Killing Johnny Fry (12 page)

I reached out for the phone, thinking, without thinking, that I‘d call Joelle. She had always helped me when I was afraid. She was very logical and reasonable when I called her with my irrational fears.

Once there was a white guy who moved into the building across the street from me. From the first day he seemed to be staring at me and I got it in my head that his intentions were murderous. He was some kind of serial killer who hated middle-aged black men who lived in the midst of the white world. I knew it was crazy, but every time I saw him, he‘d give me that evil stare, and my heart thundered and I knew for a fact that he was going to kill me slowly with a knife, a big knife.

When I finally told Jo about my fears, she came down to my place and sat outside with me until the guy, Felix Longerman, came out of his front door. She went right up to him, engaged him in a brief conversation, and then dragged him across the street to me.

“This is Felix,” she told me. “He works for Viking, in translations."

It turned out that some eleven years before, Felix and I had worked on a project together, and every time he saw me, he thought I looked familiar. I hadn‘t recognized him because he‘d had a beard in those days.

My fears were so silly and yet they felt so real.

But that night, with the phone in my hand, I knew that Joelle couldn‘t help me. No one could. Brad Mettleman would laugh. Lucy would say that she was in the same position that Jo was.

I dialed a number.

There was no ring, just three clicks and then a voice saying, “Enter code or wait for first operator.” There was silence for a few seconds and then the sound of a phone ringing.

“Hello?” someone answered on the second ring.

“Is this, ah, um, a friend?” I asked.

“Yes it is. How can I help you?"

“Uh . . . don‘t we have to do business first? Don‘t you want my credit card or something?"

“It‘s not necessary. Your number shows up on their records and the charge appears on your phone bill."

“Oh. Wow. It‘s that easy?"

“Yes, very easy. Now, what do you want to talk about?"

“I‘m lost,” I said, and the gloom seemed to recede. The pressure I had felt in my chest lightened. I took a deep breath and sat up straighter.

“What‘s your name?” the woman asked.

“Cordell."

“Nice to meet you, Cordell. My name is Cynthia."

“Hi, Cynthia. I have to tell you that even just talking to somebody makes me feel better."

“Where are you right now, Cordell?"

“I‘m in my apartment, in my bed."

“Are you alone?"

“Pretty much. There‘s this guy sleeping on the couch in my living room."

“Who is that?"

“His name is Enoch Bennett,” I said, and then I went into the whole story, everything that had happened except for my obsession with
The Myth of Sisypha.
That seemed a little too much like sex for sex‘s sake, and the ad for the dial-a-friend line had definitely said that this was not a sex line.

“Have you told Joelle that you saw her yet?” Cynthia asked.

“No."

“Why not?"

“I want to,” I said. “But every time I see her, I get obsessed, sexually. All I want is to be with her, to make her mine."

“But she cheated on you."

“She‘s my only friend,” I said. “I guess that‘s obvious, because I‘m calling you. Not that there‘s anything wrong with you, but you can see that I don‘t have anyone to talk to. Joelle has been the only person I‘ve been really close to in eight years."

“Don‘t you have any family?” Cynthia asked.

“No. I mean, yes. I have a brother, a sister, and a mother."

“Can‘t you talk to one of them?"

That made me smile.

“Cordell?” Cynthia asked. “Are you there?"

“I was just thinking that you aren‘t doing very good business trying to talk me into calling my family."

“This is a friend line,” she said. Her voice was very calming. “I‘m here to help you, not to get you to spend money."

“Excuse me if I doubt that,” I told her.

“That‘s okay,” she said. “I understand. Most people who call here, especially the men, think that this is either a secret dating line or a scam to get lonely people‘s money."

“And do you somehow convince them that you‘re not those things?” I asked. Just the act of conversation was having a profound restorative effect
on
me.

“All I can do is tell them how our little company came to be."

“How‘s that?"

“A very wealthy man decided a few years ago that America was slipping into a kind of melancholy,” she said. It sounded as if this was a speech she had given many times. “People were getting fatter, becoming less active, concerned with the lives of characters on TV shows but completely unconcerned with the millions who die yearly from war and disease. This man felt that most people were unaware, or mostly unaware, of the sadness that was daily descending upon them.

“He knew that he couldn‘t address this emotional dysfunction directly. He knew that even his great wealth couldn‘t stem the tide of melancholy, so he decided to do what he could. He hired a psychological testing firm to locate and hire hundreds of persons who have empathy and care for people with problems. Not psychologists or professional counselors, but people who feel compassion for others.

“He started this hotline so that people could call, not necessarily when they were in an emergency but when they just needed a friend to talk to."

“You‘re kidding,” I said. I was holding the big toe of my left foot with my right hand like I had when I was a child.

“ N o , “ Cynthia said, “ I ‘m not kidding. And so if I think your family would be better for you to talk to, I‘ll tell you that."

“Wow,” I said. I rolled onto my side. “How much time do I have?

“As much as you want, Cordell. But you were going to tell me about your family."

“My brother‘s in the army,” I said. “Special Forces. He‘s always off in some foreign country either killing people or showing others how to kill. We haven‘t spoken in seven years. He believes America is doing great things and I don‘t. Not . . . not that I do anything about politics. I don‘t even vote. It‘s just that I don‘t believe that the government cares for everyday people.

“My sister and I just don‘t hit it off. She was angry at me for not making my marriages work. She‘s married. They live in Utah and have very little time for anything but their children and their church.

“And, and my mother is in a senior apartment complex in Connecticut. It‘s not a medical facility, and my mom is okay on her own, but she won‘t talk to me about anything important. If I bring up something that makes her uncomfortable, she gets confused and starts talking about the old days when Eric, Phoebe, and I were kids."

“What about your father?” Cynthia asked.

“He‘s dead."

“But our parents are close to us our entire lives,” she said. “Your father will be with you until the day you die. What would he tell you about your girlfriend and her lover?"

In the wake of Cynthia‘s question, a wave of deep exhaustion washed through me. I yawned and pulled the pillow under my head.

“All of a sudden I‘m really tired, Cynthia,” I said. “I can hardly keep my eyes open. I guess talking to you relaxed me. Thanks a lot, but I think I have to get off."

“If you want to talk to me again,” she said, “when they ask you to enter my code—just spell out my name, Cynthia, C-Y-N-T-H- I-A with a three at the end of it."

I nodded and then hung up.

I don‘t remember anything after that until the dawn light shone in my open window. I suspected that Enoch and Cynthia were the product of my sleeping imagination.

I got up, stumped into the living room, and realized that my experiences from the night before were real. Enoch was in the same position I‘d left him. I was still dressed in the clothes I‘d worn the day before.

I showered and shaved, put on clean clothes, and brewed a strong pot of French roast coffee. As I was pouring my first cup, Enoch wandered into the kitchen. Across his shoulders he wore the camel-colored cashmere blanket I‘d covered him with.

“Good morning,” he said, his greeting couched on the bed of a wan, sensual smile.

“Hey. You back with the living, huh?"

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“Last night you stumbled down to my apartment and knocked."

“I must have been really drunk."

“Oh yeah,” I said with a smile. “I didn‘t understand a word you said. And then you just fell asleep."

“Did I say anything coherent?” he asked, staring into my eyes.

“No. You want some coffee?"

“Where do you live?” I was asking Enoch Bennett.

He sat at the small table next to the dishwasher in my kitchen. It was 6:36 AM.

“I live in L.A. with my mom,” he said. “I‘m planning to move out soon. But you know, rent is so high out there, and you really have to be careful about where you live."

I remembered that Sasha said he was thirty.

“Has it been fun visiting here in New York?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sasha‘s a blast, and I really love it here. But New York‘s even more expensive than L.A."

He seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“You better believe it,” I said. “I‘m from San Francisco originally. I‘d leave, but I came here so long ago that I couldn‘t even imagine where else to live."

He smiled, his eyes welling with tears.

At that moment, someone knocked at the door.

“Excuse me,” I said, rising to go see who it was.

Enoch sighed, glad, I was sure, to be left to his internal devastation.

Sasha was standing at the front door. All she wore was a lacy nightgown that went down to her knees and showed a good deal of cleavage.

“Is he down here?” she asked me. Her voice was flat and uninspired.

“Yeah,” I said. “He came to the door, cried for a few minutes, and then fell unconscious on my couch."

“What did he say?"

“Nothing I understood."

“Not a thing?"

“No. Mostly he just cried, and the words made no sense in English, French, or Spanish."

Sasha smiled at my translator‘s note.

“Sasha?” Enoch was standing behind me at the entranceway.

“What happened, Inch?"

Instead of answering, he ran to her and threw his arms around her neck. He cried as hard as he had the night before. She put her arms around his back and held him loosely while he blubbered and wailed. Her face was without emotion as she held him. For her, you could see that this was just another phase in a very complex play.

After a minute or so, she patted his shoulder blade and said, “It‘s okay, baby. It‘s all right."

Her eyebrows rose in mild perturbation at his childish behavior.

“Thanks for taking him in, Cordell,” she said. “Inch gets emotional sometimes when he drinks."

“No problem,” I said.

“Come on, honey,” she said to her brother. “Let‘s go upstairs."

For a moment Enoch resisted. He turned his face toward me, and there was real fear in his eyes.

“Come on,” Sasha said. “Cordell has his own life to take care of."

“Yeah,” Enoch said, still looking at me. Then he turned away, and the door closed behind them.

I took in a deep breath that trembled on its way back out. The passion between the brother and sister was dark and bottomless. I realized that the trouble I had with my siblings was nothing compared to what it might have been.

I made my bed and opened the windows wide again. I wrote down Cynthia‘s name and number. I thought about her seeming concern with whom I had in my life. Just remembering our conversation cooled the sexual tension that had colored every moment since I‘d seen Jo and John Fry. Even then, when I remembered their sexual abandon, I had no emotional response.

Maybe, I thought, this time I could break it off with Jo. I had Cynthia now.

I wondered what the professional phone-friend looked like. Was she tall? Pretty? Asian? But I was happy to realize that it didn‘t matter what she looked like; Cynthia was a pure friend, an ideal friend, someone who cared about me for me. The money I paid meant nothing. I looked at it like a contribution to a charity committed to the eradication of loneliness and melancholia.

Cynthia was my social worker—that‘s how I saw it. Whenever I needed her, she would be there in my corner, asking questions about my well-being, my family, and my heart.

With those thoughts in mind, I lay down across my bed and slept for hours with no concern about Sasha and Enoch, Jo and Johnny, or Lucy and Billy.

I was a lone craft floating on a sea of unconsciousness. I had no destination, no point of origin. I didn‘t have a job or a girlfriend. I had no appointments or bosses to tell me what I should or shouldn‘t do.

When I woke up, the sun was shining on my bed—not directly on me but at my side, like a disembodied sacred lover, a goddess who graced me with her intangible presence for a few moments while I slept.

It was early afternoon by then. I took out the fax from Brad‘s office and called half a dozen galleries. I presented myself as Cordell Carmel, associate of Brad Mettleman. I told them that I‘d been working for Brad for some years and now I was going out into the field to help him with a new stable of exceptionally talented young artists.

By 2:00 I had four appointments to show Lucy‘s works.

I took the subway up the Westside to Jo‘s neighborhood. As I walked through the door of her building, I glanced at my watch. It was 2:58. It struck me that I was always on time, never late a moment, until the day I didn‘t go down to Philadelphia.

I couldn‘t understand when other black people talked about CP time: colored people‘s time. I was never late. And so many of my childhood friends had joined the armed services. You couldn‘t be late in the army.

Maybe punctuality was part of my problem, I thought. Maybe I felt oppressed by everyone else‘s needs. If I started to live by my own schedule, maybe people I worked with and people like Jo wouldn‘t feel that they could walk on me.

Robert the doorman was at his post.

“Yes?” he asked me.

“You don‘t know me, Robert?” I asked back.

This retort made him a little wary.