Growing used to the
pounding of the trucks' heartbeats I heard again what I
didn't want to hear, footsteps racing with quicker rhythm
than ours. Wishing I'd worn lower heels, I trotted leftward,
Lester close behind. I heard the pop of a firecracker; having
heard the sound, knew I hadn't yet been shot.
"God," I said. "Run!" We dashed up a side street on the
north border of the square, our feet slipping over Belgian
block. The street was so narrow that its low buildings
seemed three times as high as they were; only a solitary
lamppost broke the two-block gloom. An enclosed bridge of
almost Venetian appearance ran between buildings nearest
the light, several stories above the street. We could have as
easily run into the last century and not known, so unaltera bly ancient were our surroundings. Where the dark was
deepest we pressed ourselves into a wall.
"Why are we running?" Lester asked as we waited.
"They're shooting."
"Who?" I shook my head, imagining a deli's wealth of
selections. The assailants of Jensen, working their way
through the repertoire; Jake, having acted upon second
thoughts; soldiers taking target practice, a sniper warming
up before performance, an accountant upset with her
husband. Some shot only for the love of the sound.
"Anybody after you besides us?" I asked.
"Not anymore," he said. "Do you think he's behind it?"
"We'd never know. Gus would be handling it if that's the
case-
"The old guy?"
"He's had experience-"
"Breaking children's fingers?"
"He shot three Presidents." All remained quiet, but it
didn't matter. Patience was all; we couldn't move, if we
were to be missed. Had I been left to simmer in my own
juices I might never have moved again. A door slammed,
down where the trucks waited to pull out, and I glanced at
their lights. When I turned around I saw Lester walking into
the middle of the dead street to wait there, as if to see who
might notice. As he stood beneath the streetlamp's halflight, Lester almost appeared to glow from within, his aura
assuredly no less radioactive than numinous.
"Nothing's happened to us yet, Joanna," he said. Returning to where I stood, fastened onto the brick, he took my
arm and pulled me away. Down on Duane Street the trucks
revved, pulling out to make their deliveries. My stomach
burned as if my ulcers were newly aflame; I sank to my
knees, my strings cut. Wanting to throw up, I threw out only
near-tears, crying without wet, without sound, that no
others might see, or hear, and so gain awareness I didn't
want them to have. "No," he said. "It's all right. It is." As he stroked my back I began to recover, drawing long, dry
breaths; my head reattached itself to my body. "A truck
backfiring. Must have been. If somebody was after us we've
given them plenty of opportunity."
"They have that anyway," I said; it did seem safe enough,
for the moment. Lester helped me to my feet; when we
walked off I noticed the street's name. I'd never heard of
Staple Street but others must have, for they lived there. A
nearby window showed kitchenlight; boxes of catfood on
the sill, a dead plant, a plastic hanukiah. We turned right,
toward Hudson Street.
"This happen to you often?" Lester asked. My mouth
ached as I answered, so harshly had I bridled myself against
my tears.
"It didn't used to," I said. "This is too much. I hate being
afraid all the time. I hate what I am. How I live-"
"Don't say that."
"I hate what I've done. What they've done to me. I hate
so much and I can't let it out." So often so-called new men
purport to admire the inherent gentleness of women, only
demonstrating they know women no better than old men;
too often a woman recirculates her rage through herself,
settling upon the likeliest victim in the most practical way.
Men play at anger, as at a game; so many times, in those
days, I too could have taken a machete and hacked through
any subway-car's passengers, but for a reason.
"You hate what you've
pounding of the trucks' heartbeats I heard again what I
didn't want to hear, footsteps racing with quicker rhythm
than ours. Wishing I'd worn lower heels, I trotted leftward,
Lester close behind. I heard the pop of a firecracker; having
heard the sound, knew I hadn't yet been shot.
"God," I said. "Run!" We dashed up a side street on the
north border of the square, our feet slipping over Belgian
block. The street was so narrow that its low buildings
seemed three times as high as they were; only a solitary
lamppost broke the two-block gloom. An enclosed bridge of
almost Venetian appearance ran between buildings nearest
the light, several stories above the street. We could have as
easily run into the last century and not known, so unaltera bly ancient were our surroundings. Where the dark was
deepest we pressed ourselves into a wall.
"Why are we running?" Lester asked as we waited.
"They're shooting."
"Who?" I shook my head, imagining a deli's wealth of
selections. The assailants of Jensen, working their way
through the repertoire; Jake, having acted upon second
thoughts; soldiers taking target practice, a sniper warming
up before performance, an accountant upset with her
husband. Some shot only for the love of the sound.
"Anybody after you besides us?" I asked.
"Not anymore," he said. "Do you think he's behind it?"
"We'd never know. Gus would be handling it if that's the
case-
"The old guy?"
"He's had experience-"
"Breaking children's fingers?"
"He shot three Presidents." All remained quiet, but it
didn't matter. Patience was all; we couldn't move, if we
were to be missed. Had I been left to simmer in my own
juices I might never have moved again. A door slammed,
down where the trucks waited to pull out, and I glanced at
their lights. When I turned around I saw Lester walking into
the middle of the dead street to wait there, as if to see who
might notice. As he stood beneath the streetlamp's halflight, Lester almost appeared to glow from within, his aura
assuredly no less radioactive than numinous.
"Nothing's happened to us yet, Joanna," he said. Returning to where I stood, fastened onto the brick, he took my
arm and pulled me away. Down on Duane Street the trucks
revved, pulling out to make their deliveries. My stomach
burned as if my ulcers were newly aflame; I sank to my
knees, my strings cut. Wanting to throw up, I threw out only
near-tears, crying without wet, without sound, that no
others might see, or hear, and so gain awareness I didn't
want them to have. "No," he said. "It's all right. It is." As he stroked my back I began to recover, drawing long, dry
breaths; my head reattached itself to my body. "A truck
backfiring. Must have been. If somebody was after us we've
given them plenty of opportunity."
"They have that anyway," I said; it did seem safe enough,
for the moment. Lester helped me to my feet; when we
walked off I noticed the street's name. I'd never heard of
Staple Street but others must have, for they lived there. A
nearby window showed kitchenlight; boxes of catfood on
the sill, a dead plant, a plastic hanukiah. We turned right,
toward Hudson Street.
"This happen to you often?" Lester asked. My mouth
ached as I answered, so harshly had I bridled myself against
my tears.
"It didn't used to," I said. "This is too much. I hate being
afraid all the time. I hate what I am. How I live-"
"Don't say that."
"I hate what I've done. What they've done to me. I hate
so much and I can't let it out." So often so-called new men
purport to admire the inherent gentleness of women, only
demonstrating they know women no better than old men;
too often a woman recirculates her rage through herself,
settling upon the likeliest victim in the most practical way.
Men play at anger, as at a game; so many times, in those
days, I too could have taken a machete and hacked through
any subway-car's passengers, but for a reason.
"You hate what you've
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