People in Trouble (8 page)

The buzzer rang on her intercom.
 
It rang once.
 
If that were Molly downstairs coming to make up, she would have rung twice.

That was their code in case Peter was in the room.
 
Kate didn't answer.

She looked at her bookshelf.
 
On the top left-hand corner were all her books by Wilhelm Reich.
 
She'd long ago outgrown his theories but still loved the titles.
 
They all clearly evoked distinctive shapes.
 
There were so many to choose from: The Invasion of Compulsory Sex Morality sounded like a midnight movie.
 
The Bioelectrical Investigation of Sexuality and Anxiety could be a new album by Talking Heads.
 
There was always The Function of the Orgasm but that should be saved for someone's autobiography.
 
Ether, God and Devil was clearly an opera.

The Mass Psychology of Fascism should be read by everybody.
 
But then Kate settled upon the right choice, the right shape: People in Trouble.

There was a knock at the front door.

She looked through the peephole and saw a short black man.

"Who is it?"
 
she said.

"Census," he said, smiling.

She opened the door but stood in front of it so they could have a conversation without him coming into her studio.
 
She'd heard stories of strangers pushing in through the front door and always took precautions.

"Hello, I'm conducting a survey on tenant perceptions."

"What organization are you with?"

"I'm with the Tenant Survey Organization."

He took out a laminated identity card.
 
Underneath his picture it said "Tenant Survey Organizer."

"Okay," Kate said, not wanting to be excessively paranoid.

"How many apartments are there in this building?"

"Twenty-two."

"How many families?"

"How do you define family?"

"How many single people?"

"I don't know," she said.

"How many blacks?"

"Three.
 
Why are you asking?"

"How many homosexuals?"' He looked at her as though that question were perfectly standard.

"I don't know," she said, mostly because she didn't know how to count herself.
 
"I've got to go now."

"Please, two more questions and it will be complete.
 
I only get paid for a complete questionnaire."

"Okay."

"How many single men?"

"More than five but I really don't know."

"How many narcotics abusers?"

"I don't know.
 
Boy, the census has really changed since I was a kid."

"So has New York City," he said smiling.
 
"But you wouldn't know.

You're from out of town."

"Okay, I've got to go," she said.

She closed the door again.
 
Just then the intercom buzzed.

Only this time it buzzed twice.

Their reunion unfolded thusly.
 
Each one made her stand and stated her case.
 
Then they back-and-forthed it for a while.
 
Then they embraced.

"I only have two primary emotions," Molly said.
 
"Anger and sexual desire.
 
Then I have two secondary emotions: fondness and poignancy."

"Which ones apply to me?"

"Kate, toward you I feel anger and sexual desire, fondness and poignancy."

They let themselves feel each other and transform in each other's bodies before fighting a little bit and then they relaxed.

This was the transition from life into love.

They took off their clothes and rolled naked against each other on their feet and leaned on a wall the color of starlight.

After various places on each other's bodies and a variety of temperatures Kate stopped because she felt it was time.
 
Her habit of rhythm told her so.

"I want more," Molly said.
 
"I get turned on by making love with you.

Think of something really sexy for us to do right now."

"All right," Kate said, leading her to the wardrobe.
 
"Pick out something for me to wear."

"You've got your own costume shop," Molly said looking at the rack of play clothes.
 
There were fifties prom dresses, huge elephant-bell paisley pants like Cher used to wear.
 
There was lime-green crinoline, scarlet silk, black taffeta.

"I am a hard-core junkie when it comes to tactile beauty," Kate said.

"Do you want me to choose, Molly?
 
What about this?"

She pulled out a purple skin-tight 1960s pantsuit that would go perfectly with white vinyl go-go boots.

"Is this an original?"
 
Molly asked.

"Oh, yes," Kate answered.
 
"I have a past I can't outrun.

Before I met Peter I used to go to Max's Kansas City you know.

So, do you want me to wear this?"

"No."

Then Kate unhooked a white leather miniskirt with a huge black vinyl belt.

"Mod?"

"No," Molly said.
 
"Too Life magazine."

There were enough accessories to open up a branch of the Salvation Army.
 
This was clearly the result of a lifetime of regular, systematic inspection of thrift stores, finding great things and then taking good care of them.

"How about this?"

It was a handmade black dress of solid lace, designed to blow like grillwork over a bare body.
 
It would obviously look incredible over Kate's breasts.

UYes."There was music.
 
There were pulled shades and candles, a simulated night for these late-afternoon lovers.
 
Molly sat back in a cushioned chair and watched Kate, thinking she was so exciting to look at under any circumstances because no matter what she was doing she was always so many colors.
 
Then she watched her dance.

At first Kate seemed nervous, self-conscious, not free within her body, but encouraged by Molly's absolute joy, she relaxed and gave her lover this pleasure more freely.

Molly leaned back against the bed, hearing the sounds of day coming from the street, but sitting in the artificial evening.

When a person dances for her lover, Molly thought, she may want to dance sexy and close or just want to move.
 
Both are great.
 
Neither requires permission.

That's when the phone rang.

The two women watched each other's eyes, very still as the machine picked it up and the message played.
 
Then the voice came on.
 
Kate went to the machine.

"Hello, Peter?"

She turned her back, not so much for privacy as for concentration.

There was nowhere to go in the tiny studio, so Molly sat very quietly in the chair with her eyes closed.
 
Kate was going to take her time and not alert Peter to any other consideration.
 
It was to be a normal conversation.
 
They talked details.
 
All details.

The contents of that day's Times, including which airlines had proposed merger.
 
The plight of the American farmer.
 
Something having to do with percentage points.
 
Both Kate and Peter clearly believed in quoting statistics.
 
Molly moved to the bed, it was so clean and soft.

I really should get organized enough to have clean and soft matching sheets, she thought.
 
She looked through the books on Kate's shelf.

Any distraction.

Thank God, Molly thought as Kate and Peter finally got to the op-ed page.
 
I'd so much rather be the lover sitting here in silence than the husband being lied to on the phone.

When she hung up, Kate took off her dress and placed it carefully on a hanger.
 
Then she came to lie next to Molly and held her breasts in her hands.

"What's this?"
 
Kate said, finding an extra texture between Molly's legs.

"Take a look."

Molly watched Kate's face framed by Molly's legs, one cheek against one thigh, looking at the layers of her cunt and realizing how specific they were.

When it became that time when Kate had to be accounted for they parted.

Something about that close loving and sexy sharing disappeared for Molly as she put on her clothes.
 
While Kate readied herself for the next event, Molly left something of herself behind, as anyone does who begins an experience with another person and always finishes it alone.

Peter examined himself in the window of Tiffany's.
 
He was in no rush.

There was plenty of time until he had to be at the theater by five.
 
He could run uptown and down again by then and still have an hour to check up on things.
 
He had to be constantly vigilant with technicians to ensure the designs were completed with perfect accuracy.
 
Every instrument must be precisely focused or the lighting would have no soul.
 
It would be muddy, not crisp.
 
Sometimes muddy is the best choice, of course, but it must be chosen.
 
Whenever he worked a show with dubious structure, like this one, he could correct the shape without anyone ever suspecting.
 
When an actor crossed the stage for no reason, Peter could give him a light to step into, which was at least an illusion of meaning.
 
That's what it was to build shape.

Technicians were grunts for the most part.
 
If they could be artists they would have been.
 
So they didn't care as much as they should and often violated the design by being sloppy.
 
Peter was never sloppy.
 
He was diligent.

He continued down Fifth Avenue, stopping suddenly in front of something very unusual.
 
There was a billboard, of all things, hanging over Rockefeller Center.
 
It was Ronald Home's huge nondescript face, about two stories' worth, and underneath his nostrils in red, white and blue, it said: Home: For a Better America After that Peter walked for a minute and then decided to step into Saint Pat's.
 
Peter often walked into churches but he never got down on his knees.
 
He never lit a candle.
 
He just sat back and watched the show.
 
There were a lot of tourists in the cathedral on Sundays.
 
They were not only Americans with mobs of towheaded kids fresh from hotel breakfasts, but also wealthy visitors from Latin America in good suits.
 
There was a sprinkling of African students with Instamatic cameras dangling from their languid wrists.
 
Asian families lined up for photographs in front of someone's patron saint.
 
There were street people everywhere who just needed a rest, trying to be inconspicuous in the pews.

In fact, it seemed that every time Peter entered a church, a park or waiting room anywhere in the city, there were street people looking very tired.
 
Every square of public space was occupied by someone asking for money or too out of it to be asking.
 
But in the cathedral they were seated right next to little-old-lady good Catholics in tiny hats and gloves with patent leather pocketbooks and legs that could easily snap.
 
On the edges of the crowd were visiting nuns traveling in packs or in couples on vacation.
 
Peter wasn't Catholic but he often ended up in Catholic churches.
 
They were everywhere, like Sheraton hotels.
 
You could go anywhere in the world and there they were.
 
His father hadn't belonged to any church.
 
His mother went when she had to.

She'd dragged her son along enough times to be sure he knew everything he'd need to be able to participate.
 
But Peter remained faithfully unaware of the larger meanings behind the rituals.
 
The priest entered.

They all rose.
 
An organ played.
 
There were murmurings in various languages and constant movement as people came and went from their pews.
 
After all, this cathedral was a major tourist attraction.
 
This wasn't some quiet neighborhood church.

Peter made wishes.
 
He always made the same ones, in the same order.

He had kept those wishes in that order for years and years.
 
He wanted to do good work, have it be recognized and stay healthy.
 
Kate should stay healthy too.
 
These didn't seem to be outrageous demands.
 
And he wanted to be loved.
 
As he was reciting his own private liturgy, about forty men stood up together from among the worshipers and turned to face them.
 
These forty men turned their backs to the pulpit while the service was in progress.
 
Peter's eyes happened to focus on the face of one who seemed somewhat familiar.
 
Perhaps he lived in the same neighborhood.
 
The man was thin and unsure of what he was doing.
 
He was lanky and older with a gray mustache and bushy gray hair.
 
He was uncomfortable.
 
The man wore a black T-shirt with a pink triangle and the word Justice across his chest.
 
It did not make him look like Superman.
 
He was an anxious, regular guy.
 
All the men had the same shirts.
 
Some were robust and effeminate.
 
Some were shy.
 
They were all strong-willed and very serious.
 
The men stood with their backs to the priest who continued his service as though nothing was happening.