ERIN AND MALCOLM

Erin was in her stage clothes. Her black hair hung Chinese-style in a sharp curtain around her jaw, two inches shorter on the left. The haircut was new, but Malcolm hadn’t said anything. The rest of her outfit was what she always wore: tight leather skirt, fishnet stockings, white tank top under a ripped jeans jacket, and enough bracelets to fill a shoe box. From one of her shoulders her pet ferret, Rizzo, eyed Malcolm with apparent contempt.

“I need the keys to the van,” she said.

Malcolm got up and dug them out of the pocket of his other jeans. “Where are you playing tonight?”

“Brothers.” Erin held out her hand, palm up.

“Are they paying anything yet?”

“Four.” She twisted her nose as if this figure were of little consequence to her. “It’s a hundred more than last time.”

He tossed her the keys. “Just be careful. I noticed a scratch on the fender yesterday.”

“It’s not my fault. You know I’m a good driver.”

“I’m just saying be careful is all.”

She reached up and adjusted an earring, Rizzo slinking over to the other shoulder as she did so, then crouched down to Malcolm’s level and looked out across the street at the hotel window he had been watching. A fat man in a T-shirt was standing with his hands on his hips. A woman passed in front of him and out of sight. “You’re awful,” she said. “What are they doing over there?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you think they’re doing?”

“Something strange. The guy is probably some kind of fetish. He wants her to lick his ankles, but she won’t go for it.”

“A person can’t be a fetish,” Malcolm told her. “You can have one, but you can’t be one.”

“All right,” she said, standing. “You know what I meant.”

          

When she was gone he went into the living room and took out his bass. It was the Fender Precision he’d bought just after marrying Erin, with money her father had given them for a wedding present. The finish was worn to the wood in many places, and it had acquired a lacquer of beer smell and cigarette smoke from fourteen months of nights in roadhouses and rock clubs. That was how long Malcolm had played in Erin’s band while still keeping his contracting business going days. Then, six months ago, when he was renovating an apartment downtown, the circular saw he was using caught something in the wood and hopped into the V between his thumb and left forefinger, spattering blood and severing a tendon. He’d tied his shirt around it and walked, cursing, to the hospital.

The band hired a new bass player. Malcolm, his hand bandaged and unlikely ever really to be the same, had to watch their growing success from the other side of the stage. A friend of his in Vermont who was into some new variant of EST had told him everything that happens to you, you make happen—even little things like busy signals on the telephone, or headaches. Often he wondered what he had been thinking about just before he’d sawed into his hand. He tried to replay the event, but there was just gray space.

Hooking up a strap, he slipped the bass around his neck, plugged in to the ancient Ampeg that stood mute next to the stereo, turned it on and watched its tubes begin to glow. From his usual spot atop the television, curled around the antenna, Rizzo watched. Malcolm didn’t care for the animal, or for the way Erin treated it. She’d bought the thing after the band started to do well, as a kind of lifestyle prop. To Malcolm, Rizzo represented everything about Erin that had changed lately—all the tacky theatrics. It was the same night she’d brought him home that she’d told Malcolm she needed to be by herself.

Something had gone wrong—he could see it in the way she looked at him over her morning bowl of cereal, and the way she didn’t as she peeled herself out of her lycra pants and leopard shirts at night. Without ever actually discussing the problem, or even admitting to one, they’d sought remedies. Erin talked for a while about having a lesbian affair. Together, they’d made a serious attempt at vegetarianism. One Saturday night when the band was idle, they’d rented some porno movies, got drunk, and tried to watch them, but Erin only found them hilarious. Finally, by unspoken agreement, they’d given up. Erin brought Rizzo home and laid down the new rules. So, that’s what they were doing now, living in the same place, being by themselves.

There was no single moment you could trace it to, not even the accident with the saw. Rather, it had been a steady process. It was how things happened, Malcolm thought, as he thumped a string and listened to the sound grow in the speaker. Not suddenly, the way you expected them to, but in increments and shadings you could never quite put your finger on.

Malcolm had about ten grand invested in the van and the PA system, which the band continued to use. In return, Erin paid the rent. Malcolm watched a lot of television these days, sitting coldly in front of the screen with a Big Buckeroo dart gun in his hand, firing point-blank at sitcoms with their smiling husbands and career-girl wives. A teacher of his had once explained the theory of an expanding universe as a raisin cake baking in an oven, with the raisins remaining in one place while everything around them moved outward at equal speed. This was just how he felt—immobile, like a raisin.

He popped a cassette into the tape deck and the room filled with crowd noises, the clatter of beers being set down, a jumble of voices. Then the sound of a guitar string being tuned to pitch, and suddenly the whole band slamming into gear. Forcing his fingers against the strings, Malcolm banged along. He liked playing to these old tapes, but didn’t do it when Erin was around. If he closed his eyes, it was almost like being there all over again. He had the tapes memorized, even the little screwups, the missed beats, the wrong notes. They didn’t bother him anymore. He had heard them so often that when they came up, they seemed like old friends.

Usually, Rizzo left the room when Malcolm started to play, curling himself up on Erin’s bed. But this evening he arced his back and hopped off the television onto the floor, where he stood looking at him.

“Rodent,” said Malcolm. He cranked the volume on the bass, hoping to drive him out of the room. Rizzo traced a figure eight on the floor, then hopped back up onto the television by way of the empty box from the CD player Erin had just bought. Malcolm went over to the amp and turned it up to six. He could hear the thing humming. He shut all the doors leading out of the room and turned off the tape deck, then faced Rizzo and smiled. “How y’all feeling tonight?” he said. “Anybody want to rock and roll?”

He hit an open A that shook the floorboards, and the effect on the ferret was visible. His hair seemed to puff out an inch on all sides, and he drew himself back into a question mark.

Malcolm sang as loud as he could, “I said, Hey, bartender . . .”

Rizzo was now flat against the wall, looking nervously around for an escape. Malcolm began a boogie bass line that was so loud a phantom rhythm section of pots and pans began shivering in accompaniment from the kitchen. The animal hopped back and forth, almost as if to the music, but in obvious distress. It wasn’t enough volume for Malcolm. Backing up to the amplifier, he spun the knob to ten.

“I want you all to put your hands together for this one,” he said. He went over to Rizzo and held the instrument practically in front of his nose.

It was only one note, and it only lasted a second, but the sound was like a bomb going off. The apartment lights flickered for a moment. Then the speaker expired with a tired raspberry, and a panicked Rizzo, fearing for his life, first sunk his teeth into the back of Malcolm’s hand, then hopped up onto the stereo system and from there, out the open window.

“Damn,” said Malcolm, grabbing at his re-injured hand. He went to the window and looked down to see where Rizzo had landed, but the animal was nowhere in sight. Fifteen feet below was another roof that jutted out from the side of the building, covered with garbage: old boxes, empty cans and bottles, a rotting mattress. From there it was another forty feet or so to the ground, an alley that ran behind the building.

He held his hand under his armpit and wondered what to do. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be consequences to his actions. He wondered if he could tell Erin Rizzo had jumped for no reason at all. She would never believe it. But it wasn’t necessarily his fault. And besides, the little bastard had bitten him. He was probably going to contract some horrible ferret disease. He imagined his arm swelling up like a long black balloon, the kind magicians twist into animals at parties.

He went into the kitchen, ran hot water over his hand, and taped some gauze over it. Then he hunted through the cabinets, finally settling on a can of tuna, which he opened and brought back to the window. “Here, little buddy,” he said. “I’ve got something for you.”

He waved the can in the air to spread its aroma, then called out again, directing his words to the deteriorating clumps of trash below. “Come on, I’ve got some nice tuna here.” It felt idiotic to be talking this way. He thought of Erin and how she held long conversations with Rizzo as he sat on her shoulder, feeding him morsels of cheese and rubbing his small, weasel nose with her finger.

“I’m sorry,” he tried again. “I was just fooling around.” He looked above him and saw a man standing at a window, watching. Malcolm smiled, then pulled his head back in. He stuck the can of tuna in the refrigerator, pulled on his boots, and went out.

Though a tiny animal, Rizzo had left an easy trail to follow. At the Korean grocery across the street a woman sat surprised on the sidewalk, cantaloupes positioned around her like pool balls after a break shot. The grocer held a broom in his hand, ready to strike at the first sign of the demon that had invaded his store. His wife waved her hands and tried to calm the other customers in broken English. At the far end of the block, a man walking his Afghan was nearly pulled out into the street as the dog began barking and straining at his leash. Malcolm ran toward them.

The dog was barking up an alleyway and Malcolm turned in, trying to move calmly so as not to scare Rizzo. There were kitchen entrances on either side, one for a Chinese take-out place, the other a Mexican restaurant where he had once eaten with Erin and gotten sick from some bad sour cream. He paused between the two, wondering what his next step ought to be. He wasn’t even sure Rizzo would come to him. From inside the Mexican restaurant there was the sound of a large pan hitting the floor, followed by shouting in Spanish. Malcolm pushed open the screen door.

Three cooks were yelling instructions at each other. One of them held an iron skillet over his head. From high on a pantry shelf, Rizzo hung his pointed face down, his red eyes gleaming with what Malcolm was sure was pleasure.

“Rizzo,” said Malcolm in the sternest tone he could muster. “Come.” For nearly a year when he was a kid he had tried to teach a small mongrel dog to respond with this same command, before his parents had finally given the pet away. “Come here,” he said, his voice even lower.

The cook with the frying pan had been sneaking over from the side and was now in position to try a smack at the ferret, but Rizzo saw him coming and dove in the opposite direction, toward the stove. Beyond that was the entrance to the dining room. But he miscalculated just a bit, and landed on a saucepan lid that was balanced precariously above the stove. It tipped and fell taking Rizzo with it, depositing him neatly into a vat of deep-frying oil.

Malcolm had to give the chef ten bucks before he would let him fish Rizzo out and take him home. They gave him a carryout sack with Andale Andale, the name of the restaurant, printed on it, and he walked back to the apartment feeling sick. Once inside, he put Rizzo in his customary place atop the television, opened himself a diet root beer, sat down and stared at the blank screen.

          

He was asleep when she came in, his head dangling off the side of the chair. The sounds she made woke him. Disoriented, he was sure the apartment was being burglarized and jumped to his feet. Then he remembered.

“Babe,” said Erin when she saw he was awake, “Have you seen Rizzo?”

“He’s on the television,” said Malcolm, but even as he said it he saw that the bag was gone.

Erin noticed his expression. “I stuck your leftovers in the fridge,” she said. “You can’t leave food out like that. It will spoil.” She walked around the room, looking behind the furniture for signs of her pet. “I can’t believe you went back to that place after you got so sick the last time.”

Malcolm watched her move, trying to remember how it used to feel to look at her. When they’d first met she had seemed so mysterious and intriguing, like a carefully wrapped present delivered to him by mistake.

She noticed his bandage. “What did you do to your hand?”

“Erin,” he said. “You’d better sit down.”

She took it fairly well, considering. She listened calmly, knitting her brows in concentration, occasionally pulling at the one earring she had forgotten to take off. Then she went into the bathroom and threw up. Malcolm got the bag out of the refrigerator and put it on the table. When she came out he was standing in front of it, his hands in his pockets.

“I just don’t understand,” she said.

“Maybe he saw something out there.”

“Out that window?”

“Well, maybe he was trying to follow you.” Malcolm’s bass was still out, and he went to put it away. “What do you want to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t think.” She touched the bag tentatively with one finger, then pulled back. “Did you have to bring him back like this?”

“Would you rather I’d just left him?”

“Yes,” she said. “This is so gruesome.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Malcolm. “I’ll take him out to the dumpster. I just thought you might want to do something. Bury him or something.” He picked up the bag.

“Wait a minute,” said Erin. “We can’t just throw him out like a piece of garbage. You’re right. We should bury him.”

Malcolm put the bag back down. “OK,” he said. “I’ve done my part. I’m going to bed.”

She nodded. He went behind his partition, took off his shirt, and lay down.

A half-hour passed during which Malcolm looked up in the darkness at the ceiling and tried unsuccessfully to will himself to sleep. He’d done all he could, more even, he thought. But still he couldn’t rid his mind of the image of the white take-out sack on the table in the other room.

He heard footsteps. Erin was standing in his doorway. “Malcolm?” she said. “I need help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know where to take him.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Come on. Can’t you see I’m upset?”

She was actually asking him for something besides the truck keys, for the first time in a long time. Malcolm realized that, in an odd way, he was enjoying this—enjoying the power.

“He was your pet,” he said.

“Malcolm, please.” She seemed on the verge of tears. He thought back to the first job the band had played, and how she’d suddenly come down with nervous diarrhea an hour before the show. He’d had to make a last minute run to the drugstore to get her medicine.

The carpenter in him began turning the situation over, considering the angles. There was always a solution if you looked hard enough.

“We could call the ASPCA,” he said. “Or a vet. They have to dispose of dead pets all the time.”

“I want to bury him,” she said.

“All right. So what we need to do is find a place. Some grass or something. How about Central Park?”

“I want it to be close.”

He considered. “That’s tough. It’s not like we have a backyard.” He glanced out the window at the Towne House Hotel, the outside of which he’d spent so many hours staring at that each dingy brick was ingrained in his mind. “I know,” he said.

          

The night clerk at the hotel was staring lizardlike into a portable black-and-white television, and barely looked at them as they signed the register. Malcolm’s idea was that by taking a room they would have access to the hotel’s rooftop garden. He knew they had one, because a yellowing tin sign by the entrance proclaimed the fact. They would bury Rizzo, then sneak out so they wouldn’t have to pay. He signed the register “Les Paul,” and Erin, playing out the joke, signed underneath it “Mary Ford.” He liked her for that, for knowing him so well. He also felt the guilt again, as if it were something heavy he’d swallowed. Malcolm carried a small overnight case containing Rizzo’s remains, along with a spatula and a large serving spoon to use as digging implements since they had no shovel.

“Payment in advance,” said the desk clerk in a bored voice.

Malcolm made a show of patting his pockets. “Damn,” he said. “I must have left my wallet in the car.”

The clerk just looked at him. He had the pasty complexion of someone who spent his days asleep and his nights in front of a TV.

“The car’s in the garage for the night. I won’t be able to get to it until morning. You can trust us.” Malcolm smiled as broadly as he could, but was conscious that in his jeans and T-shirt, an earring in his ear, he looked very un-touristlike.

“Welcome to New York,” said the clerk. “Nobody trusts nobody here. You give me some money, you get a room.” He yawned and turned back to the television.

“Wait a minute,” said Erin. “I think I may have some cash.” She dug into her pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills—her evening’s pay. She counted out the amount for the room, nearly all she had.

“The grocery money, darling,” she said, taking his arm. “I forgot to give it to the maid.”

The clerk eyed her without amusement, then took a key off a hook. “Three-seventeen,” he said. “Need help with your bags?”

“No, I got ’em,” said Malcolm.

“Elevator to the third floor, turn right. Checkout is eleven-thirty.” He turned back to his television.

“I’m broke,” said Malcolm when they were on the elevator. “I can’t split this with you.”

“It’s OK,” she said. “This is cheap, relatively. When my aunt died, my Uncle Bob spent over three grand on the funeral, and that wasn’t even New York.”

They bypassed the third floor and went straight to the top of the building, got off and climbed a short flight of stairs to a metal door that led onto the roof.

“It figures,” said Malcolm when he pushed it open.

The rooftop garden was not really a garden at all, but a paved deck with a few lounge chairs scattered about and some potted plants. There wasn’t a square foot of grass. The moon hung like a dinner plate over the dark contours of the city, bathing the concrete in a thin gray light. He walked over to the railing and looked down. The view was dizzying—a constellation of intersecting planes going down a straight drop of two hundred feet.

“Romantic, isn’t it?” said Erin, coming over to join him and pointing up. “You could almost reach up and touch it. Don’t feel bad. It was a good idea.”

He tightened his grip on the railing. He wanted to confess, but the words would not come.

“There,” said Erin. She was pointing at a potted tree, a palm of some sort.

“What?” said Malcolm.

“We’ll bury him there. Right in with that tree. There’s plenty of room.” Her expression was practical, her voice calm and measured. She might have been discussing the weather.

She used the spatula and Malcolm helped with the spoon. They worked around the tree’s roots, and managed in a few minutes to clear a space of roughly Rizzo’s proportions. Malcolm watched her slender fingers as they worked the dirt. A pale line still marked the place where she’d stopped wearing her ring. When they were done it was with great hesitation that he finally brought out the paper bag.

“Maybe we should say something,” Erin said, looking dubiously, first at it, then at the hole they had dug. “Malcolm?”

“You say something.”

She put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “OK,” she said. “Dear Lord, we are gathered here to say good-bye to one of your creatures, a ferret, Rizzo by name.”

Malcolm watched a tear form in the corner of her eye.

“I feel stupid,” she said.

“Don’t,” he told her.

She took a breath and continued. “He was a good pet. I don’t know why he would have run off like he did, but he did.” She looked down at her feet, as if some additional words might be written there. “I hope you can find space for Rizzo in heaven Lord. He’s not very big.” Taking the spatula, she motioned for Malcolm to empty the ferret, who was quite stiff by now, into the pot. Then she turned earth over him until he was completely covered.

They walked in silence back to the elevator, which whirred and clanked its way up to them, then opened its doors with a gasp like a swimmer coming up for air.

Erin pressed the button for the third floor. The doors opened onto a dingy hallway that smelled of cleaning fluid and old closets.

“You’re going to stay?” Malcolm asked. His voice sounded loud in the empty hall.

“Seems like a waste of money not to, and I don’t know, I don’t like the idea of going back to an empty apartment.”

He stared at her.

“Rizzo’s on his way to heaven, right now.”

Malcolm, one hand in his pocket, ran his thumbnail up and down along the edge of a quarter.

“You can stay too,” she offered. “I don’t mind.”

As they entered the room together, Malcolm suddenly found himself wondering about the desk clerk downstairs, and what he really thought. That Erin was a hooker Malcolm had purchased for the evening? That they were criminals of some sort, laying low? Or maybe adulterers in need of a place to have their affair. In the dim light, he watched Erin’s tired movements as she walked about the room, touching things with her outstretched finger—the dresser, a floor lamp, the edge of the bed—as if this gesture were enough to make the place home. A desk clerk at a place like this would see a lot, he thought. After a while, you’d stop trying to guess and just accept things at face value. As far as that guy downstairs was concerned, Malcolm and Erin were exactly what they represented themselves to be—a married couple looking for a room for the night. The details were no one’s business. It was easier that way.