'Bullshit,' she said, and he kissed her.
It wasn't so much a weakness as a languor. Her will was blunted; her body now seemed in command of all her actions. An indolence infected her. She slept long, drugged hours, and awoke listless, aching with weariness.
Each morning she stepped on the bathroom scale and saw her weight inexorably lessening. After a while she stopped weighing herself; she just didn't want to know. It was something beyond her control. She thought vaguely it was due to her loss of appetite; food sickened her: all that stuff going into her mouth…
Her monthly had ended, but the abdominal cramps persisted. Sometimes she felt nauseated; twice she vomited for no apparent reason. She had inexplicable attacks of diarrhea followed by spells of constipation. The incidents of syncope increased: more of them for longer periods.
It seemed to her that her body, that fleshy envelope containing her, was breaking up, flying apart, forgetting its functions and programs, disintegrating into chaos. It occurred to her that she might be dying. She ran into the kitchen to take a Valium.
She looked down at her naked self. She felt skin, hair, softness of fat and hardness of bone. Undeniably she was still there; warm and pulsing. Pinched, she felt hurt. Stroked, she felt joy. But deep inside was rot. She was convinced of it; there was rot. She knew more wonder than fear.
She functioned; she did what she had to do. Dropped the broken knife down a sewer grating. Wrapped the empty Mace can in a bundle of garbage and tossed it into a litter basket two blocks from her home. Inspected her body and clothing for bloodstains. She did all these things indolently, without reasoning why.
She bathed, dressed, went to work each day. Chatted with Ernest Mittle on the phone. Had lunch with Maddie Kurnitz. It was all a dream, once removed from reality. Anomie engulfed her; she swam in a foreign sea.
Once she called Sergeant Coe to ask if he was available for moonlighting. Coe's wife answered the phone and Zoe said, 'This is Irene-' stopped, dazed, then said, 'This is Zoe Kohler.'
Something was happening to her. Something slow, gradual, and final. She let it take her, going to her fate without protest or whimper. It was too late, too painful to change. There was comfort in being a victim. Almost a pleasure. Life, do with me what you will.
On May 10th, a Saturday, she met Ernest Mittle at the entrance to Central Park at Fifth Avenue and 59th Street. It was only a few blocks from the Cameron Arms Hotel. They exchanged light kisses and, holding hands, joined the throng sauntering toward the menagerie and children's zoo.
It was more summer than spring. A high sky went on forever; the air was a fluffy softness that caressed the skin. The breeze was scarcely strong enough to raise kites; the fulgent sun cast purplish shadows.
People on the benches raised white, meek faces to the blue, happy with the new world. Coats and sweaters were doffed and carried; children scampered. Bells and flutes could be heard; the greening earth stirred.
'Oh, what a day!' Ernest exulted. 'I ordered it just for us. Do you approve, Zoe?'
'It is nice,' she said, looking about. 'Like being born again.'
'Would you like an ice cream? Hot dog? Peanuts?'
'No, nothing right now, thank you.'
'How about a balloon?' he said, laughing.
'Yes, I'd like a balloon. A red one.'
So he bought her a helium-filled balloon and carefully tied the end of the string to the handle of her purse. They strolled on, the little sun bobbing above them.
A carnival swirled about: noise, movement, color. But they felt singularly alone and at peace, a universe of two. It seemed to them the crowd parted to allow passage, then closed behind them. They were in a private space and no one could intrude.
There were other couples like them, hand in hand, secret and serene as they. But none of them, as Ernest pointed out, had a red balloon. They laughed delightedly at their uniqueness.
They stared at a yak, watched a tiger pace, heard an elephant trumpet, saw the cavortings of sea lions, listened to the chattering of baboons, and were splashed by a diving polar bear. Even the caged animals seemed pleased by that blooming day.
Finally, wearying, they bought beers and sandwiches and carried them out of the zoo to a patch of greensward where the sounds of carnival and the cries of animals were muted.
They sat on the warm earth, Zoe's back against the trunk of a gnarled plane tree. They sipped their beers, nibbled their sandwiches. A fat squirrel came close to inspect them, but when Zoe tossed a crust, it darted off. Two pigeons fought over the crust, divided it, waited hopefully for more, then flew away.
Dappled light melted through the foliage above them. The world was solid beneath them. The air was awash with far-off cries and the faint lilt of music. They could see joggers, cyclists, horse-drawn carriages move along a distant road. A freshening wind brought the sweet smell of growing things.
Ernest Mittle lay supine, his head on Zoe's lap, eyes closed. She stroked his hair absently, looking about and feeling they were alone on earth. The last. The only.
'I wish we could stay here forever,' she murmured. 'Like this.'
He opened his eyes to look up at her.
'Never go home,' he said softly. 'Never go to work again. No more subways and buses and traffic. No more noise and dirt. No violence and crime and cruelty. We'll just stay here forever and ever.'
'Yes,' she said wonderingly. 'Just the two of us together.'
He sat up, took her hand, kissed her fingertips.
'Wouldn't that be fine?' he said. 'Wouldn't that be grand? Zoe, I've never felt so good. Never been so happy. Why can't it last?'
'It can't,' she said.
'No,' he said, 'I suppose not. But you're happy, aren't you? I mean right this minute?'
'Oh yes,' she said. 'Happier than I've ever been in my life.'
He lay back again; she resumed smoothing the webby hair back from his temples.
'Did you have a lot of boyfriends, Zoe?' he asked quietly. 'I mean when you were growing up.'
'No, Ernie,' she said, just as dreamily. 'Not many.'
On a lawn, beneath a tree, blue shadows mottling, they were in the world but not of it. Locked in lovers' isolation. Away from the caged and uncaged animals, and somehow protected from them by their twoness.
'My mother was strict,' she said in a memory-dulled voice. 'So strict. The boy had to call for me and come inside for inspection. I had to be home by eleven. Midnight on weekends, but eleven during the week.'
He made a sound of sympathy. Neither moved now, fearing to move. It was a moment of fragile balance. They knew they were risking revealment. Opening up-a sweet pain. They inched cautiously to intimacy, recognizing the dangers.
'Once I went out with a boy,' she said. 'A nice boy. His car broke down so I couldn't get home in time. My mother called the police. Can you imagine that? It was awful.'
'It's for your own good, my dear,' he said in a high-pitched feminine voice.
'Yes. That's what she said. It was for my own good. But after that, I wasn't very popular.'
They were silent then, and content with their closeness. It seemed to them that what they were doing, unfolding, could be done slowly. It might even cost a lifetime. All the safer for that. Knowing was a process, not a flash, and it might never end.
'I was never popular,' he said, a voice between rue and hurt. 'I was small. Not an athlete or anything like that. And I never had enough money to take a girl to the movies. I didn't have any real girlfriends. I never went steady.'
It was so new to them-this tender confession. They were daunted by the strange world. Shells were cracking; the naked babes peered out in fear and want. They understood there was a price to be paid for these first fumblings. Involvement presaged a future they could not see.
'I never went steady either,' she said, determined not to stop. 'Very few boys ever asked me out a second time.'
'What a waste,' he said, sighing. 'For both of us. I didn't think any girl could be interested in me. I was afraid to ask. And you…'
'I was afraid, too. Of being alone with a boy. Mother again. Don't do this. Don't do that. Don't let a boy-you know… get personal.'
'We were robbed,' he said. 'Both of us. All those years.'
