the roof of her mouth, but that was no help; it promptly fell dead at the bottom.
“Ne’mine, Susannah says you look like about a seven. These’ll d—”
The apparition’s face suddenly seemed to shimmer. She lifted one hand—it rose in a loose loop with an equally loose fist anchoring the end, as if the woman didn’t have very good control of it—and thumped herself on the forehead, right between the eyes. And suddenly her face was different. Trudy had Comedy Central as part of her basic cable deal, and she’d seen stand-up comics who specialized in mimicry change their faces that same way.
When the black woman spoke again, her voice had changed, too. Now it was that of an educated woman. And (Trudy would have sworn it) a frightened one.
“Help me,” she said. “My name is Susannah Dean and I . . . I . . . oh dear . . . oh Christ —”
This time it was pain that twisted the woman’sface, and she clutched at her belly. She looked down. When she looked back up again, the first one had reappeared, the one who had talked of killing for a pair of shoes. She took a step back on her bare feet, still holding the bag with Trudy’s nice Ferragamo low-heels and her New York Times inside it.
“Oh Christ,” she said. “Oh don’t that hurt! Mama! You got to make it stop. It can’t come yet, not right out here on the street, you got to make it stop awhile.”
Trudy tried to raise her voice and yell for a cop. Nothing came out but a small, whispering sigh.
The apparition pointed at her. “You want to get out of here now,” she said. “And if you rouse any constabulary or raise any posse, I’ll find you and cut your breasts off.” She took one of the plates from the reed pouch. Trudy observed that the plate’s curved edge was metal, and as keen as a butcher’s knife, and suddenly found herself in a struggle to keep from wetting her pants.
Find you and cut your breasts off, and an edge like the one she was looking at would probably do the job. Zip-zoop, instant mastectomy, O dear Lord.
“Good day to you, madam,” Trudy heard her mouth saying. She sounded like someone trying to talk to the dentist before the Novocain has worn off. “Enjoy those shoes, wear them in good health.”
Not that the apparition looked particularly healthy. Not even with her legs on and her fancy white feet.
Trudy walked. She walked down Second Avenue. She tried to tell herself (with no success at all) that she had not seen a woman appear out of thin air in front of 2 Hammarskjöld, the building the folks who worked there jokingly called the Black Tower. She tried to tell herself (also with no success at all) that this was what she got for eating roast beef and fried potatoes. She should have stuck to her usual waffle-and-egg, you went to Dennis’s for waffles, not for roast beef and potatoes, and if you didn’t believe that, look what had just happened to her. Seeing African-American apparitions, and—
And her bag! Her canvas Borders bag! She must have dropped it!
Knowing better. All the time expecting the woman to come after her, shrieking like a headhunter from the deepest, darkest jungles of Papua. There was a ningly-tumb place on her back (she meant a tingly-numb place, but ningly-tumb was how it actually felt, kind of loose and cool and distant) where she knew the crazy woman’s plate would bite into her, drinking her blood and then eating one of her kidneys before coming to rest, still quivering, in the live chalk of her spine. She would hear it coming, somehow she knew that, it would make a whistling sound like a child’s top before it chunked into her and warm blood went splashing down over her buttocks and the backs of her legs—
She couldn’t help it. Her bladder let go, her urine gushed, and the front of her slacks, part of a très expensive Norma Kamali suit, went distressingly dark. She was almost at the corner of Second andForty-fifth by then. Trudy—never again to be the hard-headed woman she’d once
“Ne’mine, Susannah says you look like about a seven. These’ll d—”
The apparition’s face suddenly seemed to shimmer. She lifted one hand—it rose in a loose loop with an equally loose fist anchoring the end, as if the woman didn’t have very good control of it—and thumped herself on the forehead, right between the eyes. And suddenly her face was different. Trudy had Comedy Central as part of her basic cable deal, and she’d seen stand-up comics who specialized in mimicry change their faces that same way.
When the black woman spoke again, her voice had changed, too. Now it was that of an educated woman. And (Trudy would have sworn it) a frightened one.
“Help me,” she said. “My name is Susannah Dean and I . . . I . . . oh dear . . . oh Christ —”
This time it was pain that twisted the woman’sface, and she clutched at her belly. She looked down. When she looked back up again, the first one had reappeared, the one who had talked of killing for a pair of shoes. She took a step back on her bare feet, still holding the bag with Trudy’s nice Ferragamo low-heels and her New York Times inside it.
“Oh Christ,” she said. “Oh don’t that hurt! Mama! You got to make it stop. It can’t come yet, not right out here on the street, you got to make it stop awhile.”
Trudy tried to raise her voice and yell for a cop. Nothing came out but a small, whispering sigh.
The apparition pointed at her. “You want to get out of here now,” she said. “And if you rouse any constabulary or raise any posse, I’ll find you and cut your breasts off.” She took one of the plates from the reed pouch. Trudy observed that the plate’s curved edge was metal, and as keen as a butcher’s knife, and suddenly found herself in a struggle to keep from wetting her pants.
Find you and cut your breasts off, and an edge like the one she was looking at would probably do the job. Zip-zoop, instant mastectomy, O dear Lord.
“Good day to you, madam,” Trudy heard her mouth saying. She sounded like someone trying to talk to the dentist before the Novocain has worn off. “Enjoy those shoes, wear them in good health.”
Not that the apparition looked particularly healthy. Not even with her legs on and her fancy white feet.
Trudy walked. She walked down Second Avenue. She tried to tell herself (with no success at all) that she had not seen a woman appear out of thin air in front of 2 Hammarskjöld, the building the folks who worked there jokingly called the Black Tower. She tried to tell herself (also with no success at all) that this was what she got for eating roast beef and fried potatoes. She should have stuck to her usual waffle-and-egg, you went to Dennis’s for waffles, not for roast beef and potatoes, and if you didn’t believe that, look what had just happened to her. Seeing African-American apparitions, and—
And her bag! Her canvas Borders bag! She must have dropped it!
Knowing better. All the time expecting the woman to come after her, shrieking like a headhunter from the deepest, darkest jungles of Papua. There was a ningly-tumb place on her back (she meant a tingly-numb place, but ningly-tumb was how it actually felt, kind of loose and cool and distant) where she knew the crazy woman’s plate would bite into her, drinking her blood and then eating one of her kidneys before coming to rest, still quivering, in the live chalk of her spine. She would hear it coming, somehow she knew that, it would make a whistling sound like a child’s top before it chunked into her and warm blood went splashing down over her buttocks and the backs of her legs—
She couldn’t help it. Her bladder let go, her urine gushed, and the front of her slacks, part of a très expensive Norma Kamali suit, went distressingly dark. She was almost at the corner of Second andForty-fifth by then. Trudy—never again to be the hard-headed woman she’d once
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