The City When It Rains

Click: Affirmative. He’s stomping, too. He keeps stomping.

Click: Ten-17 is in place.

Click: But where?

Click: We have confirmation on the Ten-17.

Click: Just a minute …

There was a sudden silence, then the SOD dispatcher called again.

Click: Unit 4. Ten-2.

The dispatcher was trying to raise him.

Click: Unit 4. Just a …

Corman leaned forward. He could hear the screams of the EDP, the stomping.

The SOD dispatcher was getting worried.

Click: Unit 4. Please respond. Ten-2. Ten-2.

Silence.

Click: Unit 4. Ten-2. Ten-2.

There was no response. Corman could feel the air electrify around him, hear the frantic care in the dispatcher’s voice when he finally acted.

Click: All units. We have a possible Ten-30 at 2942 Broadway. Repeat, we have a Ten-30. Officer in danger. Respond immediately. Ninth floor. Southwest corner. 2942 Broadway. Request all available units to respond immediately.

The silence continued for a few more seconds, then, suddenly, the patrolman’s breathless voice broke through the steadily vibrating air.

Click: Uh, we had a problem here. The EDP charged me. But it okay now. It was a water pistol. Repeat. Water pistol. Subject is under control. Request medical unit and backup. Repeat. The subject is under control.

Corman felt a small rush of air whistle through his teeth. Something had turned out well. A threat had been met, mastered, and the feeling which followed was unexpectedly sweet and exhilarating. He felt a barely controllable urge to wake Lucy up, tell her that somewhere nine floors above the sleeping city, the beast had been driven back. Joanna needed to know that such things were possible, despite the downward pull. Everyone needed to know it, Groton, the little man at the ticket window, everybody. He even thought of the Hell’s Kitchen jumper, saw her long dark hair still wet with rain, wondered if such knowledge might have urged her from the ledge in time to amaze Julian’s phantom audience with a happy ending.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

ON SATURDAY MORNING Corman spent several hours arguing intermittently with Lucy over what movie they’d see that afternoon. Lucy sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully going over the entertainment section of the Times. She preferred movies that edged cautiously into the forbidden zone of sex and violence, but Corman suspected that this had less to do with the actual film than with her need to feel grown-up. It was the sort of attitude that could become a way of living, so that in the end you grew to adolescence hating childhood, then to adulthood hating adolescence, went all the way to death, hating life.

“How about this one?” Lucy asked suddenly. She pointed to a full page advertisement that showed a grim- looking cop nuzzling a forty-five automatic against his cheek.

“Not my thing,” Corman said.

“How about a play then?” Lucy said. “You promised you’d take me to a play.”

“When did I promise that?”

“About a year ago,” Lucy told him. “You said you’d take me to the one about the fairy tales.”

Corman thought about the money, the promise, the collision course between the two. “Okay,” he said finally.

Lucy’s face brightened. “Really?”

Corman pulled himself to his feet. “A promise is a promise.”

The theater was on Broadway, and as Corman stood in line to buy the tickets, he stared at its wildly teeming lights. Despite the gaudiness, it struck him as beautiful. He admired the energy that swept out from it, the self- assertion, the refusal to lie down and take it. It had always been like that, first as an Indian warpath, then as a street of burning effigies, secret conclaves, plots, riots, scandals. As part of his scheme to bilk the city, Aaron Burr had sunk his only water-well alongside it. Not a drop of water had ever come from the well, itself, but later someone had used it to hide the body of a murdered girl.

Lucy knew nothing of all this, and as the line inched toward the ticket booth, Corman wondered if there were any real way to teach it to her. He could take her on a tour, of course, point out this and that, but he wasn’t sure that anything could find its way into a mind that wasn’t ready for it. That was the reason he’d finally given up teaching, because he could teach only skills, nothing beyond them; how to read and write, but not how to feel about what was written in a way that was immediate and searing, the way he’d dreamed a photograph might teach.

“This is supposed to be good,” Lucy said enthusiastically as her eyes swept over the billboard at the front of the theater.

Corman nodded. “You’re staying with your mother next Saturday night,” he told her.

“I know.”

“And all day Sunday.”

She looked at him. “I always stay all day Sunday.” Her eyes remained on him. “She’s taking me to a play Sunday afternoon. Jeffrey’s coming with us.”

“He’s a nice man,” Corman said, forcing himself.

He bought the tickets a few minutes later, then escorted Lucy to their seats.

The lights dimmed slowly. The play began, an amalgam of fairy tales which started with the happy endings then went on to what happened after that, untimely deaths and unfaithful princes. Corman thought it interesting, but glum. After a time he found himself drifting back to Julian’s suggestion, money, finally the stacks of photographs he’d gathered in boxes, stuffed in drawers, every picture he’d taken since the first time he’d gone out with Lazar.

That had been over five years before, but he could remember it very clearly. A woman had called a local precinct, claimed that she’d swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, that she was dying, that they had to hurry, hurry, before it was too late. Even so, Corman and the old man had made it to the hotel before the police, then followed them as they kicked down the door to the woman’s room and plunged inside.

Corman could still recall the precise details of what he’d seen that first time. The woman was stretched out facedown across the plain wooden floor. The phone was still in her hand, but her fingers had released it, so that it simply lay in the palm of her open fist like a dead bird. A few feet away, a two-year-old boy jumped up and down in a rickety playpen, gurgling happily while the cops stripped his mother to the waist and began pumping her back to life.

She’d finally come to, dazed, but still able to walk shakily to the ambulance downstairs. A big cop had taken the child, cradling it gently in his arms, as if posing for a publicity photograph for the police department. “This is what it’s all about,” the cop had said to Lazar on the way out, and Corman remembered thinking that for one of the few times in his life, he’d actually heard someone say something that struck him as absolutely true.

“This is what it’s all about,” he repeated now in his mind as he watched the action on the stage. A world- weary man was singing to a little boy, trying his best to teach him how to live. “Careful,” he kept saying. “Careful.”

Once home, Corman prepared dinner for the two of them, read to Lucy awhile, then washed the dishes, his mind thinking of Lazar again, a story the old man had told him several years before. It was a kind of fairy tale, like the ones in the play, he realized now, with its own oddly happy ending. In his mind he could see Lazar as he’d appeared that night, puffing at his cigar while his voice sounded over the featureless hum of the barroom crowd.

“I was in the coalfields, you know,” Lazar had said. “When I was a boy. There was a strike, and I hired on,