Part 16 - Ivan: Hope & Despair
The rot in the doorway looms over us like a predator lurking in the branches above. It threatens the Giant; he ducks because he must. I walk through without a second thought. If the building crashes down around me, it will have been my time. The smell that hits me almost slows me, but I breathe deeply, take it in, accept and dismiss it. I’ve smelled this before, smelled worse. The reek of antiseptic makes my eyes water, and I blink away the tears before we make the main room, where I find what I’m looking for.
The press of flesh rivals the prison yard, as does the noise as it echoes from the curving white ceiling overhead, building intensity amongst the wrought iron beams that support a dying roof. Eyes look through me, seeking something I do not bring. Cots team on the warped wood of the floor like metal shipping containers along the pier. Bags and sacks and frayed leather cases fill the empty spaces between them, bodies lying, sitting, squatting amongst them like birds hovering over their eggs, their young. My eyes linger on young faces while their eyes follow the monster that opens the way before me. I’m nothing to them, but they are everything to me, and as we near the center of the old gymnasium, I slow and gaze on the faded stars and stripes that hangs lifeless from the nearest rafter, a reflection of bygone glory.
All that’s left is the possibility of what may come, and already I can see the potential this place brings. It’s the third shelter we’ve opened in the Lower East Side in the last six months, and my pockets overflow with its bounty.
A little Asian man, maybe Chinese — I can never tell, comes out of a side door and weaves through the maze of flesh and fodder. His eyes are riveted on us stopped in the center of the chaos, and when his gaze meets mine, his eyes flick away, head dipping as if to watch his step, but I understand the look. I’ve seen it all too many times in my years roaming this Earth. It was once my own head dipping, unable to maintain the gaze of the men who owned me.
His head is pulsing with the heat of the place, sweat pooling in the ridges and chasms that crease his forehead. He smiles a little, bows a little, and coughs into a faded red handkerchief, then offers me his hand. I offer him a blank look in return.
“Good morning, Mr. Morrell. May I take your coat? You must be about to burst into flame in here.”
I shake my head, a slow, deliberate movement that sparks a flurry of rapid movements by our host. He dabs his forehead, wipes his mouth, coughs again, then tugs on his tie as if he is late for a meeting. “I’ll have a glass of water. No ice.”
“Yes, yes, indeed, Mr. Morrell. Yes, indeed,” he says, backing away and turning, motioning. “This way, please, if you would be so kind.”
I dismiss his request and stand fast, waiting for him to notice, which he does after a few steps. “A glass of water, Mr. Chang.”
He nods and scurries away.
I watch him and wonder. His world is encased in fear from what I can see. Or does he save it up just for me? In a jar perhaps? Lid screwed on tight? Then just before I arrive, he wraps his child-like hands around the lid and grunts, waiting for the give, for the subtle shift, for the sudden ease with which it spins in his grip. And then he pulls it free and the fear washes over him like the gifts from Pandora’s Box. Just enough fear to scurry away, to bow and scrape, but not enough to piss himself. Not yet.
He returns with the water momentarily, holds it out to me, but I ignore it. I turn away and survey the crowd, my eyes lingering here and there, the Giant shifting around behind me as I scan the shapes and sizes, the faces, the hair. “Walk with me, Mr. Chang.”
I step off, and I hear him scamper over to fall in beside me, the glass of water still waiting. “Many new residents here at Andover Hall, I see.” We weave an uneven path between cots and pockets of possessions. Children play cards. A woman watching them looks up and smiles at me. I smile back, a twist of the lip that I draw up through my cheek to my left eye — practiced and perfect. I see the reflection of it in her ruddy face. Her brown eyes soften, and I breathe in the hope as they descend and wash across the dark green cashmere of my coat, linger in the reflected light on the tips of my shoes. She is soft and full under the sweater; meaty. I can see it in her neck, her cheeks, and I stop.
Mr. Chang, willing lapdog that he is, comes around me and fills the space between, closing the link. “This is Rose, Mr. Morrell. Rose Carrington. She’s just in this week with her two children.” He introduces, and she climbs to her feet, her eyes still on me, even meeting mine now, where Chang’s fall to the floor again. I nod, and she returns the courtesy. “Rose, this is Mr. Morrell. He is a prime benefactor of the Andover shelter. In fact, he is a major supporter of both the Simpson and IronHouse shelters, as well. He’s simply our most important…”
I clear my throat and cut him off. “I’m sure Rose doesn’t need to hear any of that,” I say and offer my hand. She takes it without reservations, and I smile again when I feel the fullness of her fingers, the strength of her grip. Her nails are chipped but recently painted, and she still has a hint of makeup. “It’s our pleasure to help in any way possible. You must have been through so much.” I swallow down the words, wondering where they come from.
“I…” She hesitates, smiles again — white soldiers in perfect formation, then drops her hand, then her eyes. “Thank you. We had nowhere else to go.” Her words dance in the air before me like sugarplums, and I can’t help but lick my lips. She turns her head to watch the children trading collecting the playing cards for another go, and the outline of her breasts fill my vision.
The calendar scrolls through my head without bidding, and I see the dates lining up. Another shipment going out in two days, and then another in almost two weeks. She could make that second date, that second container tucked neatly amongst brand-named machine parts and foodstuffs, where no one will hear what muffled screams she can muster. Until then, perhaps I can find myself a suitable distraction from the world. My eyes linger on the children, and I see they are playing the game of “Go Fish”. A child squeals and points at the pile of facedown cards, calling out the game’s name. Rose chuckles, and I feel the laugh in my chest, in my stomach, deeper still until I wonder what her sobs taste like. What will she do for her children? What will she endure?
Chang holds the glass of water until I reach out and pull it from his grasp. The liquid is warm, the glass hot where his hand clutched it, but I drink down the liquid, tepid though it is. No ice, no carbonation. At times like these I need no indulgences. There will come a time for them, and I know how I will indulge. I watch this Rose Carrington over the top rim of the glass. She pushes her brown hair from her face, smooths it up over her ear, exposing her neck, opening herself up in a way that she probably cannot understand. The simple, unconscious body language that travels between persons — it’s something that most cannot comprehend, most are completely ignorant of, but I can read it as easily as I read Pravda or the New York Times.
I finish the water and hand the glass back to Chang. He offers to get another, but I shake my head again and move on, the Giant in my wake again. I’ve noted two other candidates that I wish to inspect, but not meet. My hands are deep in my pockets now, where they will stay. But something about the Carrington woman intrigued me, pushed me into something I had no business doing. And yet, there was something about her that moved me to touch her, something that calls to me still as I press on through the maze of flesh and canvas and tears. When I look back over the crowd of hunched shoulders and bowed heads, I see her slip off her sweater, see her rounded shoulders and the length of her neck.
I stop under an old scoreboard, dead and dark, and picture a length of coarse rope in my hands when I see her. Tears roll down her eyes as she drops to her knees, naked and defeated, and offers me whatever I will take, if only I will see her children through to some better world. I smile and nod, and she accepts the rope around her neck, the synching of the knot until it threatens to close her throat. A threat. A promise. A deal. She crawls across the floor behind me, the Tatianas watching the death of hope from their perch on the divan.
I blink, and come back to the present, leaving the future to its own devices. What will be will be. What is now is her gaze from across the room fixed on me, her eyes on mine, and I feel a stir as I recognize the hope in her face. And I smile.