When she tried to comfort him he pushed her away. Later, grabbing her by the hair, he kissed her forcibly, holding her face against his. “I want to see your room,” he muttered.
She smiled as if she had known in advance what was going to happen.
Once in the room, the door closed, he hardly had a chance to look around. Proudly, as if unveiling a statue, Rosemary lifted her dress over her head and stood before him, naked, her hands on her hips, like a model or a dancer. One thing surprised him; she was wearing a crucifix on a chain, the cross like a snake between her breasts.
He tumbled her to the bed, still in his clothes, expecting to be pushed away. She kissed his face until, unable to bear it, he cried. Choked with shame, wave after wave rising and falling, he couldn’t stop. Buried his face in her breasts, the crucifix pressing against his eye. She stroked his hair, said not to worry about anything, not to worry. Planning his rage, hating her, he pretended to be comforted.
They were in bed lying together like children when the aunt came home. She called Rosemary’s name a few times while under one thin blanket Christopher sweated his fear. “We’re in my room,” Rosemary called to her, getting out of bed, latching the door from the inside. “Chris is here with me.
“Hello, Christopher,” the aunt called — she had met him once. “How are you?”
“OK,” he mumbled, amused, his rage like smoke. In some way its unreality made it easier for him, made it finally possible.
In the act of love, Rosemary stiffened suddenly, froze, her nails digging into his back. “I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve known.”
Hanging from a ledge, he let go. (Everything.) His life went out, went out, went out. Went out.
July 10
When I came home my mother said some man, who wouldn’t leave his name, had been looking for me. Said he would be back without fail tomorrow. A man in a gray suit with a hat. About thirty, she thought, maybe forty.
I set my alarm for five o’clock.
FOUR
THE MAN in the hat is making love to an old lady, her bones snapping under his weight. When he is done he cuts off her bombs and tacks them on the wall. Puts the rest of her in the bathtub. (I was watching from under the couch.) Then rode away, whistling to himself, on a bicycle.
He had the mask on, which made him dangerous. Standing in front of the bike, I told him it would be best for everyone if he stopped. No one would help me — the others hiding behind windows. “One of these days, schmuck,” he said, “you’re going to die.” He had friends, he said, assassins in high places. I stood my ground but the bicycle turned into a plane and he got away.
I woke five minutes before the alarm. Left him a note: “Have to move out. Don’t worry about me.” Then, two blocks away, decided he didn’t need to know. I couldn’t trust him. They were talking in their room, a dull buzz, the door closed. The idea to get out without facing them. I had the feeling someone was in my room so I went back to look.
No one was there. Only pieces of me. Accumulations like mold. Stamp collection, chess set, box of records, player, three speakers, comics, slide rules, gun models, Monopoly set, investigation files. The room like a corpse hugging me. I wanted to burn it. The dead should be burned. Saw myself in the mirror, The Human Torch, turning on. Burning whoever got in my way. The clock had twenty after six. Move your ass, Christopher. Took a briefcase from the closet, one that used to belong to my father, and packed some stuff in it. It would serve as cover. A man with a briefcase has business to do. What is my business? My business is to go about my business until I find out what it is I have to do. What I’m here to do. Your larger purpose, as Parks says.
Who do you think you are, Christopher, not knowing who you are?
Police cars roaming the streets looking for something, anything. I took the subway to pass the time, read the News and Times. Nothing in either on the Cripple Killer.
SOLDIER SMOTHERS MINE WITH OWN BODY
TO RECEIVE COUNTRY’S HIGHEST AWARD
A graduation picture of this baby-faced Negro in a black gown.
A family in Brooklyn was found murdered, two adults, two children, the house looted. They were dead two days, said the police, who broke into the house after neighbors complained of the silence. The President says he values constructive dissent as much as any American but those who protest the war are giving aid and comfort to the enemy. “How would you like to be a soldier in battle, giving your life for your country, and people back home saying you have no business being there?”
The teller at the bank kept me waiting twenty minutes. Came back empty-handed. His mouth like a buttonhole.
“I can’t do anything for you until you talk to Mr. Hedges. Please do as you’re told.” His nervous eyes prodding at something over my shoulder. A guard behind me, a large, angry-looking Negro, his hand alongside his gun.
“Henry,” the teller said, “will you take this young man to Mr. Hedges.”
I went with the guard to the office of the vice president, T. M. Hedges, Jr., a pink-faced fat man. My passbook and a yellow card, alone on his fat desk except for a glass paperweight (with snow in it) on the right corner. And a red telephone.
“Will you have a seat, sir,” he said, peeking at me. “This will only take a few minutes.” “What will?”
“Sit down, please.” He adjusted his glasses, his face smiling like a mask.
The guard standing by the door, his hands behind him.
“Do you have any identification with you, Mr. — uh — Steinwall? A driver’s license. Something like that.”
I said I didn’t drive, and the name was Steiner, neither of us drives.
“Uh huh.” He took off his glasses and, as if I weren’t there, concentrated on cleaning them. “Where did you get this passbook, son?”
“From this bank, sir. When I opened my account they gave it to me.”
“I see,” he said. “I’d like to show you something that’s very interesting. Will you look at the signature on the withdrawal slip? Compare it with the signature on this yellow card. I’d like to know your opinion. Were these made by the same person?”
“It’s a fact. They were made by the same person.”
Him inside the paperweight, it snowing on him.
“I’ll tell you how I know they weren’t. It happens that I’m something of an expert on handwriting. A hobby of mine. A signature is made distinctive by its characteristics. The characteristics of these two signatures, the slants of certain letters, are to my eyes absolutely different.” He tapped his fingers together. “What do you think I ought to do about it?”
I glanced behind. The guard, leaning against the door, was thinking of what it would be like to shoot us both, dreaming the opportunity. Hedges’ death an accident.
“I think we better get the police.” His pink hand on the phone.
“No.”
“Well, what’s your story? Is the passbook yours or isn’t it?”
When I didn’t answer he said it was a great truth that he who hesitates is lost.
I asked him, still polite, if I could write my signature again for him.
He took a yellow card and a pen from his top drawer. “Put your name where it says ‘Signature.’” He pointed his finger at the spot in case I couldn’t read. I wrote: