Bren stopped at the corner of Seventy-ninth and Broadway. I won’t go home, he thought. If I do, I’ll kill her, and besides, it would mean that I came when I was called. It was eleven o’clock. The thought of a long walk either up or down the familiar length of Broadway held small appeal, and it was too late to visit Eli. I’ll go see Dad, Bren said to himself. Maybe I’ll even stay. He’s always asking me to, and that’ll teach her a lesson. He set off at a brisk pace toward Central Park.
Bren had never been in the park this late, never, in fact, after dark except when a stream of people from some event filled the now deserted walks. The way was as well lighted as ever, but the heavy trees seemed to crowd closer to the path and hang their shaggy heads over the lamps, casting deep shadows between the pools of light. It’s only about three blocks wide, he told himself (three long crosstown blocks), and plunging his hands into his pockets, he strode eastward through the park.
The worst places were the dark underpasses. At the end of the last one a huge figure loomed against the lamplight on the path. Bren’s heart thundered in his chest; he tried to whistle, but found he had lost the knack. “Peace, brother,” said a soft voice as he came out of the tunnel, and he saw a tall black man in a sweat suit waiting while an absurdly tiny, moplike dog snuffled in the dry leaves.
“Peace,” Bren said, and hurried on.
The streets of the East Side were deserted at this hour—clean, empty, devoid of life. It was possible to think of something besides being jumped on from behind a tree. Inevitably Bren thought of Erika and was surprised at the sharp stab of pain that went through him at the image of her small, bewildered face. She had been hurt by his abrupt departure. He should have stayed, letting the force of his mother’s call fade from his mind.
So I had a sudden headache, he said to himself, and it went away. So I could have said, Sorry! and gone back to hugging her. She wasn’t mad; she was worried about me. The idea of himself as a heroic sufferer from some obscure malady—perhaps a brain tumor—was appealing. But I had to blow it, he concluded angrily, and wondered if he would be given another chance. The thought of Erika’s fragile rib-cage within the circle of his arm as they sat in the theater drove him to such despair that he walked half a block past his father’s building.
In spite of having visited his father many times, Bren always had trouble finding the right buzzer for the apartment. There were at least a hundred of them, and they were in no discernible order. 4-F followed 7-C, which followed 16-G. As he searched, the doorman, privately christened “Smirky Sammy” by Bob West, came up behind him and watched his struggles.
“Your dad’s got company,” Sammy observed just as Bren finally located the buzzer.
Bren jumped and lost his place on the bell panel. “What kind of company?” he asked.
“The kind of company you don’t want to be interrupted with,” Sammy said, with one of the knowing grins that had earned him his name.
“It must be fun to know everybody’s business,” Bren said.
“That’s what I’m paid for,” said the doorman.
“I thought you were paid to keep out thieves and poor old bag ladies who might want to sleep in the lobby,” Bren said, “but who cares? I was only passing by. If my father has company, I’ll come another time.”
Bren turned and stamped out onto Third Avenue. He was very angry and, he now realized, both cold and tired. The long, cheerless walk back to the West Side seemed impossible. But now it occurred to him that it was unnecessary, and he turned toward Seventy-ninth Street and the luxury of a crosstown bus.
It was nearly midnight by the time he got home. The house was dark and unusually silent. Everyone seemed to have gone to bed, even Shadow, who usually filled the front hall with his overwhelming welcome as soon as the key touched the lock. A dim light filtered down from the landing above, and with its aid Bren climbed the stairs. He was conscious of feeling both relieved and somewhat abused by this lack of reception. I could have stayed out all night, he thought, for all they care.
When he reached the landing, however, his mother’s door opened, and there she stood in an old bathrobe, her face white and distraught, the dog trying to push her out of the way. “Where have you been?” she cried. “I’ve been worried out of my mind. The ballet must have been over for hours.”
“I went for a walk,” Bren said.
“For a walk. You went for a walk? How can you just stand there and say you went for a walk when I’ve been wondering whether to call the police?” Miranda ran her hands through her already disordered hair and turned back into the bedroom, where she began to pace the floor.
Bren had little choice but to follow her. He put a restraining hand on Shadow’s head and stared at his mother. She certainly looked much less like a witch and much more like a mother than he was accustomed to. Was it an act? Clearly not, but he was still unwilling to forget the incident that had driven him to walk the streets.
“Mom, I am sixteen years old,” he said. “Suppose I had decided to take my date somewhere after the ballet. So what? You never mentioned that there was a curfew. Next time let me know, and I’ll take it into account. I might even telephone, although I doubt I would have tonight. Not under the circumstances. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“I haven’t a clue,” Miranda said distractedly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why shouldn’t you telephone? It was the least you could have done.”
Bren studied her in silence. Was it possible she had really forgotten the summons? Not likely, he thought, but she was probably unaware of the effect it had had on the final moments of his evening with Erika.
“You promised not to summon me,” he said finally, “but you couldn’t resist, could you, and it really pissed me off.”
Miranda looked stricken. “Oh, Bren,” she said, “did I really? I didn’t mean to. I must just have been thinking hard about you—hoping you were having a good time, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
She had made a mistake, and Bren found himself angrier than ever. “Sure, Mom. If I’d believe that I’d believe anything. What do you take me for,” he shouted, “some sort of mental defective? I know how much concentration you put into calling me, and you did it tonight at approximately ten minutes after eleven, and it made me so mad I almost didn’t come home at all. I went to see Dad,” he finished vindictively.
“So why didn’t you stay?” Miranda cried. “Why didn’t you stay and let your mother worry all night instead of just an hour or two?”
“Because he had company, that’s why. He had the kind of company you don’t want to be interrupted with, to quote his repellent doorman. Not really wanting to sleep in the park, I decided to come home.” Bren was appalled to see the effect this explanation had on his mother, but it took him a minute to figure out what he had said that would account for it.
Miranda sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew there had to be someone else. Why else would he leave and not want to come back?”
Bren himself had not really confronted his father’s apparent infidelity; he’d had too much else on his mind. Now he was struck dumb in a tangle of conflicting emotions. Worst of all, he was obviously expected to say something manly and comforting to his mother. Nothing whatsoever came to mind.
“So that’s that,” Miranda said in a small, husky voice, which was alarmingly on the verge of tears.
“So that’s what?” Bren asked, playing for time.
“Oh, Bren, don’t be stupid!” his mother cried, jumping up with a startling return to her usual manner. She strode to the window and stared out toward the park and the East Side, where her estranged husband presumably was disporting himself with some showgirl or feeble-minded, long-legged secretary. “Not for long, he won’t,” she muttered. “Just give me time to think, and I’ll fix that romance. I’ll turn her into a toad.”
“Come on, Mom,” Bren said. “You can do better than that. A toad! You must have been reading fairy stories.”
Miranda turned and stared at her son as if she had forgotten he was there. “Well, what do you suggest?” she asked.
“I suggest you forget the whole thing,” Bren said. “I’m really sorry I said anything. You know what a cesspool Smirky Sammy has for a mind, or maybe you don’t, but take my word for it. Dad’s probably working late with someone from the office, whipping up a new campaign or whatever, and besides…” He had been about to add that Bob West was a man living alone, parted from his wife, and not a monk. Just in time, he thought better of it.
“Besides what?” Miranda asked suspiciously.
“Besides you shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Bren improvised. It occurred to him that his mother’s wrath had been redirected and that angry as he still was about her interference with his evening, a tactful withdrawal was now in order. He began to edge toward the door.
“I’ll think of something,” Miranda said. “I’ll take my time and do it right. Maybe you can find out what she’s like, Bren. That’s such a help. I mean, if you want to make someone’s hair fall out, for example, it helps to know what kind of hair it is. It’s not essential, but it helps.”
“Mom, if there is a person, you know, the kind of person you’re imagining, which I doubt, but if there is, I don’t think I’m likely to meet her. Come on, Shadow, let’s go to bed. I’m beat.” I really am, he thought. What a day.
“You don’t want to help,” Miranda said, and the tears were back in her voice. “First you scare me half out of my mind, and then you refuse to do just a little tiny thing to help me. I can’t believe it.”
Bren, somewhat against his better judgment, crossed the room and gave his mother a hug. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. “I didn’t think of it that way, and as for the other thing, if I find anything out, I’ll let you know, okay?”
Miranda returned the hug. She was comforted, if not convinced, and Bren and Shadow made their escape.