a melancholy Country Western song drifts out from the jukebox.
Charles turns onto West Bridge Street, which has no comforting lights, just a row of vacant brick buildings that give way to scruffy fields and the sky beyond. He comes to number 12. Under the For Sale sign over the doorway, he can make out faded lettering: Oversby Hardware. The windows of the apartment above are blocked by yellow shades. Charles tries the door that leads up to the apartment-locked. He walks down the narrow alley that runs alongside the building. At the far end is a wooden staircase leading to the second floor.
Charles looks around: no one. He climbs the stairs. At the top is a door with a square of small windows in it. Again, locked. He tries to force it; it rattles but holds. He jabs his elbow through one of the windows; the glass shatters. Charles freezes, waiting. The faint wail of the jukebox is all he hears. He reaches in through the window and releases the lock.
Charles finds himself in a dark, dusty hallway. The building is too quiet, as if someone is hiding in it. At the end of the hallway is a door. He gives it a little push and it swings open.
Charles moves slowly into the apartment. Dim light struggles in through the cracked shades. He stands still while his eyes adjust. He takes out the pocket flashlight he keeps in his car and runs its beam over the scene. The living room is piled with crates, window screens, rakes-remnants of the dead hardware store. Water stains bloom on the floral wallpaper. He walks into the bathroom; the sink, tub, and toilet are dry and rust-stained. The linoleum is curled up at the corners, the air dense with dust motes.
Charles looks at himself in the medicine chest mirror. His face looks gray, sunken, cadaverous. He opens the medicine chest, its rusty insides hold the shriveled carcass of a bar of soap, one curled and crumbling Band-Aid, a rusted lilac powder tin-Lady Lovely. Charles twists the top, lines up the tiny holes, and shakes a little of the pallid powder into his hand. It smells stale and sickly floral, like something you’d put on an ancient stroke victim on her birthday.
Somewhere in the distance an ambulance speeds down a country road, its siren shrieking into the deaf, descending night. Charles walks down a short hallway and into Emma’s bedroom. The old iron bed is still there, the faint bloodstains are still on the walls, the sadness is still in the air, the thick air, in the last gasp of twilight. Sitting in a corner is the empty goldfish bowl, thick with dust. Charles imagines Emma in this room, abused and alone.
“She killed her here.”
Charles swings around and the flashlight’s beam lands on a woman standing in the doorway. For a second he thinks he’s hallucinating. She’s somewhere just this side of old, bone-skinny, in tight jeans pegged at the ankles and a sweatshirt pushed up at the elbows. Her face is bloated and shiny-is it bruised?
“You got a cigarette?” Her voice is cagey, conspiratorial.
Charles stares at her for a long moment before handing her his pack of Marlboros.
“Keep it,” he says.
She shakes out a cigarette and searches for a match. Charles hands her his book. She lights up and inhales deeply. “You’re not going to tell them I’m up here?”
“No,” Charles says softly.
“No one’ll rent it anyway. Bunch of superstitious yokels.” She gives Charles a wily, assessing head-to-toe, opens her mouth and runs the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. Then she throws him a pitying, dismissive look, turns, and walks out of the room. Charles listens as her footfalls fade, swallowed up by the silence, by the building, by the town.
Charles stops at the diner by the turnpike entrance and gets a cup of coffee to go and a pack of cigarettes. He heads for the pay phone back by the rest rooms and dials Emma’s number. She answers on the second ring.
“Emma? What are you doing?”
“Just going over your notes.”
He imagines her in her nightgown, sitting up in bed, a pad propped up on her knees.
“Good girl. Listen, I’m trapped in an incredibly dull dinner meeting with some legal types. I’m not going to get down there tonight. But I’ll see you in the morning. And, Emma?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
He hears her breath catch.
“I love you, Charles.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Charles hangs up the phone and walks out into the night.
33
Everything is different today-the light through her window, the way it feels to cross the room. Emma washes her hair and leaves it down; she puts on a new black wool skirt and a cream linen blouse and a pair of black Italian flats for which she paid the unheard-of price of sixty dollars.
As she walks to the subway, Emma passes a woman rummaging through a trash can for returnable bottles. She’s middle-aged and her clothes are dirty, but she has on a beret and the clunky black shoes popular with downtown hipsters. Emma stops and opens her purse to give the woman a dollar-on the bottom sits her little painted tin. She lifts out the tin and looks at it for a moment, before opening it, unfolding the velvet, taking out the razor blade, and dropping it down the storm drain.
“Would you like this?” she asks the woman.
“I’ll take money too.”
Emma laughs and gives the woman the tin and a dollar.
She arrives at work and is surprised to find Charles, in a bathrobe, sitting at the kitchen table. He’s drinking a cup of coffee and reading pages from her manuscript. Without saying a word, he stands up and puts his hands on her shoulders and looks at her in a peculiar, probing way. She opens her mouth to say something and he puts a finger to her lips. Then he kisses her. Outside, the day is gray, the sky low, the city closed in, the apartment a world apart. She meets his kiss with her own.
Charles begins to unbutton her blouse and she reaches into his robe and feels his chest; the robe falls open, he has nothing on underneath, his muscular body is naked, and Emma wants to look at it, right there in the kitchen. She breaks their kiss and pushes the robe off his shoulders and he stands there in front of her, naked. Emma lets her eyes roam down his body. It’s her turn. And maybe someday soon this will be her kitchen.
She feels Charles’s hands on her shoulders, applying a growing pressure. Emma sinks to her knees and the room falls away.
“You’re mine,” he states.
Emma looks up at him, but he grips her hair and forces her gaze down, down.
“I’m yours,” she whispers.
Their sweat and juices mingle until their bodies share the same dense smell. Emma steps through the looking glass into a realm of pure sex, moving openly, naked, from room to room, making love in the guest bedroom, on the rug in the library, until the day becomes a blur, a hazy blue high, a languid dream of love and desire. Now they’re dancing naked in the shuttered living room to the music of Billie Holiday and Emma wishes her father could see her, could see how she’s grown up into a woman, a woman who dances naked to Billie Holiday in the middle of a gray New York afternoon.
The day slips by like a vapor and Emma finds herself on the living room floor wrapped in the softest blanket she has ever felt, her body aching with the sweetest fatigue. Charles, wearing his robe, is sitting in the chaise longue reading to her from The Sound and the Fury.
Charles closes the book and looks down at her. Emma lets the blanket slip from her shoulders and she’s naked in front of him on the floor. She leans back and opens up her body to him, an offering, and he looks and she loves his looking. Then she drapes her arm around his ankle and kisses his foot.
Charles is holding her down on the bed, gazing at her with something hard and frightening in his eyes. Emma pleads with her eyes; she needs him, needs him inside her. She starts to whimper, and still he just looks down at
