The Joy of Funerals, page 12
In the booth to my left is a professor who works on a laptop. He’s balding and wears wire-rimmed glasses and bites his thumbnail in deep thought. I call him “The Nibbler.” I’ve categorized all the men, defining them by a code system only Annette would appreciate. “Trench-coat Man” isn’t well. I’ve watched the way he holds a cup of coffee. His hand shakes when he lifts it, and I wonder if he has Parkinson’s. I cross his name off my mental list. “Bad-Hairpiece Man” doesn’t seem to have the stamina or the personality for killing someone. He became hysterical last week when a roach crawled over his spoon. “Biker Boy” is still a suspect—so is one of the waiters who lost his temper last Friday over a small tip left by a group of teens. I look around for new people. I look for Annette, half expecting her to bounce through the diner door and yell Surprise.
I visit Macy’s. They’re having an after-Valentine’s Day sale on men’s gloves. I test myself to see how good I’ve gotten at measuring size. I ask the saleswoman to take out several different pairs. She lays them out on the glass counter. I finger the soft leather, asking, “8 ½?” She looks inside and nods. I go down the line like a game show contestant or circus act, each time giving the correct size. The last pair is a 9 ½, an inch bigger than the killer’s. I try them on, want to see how my hand takes up the space inside. They’re warm and soft, and my fingers feel lost in them.
I interview an orthopedist who specializes in hands. “He’s tall—six-two, six-three,” he says. His voice is crisp, and he keeps looking at his watch instead of at the crime scene photos. “You can tell because of the angle and the position of the bruises.” His phone rings, but he’s kind enough to ignore it. He raises his voice to talk over the trilling. “He’s probably a righty. He pressed harder on this side of her neck. See?”
I go to a palm reader, a proclaimed psychic, and show her the same pictures. I lay them out like tarot cards.
“This man is angry. Very angry.” She looks up at me expectantly, waiting for a reaction. When I don’t say anything, she continues. “He is filled with rage.” She drops the photos as if looking at them is channeling too much pain for her. “You should stay away from him,” she advises as she sticks my twenty in the pocket of her flowered housecoat.
Annette and I had our first date a week after we met. She showed up with expensive wine in a pretty bottle, its true color hidden by its protector. Our conversation was smart and witty. It poured out from our lips as it became an extension of us, a sexual desire to share information. Annette, a lightweight, got tipsy on her second glass and passed out on my couch. I sat with her head in my lap as one of my hands ran through her hair, my other rested on her arm. I inched my finger underneath her spandex sleeve, felt the softness of her skin, the firmness of her muscle. The smell of her perfume was so calming to me that I sat there for hours listening to her breathe.
I saved the glass she drank from, her lipstick mark imprinted perfectly on the crystal. I refused to wash it and placed it in the bar, where it was kept company by the other glasses. It became a running gag when she moved in three months later.
“Would you wash this thing already?” she’d say, handing me the glass when we’d do spring-or fall-cleaning.
“You’re soooo sentimental,” I’d coo, taking it from her grasp and replacing it in its rightful spot. “It’s all I have to remind me of our first date.”
“I’m living with you. How much more of a reminder do you need?”
When friends came over, it was always mentioned. Either someone would ask about it when they removed glasses to help pour wine or they’d notice it sticking out among the others.
“Karen’s made me immortal,” Annette would joke with inquisitive guests, holding up the glass for all to see. “I’m a bona fide rockstar.” Everyone would laugh, and I’d blush and sip wine quietly on our couch.
The last time someone mentioned it, Annette teased that I was planning to auction off her photos and the glass on eBay. “Maybe I should sweat on something or drool on a napkin? Perhaps I should just go around the apartment kissing things?” Then she waltzed over to me and kissed my cheek, leaving the shape of puckered lips etched on my face.
I remove her unwashed glass from the bar, hold it close to my chest, and think about putting my lips over hers.
The diner is unusually crowded, packed with high school kids in sports uniforms. Their varsity jackets and scarves are clumped in a seat. I scan the restaurant, see the regulars, make a few mental notes. “The Nibbler” is typing away in the back, “Pinhead,” a man whose head is smaller than the rest of his body, is off to the side, eating with a woman who looks like a hooker. “The Hamburgler” is here, too. He only orders hamburgers smothered in mayo and drinks three or four beers with each meal. I don’t see “Biker Boy” or “Mustache Man.” A thin, sickly looking guy is eating chicken pot pie in the corner. I’ve had my eye on him for some time and he acknowledges my presence with a nod and a half grin. I return the gesture while eyeing his dry, blond hair; his lips are thin and red, like those of a girl.
I spot an empty stool by the counter next to an attractive woman playing with the ends of a salad.
Normally I sit in the back, which enables me to see most of the diner. Other times I take to the front where I can watch people pass by outside and still see customers inside. At the counter, my back is to most of the patrons. Even though there’s a long mirror across from me offering a panoramic view, teas and cereals are stacked on the shelf, cutting into my sight. Plus, a large refrigerator which houses the desserts—generic cheesecake, chocolate cake, apple pie, green Jell-O, and a bowl of fruit, Saran Wrap past its clinging stage—intersects the left side of the restaurant.
“Tuna on whole wheat?” Catrina asks, already scribbling something down. The waitstaff knows me by now. I almost look forward to seeing them.
“I think I’m going to break out of character and order an omelet with tomato and feta.”
Catrina nods, erases what she’s written, and starts over. She tears off the slip, sticks it on the ordering thing, and yells to the chef in restaurant short-talk.
“That’s always a safe bet, though the food is rather decent here,” says the woman sitting next to me. She smiles and tilts her head to one side.
My stomach hurts, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood for conversation.
“Hope,” she adds.
“For what? Not getting food poisoning?”
She’s incredibly pretty. Reddish hair, soft green eyes, and full lips painted a tawny-brown. She looks about thirty-eight, maybe a few years older than me. I study her face for a second. She scrunches up her nose and narrows her eyes in a playful way as she leans into me.
“No, my name is Hope.”
“Your parents must have been very optimistic.”
We laugh and stare at each other. I’m about to look away when she reaches for my face.
“You have something, an eyelash,” and brushes her index finger an inch or so under my eye.
No one’s touched me like this since Annette’s funeral, and it feels as if I’m watching a movie, as if my skin isn’t real. She moves back to her original position.
“What’s dinner without a little wine?” She taps her empty glass and holds it up to Catrina. “And one for my friend.” Then back to me, “I always feel better having a partner in crime.”
“It’s been a long time since someone bought me a drink,” I say, fidgeting with my napkin.
“Well, I’d be more than happy to buy you another when you’re ready.”
Hope rubs her index finger around the edge of the glass a few times, seductively, like I remember my mother’s friends doing at dinner parties. It makes a high-pitched sound, and I wonder if she’s flirting with me. Annette had terrific gaydar. For a lesbian, I seemed to have been overlooked in this department.
”I’m Karen, which is a stupid name. It sounds like I’m a carry-on bag.”
She giggles and tosses her head back, just like Annette would do. Then I remember why I’m here.
Catrina sets the food down. The well-done omelet, the golden brown french fries prepared just as I requested, all make me nauseous. I take one bite, feel full, and start to cry. Hope leans in closer to me and strokes my hair, warming me like the hot coffee from the diner.
“Can I do anything?” Her voice is as soft as a cashmere sweater.
I shake my head no, and, in an effort to stop the tears, look up toward the door. I see “Bad-Toupee Man” walk in. I click back into professional mode and take out my notebook.
Today, I’m sitting at the table closest to the register. Taped to the wall are glossy school portraits and some pictures of children sitting on other children’s laps. A calendar displays the month of March with a picture of snow-covered mountains. Two fake roses in a tiny bud vase are on each of the Formica tables. These are new additions, small attempts to make the place cheerier. Three elderly ladies sit gabbing to my right. I can smell their perfume, heavy and too sweet, their voices as shaky as their hands. They talk about their grandchildren, their pets, their lonely lives. Men in overcoats sip coffee, their jackets still on, cell phones resting on the tables.
The diner is uncomfortably quiet and I haven’t seen Hope in three weeks. A small hole has been created since our evening together. It feels as if she, too, has disappeared. I’ve thought about calling. We exchanged numbers, but the paper sits folded on my nightstand.
“Trench-coat Man” is here again, sitting beside me. So is “The Hamburgler.” Lindsay slouches off to the left, face buried in the paper, her fat hands clutching the uneven ends. I asked if she wanted to sit with me, but she said no, her voice so soft I could barely hear her.
I’ve started conversations with strangers. Invited myself to join single men for lunch or dinner. Inched my body into the seat next to them, claiming the restaurant is too crowded or that I work at home alone and that the presence of another person is so important even if we don’t talk, which we eventually do, because everyone in New York is lonely and sad and needs to speak to someone. Anyone who will listen. And I do. I become all eyes and ears. I learn their stories. I pry without looking as if I am. It’s not hard—people are eager to share. I stare at their hands as they rest on the table or hold a fork, grasp a plastic glass, each time mentally measuring them. Then I go home and compare my hands to the life-size posters in the apartment.
Last week I finally spoke to “The Hamburgler,” whose real name is Lincoln.
“As in log?” I had joked with him, his fingers gooey with mayo. We were sitting a few stools away from each other.
Tonight we make polite chitchat.
He’s a construction worker in the city. So are his two brothers, but none of them works for the same company. His father’s a retired cop, his mother’s a social worker. He owns a jeep. He’s cute, tall and broad, but has too much gel in his hair. Most impressive are his arms. They’re toned and muscular like the beer poster where the guy’s shirtless and is holding a cat in one hand, a Bud Light in the other, a red bandanna around his neck.
“Anyway, that’s my deal.” He wipes his mouth with a wet napkin and stands up. “It was good talking to you.” I watch as he tosses a few dollars on the table and walks slowly up to the register.
I wonder how tall he is.
“See ya,” he says.
“See ya,” I echo.
He pays the bill and sticks the remaining cash into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Where you going?” Lincoln yaps when I walk outside. He’s standing by the pay phone.
“Home.”
“Where’s that?” He hangs up the receiver.
“Mercer and University.”
“Walk you there?”
My mind races. I try to picture his hands. “Sure.” I try to think of something else to say. “No cell phone? Isn’t that a prerequisite for living?”
He laughs. A warm, rich laugh, like a game show host, and for a moment I think, I must be wrong. No one could kill anyone with a laugh like that. I’m disappointed and confused, but we keep walking, his stride equal with mine even though my legs are shorter.
“It’s broken. I finally learn how to work the damn thing and it dies on me.” He smiles and shrugs, shy and sly at the same time. I feel dizzy and start sweating. Perspiration drips down my back, the kind my mother complained about during her menopausal years. We reach my corner. The diner is only a few blocks away, but it feels as though we’ve been walking for most of the night.
“So,” he clasps his hands together, “it’s still kind of early. Want to get a drink?”
“Sure.” I search his face, looking for clues. His eyes seem kind. He has nice ears. ‘’I’d like to change first. You want to come up for a sec?” I finger Annette’s metal X-Acto knife in my pocket, the one she used to cut negatives with.
He lifts his eyebrows and leans his body forward, rocking onto his toes, hands shoved into his coat.
We’re quiet in the elevator; neither of us has anything to say until we get to my floor.
“Nice building. You own?”
I can’t tell if he’s staring at me or past my head, like the police do when they want me to leave and have more important matters to take care of.
“Yeah. I’ve lived here for eight years.” I unlock the door; the sound of the metal cylinder reverberates in my hallway, the smell of beer on his breath and hamburger on his clothing is enough to make me gag. I wonder what the fuck I’m doing as I hit the lights and walk in.
Like an expectant mother who’s packed a suitcase and placed it in the hall closet waiting for the exact moment it will be needed, I, too, am prepared. I’ve hidden a tape recorder in each room set to voice activation. The police reports, files, and journals reside on the top shelf of my closet. The photos have been stripped from the walls, and Annette’s work put back to its original spot—black-and-whites from our trip to Vietnam, a picture of a street vendor which appeared in The New York Times a few years ago, the series she did on sharp objects which won her a Guggenheim, hang on the wall with pride.
“Do you want to take off your jacket?” I ask, hanging mine up in the hall closet, my back toward Lincoln. I feel him come up behind me. A hand slides over my waist and around my stomach. His foul breath on my neck feels locked in my hair. I place my hand over his and, like a blind person, search for a size. I feel as if I’ve spent my whole life waiting for this moment. He squeezes my ass lightly with his free hand and playfully brings his body closer to mine.
“You smell so good,” he whispers, his lips just touching the skin under my ear.
I lead him into the living room. More mirrors. Better angles.
He leans forward and kisses my lips harshly, knocking me momentarily off balance. My hip collides with the edge of the dining room table.
“Sorry. You okay?” He looks concerned.
Maybe I’m wrong.
I should stop this now.
“Fine.” My hand reaches for the bruised spot, but his hand gets there first. He rubs at my hip in small circles. Then he bends his head down toward my neck and starts to kiss me. With each kiss he backs me up closer and closer to the wall. I want to move. I want to push him away, tell him this is a mistake. That I’ve made a mistake.
His lips are at my ear when he utters, “What are you thinking?”
“How nice you feel.” I can stop this now. Ask him to leave. Tell him the truth. Anything.
“Really?” He smiles and grabs at my arm, clamping it against the wall up near my ear. He takes his other hand and caresses my breast, then squeezes my nipple.
“Let’s take a breather,” I suggest, my mind racing.
“Why?” His voice is even-toned, like a golf announcer, void of any feeling; he leans into my pelvis.
I think of the last time I was in this position. Annette had pinned me up against the wall in our hallway, spread my arms up above my head like a police officer frisking a criminal, and kissed me on my neck, my ear, my arms.
Lincoln’s whole body rests on me, causing the knife in my pocket to dig into my skin. I try to maneuver my hand down to adjust it, but he’s got his leg pressed into my crotch. He leans in harder, one hand still holding down my arm, his other moving up to my throat, right under my chin.
Lincoln lifts up my jaw, like a chiropractor working on a patient, his thumb and index finger at each ear. I feel my vertebrae elongate and a slight pulling starts at the base of my spine. I see his forearm, make out the edge of his watch. I flash to Lindsay’s fat arm, think about how hard a time he’d have holding her down. As big as his hands are, they might not fit around her neck.
I try to smile and look as if I’m enjoying this. “I like it rough.” My voice is hoarse. I move my free hand to his thigh and massage him, then inch toward my pocket.
“Do you, now?” he whispers.
I feel a wet spot on my leg, feel the blood staining my pants from the open knife, and wonder if he’ll notice.
Above my head is a photo of Annette and myself. It’s a small picture set in a silver frame. We were at the park reading the paper and our friend snapped the photo. I stretch my hand up, thinking if I can cause the picture to fall, he’ll have to move, but his grip is too strong. My fingers reach, but feel nothing. I see his eyes glance up and over my head. He looks from the photo to me, a smirk forms on his lips, his eyes like slits.
“She’s pretty. Your sister?”
“Girlfriend.”
His smile widens.
I can feel my body shaking. A numbed, prickly sensation comes over me as I envision Annette fighting for her life, trying to scream or hit him with her camera.
