The Sentinel (10 page)

"This is Mrs. Clark from four B," Chazen continued, nodding at a woman of seventy, hunchbacked, gray-haired, wrinkled and unsmiling.

Allison looked at her closely; she couldn't detect any makeup.

"Happy to meet you," said the old woman.

Chazen continued: "Miss Emma Klotkin and her twin sister Lillian. They live in apartment two B."

"Nice to meet you," greeted Allison. She grabbed Emma Klotkin's right hand, noted her size, the bosom that had been lost in the general accumulation of blubber, and the small eyes that peered out above her puffed cheeks.

"My pleasure," laughed Emma.

Lillian was her "little sister." And tiny compared to Emma. Emma was about five feet eight. Lillian five feet two. Emma weighed three hundred and fifty; Lillian two hundred and ten.

Allison couldn't help but smile as she greeted "tiny" Lillian.

"Glad to have you," squealed Lillian. "Charles told me about you." Lillian's heavy New York inflection was strangely missing in her sister's voice. Maybe they had been raised separately. Or perhaps Emma had taken voice lessons.

"Malcolm Stinnet," stated the man at the end of the table. "The Klotkins' cousin. This is my wife Rebecca."

Allison nodded. A strange couple. Mutt and Jeff, except that the taller of the two was Rebecca, by at least three inches. Malcolm wore a smart black tuxedo with a very wide bow tie that paralleled the generous brown mustache that twirled around the corners of his mouth in Zapatian fashion. There was something very English about him. She pictured him sitting behind the wheel of a Rolls-Royce, chauffeur's cap on head, eyes glued diligently to the road, ever mindful of his station and destiny.

"How long have you been in the building?" asked Rebecca.

"A little over a week," said Allison, watching Rebecca smile. The woman had bad teeth, discolored and set poorly in place, yet there was something about her that was extremely feminine and attractive. "Which apartment do you live in?"

"We don't, at least not here," answered Malcolm. "We live on the East Side in Murray Hill. Rebecca likes it better. It's cleaner and safer."

"It seems safe here."

"Here, yes," interrupted Rebecca, "but not toward Broadway, especially at night. Anyway, we visit our cousins so often, it seems like we live in the building."

Allison smiled. "Murray Hill's a good place. I stayed there when I first came to New York."

"Where?"

"On Lexington, between Thirty-seventh and Thirty-eighth. The big apartment."

"That's not too far from us," said Rebecca excitedly.

Lillian twirled a noisemaker about her head. The cat coughed. The bird chirped.

Allison placed the blue and gold party hat on her head. The rubber-band chinstrap barely fit around her jaw. It must have been fifteen years since she had last worn one of these things. Maybe even longer. She looked in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall. She looked ridiculous, but no more so than the collection that sat around the table.

She lifted a blower and placed the reed in her mouth. Looking over the frilled end, she noticed everyone staring at her. She stared back, unsure, then blew, sending out the long snaking arm with an ear-piercing buzz.

Everyone clapped and cheered.

"Some music to liven the party," cried Chazen. He skipped to the nearby victrola, vintage 1920, and placed a record on the turntable. After some vigorous cranking, the old rusted mechanism began to spin slowly, picking up velocity until it reached the necessary speed. He lifted the ancient metal arm, blew on the timeworn needle and placed it down on the spinning disk. The speaker crackled with static.

"The polka," cried Chazen, his voice lilting. "I used to dance it at the Foxland Casino in the Bronx every Friday for ten years."

"I remember," shouted Emma over the loud dance music. "Lillian and I used to go up there also. But it must have been some years later."

"It brings back memories," added Lillian, who was bouncing in her seat to the rhythm of the music. "Everyone used to pile into the place at one time. Remember? The girls would sit on one side, the guys on the other."

"Then the music would start, any one of the three bands," added Chazen.

"Right! The girls would charge the guys and pull them out on the floor. Those polka bands were great. I really miss them."

"Those were the days," said Chazen forlornly, as if the memory of his youth pained him. "It's a shame we can't relive them."

Allison looked at the old man sympathetically; she was touched. "They sound like they were good days," she said.

Chazen smiled and returned to the table. Jezebel lifted her head in short jerky movements, almost as if she too were keeping time to the music. Chazen sat down next to her, puffed his chest with air and sang the first note in a series of off-key attempts at music. He buried his jaw in his neck and waved his arms in front of him like an operatic baritone. With a smile that stretched from one ear to the other, he recorded his self-satisfaction with his virtuoso performance.

"Everybody sing," Chazen declared between chords.

Emma joined, her massive body producing loud, full notes. She too was off-key, though Chazen sounded worse. But together their contrasting dissonance produced a strange combination of sounds-certainly not melodious or harmonious, but interesting. Like a Stravinsky concerto.

Cousin Malcolm pounded his knife against the top of his wine glass and then danced in his chair while his wife, Rebecca, spun in concentric circles behind him, trying, single-handed, to reproduce the effect of dozens of partying Bavarians.

"What polka is this?" asked Malcolm.

"The 'Beer Barrel,'" replied Chazen.

The enthusiasm was contagious. When Chazen stood and beckoned, Allison responded to his outstretched hands by grabbing them securely and spinning onto the floor. Around and around they went; she was concerned lest he overtax himself. But, surprisingly, he was a good and seemingly tireless dancer.

Finally Allison pulled away to catch her breath. Looking about, she saw Mrs. Clark near the kitchen entrance, disinterested and exceedingly bored. Her complexion had waxed sallow, her lids drooped toward her crooked mouth and her eyes glared.

The intensity of the woman's attention was disquieting. There was something familiar about her. She had seen or met her before. But she couldn't remember. One strange bird, she thought to herself and turned away.

The record ended and everyone clapped. Chazen lifted the arm and removed the old warped disk from the turntable. He placed it to the side and grabbed a stack of possible selections. He nimbly thumbed through the pile and placed those that he liked on top of the little table next to the victrola and those rejected back on the shelf.

"I'd love to hear a tango," cried Emma.

"Tango!" bellowed Chazen. "Perfect! The dance of the ca-balleros. I remember Valentino dancing in Blood and Sand." He placed a new record on the turntable, reset the arm and cranked the machine. It sputtered, coughed and vibrated; the turntable began to revolve and once again the room was filled with music. He sat down next to the cat, looked over his shoulder and motioned Mrs. Clark to her seat. The woman hesitated, then walked to the table, glanced at him and sat down.

"Some champagne?" asked Chazen. He removed the open bottle of Piper Heidsieck from the ice bucket. Everyone enthusiastically assented. He leaned over and filled Allison's glass, then he stood and marched around the table like an experienced wine waiter.

"I propose a toast," said Malcolm as he rose from his chair, glass raised high over his head. "To Jezebel, may she have nine fruitful lives."

"To Jezebel," they all responded, raising their glasses in unison. The cat purred as if she had understood that the toast was directed to her.

"Emma, don't you think it was nice of Allison to join us for Jezebel's birthday?" prompted Lillian after sipping her champagne. Her sister nodded. "Allison, you must come down to our apartment sometime soon. I'd love you to try some of my cookies. Emma and I are expert cookie makers, as you can probably tell just by looking at us." Emma laughed boisterously.

"I would love to," said Allison as she recalled the cake argument. "I love homemade cookies; my mother used to make them for me all the time."

"Good, it's settled. You'll come by tomorrow."

Chazen stood, turned the record over and sat down again to the accompaniment of a different tango. He turned to Allison and lifted the champagne to his mouth. "Do you like my little party?" he asked.

"Yes!" She glanced quickly at Mrs. Clark, who sat with a noticeable frown on her face.

"And hasn't it made you feel better?"

"Yes, it has. Much."

"Trust to Chazen!"

She smiled, leaned forward and kissed Chazen on the cheek.

He jumped to his feet. "It's time for the cake."

"Good!" cried Malcolm from the far end of the table, his eyes ravenously devouring the triple-decked birthday cake.

Chazen quickly snatched the record off the victrola and put it to the side.

"Happy birthday to you," he screamed as he returned to the table and kissed Jezebel on top of her head. He pulled the cake toward him, whipped a cake knife from under his napkin, and cut deep into the frosting.

"That's the first black and white birthday cake I've ever seen!" said Allison, smiling.

Mrs. Clark smacked her plate against the table.

Allison turned.

The idle table chatter ceased abruptly.

The graying woman slowly unclenched her teeth, lifted her head and looked directly at Allison. "Black and white cat-black and white cake," she said with directed animosity.

What was that all about? Allison shrugged. A strange bird all right. Now, where did she know her from?

Afterward she lay in her darkened bedroom, half asleep. For two hours she twisted and turned, unable to get comfortable, unable to unwind. She'd had a little too much champagne and a little too much cake. Her head spun and her stomach ached. And when she finally fell asleep, she was taunted by nightmares. Chazen! Emma! Lillian! Malcolm! Rebecca! They all danced about singing "Happy Birthday" to the cat. What a terrible noise that had been!

She dreamed of Mrs. Clark. Uncomfortably, she rolled in the bed, beginning to sweat, remembering the uneasiness she had felt around the woman. She would certainly try to avoid her, as she would avoid the two lesbians. Yet she could not keep them out of her subconscious. She saw Gerde naked, full-breasted and suppliant, lying on her bed. And she envisioned Sandra gliding with ballerinalike grace across their darkened bedroom to the bedside and with extended hands stroking her lover's smooth skin.

The tension continued to build. She writhed, her skin glistening with perspiration. The party. Mrs. Clark. The lesbians. The visions began to fuse, to revolve about one another accompanied by continuous pounding and the sound of clashing metal.

She sprang up in bed, awake, frightened. She felt the flesh contract about her body; her nightgown was soaking wet.

The images were gone. But the noises remained. She listened carefully, flicked on the small reading light and looked up at the ceiling. The pounding? Footsteps! She was positive. They were coming from an apartment that was supposedly empty and had been so for many years. She shivered and looked at her alarm clock. It was four fifteen in the morning.

Someone was in a place where no one should have been, pacing back and forth methodically, like a soldier on guard.

Then the walking ceased, but the sound of clashing metal continued.

She threw on her robe, bolted into the living room and rushed to the door. She checked it; it was locked.

She stood panting, terrified. The footsteps, the noise; something was wrong.

She turned her back to the door. She was exhausted. She shut her eyes. Her mouth closed and arms dropped. Exhausted, she slid down the door and fell unconscious to the floor, her hand wrapped tightly about the crucifix.

Chapter IX

"There's something peculiar going on in that house!"

Allison turned to Michael and waited for a response. Behind them a large ape dangled from the crossbeam in his cage, arms and legs extended over the bars, poised as if he were listening to their conversation. Every several seconds he rumpled his heavy jowls and grunted his disapproval.

Michael walked away from her, stopped in front of the next cage and leaned over the rail to get a closer look at the Bengal tiger that paced behind the heavy iron bars. His study was brief, his interest minimal; he turned away and leaned in his French-cut suit against the hand railing.

"I'll admit that Chazen is a little weird and that those others who live there are also a bit odd, but so what? This is New York, and weirdos are not a species in danger of extinction."

"You're being flippant?"

"I'm not.

"You are, and I don't like it."

"How serious can you expect me to be? Look what we're dealing with. An old coot with one foot in the grave, an alley cat and a squawking parrot."

"Parakeet!"

"Parakeet. Not very sinister. I think it's funny."

"Ha, ha," she said bitterly.

"And then there's Mrs. Clark, a hunchback, hardening after years of loneliness and pain. Doesn't smile. Doesn't talk much. Rude. What do you expect?" He waited for an answer but, receiving none, added, "She sounds as if she's done all right. If you or I had been born hunchbacked we would have put ourselves in a box and locked the lid. The two fat women? The only frightening thing about them is the thought of them falling on you. And let's take a look at what's his name-"

"Malcolm."

"Yes, Malcolm and his wife. Now there's a pair! They're absolutely harmless. So look at what we have: a group of nonentities souring in their old age. I think you're making too much out of your geriatric friends. So what if they're odd!"

"It's more than that, Michael. The pieces don't fit together properly!" She scanned the brick walkway, observed that the area seemed more deserted than usual, then said, "It's as if someone mixed three different puzzles together and then tried to fit the parts into one big picture-for example, the fear that dyke showed when she saw Chazen."