Lowboy Part 12

"Or the Post," he said. "They wrote about us once. Do you remember?"

She shook her head. "Just you. I wasn't in it."

"You'll be in it this time," he said. "You're going to be famous, Emily."

"You don't have to make me famous," she said. "You only have to make me someone else." She pulled him closer. "I want to be a different kind of person."

"I'll make you someone else," he said softly. "I promise I will, Emily. I'll make you a s.l.u.t."

She let out a cough and pulled her body backward. At first he thought she was laughing but she only rocked back stiffly on her heels. Her tongue made a hollow sound against her teeth and she put her cigarettes away and started walking. Lowboy didn't move.

"I don't want to go backwards, Emily."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "That part of it is over. No more Crowley."

She shrugged and started walking even faster.

He understood then that there were two ways of making her look back at him: the sick way and the well. The way that would keep her and the way that would lose her forever. What would Violet say, he thought, then closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. Violet wasn't well. Neither was Kopeck. Neither was the world. The best thing to do was to kneel down and cry. The best thing to do was to run screaming out into the street.

"Emily," he called out. "Hold on, Emily. I'm sorry."

When she turned to look at him her face was wet. "You don't look sorry," she said. "You don't look sorry at all."

"That's what they told me in court." He smiled at her. "Before I got sent away. That's what your father said."

That brought her up short. "My father," she murmured, opening her eyes wide.

He waited for her to laugh or spit at him or slap his face.

"Do you know what my father did when I told him I didn't want to testify? Do you want me to tell you what he did to me, h.e.l.ler?"

A picture came to him then of Emily's father, pale and hulking on the sofa, staring pigfaced at the seven o'clock news. He remembered her cringing mother. "I don't want you to tell me," he said.

"He couldn't make me, though." She crossed her arms. "Things have changed with him and me since then."

"Changed how?"

"They've gotten worse."

"But I'm not your father."

She laughed. "That's true. You're f.u.c.ked up in a totally different way."

"I love you, Emily."

She nodded absentmindedly. "I know."

He took a deep breath, as much as he could fit into his chest, and held on to the air until it hurt him. He thought of what he could do to prove he wasn't lying.

"How are you feeling, Emily?"

"I'm okay, h.e.l.ler. Don't worry about me. I don't feel bad anymore."

"All right, then," he said. "Let's go to Crowley."

h.e.l.lo Violet how are you?

They gave me or deposited me in a new room which the Headmaster says is a Real Sign of Promise. Not a room necessarily more like a corner with a s.h.i.tcolored tarp around it but a bed & n.o.body else can sleep there. & a light that I can turn on when I want & obviously this pen or else how would I be writing. How are you?

Today Dr Prekopp said How awesome w.i.l.l.y that you asked for your own room & a pen etcetera now that's what we like to call Progress. Only please don't tell our dirty secrets thank you in advance. Hugs & Kisses. So I laughed because how could I do it? Secrets are secrets because n.o.body says them out loud. If n.o.body can't then I can't Violet. I'm a 24 hour student now but n.o.body here has taught me how to tell. I won't do it I said no worries Dr Prekopp. I don't tell secrets. Also I said to him don't call me w.i.l.l.y.

There was a Flat Time Violet as you know but things happened without me & yesterday the Headmaster said William you've been here for me & yesterday the Headmaster said William you've been here for 6 months. I didn't take that as a fact but Dr Prekopp said it was or he corroborated it & showed me my chart so I could count the days & doses for myself. When the cat's away he said Help yourself w.i.l.l.y no skin off my pimply behind. Dr Prekopp! I said. You'll make a bighearted woman a bigbellied husband one day & he laughed & asked me what song I was quoting. (Potbellied Blues) I told him something about you Violet but I haven't told him yet that you are blond. Are you still blond actually? Or has there been a wig? 6 months. I didn't take that as a fact but Dr Prekopp said it was or he corroborated it & showed me my chart so I could count the days & doses for myself. When the cat's away he said Help yourself w.i.l.l.y no skin off my pimply behind. Dr Prekopp! I said. You'll make a bighearted woman a bigbellied husband one day & he laughed & asked me what song I was quoting. (Potbellied Blues) I told him something about you Violet but I haven't told him yet that you are blond. Are you still blond actually? Or has there been a wig?

I've seen terrible things Violet. Somebody had to see them. Somebody low. If you meet anyone who knows me at PAYLESS SHOE SOURCE or DAFFY'S CLOTHING BARGAINS FOR MILLIONAIRES you can tell them I've seen terrible things. But don't tell anyone at BERGDORF GOODMAN.

I was sitting in the Smoking Room reading the Wall Street Journal when I saw the Schoolmaster aka Dr Fleisig sliding sideways down the hall. Fleisig is a friendly Mediterranean man he looks a little bit like Jacques Cousteau. But this time I jumped up & dropped my cigarette & ran to the door. Because I knew by then it wasn't exactly Fleisig. He was changing his haircut every 6 or 7 steps & playing temperature games inside his body. & at night he used my hands and mouth to eat with. Truth Be Told Violet! we used to watch Underwater Movies. My father would make seafood soup & beer & you cooked me a beautiful Jell-O. Why Underwater, Violet. Why Movies. You had Pam Anderson hair but I didn't know it then. You kissed him on the shoulder. You said "Stop it, Alex." You were younger then at least than I am now. Also 63 years old. Also CRAB CAKES. My father making fun of Jacques Cousteau or was it me. Which one was it. Don't tell Will what's in the soup he said to you one time. He might possibly lose his s.h.i.t.

The room turned green and blue when we had dinner. What did he say to you Violet I can't remember. But you laughed & kissed him on the to you Violet I can't remember. But you laughed & kissed him on the shoulder & that was all there could be in the world shoulder & that was all there could be in the world.

A man goes into a bar Violet he asks for any kind of beer but please not Schlitz. Why not Schlitz says the bartender Schlitz is a quality beer. Yes says the man but last night I drank Schlitz and blew chunks. Happens to the best of us says the bartender. You don't understand the man says Chunks is my dog!

Skull & Bones told me that one Violet is it funny.

There was a time or an occasion when Fleisig appeared at my bedside wearing your stepfather's head. Playing temperature games was a favorite of his at that time. Fleisig the schoolmaster making the whole schoolhouse hot. He used crude oil to do it actually & electronics. Fossil fuels Violet. At times he put degrees into my body. Me thinking all the time How can I lower the temperature? How can I keep it low? Since the day I was born 12 September 1992 the MGT (Mean Global Temperature) has gone up by 7 and one half degrees.

There's a language of numbers Violet if you can follow it: 2773664748 565758933 5758489 757. 47458959 3263647478548585858 2632. 37 4855959 967009858483783. 72726 7474. 7474. 7474.7474.

There's still time Violet. Things get brighter suddenly as in a theater. People get better. Things have been known to laugh at me for example Clouds In The Sky or my own mouth. Tom Brokaw said this: Scientists believe the warming will continue, not on a straight line but on a curve. Which is my idea Violet as you know very well. How did Brokaw find out did you tell?

Fleisig is a German name which means hardworker or industrious in that language. Be Fleisig, people say to their children. Make sure to always be Fleisig. Of course you know that Violet since you come from Austria, not Germany at all but a country most of us have never heard of. Or we've heard of it Okay but we don't care. Do you know about Fleisig Violet? He knows all about you. Fleisig is the Superintendent of the School. Always be Fleisig. Approximately 6 times he inserted into my body an electronic device or molecule no bigger than a little piece of skin. This molecule was I later found out "bioengineered" & soft like a piece of old jelly. Some times he put it in my right arm some times he put it in my neck. Always professionally done & no discomfort. As a result the school was able to get intimate with me & generally to speak its Proper Mind. But could I speak my mind Violet I could not. Most of the time I couldn't say a word my body an electronic device or molecule no bigger than a little piece of skin. This molecule was I later found out "bioengineered" & soft like a piece of old jelly. Some times he put it in my right arm some times he put it in my neck. Always professionally done & no discomfort. As a result the school was able to get intimate with me & generally to speak its Proper Mind. But could I speak my mind Violet I could not. Most of the time I couldn't say a word.

The lights get brighter suddenly as in a theater & I'm in the audience & not even in a good seat. People things & colors look "projected." How can I believe in things Violet. How can I believe in "people." There's talk in the theater about William h.e.l.ler. Will he be able to perform the miracle? Will he lower the temperature? Is it the voices of real people or is it my own voice or is it just another joke of Fleisig's. Machinery and wires under the stage giant turbines just to keep the flashbulbs going. That's why it's always so hot. Stars are there & also paparazzis. You're there too Violet smiling & holding hands with your Projection. The movie is dubbed but dubbed badly. The School is a movie like that. How funny that Fleisig looks like Jacques Cousteau.

I found an article yesterday in The New York Times. It's called IN CHILDBEARING, A BATTLE ON MANY FRONTS.

Dr David Haig plays a scientist who makes some discoveries about mothers & their embryos. People find his discoveries Upsetting. "Natural mothers & their embryos. People find his discoveries Upsetting. "Natural Selection favors offspring that get enough nutrients from their mothers Selection favors offspring that get enough nutrients from their mothers to grow up healthy," the scientist says. However Violet. "Natural to grow up healthy," the scientist says. However Violet. "Natural Selection favors mothers who retain enough nutrients to have larger Selection favors mothers who retain enough nutrients to have larger families." The scientist tells people that This leads to conflict. The families." The scientist tells people that This leads to conflict. The Mothers and the embryos fight for Nutrients in the mothers' blood. The Mothers and the embryos fight for Nutrients in the mothers' blood. The New York Times calls this THE SILENT STRUGGLE. "Dr David New York Times calls this THE SILENT STRUGGLE. "Dr David Haig suspects that this conflict may add to the risk for mental disorders, Haig suspects that this conflict may add to the risk for mental disorders, from depression to autism" etc. This may explain your mental illness Violet from depression to autism" etc. This may explain your mental illness Violet. I got low during the flat time Violet As You May Know. Too low actually you would have laughed. There were even Pampers Violet please don't tell. They thought I was asleep because my eyes looked shut but I was seeing Every Little Thing That Happened. Somebody had to see it. Everything was quiet Violet you know what that means Everything Was Dubbed. Badly dubbed in fact and out of Sync. Sometimes worth paying attention to sometimes not. Occasionally s.e.xy. There was interest in my p.e.n.i.s Violet. It was difficult! I got low during the flat time Violet As You May Know. Too low actually you would have laughed. There were even Pampers Violet please don't tell. They thought I was asleep because my eyes looked shut but I was seeing Every Little Thing That Happened. Somebody had to see it. Everything was quiet Violet you know what that means Everything Was Dubbed. Badly dubbed in fact and out of Sync. Sometimes worth paying attention to sometimes not. Occasionally s.e.xy. There was interest in my p.e.n.i.s Violet. It was difficult!

The question of my p.e.n.i.s is an ongoing question. My p.e.n.i.s seems to be a kind of Answer. I took it out during TV hour & Prekopp & Fleisig & everyone else stared & hummed at it & let it happen. Another sign that things might be improving. My unzipped pants like Direct Cable Service. I'm not dead Violet. I'm not even tired. I'm making myself an airconditioned body.

Why was I born Violet? Can you tell me why?

I'm writing to inform you that I remember who you are & not to worry. I'm writing because I've gotten so much better. Men are going to visit I'm writing because I've gotten so much better. Men are going to visit you with questions. Men are going to make you Propositions. Please you with questions. Men are going to make you Propositions. Please don't answer. Please don't worry about The last bad thing that don't answer. Please don't worry about The last bad thing that happened. Or in the old man's house or in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Those things happened. Or in the old man's house or in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Those things should not be cited Violet & you didn't cite them so you should be should not be cited Violet & you didn't cite them so you should be proud. I AM PROUD OF YOU VIOLET. I am proud of you Violet. proud. I AM PROUD OF YOU VIOLET. I am proud of you Violet. Please don't forget. Your son William Please don't forget. Your son William.

The first thing Violet did when her son turned his head was to retch as though she'd swallowed something sharp. Lateef watched her go down with the calm of a man watching a rogue wave rushing toward a crowded beach, able to witness the event and guess at its meaning but helpless to keep the event from happening. The children broke into a run, but there was nothing to be done about that yet. He had time to catch her by the arm and plant his feet before she fell, time to ease her down onto the pavement and arrange her with her head between her knees. If he felt disappointment or frustration he was not aware of it. She was costing him time but there was plenty of that. The children were still less than a block away when he got back to his feet and started running.

Almost at once he became aware of a change in the way they moved. Half a minute earlier they'd been holding hands slackly, almost bashfully, shuffling past the storefronts as mildly as retirees: now they were sprinting in unison, not a glance or gesture wasted, with the single-mindedness of lifelong fugitives. More surprisingly still, the girl was out in front. He wondered what in G.o.d's name she was thinking. She shot across Seventh Avenue during a lull in traffic and the boy followed her without the least sign of concern. Stockholm syndrome suggested itself, certain celebrated cases, abductees taking the names of their captors. The comparison was a romantic one and he flushed it irritably from his mind. She's seventeen years old, he thought. That's a syndrome in itself. He worked his arms and kept his breathing even. The main thing now was not to lose his footing.

The children were more than a block away already, almost to Hudson, but Lateef chose to believe the gap was closing. The girl held the boy by his left hand or possibly his shoulder. "Thank G.o.d for small favors," Lateef said out loud. The handholding would slow them down a little. He drew his arms farther in and stared down at the pavement and set himself to lengthening his stride. Someone shouted as he pa.s.sed them and the cramp that he'd been nursing since Seventh Avenue bloomed in that instant, as though the pain had its source outside his body, in the parked cars or the pavement or the daylight. The children were closer now, standing perfectly still, penned in by the traffic at the corner. The girl had her thumb hooked into the back of the boy's collar. They didn't seem to want to turn uptown.

How much can I do, Lateef thought. How much farther. He was not in embarra.s.sing shape for his age, he was strict with himself, but his last foot pursuit had taken place in the previous century. Runaways rarely bolted when you found them: most of them were relieved to be brought in. He let out a laugh, a senseless discharge of breath, and the cramp crept cheerfully up into his stomach. He was a few hundred feet from them now, keeping as close to the curb as he could manage. A groan of pain slipped out of him with every step he took. Through the tinted windshield of a Lexus he saw the girl's hand hovering at the base of the boy's neck.

They've done it already, he said to himself. Look at them. For some reason the thought of it made him feel faint.

For the briefest of instants he was able to admire them both, the picturesque pair they made, each of them the other's complement. The boy was a sight to behold: even Lateef could see that much. Pale and finefeatured but in no way girlish. He had none of the awkwardness one would expect, none of the hesitancy, none of the fear. He was more beautiful even than his mother, perhaps because he seemed so self-a.s.sured. More than self-a.s.sured: exalted. The girl seemed proud to have him by the collar. You never would have guessed he'd tried to kill her.

Just then the girl turned on her heels and looked Lateef straight in the eye. The boy didn't bother.

"Stay right there," Lateef shouted. A vain and senseless gesture. By the time he'd stepped around the Lexus they were lost in a clot of pedestrians outside a cafe and he was standing up straight again, blinking and groaning, stumbling after them like a lovesick drunk.

Motherf.u.c.kers, Lateef thought, struggling to keep his balance. Neither of you even looks athletic.

The sidewalk cleared quickly once he'd pa.s.sed the cafe and he saw that he was closer than he'd thought, maybe two dozen steps back, close enough to talk to them if he wanted. A question might do it, he thought. Ask them a question. Name, age, destination, antipsychotic of choice. Break their rhythm, distract them, make them consider what might happen next. What will happen next, he corrected himself. He felt grotesque and hamfisted, a cop on a sitcom, a show that never made it past the pilot. Not like those kids, he thought. Not like them at all. They run as if somebody's filming them.

And yet in spite of it all he seemed to be gaining ground. The children were moving differently than before, less automatically, less sure of their purpose. The girl glanced back at him more often: with each foot he gained her self-a.s.suredness weakened. She was careful to keep the boy from noticing, keeping herself just behind him, but her doubt and her fatigue were obvious. Slowly Lateef came to understand her, to categorize her, to arrive at an adequate profile. She's not in too deep yet, he said to himself. She's starting to think. She'll feel nothing but relief when this is done.

But in the excitement of this new intelligence he'd forgotten to consider the boy. The boy saw her looking back and pivoted in mid-stride and pulled her toward him. That was all he did, but it was enough. They were moving in concert again, better and more easily than before, and the girl was smiling at him gratefully. They crossed Greenwich without the slightest effort. As Lateef's foot left the curb the girl glanced back one last time, as if to commit him to memory, and he called out her name but by then it was already finished.

Consciousness returned to him delicately, measured and mild, as though there were no need to hurry. His eyes were shut tight and he took his time getting them open. A man in a turquoise helmet was addressing him from a great height.

"-for a n.i.g.g.e.r," the man in the helmet was saying. He reached down and took hold of Lateef's blazer. He seemed to be trying to read the label.

"Helmut Lang," Lateef said, sitting up. "The collection."

"The which?" gasped the man, scuttling back like a crab. A mountain bike lay on the tarmac behind him. He wore scuffed spandex shorts and his arms were tattooed to the elbows. He looked to be well over sixty.

"Nothing," Lateef said, getting to his feet. He still felt at a slight remove from things. He held up his badge and asked how long he'd been lying in the street.

"Don't know how long," the man said thickly.

"Take a guess."

"Maybe a minute." If the man was pleased to see Lateef alive and in working order he kept his pleasure to himself. "Next time you cross the street, Officer, you might want to pull your head out of-"

But by that time Lateef was up and running. The pain was back in all its glory but it was somehow less insistent than before. He judged that he'd lost two blocks, possibly three, and that the children were still heading west on Tenth Street. He had no evidence for either theory, but there was no sense in questioning them now. If he did that he might as well lie back down in the street.

Soon enough his lightheadedness returned and with it came a dull surge of indifference. The accident knocked something sideways, he said to himself. Something got tipped. As he had this thought he felt his body coming to a stop, slowing like a watchspring at half-coil, and his eyes struggling to close against the light. What he wanted most at that moment was to let the children go. It occurred to him to look at his reflection to find out whether he was bleeding and it turned out, not surprisingly, that he was. He reached into a pocket of his JCPenney blazer and pulled out a lintcovered napkin and pressed it to the back of his skull.

I'm Rufus White, he thought suddenly. The thought came to him in an odd voice, faraway but insistent, like the thoughts that sometimes visited him as he fell asleep, or the voices reportedly heard by schizophrenics. Rufus White, the voice repeated, not unkindly. For Rufus White, it seemed to be saying, you've done better than anyone expected.

He sat down on the stoop of a bodega and waited to hear what else the voice might tell him. That morning he'd felt well suited to his work, but at some point unknown to him that feeling had been abolished and the old uselessness had claimed him absolutely. It's the boy, he thought as the first wave of nausea hit him. The boy and Violet together. He knew that the accident was behind it and he recognized the symptoms of concussion, but the true cause seemed to be the case itself. It should have felt familiar to him but it did not feel familiar. The boy was different from all previous SCMs, somehow out of proportion, and everyone who knew him seemed to have been sent out of plumb. His girlfriend, his doctor, his mother. His mother especially. Lateef knew that he wasn't thinking clearly but the idea calmed his nausea regardless. He'll change me too if I allow it, he thought. Maybe he already has.

Sit up, Rufus, the voice told him. Don't fall asleep. He recognized it as his own voice now. His other name hadn't left him, only been temporarily obscured. The roof of his mouth had a flat metallic taste that put him in mind of childhood accidents. He drew his knees in to his chest and let his head hang slack the way Violet had done some time before. How long before he had no idea. I need something to drink, he thought. Seltzer water. A c.o.ke. A Glenfiddich with water. Rufus Lamarck White, Detective Second Grade, he thought. Forty-six and one-half years of age. Sitting on a bodega stoop and bleeding in an una.s.suming way. His right elbow was propped against a stack of day-old copies of the Post, and he tossed one to the ground and tried to read it. A polyp had been removed from the vice president. A warm front was approaching. The corpse of a woman pulled out of the Central Park Reservoir had been identified by tracing the serial numbers on the implants in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

With time he began to feel better. The bodega clerk was still nowhere in sight. He pa.s.sed a hand over his face and pushed his head slowly backward, taking sharp, shallow breaths, compelling himself to revisit the last quarter hour. Like a multiple exposure his every thought was colored by the image of the boy. He'd been so docile as he followed the girl's example: so comfortable, so self-possessed. It was impossible to conceive of him as violent. Even while sprinting into traffic a part of him seemed to be standing apart and still. His mother's that same way, Lateef thought. That same stillness. There's a wrongness to it, even though she's beautiful. Everything she does is done in spite of herself.

He remembered how the boy had looked running. From the back the resemblance to his mother had been absolute. He'd moved differently, of course-in a loose, disjointed way that called attention to his sickness-but that had only emphasized their sameness. His sickness somehow made him more like her. There was a mystery there that Lateef could not enter. Yda and William h.e.l.ler. Violet and Will. In some way they were interchangeable.

She wanted to keep him locked away, he thought. She told me so herself. She pet.i.tioned for an extension of his sentence.

Why was that?

Just then a blond head was spotlit by the sun on the opposite corner, closecropped and boyish, flickering in and out of sight along the storefronts. No sign of the girl but of course that meant nothing. He got up as best he could, supporting himself on the newspaper rack and the doorframe: the door gave a squeal and swung angrily inward, forcing him to jerk upright. The head was plain to see above the cars, the lone golden object in a monochrome field. He fell in step with it as though joining a religious procession. Another ridiculous comparison, he said to himself. He put one foot in front of the other with fanatical precision, gritting his teeth from the effort of keeping upright. Even once he was sure that it was Violet and not the boy he made no attempt to call her name out or to catch her. The avenue seemed wider than before, a river at full head, something any sensible man would be afraid of. At the corner of Tenth Street and Washington he finally mustered his courage and eased himself gingerly out into the traffic. He was halfway across before he realized that the bloodspattered napkin was still dangling absurdly from his neck.

She'd seen him by then and she stopped and watched him tottering toward her. At no point since they'd met had he felt more at the mercy of her judgment. She was studying him closely, shading her eyes with her sleeve, as though trying to recall where they'd last met. Her lack of urgency would come to perplex him in time, to add to his misgivings, but in that moment he was grateful for her patience. His head was misaligned somehow, out of step with his body, and the ground under his feet was vague and fluid: he had no choice but to take things at face value. All he asked of the world was that it keep reasonably still.

He'd thought she might show some trace of chagrin herself- frustration at the very least, possibly even anger-but she seemed carefree and serene. She smiled at him as he came alongside her and took him amicably by the arm. "You're bleeding," she said, wrinkling her nose. She might have been pointing out an inkstain on his shirt.

"I was knocked down by a bike."

"Yes," she said placidly. She stopped him and lifted the napkin away from his neck. "You ought to see a doctor."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Detective. Why shouldn't I be?'

"Because-" he said, then stopped himself. He felt oddly cautious. "You had that spell. I thought you might be sick."

"Let's worry about you first. Are you having trouble walking?"

He wasn't used to solicitude from complainants and he found it particularly hard to bear from her. He slid his arm out of her grip as goodnaturedly as he could. "Miss h.e.l.ler, if you have any medical condition, such as asthma, for example, or are p.r.o.ne to lightheadedness-"

She shook her head sweetly. "No asthma, no lightheadedness, no scarlet fever. How long ago did you lose track of my son?"

Here it comes, Lateef thought. He stared down at his feet like a schoolboy, feeling his toes curling inside his loafers, casting anxiously about for a reply. "Five minutes," he said finally. "Maybe ten."

"That's all right, Detective." She took out a cigarette and lit it. "I know where they are."

It took him another long moment to answer her. "How?"

She smiled at him and shrugged. "They've gone to the river."

"The river," Lateef said.

"That's right."

He waited for an explanation but none was offered. "Which river, Miss h.e.l.ler? The East River? The Hudson?" He squinted at her. "Not the Harlem, I hope?"

"The Hudson is closest," she said soberly.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier, if you don't mind my asking? I could have arranged-"

"I couldn't tell you earlier." She took his arm again. "It just came to me."