At Apple of My Eye, a lounge on East 21st Street, she was picked up by a handsome young stockbroker. The Manhattan single girl’s dream. He’d peered at her through the haze of tobacco smoke and the flashing, multicolored strobe lights and, talking loud to be heard above the music, said his name was Andy. She told him she was Allison but he should call her Allie. First names only. That was the protocol for places like this. They’d stay on a first-name basis while they explored each other and decided how far the relationship might travel.
Andy was tall and angular, with sharp and sensitive features and thick black hair that was parted with geometric precision and seemed never to get mussed. He dressed well, though a little too trendy; shoulders a shade too padded, pleated pants too tight at the cuffs. Narrow black shoes with built-up heels, made more for dancing than walking, added half an inch to his height, though he didn’t need it. He must have bought the shoes for style. Or maybe he was some kind of dance buff. There were plenty of them around. Young Fred Astaires.
That first night at Apple he’d asked Hedra to dance, then guided her through a complex series of steps she didn’t know. But she had no difficulty following his strong lead. She knew he was making them both look good. Fred and Ginger. The man could damn well move.
“You dance great,” he’d told her.
“Hah! Anyway, I enjoy the challenge.”
He raised his left hand, nudged her beneath the shoulder, and guided her into an underarm turn. Ballroom stuff, as if to demonstrate that he had class. That he thought she had class. When she came out of the turn, he was right there to pick up the beat. Maneuvered her toward the edge of the wide dance floor and began a lazy, circling step so they could talk.
He said, “It’s tell-me-about-yourself time, Allie. You from New York?”
“Not originally. From Illinois. But I haven’t been back there in years. Don’t wanna go back ever.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, no solid reason. Just a collection of slightly unpleasant memories, all connected with the Midwest.” She felt a thrust of fury at the base of her mind. “They don’t understand there that the different apple in the barrel isn’t necessarily the rotten one.”
“Hey, I know what you mean. You live in the Village, I’ll bet.”
“Nope. Upper West Side. You?”
“I’m from New Jersey. Teaneck. Too expensive to live in Manhattan for some of us.” He led her through a neat turn to avoid a couple who’d danced too close, then resumed his rhythmic, hypnotic circling step. “How long you lived in your apartment?”