We All Sleep in the Same Room (10 page)

“From Ms. Grant?”

“Yes, from Doreen. How's she doing? I just thought—well, you know her. She's quite an expressive person. I just wondered if she'd been in touch. Ms. Engel and I grew quite fond of her.” The three reps exchange looks. They seem nervous.

“Gentlemen,” John says to his associates. “Will you excuse us?”

John and I make our way slowly through the crowd. The room's centerpiece is an antique carousel: wild-eyed wooden horses gripping polished metal in their teeth, frozen mid-stride.

“So, what's up?” I say, “That was a great deal we got her. I figured she would've been thrilled.”

“Actually, Tom...” John's eyes drift downward toward his drink.

“What? Did something go wrong with the payment?”

“No, it's not that. The money came through on time and everything,” John says, his stride slowing to a stop. “I've been meaning to tell you, Tom. I got a call last week. Ms. Grant never showed up to the clinic again.”

“So, she decided not to take the job after all? Smart. I wouldn't have put myself back in that environment either.”

“Look, I was hoping this could wait until after the party, it being your night and all.”

“What? What happened?” I say.

“Tom, Ms. Grant passed away.”

“She what?”

“It was a suicide.”

“What?”

The lights in the room suddenly dim. There's a chime from the speakers, then a voice: “Your attention please. Everyone please make your way to the lobby. The toast will be taking place momentarily.”

“Look, it's no one's fault. It seems Ms. Grant was a very troubled person. No one at the union knew her very well.” McDougall puts his hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry to have to break the news, Tom. It's a very sad thing.”

The chime sounds again.

“Look, we'll talk more about this later. This is your night. Try not to think about it, okay?”

* * *

I'm holding a picket
sign amid a crowd of protesting tenants on Avenue C. The picture dissolves and a new one emerges of me in another crowd in front of the Capitol building. I have a mustache. I'm a young man. Then I'm shaking the mayor's hand on 125th and Lex. Ed Koch. Next I'm standing on the steps of the courthouse holding my law degree. I'm posing at a gathering with Cunningham and Levan. That was before they took on Klein. Then I'm speaking in a courthouse—I can't tell which. My mustache is gone.

Cunningham is delivering my toast from a small podium. A succession of laudatory quotes. I recognize names, though I can't follow what's being said. His tone is cheerful. I take another sip from my drink but the glass is empty.

Then the stock becomes grainy and starts to move. My wife is lifting my son from his crib. I remember this. Cal shot this scene of domestic bliss on 16 mm. The crowd erupts in sighs. On screen, Raina passes me the baby.

3

A
dry, bitter taste. Cold and heavy. Gray. It's the sidewalk. And red. A brick wall. I'm on the ground.

“Best watch out.” A voice. A man in a navy winter jacket. He steps over me and continues briskly down the street. “White man lying in the middle of the sidewalk...”

A sound. Scraping. Another man coming from the other direction. He's in bad shape, stooped, weathered.

“Rough night?” he asks. He inches forward a shopping cart, scraping the sidewalk with every lurch.

I sit up and draw my legs to my chest. He stops right in front of me.

“Gimme a dollar,” he says.

His face is a network of wrinkles. His front teeth are missing save three yellow mounds, all to one corner. He's holding out his palm.

“C'mon,” he says. “Fork it over, I know you got it.” I'm still wearing my suit. “I need to eat breakfast too, don't I?”

I reach into my breast pocket. A flask-sized bottle. I must've picked it up last night. I try the other pocket and pull out my wallet. “Here,” I say, handing him a few singles.

He stuffs the bills into his coat and resumes his jerky progression down the sidewalk.

I level my back against the wall and push myself up to my feet. The street sways like a schooner on open sea.

“Wait,” I call, securing myself with one hand on the wall, “where am I?”

“Look up,” the old man shouts in his gravelly rasp.

A placid, pale blue sky. A glowing plastic sign. McDonald's. There's an above-ground subway station: Coney Island. I must've fallen asleep on the train.

* * *

A dirty scab on
my cheek probably from the sidewalk. A day's worth of growth, eyes swollen and dark around the corners. My cell phone still won't turn on. Raina must be worried. Or mad. When did I leave the party? A splash of cold, crisp water. The last gulp of Jack Daniel's. Okay. Let's get you home.

I exit the bathroom and order a cup of McCafé. It's even worse than Dunkin' Donuts.

Today's Christmas Eve. I told Ben I'd take him to the Central Park Zoo to see the polar bears. Raina wanted the apartment to herself to finish some errands and prepare dinner. Plus, Ben loved them when I took him last year. He was two then. But this year he didn't even remember we'd gone. I think this time he'll remember. He's getting so smart.

Outside McDonald's. Stillwell and Mermaid Ave. Mermaid Ave. That's where Doreen worked. I'd love to just see the place. But I should really be getting back. What was the address again? The road only goes in one direction. It can't be far. Ben, my love, I'll be with you soon.

I start down Mermaid. Coney Island Bagels. Liberty Tax Center. Golden Krust. Our Lady of Solace Church where there's a nativity scene with Christ in a manger, wise men, Joseph, and Mary.

There it is, across from the church: the Coney Island Health Clinic. It's so small. I can't believe how bad she wanted to keep showing up to this place.

The door opens. It's a woman. She's got red scrubs on under her long, puffy down coat.

She crosses the street and walks right past me down Mermaid. She must be Doreen's replacement. I wonder how long ago she started. It couldn't have been long. Maybe she's still training. She turns, a block down, onto 16th Street, disappearing around the corner.

I jog down the block in her direction, stopping at the corner of 16th. She's on her cell phone, crossing the road diagonally. She probably lives on this street. I fall into step a few doors behind, on the opposite side of the street from her.

I'll just see where she's going. I can still get back before noon.

The woman reaches Neptune. It's a busier street. She's glancing back and forth waiting for the opportunity to cross. Shit. She just looked at me. Act natural. You're just going up 16th Street to meet a friend. Why not?

I stop at the corner of Neptune, too. Just avoid eye contact.

She starts walking. I better cross, too.

How am I going to get out of this?

There's a liquor store in the middle of the block. Wait. No more drinking today. I need to get back to the city.

I walk further up 16th. Her pace quickens. She's onto me. Damn.

Finally, she makes a right into a front yard. Plastic reindeer, vinyl siding, a porch with a screen door. She lets herself in. I stop and sigh. That was close.

I turn. Alright, back to Union Square.

“Hey!” Another voice. It's a muscular guy with a crew cut, jeans, and a Mets t-shirt. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

I hurry down the sidewalk. A firm hand on my shoulder.

“Were you just following my wife?”

I turn to meet his stare. “No, no, I'm just looking for someone.” He jerks my jacket, pulling me within inches of his face.

“Goddamn drunk. I don't want to see you on this block again, you got it? Get lost.”

“Alright, I'm leaving, okay?” His grip loosens and he lets me go. I turn away. As I fix my suit collar I hear myself mutter, “Fucking asshole.”

A sudden warmth, wet and running down the side of my face. He spat on me.

“Are you serious?” I say, swiveling to meet his eyes again. He's got his fists up in a fighting stance. “Are you fucking serious?!” Then I'm taking a swing at him, but he leans back and my fist just kisses the air.

His knuckles lodge into my gut. I can't breathe. I look up at my opponent, hoping for mercy. But he's already leaning in with another fist to my face.

* * *

Limping down Neptune. I'm
bleeding. My head is pounding. There's a life-sized statue of a pirate. Captain Morgan. It's the liquor store. Aisles of bright, fluorescent-lit linoleum. I lean against the glass and stumble in.

4

I
reach the top of the stairs at Union Square. Couples and families stroll past faceless street-dwellers. A glaring red ticker on a newsstand reads:

… 33°F … 11:49 DECEMBER 25 2005 … MERRY CHRISTMAS …

Jesus. Where have I been?

There's a paper stuck in the slush on the sidewalk.
The Daily News
. It's already a few days old. In big white letters the cover reads: “Nobody Wins.” There's a photo of an M15 bus. “In this strike everyone has lost: the workers, the union, the MTA, New York business and most of all, you.”

Raina will be on the couch reading to Ben. Or maybe Ben will be reading to her. He's committed
Yertle the Turtle
to memory. He'll drop the book when he sees me and come running.

“It's Christmas,” he'll say.

“I‘m not too late, am I?”

“No, Daddy, you're not too late.”

Raina will hold back, arms folded, skeptical about my absence. I'll walk over to her. I'll kiss her on the forehead, apologize about my appearance. I'll tell her not to worry about my black eye. I'm alright. I'll take a shower, change into fresh clothes. I'll make lunch for everyone. Later, we'll go for a walk. Get hot chocolate. Maybe we'll go to the movies.

But my apartment is empty. At the doorway to the bedroom, I listen for breathing. It's silent. Both beds are empty. Elmo is gone, too. The tree is there but all the presents are missing. They must've done Christmas somewhere else.

I start the shower.

Raina sits across from me in the tub, an open champagne bottle between her legs. The radio is tuned to a station that seems to play only Edith Piaf. It's our honeymoon. She takes a swig and passes me the bottle. Her fingers are like prunes.

“I'm starving,” she says. We've been in here for hours, giggling and making love.

“Ready to brave the cold?” I say. We were so in love. The only couple naive enough to think a wintertime honeymoon in Montreal would be a good idea.

I cut the shower and reach for a towel.

Seventeen new messages. I dress and put my jacket and hat back on. There's a bottle cap in my jacket pocket. Jim Beam.

Outside the apartment, the sky has darkened. My stomach clenches again. What restaurants are open on Christmas morning? It's so quiet. Snow is beginning to fall. I look up and down 17th Street in each direction.

Then I see her. Raina. She's with someone. He's got Ben in his arms. Is that Frank? They're at the corner, waiting for the light to change. She brushes a lock of hair from her face. A bus passes on Park Avenue South. Our eyes meet. She steps off the curb. The light turns white.

Acknowledgments

I'm so appreciative of Lisa Weinert for seeing the potential in my book and of Tyson Cornell, Alice Marsh-Elmer, and Julia Callahan for bringing it to print. I'd also like to thank Deborah Brown for being an early supporter, along with Jules de Balincourt. I'm indebted to Sam Tillman, Nicole Ball, Adam Brown, Paige Newman, Jason Krugman, Jen Krieger, Alex Feld, Nils Aspengren, and Krista Knight, who came to my apartment and sat while I read early drafts to them. Jesse McDonough and Elana Adler were wonderful roommates who allowed me solitude while I wrote this. Lydia Bell provided love and support. Thank you to Patrick Kattner, Rebekah Potter, Lindsay Benedict, Rhice Manelli Brewer, Logan Kruger and Dawn Skorczewski for being early, insightful readers. Adam Wilson told me at the age of thirteen what music to listen to and what books to read, and he continues to introduce me to new, inspiring authors of which he's one. Christi Hansen opened widely my way of thinking; I didn't have anything I needed to write about before I met her. Chris Spain, Pat C. Hoy II, and Howard Norman imparted their wisdom to me; their teachings resonate. Courtney Foster kept me honest and happy. Ben Lehn designed an elegant cover. Angie Hughes stepped in with last minute copyediting. The Bushwick community—in particular Anna D'Agrosa and Scott McGibney and the baristas at the Wyckoff Starr and the bartenders at Pearl's, Tandem, and The Northeast Kingdom, especially Sam Coffey—makes it hard to want to live anywhere else. It would be difficult to overstate my gratitude to Roarke Menzies for his guidance and vision in the editorial process and for the friendship we share. I'm excited for all the work we're going to create together. And thank you to my family: Mom, Dad, and Emily.