Hope to Die

TWENTY-TWO

He sits in his car across the street from the house. The living room drapes are drawn. So are the curtains on the higher floors, but these are not light-tight, and he can see that there are lights on upstairs.

She's at home. He's fairly certain of that.

He came here yesterday, parked where he could watch the house. He was still sitting there, calm, patient, when she opened the front door and descended the steps to the street. The shopkeeper on the ground floor, the dyed redhead, spotted her and opened the door, called her over for a few words. Then the old hen retreated into her jumble shop and the Hollander girl turned to her left and walked west. Seventy-fourth was an eastbound street, so his car faced Central Park West, and he had to turn around in his seat to watch her proceed a half block to the corner of Columbus and disappear around the corner.

The very route he and Ivanko had taken on that fateful night, pillowcases slung over their shoulders like laundry bags. Heavier than laundry bags, though, and the weight had thrown Carl's balance off, exaggerated his limp.

Couple of fags off to do their wash together, he'd thought, but he hadn't risked saying as much to Carl. And there'd been no chance to mention it later on, because he hadn't wanted to wait, hadn't dared wait, and as soon as he got the chance he'd drawn the gun, and it bucked twice in his hand, just a little thing, not much recoil, but it bucked and Carl went sprawling, and it bucked once more and Carl lay still, forever still.

He'd waited in his car, one arm over the back of his seat, peering through the rear window and remembering it, replaying the memory, and then she came back into view, headed for the house once more, a white plastic grocery bag in hand. He turned around, not wanting to be caught staring, and watched her out of the corner of his eye as she reached the house and mounted the steps again.

Key in the lock, he thought. Now turn and push, that's right. And don't forget the alarm…

Now, a day later, he is not sure what he wants to do. Twice this morning he was on the verge of calling her. He tried out a variety of conversations in his head, deciding in the end not to make the call. Sitting here, knowing she's home, he considers ringing her doorbell, explaining that he was in the neighborhood. Or would it be better if she thinks he made a special trip to see her? Perhaps he should say he was just in the neighborhood, but in such a way that she infers he came especially to pay his respects and offer counsel.

But is it a good idea? Perhaps, as he so often advises people, perhaps it is necessary to give time time. Sometimes the best action is to take none. Sometimes one can but wait. And what is it Pascal wrote? Something about all of man's ills growing out of his inability to sit alone in a room.

He sits alone in a car…

And what's this? Two men, appearing as if from out of nowhere. One is middle-aged and white, the other much younger and black. And they are mounting the steps to her house, and the older one rings the doorbell.

They could be anyone, he thinks. Jehovah's Witnesses, come to forecast the end of the world. An unlikely pair, an old white man, a young black man. First thing comes to mind, a combination like that, you figure they're gay. White guy's a john, black guy's a hustler.

The door opens, and she lets them in.

Maybe they'll come out with laundry bags, he thinks. Couple of fags heading for the laundromat. But they're in there for a long time, the better part of an hour. His watch beeps at ten minutes before the hour, and he tells himself he ought to go home.

But he doesn't. Something keeps him there, some quiet certainty that this is important, that these two are more than casual visitors.

He keeps his eyes on the door, and he's looking at it when it opens and the two men emerge. It closes behind them and they descend the flight of steps, and he shrinks back into the shadows, not wanting to be seen. It's ridiculous, he's on the other side of the street, he's in his car. No one can see him, and he realizes that he's hiding because he has something to hide.

Hide in plain sight, he tells himself, and wills himself to sit forward, to turn and take a good look at the two of them.

And shrinks back in spite of himself, because he's seen the older man before. He didn't recognize him until this minute, perhaps because he didn't take a good look at him earlier, but now he does, and he recognizes him.

What about the black youth? Has he seen him before?

Well, honestly, how can you tell? It is not that all young black males look alike, he knows better than that. It's that one sees them that way, one simply registers Young Black Man mentally and lets it go at that. Deliberately, he inventories this one's facial features, determined to know him when he sees him again.

Assuming that he will in fact see him again…

They're on their way west. It's the same as yesterday, when she went out for groceries. He's parked facing the wrong way, he has to turn around to watch them. As they near the corner it comes to him with perfect certainty that they play an important role in all of this, that it's a mistake to let them walk out of the picture so easily.

He doesn't hesitate. He gets out of his car, locks it, and starts off after them.

And now, he thinks, they'll turn the corner and get in their car, leaving him on foot. Or they'll hail a taxi. Well, if there's one cab there'll be two. With luck his taxi can follow their taxi.

But they don't get in a car, or hail a cab. They turn down Columbus Avenue, and the young one whips out a cellular phone and makes a call, talks, then hands the phone to the older man, who's done talking by the time they cross Seventy-second Street. The young one puts the phone away and they walk west another block, disappearing into the subway entrance at the corner of Broadway and Seventy-second.

It's remarkably easy to follow them. The station's poorly designed, and there are separate turnstiles for the uptown and downtown platforms, but he's lucky, he's close enough to see them go through the uptown turnstiles, and he follows in their wake and picks a spot a dozen yards from where they're standing. He positions himself so that he can watch them out of the corner of his eye, but they will only see him in profile, with his body largely screened by others.

Not that they're looking around, not that they suspect a thing. He could probably stand right next to them without arousing suspicion.

He considers it, thinking it might be interesting to know what they are saying.

If it were just the one man, the older man, and if there were fewer people on the platform- well, that sort of thing happens all the time, doesn't it? You stand close, waiting, timing the approach of the oncoming train, then give a sudden lurch, a shove, and, if you are clever about it, you can even make it appear to anyone watching as though you are trying to save the person, trying to grab hold of the fellow you've just sent hurtling into the train's path.

Ridiculous even to think about it. But he has to acknowledge that his hands are tingling, as if anticipating their role.

Interesting, what you learned about yourself…

An express train comes. They board it and so does he, entering the same car by a different door. They stand, their hands a foot apart on the overhead rail. He sits, watching them without being watched in return.

One stop to Ninety-sixth Street. The doors open. They get out, talking, paying no attention, and he follows. Again he plants himself ten or a dozen yards away, and follows them onto the Broadway local when it arrives.