She was asked for the first time what she'd had for lunch just before seeing this woman, and realized for the first time that she'd had a twentieth-century version of what Ebenezer Scrooge had eaten shortly before seeing his old (and long-dead) business partner: potatoes and roast beef. Not to mentionseveral blots of mustard.
She forgot all about asking Officer Antassi if he'd like to go out to dinner with her.
In fact, she threw him out of her office.
Mitch Guttenberg poked his head in shortly thereafter. "Do they think they'll be able to get your bag back, Tru - "
"Get lost," Trudy said without looking up. "Right now. "
Guttenberg assessed her pallid cheeks and set jaw. Then he retired without saying another word.
Three
Trudy left work at four-forty-five, which was early for her. She walked back to the corner of Second and Forty-sixth, and although that ningly-tumb feeling began to work its way up her legs and into the pit of her stomach again as she approached Hammarskj?ld Plaza, she never hesitated. She stood on the corner, ignoring both white WALK and red DON ' T WALK. She turned in a tight little circle, almost like a ballet dancer, also ignoring her fellow Second Avenue-ites and being ignored in turn.
"Right here," she said. "It happened right here. I know it did. She asked me what size I was, and before I could answer - Iwould have answered, I would have told her what color my underwear was if she asked, I was in shock - before I could answer, she said. . . "
Ne'mine, Susannah says you look like about a seven. These'll do.
Well, no, she hadn't quite finished that last part, but Trudy was sure that was what the woman had meant to say. Only then her face had changed. Like a comic getting ready to imitate Bill Clinton or Michael Jackson or maybe even George Clooney. And she'd asked for help. Asked for help and said her name was. . . what?
"Susannah Dean," Trudy said. "That was the name. I never told Officer Antassi. "
Well, yeah, but fuck Officer Antassi. Officer Antassi with his bus shelters and little stores, justfuck him.
That woman - Susannah Dean, Whoopi Goldberg, Coretta Scott King, whoever she was - thought she was pregnant. Thought she was inlabor. I'm almost sure of it. Did she look pregnant to you, Trudes?
"No," she said.
On the uptown side of Forty-sixth, white WALK once again became red DON ' T WALK. Trudy realized she was calming down. Something about just standing here, with 2 Dag Hammarskj?ld Plaza on her right, was calming. Like a cool hand on a hot brow, or a soothing word that assured you that there was nothing, absolutelynothing to feel ningly-tumb about.
She could hear a humming, she realized. A sweet hummin
g sound.
"That's not humming," she said as red DON ' T WALK cycled back to white WALK one more time (she remembered a date in college once telling her the worst karmic disaster he could imagine would be coming back as a traffic light). "That's not humming, that'ssinging. "
And then, right beside her - startling her but not frightening her - a man's voice spoke. "That's right," he said. Trudy turned and saw a gentleman who looked to be in his early forties. "I come by here all the time, just to hear it. And I'll tell you something, since we're just ships passing in the night, so to speak - when I was a young man, I had the world's most terrible case of acne. I think coming here cleared it up, somehow. "
"You think standing on the corner of Second and Forty-sixth cleared up your acne," she said.
His smile, only a small one but very sweet, faltered a tiny bit. "I know it sounds crazy - "
"I saw a woman appear out of nowhere right here," Trudy said. "Three and a half hours ago, I saw this. When she showed up, she had no legs from the knees down. Then she grew the rest of em. So who's crazy, my friend?"
He was looking at her, wide-eyed, just some anonymous time-server in a suit with his tie pulled down at the end of the work-day. And yes, she could see the pits and shadows of old acne on his cheeks and forehead. "This is true?"
She held up her right hand. "If I'm lyin, I'm dyin. Bitch stole my shoes. " She hesitated. "No, she wasn't a bitch. I don't believe she was a bitch. She was scared and she was barefooted and she thought she was in labor. I just wish I'd had time to give her my sneakers instead of my good goddam shoes. "
The man was giving her a cautious look, and Trudy Damascus suddenly felt tired. She had an idea this was a look she was going to get used to. The sign said WALK again, and the man who'd spoken to her started across, swinging his briefcase.
"Mister!"
He didn't stop walking, but did look back over his shoulder.
"What used to be here, back when you used to stop by for acne treatments?"
"Nothing," he said. "It was just a vacant lot behind a fence. I thought it would stop - that nice sound - when they built on the site, but it never did. "
He gained the far curb. Walked off up Second Avenue. Trudy stood where she was, lost in thought. I thought it would stop, but it never did.
"Now why would that be?" she asked, and turned to look more directly at 2 Hammarskj?ld Plaza. The Black Tower. The humming was stronger now that she was concentrating on it. And sweeter. Not just one voice but many of them. Like a choir. Then it was gone. Disappeared as suddenly as the black woman had done the opposite.
No it didn't,Trudy thought. I just lost the knack of hearing it, that's all. If I stood here long enough, I bet it would come back. Boy, this is nuts. I'mnuts.
Did she believe that? The truth was that she did not. All at once the world seemed very thin to her, more an idea than an actual thing, and barely there at all. She had never felt less hard-headed in her life. What she felt was weak in her knees and sick to her stomach and on the verge of passing out.
Four
There was a little park on the other side of Second Avenue. In it was a fountain; nearby was a metal sculpture of a turtle, its shell gleaming wetly in the fountain's spray. She cared nothing for fountains or sculptures, but there was also a bench.
W ALK had come around again. Trudy tottered across Second Avenue, like a woman of eighty-three instead of thirty-eight, and sat down. She began to take long, slow breaths, and after three minutes or so felt a little better.
Beside the bench was a trash receptacle with KEEP LITTER IN ITS PLACE stenciled on the side. Below this, in pink spray-paint, was an odd little graffito:See the TURTLE of enormous girth. Trudy saw the turtle, but didn't think much of its girth; the sculpture was quite modest. She saw something else, as well: a copy of theNew York Times, rolled up as she always rolled hers, if she wanted to keep it a little longer and happened to have a bag to stow it in. Of course there were probably at least a million copies of that day'sTimes floating around Manhattan, but this one was hers. She knew it even before fishing it out of the litter basket and verifying what she knew by turning to the crossword, which she'd mostly completed over lunch, in her distinctive lilac-colored ink.
She returned it to the litter basket and looked across Second Avenue to the place where her idea of how things worked had changed. Maybe forever.
Took my shoes. Crossed the street and sat here by the turtle and put them on. Kept my bag but dumped theTimes. Why'd she want my bag? She didn't have any shoes of her own to put in it.
Trudy thought she knew. The woman had put her plates in it. A cop who got a look at those sharp edges might be curious about what you served on dishes that could cut your fingers off if you grabbed them in the wrong place.
Okay, but then where did she go?
There was a hotel down at the corner of First and Forty-sixth. Once it had been the U. N. Plaza. Trudy didn't know what its name was now, and didn't care. Nor did she want to go down there and ask if a black woman in jeans and a stained white shirt might have come in a few hours ago. She had a strong intuition that her version of Jacob Marley's ghost had done just that, but here was an intuition she didn't want to follow up on. Better to let it go. The city was full of shoes, butsanity, one'ssanity -
Better to head home, take a shower, and just. . . let it go. Except -
"Something is wrong," she said, and a man walking past on the sidewalk looked at her. She looked back defiantly. "Somewhere something isvery wrong. It's - "
Tippingwas the word that came to mind, but she would not say it. As if to say it would cause the tip to become a topple.
It was a summer of bad dreams for Trudy Damascus. Some were about the woman who first appeared and thengrew. These were bad, but not the worst. In the worst ones she was in the dark, and terrible chimes were ringing, and she sensed something tipping further and further toward the point of no return.
STAVE: Commala-come-key
Can ya tell me what ya see?
Is it ghosts or just the mirror
That makes ya want to flee?
RESPONSE: Commala-come-three!
I beg ya, tell me!
Is it ghosts or just your darker self
That makes ya want to flee?