The Immortalists(38)

When she woke, she was nauseated that she had not buried Simon and Saul according to Jewish custom. Just as bad was the pull of the water, that dark slope of pity.

Her nightgown was heavy with sweat. She pulled on her pink bathrobe and knelt on the wood floor at the foot of the bed.

‘Oh, Simon. Forgive me,’ she whispered. Her knees shook. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to rise, and she wept for it, for all the suns that Simon, her bright one, would never see. ‘Forgive me, Simon. It’s my fault, my fault, I know it. Forgive me, my son.’

There was no relief. There would never be any relief. But the sun, slanting through the bedroom window, was warm on her back. She could hear the taxis honking on Rivington and the bodegas rustling to life.

She walked unsteadily to the living room, where the children – she would always call them that – had fallen asleep. Klara curled against Varya on the couch. Daniel’s long legs hung over the arm of Saul’s favorite chair. When she returned to the bedroom, she made the bed and whacked Saul’s pillow until it fluffed. She dressed in a dark wool shift and flesh-colored stockings, fit her feet into the black heels she wore to work. She powdered her face and put hot rollers in her hair. By the time she came out again, Varya was making coffee.

She looked up in surprise. ‘Mama.’

‘It’s Tuesday,’ said Gertie. Her voice was scratchy from disuse. ‘I need to go to work.’

The office: clacking of keys, central air. By 1982, Gertie had her own computer, a magical gray behemoth sent to do her bidding.

‘Okay,’ said Varya, swallowing. ‘Good. Let’s get you to work.’

Four months later, in January of 1983, Klara noticed Eddie O’Donoghue in the audience at a club in the Haight. As she was being lifted for the Jaws of Life, his upturned face grew smaller and smaller, and his badge caught the glare of the spotlight. It took a moment for Klara to recognize him as the cop who had once harassed Simon; then her body grew hot. She stumbled when she landed, bowed gracelessly and exited the stage. She was thinking of all the times she’d slipped a hand into a man’s back pocket and grabbed a twenty or two, more if she needed it. Was he tracking her? A vendetta, maybe, after she cursed at him on the station steps?

No. It didn’t make sense. She was careful when she picked pockets, she had sharp eyes that took everything in. One month later, those eyes spotted Eddie again at a show in North Beach. This time, he wasn’t wearing his uniform, just a white crew neck and Dockers jeans. It took all of Klara’s focus to stay on script during her cup-and-ball routine, to ignore his crossed arms and closed smile, which she saw next at a Valencia Street nightclub. This time, she nearly dropped her steel rings. After the show, she strode toward Eddie, who sat on a round leather stool at the bar.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Wrong?’ asked the cop, blinking.

‘Yes, wrong.’ Klara sat down on the stool beside him, which wheezed. ‘This is the third show you’ve come to. So what’s your problem?’

Eddie frowned. ‘I saw your brother’s picture in the paper.’

‘Fuck you,’ she said, and it felt so good, like alcohol burning out a virus, that she said it again. ‘Fuck you. You know nothing about my brother.’

Eddie flinched. He’d aged since she saw him outside the Mission Street police station. There were creases below his eyes and a fuzz of orange hair around his chin. His strawberry blond hair was mussed, as though he’d just woken up.

‘Your brother was young. I was hard on him.’ Eddie met her eyes. ‘I’d like to apologize.’

Klara stiffened. She wasn’t expecting this. Still, she couldn’t pardon him. She grabbed her duster and her duffel bag and walked out of the bar as quickly as she could without attracting the attention of the manager, a sleaze who never missed the opportunity to pressure her into a nightcap. Outside, it was shockingly cold, and hard-core punk streamed from the doorway of Valencia Tool & Die. Klara’s eyes smarted. It seemed unfathomable that Eddie was alive while Simon was not, and yet he was – alive and presently jogging after her, his eyes sharp with new determination.

‘Klara,’ he said. ‘I have to tell you something.’

‘You’re sorry, I know. Thank you. You’re absolved.’

‘No. Something else. About your show,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s changed me.’

‘It’s changed you.’ Klara chortled. ‘That’s sweet. You like the dress I wear? You like the way my ass looks when I spin?’

He grimaced. ‘That’s crass.’

‘It’s honest. Do you really think I don’t know why men come to my shows? You think I don’t know what you get out of it?’

‘No. I don’t think you know.’ He was wounded but held her gaze with a stubbornness that surprised her.

‘Okay, then. What do you get out of it?’

He opened his mouth just as the door to the Die expelled a clot of punks, who paused against the empty storefront to smoke. Their heads were shaved or garishly dyed, and chains hung from their belts. In comparison, Eddie looked painfully conventional, and he paused with discomfort. Years ago, Klara might have felt sympathy for him – for anyone at all – but by now her sympathy had been exhausted. She turned and walked swiftly toward Twentieth Street.