Body & Soul (55 page)

"I'm worried about you," she said, looking down at her lap. "I think you're having some kind of a nervous breakdown."

"Oh, no. Really." He waved off the suggestion. "I'm all right, I'm just—" He was unable to find the word.

"It's been almost three months," she said. "I can't take it anymore. You've been off somewhere, and I know you haven't been aware of—" She stood up suddenly. "It isn't anybody's fault."

"No. Of course not." He was amazed to feel a tiny flash of anger, a small speck of emotion in the fog of his consciousness. She was bailing out. She'd talked it all over with her therapist, no doubt.

"You can't hide forever," she said. "There are things you have to do.
Maybe on your own you'll face them. This way it's like a rest home or something, and I'm the nurse. It's wrong, it isn't working, and I can't do it anyway." She paced to the window and back. "I'm sorry."

"You're right," he said. "I can't hide forever. She's right."

"I'll leave her number by the downstairs phone," she said, and stopped pacing. "Of course, it's understandable that you might not want to work with her, but she can refer you to someone. To the best, the very best. She knows the situation."

"Work," he mused. "That seems an odd thing to call it."

"Well, it isn't fun," she said.

He raised his head and looked at her for a long moment. "When you were—working—did you ever talk about why you're so afraid of my dead sperm?"

Her face froze in shock, turning chalk white. Her mouth moved but she was unable to speak. She turned and ran from the room.

When he came out of the guest room late the next morning, she had already gone. Downstairs the doctor's name and phone number had been left on the hall table. He held the slip of paper in his hand, wondering why Lady and her friends all seemed to have the same handwriting—the round, full, vertical letters, the periods that were actually tiny circles—and then crumpled it and threw it in the trash.

The next day he was sitting on the window seat in the living room, still in his bathrobe although it was past noon, when he was startled by a quiet cough from the hall. Esmeralda stood in the door frame, wearing a coat and carrying a small bag.

"I go now," she said.

"All right."

"The missus says I come one morning to clean. Monday is okay for me. Is okay?"

"Sure, that's fine." He realized she was eager to leave. "Esmeralda, did she fire you?"

"Fire? I don't know this word."

"Do you still have a job?"

"Oh, yes. The missus take care of me. I go work for her mother. My friend Louisa is there. Is good."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Okay. Monday?"

"That's fine. You have your key."

She nodded and turned away. He heard her go down the stairs and
out the door. He watched her walk quickly along the sidewalk. Just like that, he thought, admiring her practicality, her resolute stride.

He became aware that the doorbell was ringing. He thought that perhaps it had been ringing for some time. He lifted his head from the kitchen table. It was dark outside. He got up, walked through the hall, and opened the door. It took him a moment to recognize Larkin, who stood there with a thin briefcase.

"May I come in?" the lawyer asked.

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry." He stood aside.

"It's rather dark in here."

Claude turned on the light and Larkin looked at him. "You've lost weight. Is that a beard you're growing?"

"No—" Claude touched his chin. "I've just been ... ah ..."

"I need to talk to you."

"Yes."

"I've been trying to get ahold of you. Did you get my letters?" At that moment Larkin's eye fell on the basket of mail, and he realized he was standing on some more, which had collected on the floor in front of the slot. He stepped over to the side. "I see, I see."

"I've been preoccupied," Claude said.

"Perhaps we could go upstairs," Larkin suggested.

Claude led the way, flipping light switches as he passed them. They went into the living room. Larkin sat down on the couch and put the briefcase on the coffee table in front of him.

"I understand your wife is in Florida," he said.

Claude nodded.

"I got a letter from her attorney some time ago. A formal announcement of the commencement of a trial separation. I was sorry to hear it."

"You did?" Surprise seemed to rouse him. "Is that what she calls it? Why would she write you?"

"Well, she knows I handled some small matters for you in the past. I assume she thinks I'll be representing you if necessary in the future."

"If necessary," Claude repeated.

"The length of the separation can be an important element in any subsequent proceedings."

"You're talking about divorce."

"There was no mention of anything past—"

"Is that what's in the briefcase?" Claude asked. "Pull it out. I'll sign. If she wants a divorce, she can have a divorce. That's simple enough."

Mr. Larkin waited a moment, as he might have had a fire engine gone by on the street outside, siren blasting. "I can well understand that these are difficult times for you, Claude. But you must do your best to stay calm and reasonable."

Claude took a deep breath, shook his head, and sighed, "Ah, fuck it all, fuck it all."

"No," Larkin said. "Absolutely not."

Claude fell into an armchair and stared at the floor. He could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

"Don't sink," Larkin said.

"What do you mean?"

"Some people just sink."

Claude did not respond, but inside he knew what Larkin was talking about. He was surprised that Larkin had this knowledge. He would not have expected it of him.

"But that is not why I came." Larkin opened the briefcase. "I came because of Mr. Weisfeld."

Claude raised his head.

"Mr. Weisfeld has named you in his will, and I am the executor of that will."

"What?" Bewildered.

"He was admirably detailed in his instructions about the distribution of his estate. His books to the Jewish Historical Society, all his furniture, clothing, et cetera to charity. Some small bequests. But the bulk of his estate—that is to say, the building, which he owned outright, the business itself and everything in the store, and bank deposits amounting to thirty-six thousand four hundred and twenty-eight dollars—all of that he left to you."

It was as if Weisfeld had come back from the dead to stand in the room with them. The shock of his presence was so strong Claude felt an explosion inside himself, a great warm burst of Weisfeld's love magically blooming in his own breast, bathing him in redemption. He wept. He felt his soul being wiped away, simultaneously destroyed and remade, and he wept.

Larkin sat motionless until the final shudder had passed. "I'll leave you now, I can see myself out," he said. "I'm going to leave a copy of
the will here for you, and I'd like to call your attention to the end of paragraph twenty-three."

"All right," Claude said, wiping his eyes.

"I want to see you tomorrow. Would eleven o'clock at my office be convenient?"

"Sure. Eleven."

"That's fine, then." Larkin got up and walked out into the hall. "Paragraph twenty-three," he called out as he started down the stairs.

After a while Claude leaned his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He felt drained, but at the same time very aware of his body—of his feet, knees, hands, and elbows, of the low murmur of signals coming in from his chest, his face, and his scalp. He knew where his body ended and space began. It was a soothing sensation, and he fell into a half sleep.

The sound of a car horn outside brought him back, steady groups of triplets. He went to the window and saw a double-parked car, and then the figure of a woman behind the windshield of the car it had blocked in. She continued to blow her horn, pausing every now and then, peering out into the street, then releasing another series of triplets. Eventually a man arrived, making apologetic gestures, and drove the first car away.

Claude went to the coffee table and picked up the document. Paragraph twenty-three read as follows:

As far as I know I have no living relations, but in the unlikely event that now or sometime in the future any individual should emerge claiming a blood tie, it should be understood that my wishes as expressed in this document transcend any such claims. The major beneficiary is Claude Rawlings, in support of his work, and because I think of him as my spiritual son. I could not have loved him more had I been his actual father.

Claude did not go upstairs. He stayed on the couch until dawn, with paragraph twenty-three on the coffee table within arm's reach. He read it many times during the night.

For the first time in a long time he awoke without trepidation. The clear blue sky, the steady sunlight spilling through the window, seemed to mirror his own calmness. The world was simply there. He felt a quiet wonder at its eternal otherness, at its uncaring peacefulness. He
showered, shaved, and got dressed. He went down to the kitchen and made himself a full breakfast—bacon, a four-minute egg, English muffin, juice, and coffee—and ate with pleasure. There was a certain clarity to things. The taste of the blackberry jam, the sound of the water running in the sink as he cleaned up, the stiff texture of a fresh dishcloth. Sensation itself took up his attention, providing a rest from thought, from emotion.

As he walked downtown to Larkin's office he stopped keeping track of the street numbers and went five blocks too far and had to double back. From behind his desk Larkin at first made no mention of the previous night.

"You should understand that the actual transfer of the assets will take time. This is a simple estate, so I don't expect any delay, but the legal amenities must be observed. As executor I can and will release funds should you need them."

"No. That's okay. But can I go there?"

"The store? Of course. You can open for business if you want. The inventory, the paperwork has all been done. He was a remarkably orderly man, I must say, which made it easy."

"Yes. He was careful."

"The upstairs apartment might surprise you. He left specific instructions that it be emptied, cleaned, and repainted."

Claude considered this information. "Yes, I think I know why he did that. It was a kind of museum of his past, and he didn't want me to have to worry about it." He paused. "You know, in, what is it? almost twenty years, he never let me up there. He didn't know I would come there at the end, so if I hadn't, I wouldn't have seen it at all. What happened to his body?"

"He requested cremation and no ceremony. He paid in advance, by the way."

"His ashes?"

"No instructions."

"Have they been saved?"

"I don't know, but I can certainly find out."

"Thank you."

Larkin tapped his fingertips together and stared into the middle distance. "Also, you should know the Luris Corporation would like to buy the building. They have already approached me and I told them I'd get back."

"Who are they?"

"A very large real estate and development group. They are buying up the entire block front in order to build a high-rise apartment building. I believe their offer will be generous."

"I don't want to sell. In fact, I want to move in," Claude said.

"I see."

"What is it? You look worried."

"Just thinking," Larkin said. "Very powerful forces behind this Third Avenue rebuilding thing. The developers, the mayor, the borough president, construction unions, neighborhood civic groups, that sort of thing. They moved very fast down in the Forties and Fifties, and now the action is farther uptown. You can expect a good deal of pressure."

"Well, they can't
make
me sell it."

"No. Probably not."

Claude was surprised. "Why do you say—"

"Progress," Larkin said. "They talk about a grand boulevard to rival Madison, or even Fifth.
Everybody
is for it, all the newspapers, the chamber of commerce. The city government has been writing zoning practically to order. All structures built before 1901 can be condemned outright, for instance. An exceptionally powerful tool." He gave a wry smile. "They can't get you there, however. Your building went up in 1908."

"That's good."

"I advise you to give the matter some thought. With the government acting essentially in concert with the developers, and given what happened downtown, you can probably expect a fair degree of—what should I call it—harassment. Official harassment. It can get expensive dealing with it."

"Like what?"

"Building inspectors. Plumbing and wiring codes. Structural engineers, fire inspectors, that sort of thing. It's no joke. They used to take bribes, of course. Notorious corruption. But not with Third Avenue. Their job is to clear the way for demolition. So think about it. They've bought, or almost bought, every other building. You would be what has come to be called a holdout. A pejorative, in today's climate."

"I see. I guess I see," Claude said. "I'm grateful for your advice. And the advance warning."

"Just want you to know what you might be getting into. I hope
you'll be dealing with all the mail that's piled up, by the way. It gives me the willies. There must be bills in there, things to be taken care of."

"I will. I promise."

"Feeling a bit better, I hope?"

Claude nodded. "Paragraph twenty-three woke me up, I think. I'll be all right now."

Coming around the corner onto Third Avenue, he was brought up short. The massive, dense, shadowy el was gone, the trolley tracks and cobblestones replaced by smooth asphalt, the sidewalks narrowed. Tall, futuristic aluminum streetlights soared upward and bent over the street like the antennae of some buried insect. And everywhere sunlight, a weirdly ominous brightness revealing the small, squat buildings lining the avenue. They looked like rotting teeth.

As he approached the music store he saw the large signs hung at the second-floor level of the adjoining buildings.

BUILDINGS
To be Demolished
New 16 Story Apartment
House will be erected.
J. B. Luris
148 West 57th St. PL7-6376