Alfred reached for Ptolemy as the old man slipped his hand under the cushion beside him. Alfred lifted him into the air with ease, the younger man’s muscles bulging under sweaty brown and strawberry-colored skin.
Ptolemy saw the rage in the killer’s eyes turn to amazement as the pistol jerked twice in his hand.
When Ptolemy fell, he was certain that Alfred would use his last bit of strength to kill him. But the killer was more interested in the blood on his hands than he was in revenge. His breath was loud and fast, intertwined with a crying moan.
“Oh no. Oh no,” Alfred said.
And Ptolemy felt pity for the fact that all men come to that moment in time: Coy, and his own grandfather, and Reggie on a friend’s front porch.
Alfred backed away from Ptolemy, turning and lurching toward the door. He grabbed the green-glass knob but had trouble turning it because of the slick blood on his hands. He finally got the door open and staggered into the hall.
Ptolemy climbed to his feet and followed the murderer. He dropped the gun inside his own door and stayed a few steps behind the hulking man. Blood fell in dollops on the concrete floor but Alfred kept moving. They made it outside. Alfred missed the first step on the stoop and tumbled to the sidewalk. Ptolemy was sure that the big man would die there but Alfred rose up and reeled drunkenly into the street. When he got to the dividing line, he followed that. Ptolemy was a few feet behind him and to the left.
Melinda Hogarth screamed.
Ptolemy stopped and stared at her, perched on the stoop of an old brick apartment building. There was terror in her face and this surprised Ptolemy. He saw Melinda as an evil woman unable to feel for another’s pain. But he was wrong. Her angry fists were in her mouth now. Her eyes were fearful.
When Ptolemy turned he saw that Alfred had made it as far as the intersection. There he fell onto his knees, his chest on his thighs, his forehead on the asphalt. Cars were braking and swerving around the penitent.
Melinda was also on her knees, crying hysterically.
On his way back to his apartment, Ptolemy forgot where he was going.
When he opened his eyes, all that had gone before was behind that locked door again. He was in a yellow room on a high bed. There was classical music playing and a TV tuned to a twenty-four-hour news station.
A white man with a huge mustache was seated there next to him.
“Mr. Grey?”
“Who?”
“You.”
“That’s me. I’m the one you talkin’ to.”
“I’m Dr. Ruben.”
“Do I know you?”
The man smiled and a fear nudged at the back of Ptolemy’s mind. It was an old fear, faded and flaccid like a balloon that had lost most of its air.
“I’m a friend of your niece,” the man, whose name Ptolemy had already forgotten, said.
“Uncle Grey?”
Turning his eyes to the other side of the bed took all of his concentration. He saw and registered and forgot many things on his way. The empty room and the green door and the feeling that he had accomplished an ancient task that had been behind a door and under a floor. There was blood somewhere out in the world, through the window, and then came the girl: eyes like sharp ovals and chocolate skin, she was beautiful but what Ptolemy saw was that she was one of a kind, like the woman who had come to his door and yanked him out of his sad and lonely life.
“Rob, Rob, Robyn?”
Her smile was filled with gratitude. Ptolemy’s heart surged like the, like the soil under his father’s spade at the beginning of the season. There was pain in his chest.
“Are you okay, Uncle?”
“What’s my name?”
“Ptolemy Usher Grey.”
“That’s a king’s name.”
“Yes it is.”
“And why am I here?”
“You been sick, Uncle. Dr. Ruben come to see if you was still alive, but I told him that you’d outlive the Devil himself.”
Ptolemy knew that the child was making a joke but he forgot what it meant. Still, he smiled for her, pretending he understood.
“Alfred died at the hospital, and the police wanted take you to jail but Moishe Abromovitz got a paper on ’em an’ they said that they’d wait till you got better.”
“Did I kill?”
The girl nodded. When Ptolemy tried to remember her name he was brought back to the yard in front of his childhood home where birds flocked around him, eating stale breadcrumbs and wailing out their songs.
