In Her Skin(30)

You point to painted letters and arrows on the walls on either side of me. “To Carver Street, that way,” you read. “To Boylston Street, that way.”

I look above my head to where the marble staircase exits are boarded over. “Not anymore,” I say.

“Right. We’re, what, thirty feet underground?”

“Something like that,” I say.

You walk up the aisle and up some stairs to a fine old chair on the stage. “It’s beautiful,” you say, stroking your fingers along its back. “How did you know about this place?”

I pretend to study the swirly wrought-iron pattern that frames the stairs. “We all have our secrets,” I say, but I’m thinking that sometimes, homeless people get caught jumping the turnstiles at the Park Street station and they have miles to go before they sleep, and that chair you’re so fond of is better than the pavement under the awning of the burrito place next door.

“Mmm,” you say, taking in the view. “This is some stage.”

“It was built by the guys who started the piano store above. Used to seat six hundred fifty people. The coosticks are supposed to be perfect.”

“A-coustics,” you murmur, gazing up at the empty balcony.

I wince. I may have gotten the word wrong, but I know what it means. “So, test it out.”

Your head snaps. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you should sing.”

You fiddle with your sleeves. “I can’t. You know that.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. I won’t even listen. Look, I’m blocking my ears.” I cover my ears.

You bite your lip.

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask.

You turn from me, one hand on the back of the chair. I step out of the room and pretend to close the door, balling up a tissue from my pocket and sticking it into the lock hole quick—an old trick so that I can open it silently, and after a minute, I do. Through the crack, I see you close your eyes and plant your feet. Your hand rises to rest on your chest. You open your eyes and focus on the pile of broken pianos at the back of the hall. Finally, the sound comes, low and sweet, a song about a world of pure imagination.

It’s a song I’ve heard before, from a movie made long ago: old-fashioned, Technicolor, with a chocolate waterfall and a girl who turns into a blueberry and explodes. And it has nothing to do with chocolate or blueberries. You’re singing to me. Telling me life with you is freedom and I have chosen well.

You finish the last note and cover your face with your long white hands. I pull the door shut softly and wait for you to come to me.

*

The next night, sleep comes in dark waves. I’ve felt better about us since you sang to me, though I’ve seen little of you in the day since. It’s past midnight when I jolt awake. I wait a minute, hearing nothing but my own ragged breathing, but the air is disturbed. I feel under my pillow for the knife and touch the cold handle when you whisper near my ear, “Time to go!”

I am dragged from bed and dressed in your clothes, clothes I can’t see. I don’t struggle. It feels like a dream, to have your hands on me, fingers tugging at a zipper, buttoning the fly at my waist.

“God, it’s like dressing an infant! A little help, please,” you whisper.

“Where have you been?” I murmur sleepily, swaying.

“Does it matter?” you hiss. “And be quieter if you want to come. Slade’s job is to watch me. Most nights he stares at porn in his room, but you never know when he might get bored.”

You pull the nightshirt over my head and the shock jars me awake, a sudden arousal. You hand me my bra.

“This one’s your job,” you say.

I twist into the bra and the shirt you hand me and like that you are gone, one leg thrown through the window, and we are getting good at this. We launch ourselves into the night and onto the shaky fire escape. This time I follow your dark shape, led only by the pale flashes of your miniskirted legs. From the last landing we leap to the alley, noisily, and I hope Slade’s skin flick has a good story line.

“Come, down here,” you say, dragging me to the corner of Comm Ave., away from the brownstone. Your phone glows in your hand; you’ve already called for a car.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

The car arrives, and a guy with a slick smile leans over the passenger seat and buzzes down his window. “Tem-pull?” he asks.

“Tell me where we’re going or I won’t come,” I say.

You laugh and slide into the car. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”

I wait outside the car, door hanging open, rubbing my shoulders. By the light of the car door I see what I’m wearing. The jeans are skinny and the shirt is cropped just under my chest. It is not my best combination. You bend close to a lighted compact, slicking on lipstick.

My hand floats to the back of my neck.

“You have bedhead. It’s fine. It works,” you say without looking at me. “Get. In.”

“Works for what?” I say.

“Where we’re going,” you say.

I blow my cheeks out in a raspberry and slide in beside you. The phone on the driver’s clip-on stand says we are driving to Somerville, outside the Back Bay and a world away. I know this because Keloid Kurt was from Somerville. Called himself one of the last remaining members of the Winter Hill Gang. No one listened. He grumbled constantly about the “Yuppies” and “gen-a-fecation” and only shut up after someone ate his rat. The driver gets lost and you lose your patience. He tries to let us out in the middle of nowhere, but you say there’s no chance he’s dumping and running, you’ll give him a lousy rating and post a complaint. Finally he takes another turn and we land in front of a warehouse thumping with music, and you do tiny baby claps. We scramble out of the car. You make nice with the driver, ask him if he might come back in a few hours. He makes a crude noise and speeds off. I say something about taking the train, and you look at me like I’m crazy.