The Deaf Woman's TV
Jeffrey Penn May
Saturday morning, when the cat pawed Alan’s neck, he woke from a fitful dream, clutching his throat and searching for the deaf woman's strangling hands. But the deaf woman remained downstairs, her TV blaring up through the hardwood floor, the music distorted and dialogue unintelligible.
Alan fell face-first onto the floor, leaned against the bed, and stared at his jeans still tangled around his ankles. Must’ve had a hellava good time, he thought, and scratched his chest where big, black ballpoint numbers swirled and looped around his nipples. He pulled off his jeans and tossed them onto the bed. In the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet where he found a pen and a book of matches. Leaning close to the mirror, he transposed the backward numbers from his chest onto the inside cover of the matchbook.
Alan turned on the water, handle squeaking and pipes clanging. He splashed his face and stared into the mirror, blue-gray eyes, dark circles, and water dripping from his chin. He’d been told he was “good looking.” He supposed he was. But often people expected him to be cheery all the time and to make them feel better. But he had no right to complain. After all, he knew how to have a good time.
He dressed for running, shuffled into the narrow kitchen, and heaped two spoonfuls of instant coffee into a cup. He filled a small pan with water, turned on the gas burner, and watched the high blue flame flicker yellow and dance. The cat leapt onto the dirty dishes and mangled a roach. "You hungry, pal?” He poured the last of the crunchy cat food into a cereal bowl.
From below, the deaf woman's TV blasted a barely recognizable, weirdly ancient cartoon, Felix the Cat… bag of tricks… heart… pitter pat….
Alan gulped down the coffee, then a glass of metallic tasting tap water. He went outside, the morning air brisk, and ran until his stomach cramped and last night’s drunken clarity returned. He would try to check in on that deaf woman, and he wanted to see Angela again. Maybe stop drinking so much.
After only two miles, he slogged back across the apartment building’s cracked concrete courtyard, fresh patches already starting to crumble away. Leaning against a wobbly metal railing, he looked up the building, black streaks on yellow bricks. Angela lived upstairs in Three South, he in Two North.
Yesterday evening, he and a few coworkers filed out from their office cubicles and went directly to Happy Hour. After several drinks, his colleagues left him for family, girlfriends, spouses, and he sat alone staring at the waitress and thinking, who are you? Would you like to go for a hike in the country? Lie naked under the stars? The waitress asked if he wanted another one. “No thanks,” he said.
Alan accelerated onto the highway and a gust of wind blew his sedan onto the shoulder. He white-knuckled the steering wheel and eased back onto the road. His phone vibrated and he struggled to get it out of his pocket, then tried to read the blue screen and drive while “tipsy,” not a good idea. A group text message from some guy named Hal, with an address. Hal? He was that guy who liked to plan “spontaneous get togethers.”
Another wind gust pushed him out of his lane, and he jerked back at the sound of a blaring horn. Sometimes, when sober, he would stare at huge trucks as he sped past them and marvel at the ease with which he could just slightly turn his steering wheel and create a fireball around twisted metal and body parts. Not that he would ever do that. But he often thought about it.
Alan pulled off under a highway bridge, turned on his emergency flashers and opened all the windows, the whooshing spray of highway traffic splattering his arm while he mapped his route. He sat awhile “resting,” but then it occurred to him that a policeman might try to assist and find him intoxicated, so he tried driving again, this time slowly in the right lane keeping the windows open.
Hal's home oozed confidence with refurbished mahogany pocket doors, turn-of-the-century chandeliers, and original white glass tile above an intricately carved, pillared fireplace. Hal owned his house and other property in Tower Grove East, a St. Louis city neighborhood with “potential.” Hal spoke eloquently about investing in real estate, and stocks, and becoming involved in local politics, casually mentioning important names, all without sounding in the least bit insincere.
The place was jammed. Alan liked people, just not a lot of them together at the same time. He stood alone and watched, trying to see if he recognized anyone. Usually, he was smart enough to stop drinking before he made a fool of himself, and he might have skipped mingling in this crowd had he not already started drinking long before he got there. Now, with Vodka Tonic in hand, he sidled up to a woman dressed professionally in a knee-length green skirt, thick turtleneck sweater, and gold earrings – not really his type, but nonetheless, a woman. What would he say? The guy next to her was listing the benefits of tax-sheltered annuities.
“What about,” Alan asked, “the penalty for early withdrawal?”
The woman turned and faced him, her lips big and moist, purple lipstick clashing with her outfit, and she spoke rapidly, confidently, about money and sex, wanting lots of both. Alan had followed these encounters to their logical conclusion before, ending up in bed with a real person, someone with feelings, respectable feelings that matched his, but only at the basest level. And then they had to endure the awkwardness of having whored themselves to each other for a few hours of fun.
Not this time, he thought. He purposely slurred his words (or maybe not). He didn’t want to appear rude, just dangerously drunk, and he told her he had to go home and clean his cat’s litter box. Hopefully, she would consider herself lucky when he wandered off, and settled in a bay window close to the front door, pausing to marvel at everyone’s sociability. Some were dancing, guys with buttoned up single-breasted jackets and loosened ties, and women in heels and sexy skirts. Not much in-between, and he had the feeling he’d stepped into an earlier decade.
Suddenly, rain pounded in rhythmic waves against the window. Alan watched the rain as people crowded up against him. He felt hemmed in, his own dark blue business jacket frayed, the lining torn and dangling. He ducked beneath a woman’s arm, white blouse ringed with sweat, and nobody noticed him leaving.
The rain let up, and he opened his car windows again, this time sticking his head out and feeling the cool drizzle, shutting his eyes and rolling through a stoplight. He slammed on the breaks, sliding sideways. That was sobering, he thought. Feeling very normal and law abiding, he turned on his windshield wipers and stopped at yellow lights. He felt amazingly clear-headed when he arrived home and parked, hubcap grinding the curb. He skipped up the steps into the courtyard, slipped on a leaf, and lurched to one knee. But, by thrusting his hand down and scraping his knuckles across the concrete, he retained his balance. He regained his stride. Still “young and tough,” he thought, remembering a few college buddies that he'd lost touch with long ago.
Light from all the entrance halls reflected on the wet concrete, except from his hallway where the first-floor light had been out for a long time. He couldn’t remember when it last worked. There was, however, TV light from the deaf woman’s window flickering across the courtyard and revealing Angela next to the railing, and a big guy in white overalls facing her.
When passing in the hallway, Alan often said hello to her and exchanged platitudes. In fact, a few times, he calculated his departures to coincide with hers, hoping she would think him attractive, a “catch,” and maybe want to go out with him. He liked Angela, even though she had small breasts and big thighs. And she had a crooked nose, but he liked that also.
Alan stepped forward boldly and said, "Beautiful night, isn’t it?"
"Seems so,” she said. “For you anyway."
"Feels like spring.” He inhaled. “Makes you want to sing. Unfortunately, I can't sing, can you?"
"Steve and I," Angela said, "we have some things we need to discuss."
“I understand," he responded. "Hi Steve, how are you? Angela and I live together. That is, we live in the same unit." The big guy said nothing, although Alan felt a sneer.
"Why don't you go," Angela said.
"Okay, just act like I'm not here. I'll be fine." He removed his torn business jacket and shook it, twirled it, held it close to his waist and spun, muttering "Toro." He made (he thought) a spectacular and graceful pass at his imaginary bull. Then he hurled the coat high into the air. It landed in a puddle under the deaf woman's first floor window. He hurried over to retrieve it and, at the same time, tried to peek in the window, but he wasn’t tall enough. He shook the coat, water splattering all over, then sat on the dry part and leaned against the building. He listened to the TV theme music and muffled dialogue from some old movie. The movie sounded vaguely familiar, like something he'd seen long ago before he understood that people in movies were just actors. Whatever it was, it didn't interest him as much as the dialogue between Steve and Angela.
Steve wanted to know who the hell he was. Angela responded that Alan was just a neighbor who was a little drunk, that's all. Steve wanted commitment. She wanted space. He wanted a family. She wasn't ready. He reminded her about her age, thirty-four. She was clearly irritated saying that there was still time. He could provide for her if she wanted to stay home and take care of the baby. She was insulted. Just because she mentioned that it might be nice to have a baby didn't mean she couldn't live without one and how the hell could he imply that she wasn't able to provide for herself? She had done fine so far on her own, thank you. He didn't mean it that way; if she needed time, he was willing to wait, but not forever. She told him to leave now, they just weren't getting anywhere. He told her not to feel so threatened and, right before he stalked off, he told her to listen, listen to her heart.
Alan watched Steve march across the courtyard, and wondered if he might be a carpenter, a guy who built homes. Alan turned, expecting to see Angela. Instead, she had disappeared into their unit's entrance hall, the first-floor darkness.
"Wait!" He charged after her, into the dark, up the steps.
In the light filtering down from the second floor, she stopped and wheeled around, glaring. "What? What's wrong?"
"Ah, nothing's wrong...." He leaned on the banister.
“Then why yell at me like that?"
He obviously didn’t want Angela angry, so he caricatured her expression by inflating his cheeks, biting his lower lip, and making his eyes big like a bug's. "No reason,” he said.
"You look like Quasimodo," she said, then sat on the steps as if she needed a breather.
The hunchback of Note Dame was hardly sociable or successful, but he was, in a weird way, heroic. So Alan snarled. "Come back outside with me, and I'll climb the building with you under my arm."
"Try it," she countered.
He clutched his chest, clawed at his heart and contorted his face. “Come,” he said.
"You look ridiculous.” She stared at him. “Okay… I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway."
Surprised by her sudden change of heart, Alan shed his Quasimodo imitation. He opened the door, fresh air swirling in around them. His coat was still lying beneath the window and he suggested they sit and watch clouds drift past the streetlights.
She sat easily, pulling her thick legs close to her chest. A moment later, she said, "It's wet."
"You have to sit on the edge."
"Oh, that's just peachy." She repositioned herself.
Alan watched gray-blue TV light blinking and fluttering on her long, pushed-back hair and blue blouse. He leaned close to her ear and whispered stealthily from the corner of his mouth. "Hey, how’s your heart? Are you listening to it?" She didn't flinch. So Alan pounded on his chest. "I don't know about you, but mine says thump."
"All right!" she blurted. "I admit it! That's idiotic! Not even original. He's usually not like that.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees.
"Well then, you must retreat! To avoid commitment and further conflict, you must retreat and regain your individuality."
"Are you always like this?"
The deaf woman's TV suddenly blasted George Michael I want your sex, still old, but not as much as Felix the Cat. "Let's dance." He jumped to his feet and shuffled into the courtyard.
She stood and looked up at the flickering light. "Why is it so damn loud?"
"Beats me," he responded and grabbed her hand, swinging her arm, cranking her up to dance. He pulled her along shuffling across the concrete then kicked his legs out wildly, never a dancer, but always enthusiastic when he tried. She danced in carefully orchestrated patterns, as if trying to teach him, and then quickened her movements, all a scary blur. She obviously was much more accomplished. Unable to follow, he gave up.
"Come on," he urged, "let's go peek in that deaf lady's window."
She hesitated, and then shrugged. “Okay, maybe she’s in trouble. We should help.”
Angela took the lead, whispering, you look, I'll cover, and he responded, check. They pushed their backs against the wall. He rolled belly to the wall and reached high, stretching, curling his fingertips onto the windowsill. He pulled himself up, chin on the concrete sill and feet scrambling, scratching and pushing. Through satin curtains, he could see filtered gray-blue light sliced by Venetian blinds – a chair and a door, the TV, of course an old style tube-TV, big screen with equally big behind. Dropping down beside Angela, he stood with his hand over his face, his eyes popping wide, staring at her through spread fingers.
"Oh God," he said. "It was horrible."
She shoved him and told him to turn around, she wanted to look. At what, he wanted to know.
Hands against the wall, he knelt. She slid onto his shoulders, her legs curling under his arms, and her big warm thighs rubbing into his neck.
"Well?" he asked, standing. "Do you see anything?"
"A chair..."
"What else?"
"Not much, it's dark. All I can see is the side of the chair; it's lit up by that old TV, and the door, it's also lit up..."
"What about the killer?" he asked and felt her thighs tighten around his head.
"Let me down," she whispered, leaning, grabbing his forehead for balance and practically ripping tendons from his shoulders. He stumbled backwards. She swung her heavy legs around and slid off, breasts rubbing along his back. He turned to face her and their forearms interlocked, holding each other at a safe distance.
"What killer?" she asked.
"The one they warned about on the news, the one who tortures old ladies, turns up the TV to conceal their screams. The one who finishes them off by strangulation. That one."
"Right. Obviously I don't believe you."
"Believe it," he whispered and leaned closer, eyes diverted to her mouth, partially open, small teeth. "They advised people not to be alone." He touched his lips to hers and waited.
She traced her lips over his, and pushed away, studying him, her eyebrows thin but distinct. “Maybe we can talk about it upstairs.” She took his hand, and led him past the deaf woman's door, up the unlit first tier of stairs, up past his own apartment door and into the stark hallway light on the third floor.
Angela's apartment was clean, carpeted, and well lit. A bookshelf covered an entire wall; it held stereo equipment and sleek TV along with her books – classics, contemporary women’s fiction, trash novels, nonfiction, textbooks – clearly an eclectic reader. The couch was next to the window, the sill covered with English ivy. She sat leaning against the armrest. In the soft light of the end-table lamp, Angela's hair looked untamed, wavy, probably as it appeared when she was much younger, except for a few strands of gray. Alan sat with one leg bent, his knee touching her thigh, his arm along the back of the couch, waiting for her. She traced her index finger over the veins of his hand.
"Well," he said but was at a loss for words. He needed time to adjust to her apartment. They’d be better off not saying anything, he thought. "Do you have anything to drink?"
"Scotch?"
"That's fine. With a slice of lime?"
He followed her to the kitchen where things clunked along in the bright light. They remained silent… the sound of the apartment creaking. They returned quickly to the couch, each carrying a glass filled with ice, lime on the rims.
After a few sips from her drink, she asked, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? We’ve never really talked...”
That stumped him. But he recovered. “Well, I don’t have any sexually-transmitted diseases.” She did not laugh. He took some Scotch. His whole body contracted. It was just too damn bright in her apartment. “Ha, I was only joking.” He thought about that. “Or, ah, what I mean is, I don’t have STD’s and I was only trying to joke about it.”
When Angela smiled, he thought thank God. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t have any diseases either.”
She touched his knee. He ran his hand along her forearm, up to her glorious hair. Suddenly, her breast vibrated. Alan leaned back and stared.
“Excuse me,” she said, reaching beneath her blouse and pulling out the thinnest smart phone Alan had yet seen. She looked at the incoming number. “I have to take this.” She disappeared behind her bedroom door, pushing it shut.
At first, he sat motionless, staring at Angela’s bookcase. Then he paced to her closed door and listened to indistinct voices between long pauses. He quaffed off a couple shots trying to crystallize his senses, to regain the occasional clarity from excessive drinking.
On the wall, near the front door, framed photographs hung smartly in a circular arrangement. He studied the photos. Angela and her friend Steve, posing on a ski slope, downhill skis leaning against their shoulders, tanned faces, smiles bright, arms around each other. She looked sexy in the photo. In another, they were on a beach, standing apart with hands behind their backs but leaning close and playfully puckering their lips, almost touching as they glanced back at the camera. Framed perfectly beyond them was the beach, long and white against blue-green water stretching far in the distance and depth of the photo. Her partially exposed breast was white like the beach in contrast to her suntan. In yet another photograph, they were sitting together on the couch in Angela’s apartment. He stepped back from that shot and looked at the presently empty couch.
Angela returned from the bedroom. “That was Steve.”
“I thought it might be,” he said then motioned toward the photos. “These are good. Who took them?”
“Steve. He used the timer.”
“Really? The one on the beach too?”
“Yes, he even has a tripod. He’s good, isn’t he?”
“Seems so.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to talk to him. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here . . .”
“Hey, that’s okay. No need to apologize.” He assumed his role. “Just tell me when we can do it again.”
“You know where I am.”
“True, but maybe you’d better give me your phone number. You never know. I may need to call. If your TV starts blasting, I can try phoning you… if you don’t answer, I can save you from the mad strangler. Rescue you.”
“How charming, and maybe a little sexist.”
Undeterred, he handed her a pen, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled up his T-shirt. “Write it on my chest, so I won’t lose it.”
“You are a nut, aren’t you? Steve’s a lot like you.”
She rolled the ballpoint across his chest, playfully spelling out the number, the point occasionally catching on his skin. She added the last number with flair and handed him the pen, and he drifted out.
Alan stood in the stark light of the third floor, thinking, “A” squared. “A” to the power of two – his theory that people whose first names began with the same letter were destined to be lovers, maybe more. He wanted to share the theory with Angela and tell her that Steve was a good guy but his name started with an “S.” Ridiculous, of course, but that’s all he had.
When Alan opened his own apartment door, the cat scampered out and down the stairs, stopping at the deaf woman’s apartment where it perked up its ears, pawed and scratched.
Alan descended the stairs to the lightless lower level, guiding his hand along the railing. From the deaf woman’s apartment, he could hear an old commercial. It gave him an odd dreamy feeling; maybe he’d seen it as an infant. Ajax. That dumb white knight shooting a laser beam out the end of his jousting lance. The knight galloped through suburbia, exploding dirty clothes white and wowing all those wide-eyed and thankful housewives.
The deaf woman’s door opened, Ajax hooves clopping suddenly loud. And her pallid hand with veins like blue rivers picked up his cat by its nape and cradled it against her white smock giving way to a concave chest. Her thin hair floated in the gray-blue, shifting and blinking television light, illuminating the hallway.
“Hello,” she hollered, her voice hoarse but clear. “Your cat?”
He nodded.
“Nice kitty.” She set his cat down, spry for her age, whatever it was. Near the loud TV, his cat lapped at wet cat food. “We need light.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Do you know where the manager is?”
“Haven’t seen him!” His own voice sounded loud and unappealing. “Your TV is a little loud. Isn’t it?” His cat finished eating and leapt comfortably back into the old woman’s arms. Alan worried about his cat. He leaned closer, protruded and puckered his lips, exaggerating his speech even more. “Your. Volume. Is. Too. Loud!”
She smiled, her teeth straight and white as if wowed by the Ajax knight. “The picture has gotten a little hazy,” she yelled, shuffling aside to expose the TV. “Hasn’t it?” He looked and saw a starkly clear screen having moved on to a black and white movie blaring so loud that it turned the dialogue into static. His cat was rubbing its head into the woman’s arm while she pet it with her bony hand. “Your cat likes me,” she said, smiling, her eyes surrounded by wrinkles yet gleaming and as blue as a midday sky. She must have been stunningly beautiful…
Alan felt his chest flutter, his heart beating too fast, and for a moment he pictured himself waltzing with her. Isn’t that what old people did? Waltz. He tapped her on the shoulder and reached for his cat. She let go reluctantly, but smiled nonetheless, with her vibrant blue eyes, as she shut her door, leaving him alone in the dark hallway.
Alan leaned against the wobbly railing. He saw Angela climb out of her car and skip onto the courtyard. She walked directly to him. Aren’t you cold in just those shorts, she asked. No, I’m just fine, he responded. Why’s that TV still on, she asked. Don’t know, as far as I can tell, it was on all night. She said she had fun last night but was glad Steve had called. He had fun too, but why was she glad Steve called? Because they worked things out, and she had stayed at his place, and she was going to move in with him. And make babies, he joked. Possibly, at some point, we all have to make practical choices, even you, she said. Good luck, he said. Thanks, she responded and went upstairs, visible for a moment in the third-floor stairwell window.
A breeze chilled him. He spat over the railing and mulled over retirement funds.
A policeman appeared on the courtyard alongside the apartment manager who was carrying a large metal ring laden with tangled keys, shaking one loose as they entered the hallway.
Alan ran across the courtyard and rushed inside, ready to grab the cop’s arm and push past him.
Key in hand, the manager was about to knock when the door opened, and the deaf woman’s sharp blue eyes were upon him.
The manager was at a loss for words and seemed to whither under her gaze, finally blurting, “Why’s your TV on? Disturbin’ everybody!”
Using two hands, the deaf woman pointed the TV-remote and pressed the mute button hurling everyone into silence.
After a moment in which no one seemed to know what to do, she said, “Now that you’re here, would you kindly please fix the light?”
The cop shook his head, clearly annoyed at the manager for wasting his time and, after making sure he wasn’t needed, turned and brushed past Alan who now stepped forward and said, yeah, that light’s been out way too long.
The woman smiled at Alan, and he felt not only relieved she was okay, but also appreciated, even loved.
Jeffrey Penn May
Saturday morning, when the cat pawed Alan’s neck, he woke from a fitful dream, clutching his throat and searching for the deaf woman's strangling hands. But the deaf woman remained downstairs, her TV blaring up through the hardwood floor, the music distorted and dialogue unintelligible.
Alan fell face-first onto the floor, leaned against the bed, and stared at his jeans still tangled around his ankles. Must’ve had a hellava good time, he thought, and scratched his chest where big, black ballpoint numbers swirled and looped around his nipples. He pulled off his jeans and tossed them onto the bed. In the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet where he found a pen and a book of matches. Leaning close to the mirror, he transposed the backward numbers from his chest onto the inside cover of the matchbook.
Alan turned on the water, handle squeaking and pipes clanging. He splashed his face and stared into the mirror, blue-gray eyes, dark circles, and water dripping from his chin. He’d been told he was “good looking.” He supposed he was. But often people expected him to be cheery all the time and to make them feel better. But he had no right to complain. After all, he knew how to have a good time.
He dressed for running, shuffled into the narrow kitchen, and heaped two spoonfuls of instant coffee into a cup. He filled a small pan with water, turned on the gas burner, and watched the high blue flame flicker yellow and dance. The cat leapt onto the dirty dishes and mangled a roach. "You hungry, pal?” He poured the last of the crunchy cat food into a cereal bowl.
From below, the deaf woman's TV blasted a barely recognizable, weirdly ancient cartoon, Felix the Cat… bag of tricks… heart… pitter pat….
Alan gulped down the coffee, then a glass of metallic tasting tap water. He went outside, the morning air brisk, and ran until his stomach cramped and last night’s drunken clarity returned. He would try to check in on that deaf woman, and he wanted to see Angela again. Maybe stop drinking so much.
After only two miles, he slogged back across the apartment building’s cracked concrete courtyard, fresh patches already starting to crumble away. Leaning against a wobbly metal railing, he looked up the building, black streaks on yellow bricks. Angela lived upstairs in Three South, he in Two North.
Yesterday evening, he and a few coworkers filed out from their office cubicles and went directly to Happy Hour. After several drinks, his colleagues left him for family, girlfriends, spouses, and he sat alone staring at the waitress and thinking, who are you? Would you like to go for a hike in the country? Lie naked under the stars? The waitress asked if he wanted another one. “No thanks,” he said.
Alan accelerated onto the highway and a gust of wind blew his sedan onto the shoulder. He white-knuckled the steering wheel and eased back onto the road. His phone vibrated and he struggled to get it out of his pocket, then tried to read the blue screen and drive while “tipsy,” not a good idea. A group text message from some guy named Hal, with an address. Hal? He was that guy who liked to plan “spontaneous get togethers.”
Another wind gust pushed him out of his lane, and he jerked back at the sound of a blaring horn. Sometimes, when sober, he would stare at huge trucks as he sped past them and marvel at the ease with which he could just slightly turn his steering wheel and create a fireball around twisted metal and body parts. Not that he would ever do that. But he often thought about it.
Alan pulled off under a highway bridge, turned on his emergency flashers and opened all the windows, the whooshing spray of highway traffic splattering his arm while he mapped his route. He sat awhile “resting,” but then it occurred to him that a policeman might try to assist and find him intoxicated, so he tried driving again, this time slowly in the right lane keeping the windows open.
Hal's home oozed confidence with refurbished mahogany pocket doors, turn-of-the-century chandeliers, and original white glass tile above an intricately carved, pillared fireplace. Hal owned his house and other property in Tower Grove East, a St. Louis city neighborhood with “potential.” Hal spoke eloquently about investing in real estate, and stocks, and becoming involved in local politics, casually mentioning important names, all without sounding in the least bit insincere.
The place was jammed. Alan liked people, just not a lot of them together at the same time. He stood alone and watched, trying to see if he recognized anyone. Usually, he was smart enough to stop drinking before he made a fool of himself, and he might have skipped mingling in this crowd had he not already started drinking long before he got there. Now, with Vodka Tonic in hand, he sidled up to a woman dressed professionally in a knee-length green skirt, thick turtleneck sweater, and gold earrings – not really his type, but nonetheless, a woman. What would he say? The guy next to her was listing the benefits of tax-sheltered annuities.
“What about,” Alan asked, “the penalty for early withdrawal?”
The woman turned and faced him, her lips big and moist, purple lipstick clashing with her outfit, and she spoke rapidly, confidently, about money and sex, wanting lots of both. Alan had followed these encounters to their logical conclusion before, ending up in bed with a real person, someone with feelings, respectable feelings that matched his, but only at the basest level. And then they had to endure the awkwardness of having whored themselves to each other for a few hours of fun.
Not this time, he thought. He purposely slurred his words (or maybe not). He didn’t want to appear rude, just dangerously drunk, and he told her he had to go home and clean his cat’s litter box. Hopefully, she would consider herself lucky when he wandered off, and settled in a bay window close to the front door, pausing to marvel at everyone’s sociability. Some were dancing, guys with buttoned up single-breasted jackets and loosened ties, and women in heels and sexy skirts. Not much in-between, and he had the feeling he’d stepped into an earlier decade.
Suddenly, rain pounded in rhythmic waves against the window. Alan watched the rain as people crowded up against him. He felt hemmed in, his own dark blue business jacket frayed, the lining torn and dangling. He ducked beneath a woman’s arm, white blouse ringed with sweat, and nobody noticed him leaving.
The rain let up, and he opened his car windows again, this time sticking his head out and feeling the cool drizzle, shutting his eyes and rolling through a stoplight. He slammed on the breaks, sliding sideways. That was sobering, he thought. Feeling very normal and law abiding, he turned on his windshield wipers and stopped at yellow lights. He felt amazingly clear-headed when he arrived home and parked, hubcap grinding the curb. He skipped up the steps into the courtyard, slipped on a leaf, and lurched to one knee. But, by thrusting his hand down and scraping his knuckles across the concrete, he retained his balance. He regained his stride. Still “young and tough,” he thought, remembering a few college buddies that he'd lost touch with long ago.
Light from all the entrance halls reflected on the wet concrete, except from his hallway where the first-floor light had been out for a long time. He couldn’t remember when it last worked. There was, however, TV light from the deaf woman’s window flickering across the courtyard and revealing Angela next to the railing, and a big guy in white overalls facing her.
When passing in the hallway, Alan often said hello to her and exchanged platitudes. In fact, a few times, he calculated his departures to coincide with hers, hoping she would think him attractive, a “catch,” and maybe want to go out with him. He liked Angela, even though she had small breasts and big thighs. And she had a crooked nose, but he liked that also.
Alan stepped forward boldly and said, "Beautiful night, isn’t it?"
"Seems so,” she said. “For you anyway."
"Feels like spring.” He inhaled. “Makes you want to sing. Unfortunately, I can't sing, can you?"
"Steve and I," Angela said, "we have some things we need to discuss."
“I understand," he responded. "Hi Steve, how are you? Angela and I live together. That is, we live in the same unit." The big guy said nothing, although Alan felt a sneer.
"Why don't you go," Angela said.
"Okay, just act like I'm not here. I'll be fine." He removed his torn business jacket and shook it, twirled it, held it close to his waist and spun, muttering "Toro." He made (he thought) a spectacular and graceful pass at his imaginary bull. Then he hurled the coat high into the air. It landed in a puddle under the deaf woman's first floor window. He hurried over to retrieve it and, at the same time, tried to peek in the window, but he wasn’t tall enough. He shook the coat, water splattering all over, then sat on the dry part and leaned against the building. He listened to the TV theme music and muffled dialogue from some old movie. The movie sounded vaguely familiar, like something he'd seen long ago before he understood that people in movies were just actors. Whatever it was, it didn't interest him as much as the dialogue between Steve and Angela.
Steve wanted to know who the hell he was. Angela responded that Alan was just a neighbor who was a little drunk, that's all. Steve wanted commitment. She wanted space. He wanted a family. She wasn't ready. He reminded her about her age, thirty-four. She was clearly irritated saying that there was still time. He could provide for her if she wanted to stay home and take care of the baby. She was insulted. Just because she mentioned that it might be nice to have a baby didn't mean she couldn't live without one and how the hell could he imply that she wasn't able to provide for herself? She had done fine so far on her own, thank you. He didn't mean it that way; if she needed time, he was willing to wait, but not forever. She told him to leave now, they just weren't getting anywhere. He told her not to feel so threatened and, right before he stalked off, he told her to listen, listen to her heart.
Alan watched Steve march across the courtyard, and wondered if he might be a carpenter, a guy who built homes. Alan turned, expecting to see Angela. Instead, she had disappeared into their unit's entrance hall, the first-floor darkness.
"Wait!" He charged after her, into the dark, up the steps.
In the light filtering down from the second floor, she stopped and wheeled around, glaring. "What? What's wrong?"
"Ah, nothing's wrong...." He leaned on the banister.
“Then why yell at me like that?"
He obviously didn’t want Angela angry, so he caricatured her expression by inflating his cheeks, biting his lower lip, and making his eyes big like a bug's. "No reason,” he said.
"You look like Quasimodo," she said, then sat on the steps as if she needed a breather.
The hunchback of Note Dame was hardly sociable or successful, but he was, in a weird way, heroic. So Alan snarled. "Come back outside with me, and I'll climb the building with you under my arm."
"Try it," she countered.
He clutched his chest, clawed at his heart and contorted his face. “Come,” he said.
"You look ridiculous.” She stared at him. “Okay… I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway."
Surprised by her sudden change of heart, Alan shed his Quasimodo imitation. He opened the door, fresh air swirling in around them. His coat was still lying beneath the window and he suggested they sit and watch clouds drift past the streetlights.
She sat easily, pulling her thick legs close to her chest. A moment later, she said, "It's wet."
"You have to sit on the edge."
"Oh, that's just peachy." She repositioned herself.
Alan watched gray-blue TV light blinking and fluttering on her long, pushed-back hair and blue blouse. He leaned close to her ear and whispered stealthily from the corner of his mouth. "Hey, how’s your heart? Are you listening to it?" She didn't flinch. So Alan pounded on his chest. "I don't know about you, but mine says thump."
"All right!" she blurted. "I admit it! That's idiotic! Not even original. He's usually not like that.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees.
"Well then, you must retreat! To avoid commitment and further conflict, you must retreat and regain your individuality."
"Are you always like this?"
The deaf woman's TV suddenly blasted George Michael I want your sex, still old, but not as much as Felix the Cat. "Let's dance." He jumped to his feet and shuffled into the courtyard.
She stood and looked up at the flickering light. "Why is it so damn loud?"
"Beats me," he responded and grabbed her hand, swinging her arm, cranking her up to dance. He pulled her along shuffling across the concrete then kicked his legs out wildly, never a dancer, but always enthusiastic when he tried. She danced in carefully orchestrated patterns, as if trying to teach him, and then quickened her movements, all a scary blur. She obviously was much more accomplished. Unable to follow, he gave up.
"Come on," he urged, "let's go peek in that deaf lady's window."
She hesitated, and then shrugged. “Okay, maybe she’s in trouble. We should help.”
Angela took the lead, whispering, you look, I'll cover, and he responded, check. They pushed their backs against the wall. He rolled belly to the wall and reached high, stretching, curling his fingertips onto the windowsill. He pulled himself up, chin on the concrete sill and feet scrambling, scratching and pushing. Through satin curtains, he could see filtered gray-blue light sliced by Venetian blinds – a chair and a door, the TV, of course an old style tube-TV, big screen with equally big behind. Dropping down beside Angela, he stood with his hand over his face, his eyes popping wide, staring at her through spread fingers.
"Oh God," he said. "It was horrible."
She shoved him and told him to turn around, she wanted to look. At what, he wanted to know.
Hands against the wall, he knelt. She slid onto his shoulders, her legs curling under his arms, and her big warm thighs rubbing into his neck.
"Well?" he asked, standing. "Do you see anything?"
"A chair..."
"What else?"
"Not much, it's dark. All I can see is the side of the chair; it's lit up by that old TV, and the door, it's also lit up..."
"What about the killer?" he asked and felt her thighs tighten around his head.
"Let me down," she whispered, leaning, grabbing his forehead for balance and practically ripping tendons from his shoulders. He stumbled backwards. She swung her heavy legs around and slid off, breasts rubbing along his back. He turned to face her and their forearms interlocked, holding each other at a safe distance.
"What killer?" she asked.
"The one they warned about on the news, the one who tortures old ladies, turns up the TV to conceal their screams. The one who finishes them off by strangulation. That one."
"Right. Obviously I don't believe you."
"Believe it," he whispered and leaned closer, eyes diverted to her mouth, partially open, small teeth. "They advised people not to be alone." He touched his lips to hers and waited.
She traced her lips over his, and pushed away, studying him, her eyebrows thin but distinct. “Maybe we can talk about it upstairs.” She took his hand, and led him past the deaf woman's door, up the unlit first tier of stairs, up past his own apartment door and into the stark hallway light on the third floor.
Angela's apartment was clean, carpeted, and well lit. A bookshelf covered an entire wall; it held stereo equipment and sleek TV along with her books – classics, contemporary women’s fiction, trash novels, nonfiction, textbooks – clearly an eclectic reader. The couch was next to the window, the sill covered with English ivy. She sat leaning against the armrest. In the soft light of the end-table lamp, Angela's hair looked untamed, wavy, probably as it appeared when she was much younger, except for a few strands of gray. Alan sat with one leg bent, his knee touching her thigh, his arm along the back of the couch, waiting for her. She traced her index finger over the veins of his hand.
"Well," he said but was at a loss for words. He needed time to adjust to her apartment. They’d be better off not saying anything, he thought. "Do you have anything to drink?"
"Scotch?"
"That's fine. With a slice of lime?"
He followed her to the kitchen where things clunked along in the bright light. They remained silent… the sound of the apartment creaking. They returned quickly to the couch, each carrying a glass filled with ice, lime on the rims.
After a few sips from her drink, she asked, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? We’ve never really talked...”
That stumped him. But he recovered. “Well, I don’t have any sexually-transmitted diseases.” She did not laugh. He took some Scotch. His whole body contracted. It was just too damn bright in her apartment. “Ha, I was only joking.” He thought about that. “Or, ah, what I mean is, I don’t have STD’s and I was only trying to joke about it.”
When Angela smiled, he thought thank God. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t have any diseases either.”
She touched his knee. He ran his hand along her forearm, up to her glorious hair. Suddenly, her breast vibrated. Alan leaned back and stared.
“Excuse me,” she said, reaching beneath her blouse and pulling out the thinnest smart phone Alan had yet seen. She looked at the incoming number. “I have to take this.” She disappeared behind her bedroom door, pushing it shut.
At first, he sat motionless, staring at Angela’s bookcase. Then he paced to her closed door and listened to indistinct voices between long pauses. He quaffed off a couple shots trying to crystallize his senses, to regain the occasional clarity from excessive drinking.
On the wall, near the front door, framed photographs hung smartly in a circular arrangement. He studied the photos. Angela and her friend Steve, posing on a ski slope, downhill skis leaning against their shoulders, tanned faces, smiles bright, arms around each other. She looked sexy in the photo. In another, they were on a beach, standing apart with hands behind their backs but leaning close and playfully puckering their lips, almost touching as they glanced back at the camera. Framed perfectly beyond them was the beach, long and white against blue-green water stretching far in the distance and depth of the photo. Her partially exposed breast was white like the beach in contrast to her suntan. In yet another photograph, they were sitting together on the couch in Angela’s apartment. He stepped back from that shot and looked at the presently empty couch.
Angela returned from the bedroom. “That was Steve.”
“I thought it might be,” he said then motioned toward the photos. “These are good. Who took them?”
“Steve. He used the timer.”
“Really? The one on the beach too?”
“Yes, he even has a tripod. He’s good, isn’t he?”
“Seems so.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to talk to him. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here . . .”
“Hey, that’s okay. No need to apologize.” He assumed his role. “Just tell me when we can do it again.”
“You know where I am.”
“True, but maybe you’d better give me your phone number. You never know. I may need to call. If your TV starts blasting, I can try phoning you… if you don’t answer, I can save you from the mad strangler. Rescue you.”
“How charming, and maybe a little sexist.”
Undeterred, he handed her a pen, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled up his T-shirt. “Write it on my chest, so I won’t lose it.”
“You are a nut, aren’t you? Steve’s a lot like you.”
She rolled the ballpoint across his chest, playfully spelling out the number, the point occasionally catching on his skin. She added the last number with flair and handed him the pen, and he drifted out.
Alan stood in the stark light of the third floor, thinking, “A” squared. “A” to the power of two – his theory that people whose first names began with the same letter were destined to be lovers, maybe more. He wanted to share the theory with Angela and tell her that Steve was a good guy but his name started with an “S.” Ridiculous, of course, but that’s all he had.
When Alan opened his own apartment door, the cat scampered out and down the stairs, stopping at the deaf woman’s apartment where it perked up its ears, pawed and scratched.
Alan descended the stairs to the lightless lower level, guiding his hand along the railing. From the deaf woman’s apartment, he could hear an old commercial. It gave him an odd dreamy feeling; maybe he’d seen it as an infant. Ajax. That dumb white knight shooting a laser beam out the end of his jousting lance. The knight galloped through suburbia, exploding dirty clothes white and wowing all those wide-eyed and thankful housewives.
The deaf woman’s door opened, Ajax hooves clopping suddenly loud. And her pallid hand with veins like blue rivers picked up his cat by its nape and cradled it against her white smock giving way to a concave chest. Her thin hair floated in the gray-blue, shifting and blinking television light, illuminating the hallway.
“Hello,” she hollered, her voice hoarse but clear. “Your cat?”
He nodded.
“Nice kitty.” She set his cat down, spry for her age, whatever it was. Near the loud TV, his cat lapped at wet cat food. “We need light.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Do you know where the manager is?”
“Haven’t seen him!” His own voice sounded loud and unappealing. “Your TV is a little loud. Isn’t it?” His cat finished eating and leapt comfortably back into the old woman’s arms. Alan worried about his cat. He leaned closer, protruded and puckered his lips, exaggerating his speech even more. “Your. Volume. Is. Too. Loud!”
She smiled, her teeth straight and white as if wowed by the Ajax knight. “The picture has gotten a little hazy,” she yelled, shuffling aside to expose the TV. “Hasn’t it?” He looked and saw a starkly clear screen having moved on to a black and white movie blaring so loud that it turned the dialogue into static. His cat was rubbing its head into the woman’s arm while she pet it with her bony hand. “Your cat likes me,” she said, smiling, her eyes surrounded by wrinkles yet gleaming and as blue as a midday sky. She must have been stunningly beautiful…
Alan felt his chest flutter, his heart beating too fast, and for a moment he pictured himself waltzing with her. Isn’t that what old people did? Waltz. He tapped her on the shoulder and reached for his cat. She let go reluctantly, but smiled nonetheless, with her vibrant blue eyes, as she shut her door, leaving him alone in the dark hallway.
Alan leaned against the wobbly railing. He saw Angela climb out of her car and skip onto the courtyard. She walked directly to him. Aren’t you cold in just those shorts, she asked. No, I’m just fine, he responded. Why’s that TV still on, she asked. Don’t know, as far as I can tell, it was on all night. She said she had fun last night but was glad Steve had called. He had fun too, but why was she glad Steve called? Because they worked things out, and she had stayed at his place, and she was going to move in with him. And make babies, he joked. Possibly, at some point, we all have to make practical choices, even you, she said. Good luck, he said. Thanks, she responded and went upstairs, visible for a moment in the third-floor stairwell window.
A breeze chilled him. He spat over the railing and mulled over retirement funds.
A policeman appeared on the courtyard alongside the apartment manager who was carrying a large metal ring laden with tangled keys, shaking one loose as they entered the hallway.
Alan ran across the courtyard and rushed inside, ready to grab the cop’s arm and push past him.
Key in hand, the manager was about to knock when the door opened, and the deaf woman’s sharp blue eyes were upon him.
The manager was at a loss for words and seemed to whither under her gaze, finally blurting, “Why’s your TV on? Disturbin’ everybody!”
Using two hands, the deaf woman pointed the TV-remote and pressed the mute button hurling everyone into silence.
After a moment in which no one seemed to know what to do, she said, “Now that you’re here, would you kindly please fix the light?”
The cop shook his head, clearly annoyed at the manager for wasting his time and, after making sure he wasn’t needed, turned and brushed past Alan who now stepped forward and said, yeah, that light’s been out way too long.
The woman smiled at Alan, and he felt not only relieved she was okay, but also appreciated, even loved.
