Duplicate Keys (10 page)

“He was a good person.”

Susan seemed to ignore her. “I remember after I first got to know him, I used to always say to myself, What a nice man, he’s really a nice man, isn’t he? That seemed so sexy at the time. Very rare and unusual.” She picked his shirt off the back of the rocking chair and held it against her chest, smoothing her hand down it. “At first I was even touched by his loyalty to Craig.”

“Craig was loyal, too.”

Susan glanced at her. “What should we do with these clothes? I hate these clothes.”

Alice reached for the shirt, but Susan would not let it go. Feeling that she had pushed, Alice blushed, but tried to speak firmly. “Why don’t I pack everything up? I’ll put what you don’t want to keep in boxes, and you can send them to his mother. Maybe some of the kids would like to have things.”

“Maybe.”

“Shall I do that?”

Susan sat down on the bed with a large sigh. “Remember when Denny and I took that vacation in California? We decided to drive out there and travel around for a couple of weeks up north before Craig got out of that place in L.A.”

Alice nodded.

“Did I tell you about the time I nearly fainted in the car?”

Alice shook her head.

“It was pretty far up north, north of Santa Rosa, anyway, and we were east of the coastal mountains. As soon as we crossed them it got desperately hot. I don’t know why I reacted so strongly, but there I was, just sort of lolling in the car. I could barely open my eyes, and I couldn’t make any sense talking. Denny never got panicky. He just drove along making light conversation, until we got to this river, the north fork of some river. He pulled over and
made me get out of the car, and then half carried me down the bank of the bridge abutment and into the water, which was very shallow, and he made me stand there with my ankles and wrists in the water. I was completely revived after about five minutes. It was a beautiful spot, too. No beer cans, if you can believe that, no McDonald’s wrappers. We just dug our toes into the sandy bottom and let the water cool our blood. I adored him.” She paused, then went on. “Later, when we were driving south to pick up Craig I remember that we were laughing about something, and I got hysterical, really hysterical. I couldn’t stop laughing, and then I started to cry and laugh at the same time. We were driving through some hills somewhere north of Santa Barbara. It was late afternoon, and the hills rose all around us, this beautiful liquid golden color. They were so beautiful that they made me start laughing and crying harder, until I really couldn’t control myself. I thought I would wet my pants, which made me even worse. Denny just leaned across me and rolled down the window and practically pushed my head out of it. He made me ride with my head and neck completely out the window for about five or seven miles, until the blast of air brought me to my senses. And it did, just like he said it would.”

“Sometimes I think that the best thing you can say about a person is that he knows what to do.”

“Then we got Craig. Boy, was he a mess. When I look back on the trip, I always think of the first two weeks, never the drive home, although we stopped at the Grand Canyon and in Taos.” And then, “Oh, Lord!” She hid her face in her hands. Alice began to take things out of the closet—shirts, mainly—one by one. She folded each with delicate neatness, as if she were about to stop, as if she weren’t really doing anything final. Denny had lovely big shirts, mostly cowboy shirts in flannel and pure cotton plaids. They were an indulgence. Almost thirty of them, old and beloved, new and prized, were stacked on the bed. Susan wiped her eyes and said, “Noah might like some of those.”

“Do you want me to call him?”

“No. I want to call him. I want to do all of this. I think it’s shameful that I don’t.”

“You’re doing fine. Better than fine. None of us helped you make the funeral arrangements.”

“Oh, don’t talk about that. I think that’s a chute that you simply slide down. It’s all very well oiled by the funeral home. I shudder to think of it. I hate being a sucker. Denny would have shrivelled up with embarrassment.”

“But he doesn’t care and his parents do.”

“What am I going to say if they offer me money?”

“Say you’ll take a little of it. Say the record company helped pay.”

“The record company! Hah! You know, no one from there has even called me?”

“His parents don’t know that.”

“At least I’m glad they think the band made it.”

“Didn’t they, at least in some sense? I mean, they managed to support themselves.”

“Well, if you’d talked to Craig Shellady for more than five minutes in the last year, you’d know what making it is, and it’s not supporting yourself, believe me.”

“But Denny didn’t think that way, did he?”

Susan shrugged and pushed her hair out of her face. “I said it once and I’ll say it again. I blame all of this on Craig. I don’t forgive him, and I’m furious that once again I have to clean up the mess!”

“Susan!”

“I don’t care.”

Alice shook her head, annoyance stinging her in spite of the stack that Susan was making of Denny’s underpants, in spite of her unconscious smoothing motion as she laid each new pair on the pile. The conflict of sympathy and irritation was so uncomfortable that she turned and left the room.

·  ·  ·

W
HEN
they finally got back to Alice’s place, where Alice had prevailed upon Susan to stay at least until the boxes were sent, it was nearly 4 a.m., but Alice could not envision sleeping. The cleaning, which had been for Susan an act of love and purgation, had been for Alice a horror, even after the boys’ shades were exorcised from the orange chairs. Susan went to bed. Agitated, Alice went into the kitchen and made some herb tea reputed to induce slumber. All up and down Eighty-fourth Street, buildings rose dark into the darkness. From her window she could see only one light on, and that one, behind frosted glass, probably a bathroom light left on for children. Even most of the building entrances were dark. Alice wondered if the contemplation of dozens, or hundreds (what would be the population of Eighty-fourth Street?) of sleepers could bring her sleep.

Her gaze settled on what she thought were Henry Mullet’s windows across the way, and, as if by magic, the center one of them lit up. In a moment, the figure of Henry Mullet himself was silhouetted in the light, and then disappeared again. Alice saw enough to see that he had no shirt on. He looked wonderful. Entirely alive and possibly immortal. He reappeared, still without a shirt, then disappeared again. She thought he had looked at her. A few seconds later, the phone beside her rang. It was Henry Mullet. He said, “What are you doing up so late?”

“Can’t sleep yet. How about you?”

Across from her, he dragged the phone and its apparently long extension cord into view and waved. “Can’t sleep any more,” he said. “Is insomnia a recurrent problem with you?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever missed a full eight or nine in my life. Tonight is different. I haven’t been to bed.”

“A woman to be envied.”

“Maybe. All my grandparents are in their eighties and nineties. They’ve been sleeping for years.”

“Comatose?”

Alice laughed. “No! Peace of mind!” Across the street, Henry
laughed in the window, silently but merrily. Alice said, “Have you done this before? You’re so near and yet so far.”

“Never.”

Feeling the conversation die in her ear, Alice offered, “Did you go to the beach today?”

“No. I went to work. Didn’t you?”

“I guess I did.”

“Where do you work?”

“Public Library. How about you?”

“Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Did you catalogue all day?”

“How did you know?”

“It was Monday. I catalogued today, too.”

“I do little poetry magazines.”

“I do plants from mainland China.”

Alice’s breath caught with envy. “And what did you do with them after you catalogued them?”

“They went off to be planted.”

“I’m envious.”

“You should be. They were rather exotic.”

“Are you a botanist?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I’ve always meant to get out there, but Brooklyn seems so far away.”

“It is. I’m considering moving out there because of the subway ride.”

Alice wondered how she could hang up gracefully. It was nearly four-thirty and, though she didn’t have to work in three hours, she grew suddenly afraid of the day ahead. Henry said, “I’ll take you out there sometime, on my day off.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“I love it there.”

“I can’t say the same about the library, I’m afraid.”

“Are you tired yet?”

“I am, as a matter of fact.”

“Good night, then.” In the window he waved and, perhaps,
blew a kiss. Then he turned away, the phone disconnected, and in a moment the light had gone off. Alice smiled, as if she had gotten away with something secret.

A
T THE
two o’clock funeral, Alice mostly watched the photographers jostling for position. One or two of them, including the woman who Alice liked to think was from
Rolling Stone
, recognized Susan and, noticing Alice beside her, blatantly studied Alice’s face, as if to memorize it for future reference. But maybe they were merely curious. There hadn’t, after all, been as much attention to the story as Craig might have wanted. Rya sat between Alice and Noah. As the church, Mount St. Ursula’s (chosen by the funeral home because it was nearby), filled with sightseers, Rya said, “I want to tell you that Noah and I went to see
Ain’t Misbehavin’
last night.”

“How was it?” Alice could not help noticing Rya’s shoes, which had pointed toes, four-inch heels, and were made of black satin, although, on the other hand, she had dug up one of the most subdued black suits Alice had ever seen to wear with them.

“Do you think it’s terrible that we went?”

“Why should it be? You got the tickets ages ago.”

“It seemed terrible.”

“Don’t worry about it. Was it good?”

“Wonderful. There was even a song in it just for Noah. It was about a five-foot reefer.”

Alice chuckled shortly. The priest, perhaps (Alice read the names over the confessionals) Father O’Brien, perhaps Father Angelini, perhaps Father Becker, bustled in with his purple robes trimmed in black and his two little boys. Alice was surprised at how nervous they made her, at how well the Lutheran prejudices of her grandparents had taken hold. Instead of watching them, instead of kneeling and sitting and standing up with the faithful, she perched on the forward edge of her seat, in a compromise between kneeling and sitting, and gazed around. One photographer, a lanky,
pale, and soberly dressed kid, hardly in the employ of any newspaper or magazine, glided around the church, flashing his bulbs at the priest, the little boys, the (closed) coffins, the audience, the stained glass, the crucifix. Next to Alice, Susan glanced at him, too. Susan was “bearing up.” The church was “lovely.” It was hard not to think in funeral lingo. Alice thought of the priest suggesting a “guitar Mass” and suppressed another harsh chuckle. She reminded herself that he hadn’t had to agree to memorialize two non-parishioners at all. She thought of the twenty dollars folded in her pocket that she was to slip him after the service. She thought of everything the undertaker had done for them and the money it would cost. In a shaft of yellow light from the stained glass, Susan’s copper hair blazed up. Rya squirmed. The young photographer glided down the side aisle into something, the apse, maybe, and took an oblique shot that included St. Ursula, the crucifix, and the purple-draped coffins bathed in colored light. Noah, Ray, and some other men Alice barely recognized stood up and went forward. Susan fetched up a sigh so deep that Alice could feel the air vibrate.

D
INNER
, because everyone sensed it would be the last official communal meal, was taken in a French restaurant. Susan ordered extravagantly. Alice got the distinct impression that Susan no longer considered the four of them supportive. “Ray,” she said, “I want my key. And Noah, too. Do you have a copy of Noah’s key, Rya?” Rya nodded her head. “That, too. And I want a list from each of you stating to whom you have lent or given your keys to my apartment for as long as you can remember.”

“But Susan, you had the lo—,” began Alice. Susan glared at her.

Rya said, “Do you think—”

“What do
you
think?”

Rya shrugged. Noah didn’t say anything. Susan said, “Alice knows she can keep hers, and besides, she would never lend it
or give it away.” With her tiny fork, she dug a garlicky snail dripping out of its shell and popped it into her mouth. Alice’s own mouth watered. Rya began to sniff. Susan helped herself to another snail. “Everything’s going to be different now,” said Rya. “Different and worse.” Alice said, “Maybe not.” Susan glared at her again. “I mean, it is different and worse already,” she amended, “but—” Susan seemed to grow larger before them, as if Rya’s complaints expanded her into anger. Still, though, she didn’t say anything, and finished her snails with her usual neatness, wiped up some of the butter sauce with a crust of bread, patted her lips, and cleaned her fingers on her white napkin. She had gone out before the funeral. Thinking of it now, Alice wondered if she had gone to see Honey, for she seemed to look at them with Honey’s eyes. To speculate about them. Over and over, her gaze dropped on Noah and Ray. Alice’s response to this was to wish she could eat everything on the table. The waiter cleared their dishes.

In addition to Susan’s green-peppercorned fillet and Alice’s golden slices of roast chicken napped in a smooth pale sauce, he brought medallions of veal for Noah, chicken Kiev for Rya, and lapin à la moutarde for Ray, which everyone stared at when it was set before him. The vegetable of the evening was spooned onto each of their plates. After the waiter had departed everyone seized their utensils and dove at the food, as if, Alice thought, it were trays of Big Macs and fries. Her own fork she dipped in the sauce embracing the chicken and touched to her tongue. A flower, savory and sharp, seemed to open in her mouth. Rya snuffled deeply, wiped her eyes, and drove her fork into the little balloon of chicken on her plate. Susan, who rarely drank, poured herself a second large glass of wine.