The Fall of Never(58)

(I am a violator here, this is sacred)

—and back in the direction he had come.

He shot up in bed covered in sweat and trembling with convulsions of his own.

The remaining two days off from the hospital were spent cultivating what he feared would soon turn into a full-fledged obsession. He found himself walking the streets by himself, or riding buses to nowhere in particular (or so he tried to convince himself), only to arrive outside Nellie Worthridge’s apartment building each time. He’d gotten her exact address from the hospital records, and although it hadn’t been his intention at the time to ever stop by Miss Worthridge’s complex, his mind had miraculously retained the building’s address as if he’d known on some subconscious level that it would be of some future importance.

In the cold, he found himself leaning against the outside of the building and staring up at its array of tinted windows. He watched traffic pull in and out of the Port Authority across the street and thought, Wouldn’t it be something to go in and buy a bus ticket to someplace different, someplace I’ve never been before? For once, just forgetting about everything that I know to be important and just shirking all responsibility. Mamma is right—I work too hard, and now it seems like I am going crazy too hard, as well.

He watched an exhaust-stained Peter Pan bus pull from the Authority and weave through the sluggish traffic of West 42nd Street. He watched arbitrary pedestrians scuttle like crayfish along the gray streets, most of them bundled against the premature cold. Willowy plumes of vapor blossomed from their mouths. Some of them rubbed their hands together to make friction.

Okay, a small voice in his head spoke up, now that you’re here, what are you going to do? Are you going to go inside and find Nellie Worthridge’s apartment and demand she explain how she knew the things she knew? Or will you stand out here and freeze your ass off?

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered—and maybe that was true, maybe he was getting carried away. After all, Nellie Worthridge hadn’t caused his bad dreams; his own overactive mind had caused them. That was all. He was the one to blame, not the old woman. And he knew that.

Still…she knew Julian’s name…and those horrible things she said…

And something else too—something about a dog.

We almost killed that f*cking dog.

Yeah. Sure. Fine. Goddamn. But he felt like he was losing his mind.

He spent the remainder of the evening across the street from Nellie’s building in a stuffy coffee shop sipping a steaming cappuccino. When it became dark, the world outside grew alive with the neon lights of countless Chinese food restaurants and 24-hour delicatessens. Cars hurried home and taxis whipped by like greased pigs through fence slats. Windows glowed soft yellow in Nellie’s building across the street. Mendes wondered what window belonged to the old woman. Was she awake now? Asleep? What other secrets did she have?

His reflection stared back at him from the coffee shop window. This is stupid, he thought, ashamed. A young Puerto Rican fellow bumped the leg of his chair with a broom, mumbled something from the side of his mouth. He could smell fresh coffee brewing behind the counter.

It was nearly ten o’clock when he arrived home that evening. Marie was watching television by herself in the cramped little living room, a bowl of ice cream resting on her belly.

“Howdy, stranger,” she said.

“Mamma go to bed?”

“An hour ago. Where’ve you been?”

“Out and about. Library, mostly. And a movie.”

“What movie?”

He didn’t know any movies. “Some mushy romance,” he lied, hating himself for it.

“Oh,” she pouted, “I could have come.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s all right. You know I hate the movies. I went shopping with Mamma.”

“Her leg’s okay?”

“Just a little sore today. What’s behind your back?”

He showed her what he carried in his hand: a plastic bag of tangerines.

“My favorite,” she said, smiling. “So then you missed me today after all?”

“All day,” he said, which was mostly the truth.

“That’s good. You look tired.”

“A little.”

“Go to bed then,” she told him.

“I think I will.”

“Hot bath first. It’ll feel good. Make your toes tingle.”

He smiled. “I don’t want my toes to tingle. I want to go to bed.”

“You’re very tired?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then no more bad dreams.”

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.”

“Goodnight, Carlito.”

“Goodnight.”

“Leave me the tangerines, sweet.”

He could hear his mother snoring soundly down the hallway. He crept into the bathroom at the end of the upstairs hallway and flicked on the light. For a long time he stared at his reflection in the mirror before undressing and going to bed.

He dreamt of going to Nellie Worthridge’s apartment building. Only in his dream he actually went inside the building, found a narrow staircase beneath a fire exit, and began to climb the risers. The stairwell was ill-lit and several times he checked over his shoulder for approaching unseen figures he was certain were there. After what seemed like a hundred flights of stairs, he reached a solid white door with the words CARRY-OUT SPECIAL and FREE DELIVERY written on it in neon lights. He pushed the door open and stepped into a darkened hallway with closed doors on either side of him. At the end of the hallway was what looked like a sliding subway door with a cartoon picture of Peter Pan on it. Only this Peter Pan seemed to be scowling, his eyes a deep crimson, his pointed ears more closely resembling horns. The crotch of Peter’s pants was saturated with blood, Carlos saw, and the lower half of Peter’s abdomen was swollen to a bulge.