Evan Hunter: Streets of Gold

“What would you like?” she asked.

There was the scent of lilac in the room. I suddenly thought of my Aunt Bianca.

“Ike?”

“Anything.”

“Well, what?”

“A little Scotch,” I said.

“Ice?”

“Please.”

As she poured, she said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”

She came back to the couch, put the glass in my hand, and then sat beside me. “What time is it, anyway?” she asked, and must have looked immediately at a clock someplace in the room, because then she said, “You really are early. Becky won’t be here for at least two hours.”

“Yes, well, I told you. The meeting was canceled.”

“No problem,” she said.

“If you have to go out...”

“I have to run up to Columbus Avenue for a minute. We’re out of club soda, and I thought I’d pick up some hors d’oeuvres while I’m at it. Those little things you warm up. You can come with me if you like.”

“No, I’d rather wait here.”

“Well, excuse me then, huh? I want to get out of these dungarees. Would you like another drink?”

“Please,” I said, and extended my empty glass.

She rose, took the glass, and went to the bar again. I heard the sound of whiskey being poured. She came back to me and put the glass into my hand. As she started out of the room, she said, “Shall I put on some records?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, and went down the corridor to her bedroom.

I sat on the couch sipping my Scotch. For no apparent reason (I already knew what time it was, Davina had already told me Rebecca would not be here for at least two hours, which meant it was now three-thirty or a little bit later), I opened the cover on my wrist watch and felt for the raised dots. The first ten letters of the Braille alphabet also double for the numbers one to ten. The big hand was now on the G, the little hand was almost on the D; it was now precisely twenty-five minutes to four. At the Blind School, I had never had any difficulty translating letters to numerals; it was the imaginative jump following this simple task that threw me. I asked Miss Goodbody why the three was a three when the small hand was pointing to it, but a fifteen when the big hand was pointing to it. And why was the seven a seven, but also a thirty-five (Like when we say it’s seven thirty-five, Miss Goodbody), and also a twenty -five (Like when we say it’s twenty-five to four). That’s a very good question, Iggie, Miss Goodbody answered. It was now twenty-five to four, and Davina was in her bedroom, which was at the far end of the apartment; I had placed my coat on the bed in that bedroom many times over the past several years. I decided to go into the bedroom to chat with her. I told myself I was a little drunk. Two strong martinis at lunch, a pair of Scotches now, I was just a little drunk. I got up off the couch, and banged my shin against the coffee table, and found my way down the corridor, past the bathroom I knew was on the right, and the small room on the left Seth used as a study, and then knocked on the door to the master bedroom, and called, “Yoo-hoo, are you decent?”

“Ike?” she said.

“That’s who,” I said. “Are you decent?”

“Well... no,” she said. “Not exactly.”

I opened the door. “Who did you think it was?” I said.

“Hey!” she said. “I’m not dressed.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Who’d you think it was?”

“Come on, get out of here,” she said. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Go make yourself another drink.”

“I feel like talking.”

“Ike, get out of my bedroom,” she said, and laughed, and came across the floor (she was still barefooted) to where I was standing just inside the door, and gently turned me around, and gently nudged me out of the room, and then closed and locked the door behind me. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said.

I went back into the living room. I found the bar and poured myself another drink, sniffing the lip of the bottle first to make sure it was the Scotch. Again, for no apparent reason, I checked the time. It was twenty minutes to four. I snapped the lid shut on my watch, went to the sofa (this time managing to avoid the coffee table), and sat. When Davina finally came into the living room, I said, “That was some minute. That was an Italian minute.”

“You’re not getting drunk, are you?” she said. “Becky’ll kill me.”

“Why don’t you have a drink yourself?” I said,

“What time is it?” she asked.

“About a quarter to four.”

“I’ll have one when I get back,” she said. “Ike, if the phone rings, don’t bother answering it. It’s out in the kitchen, I don’t want you breaking your neck.”

“Poor little blind bastard,” I said. “What are you wearing now?”

“Just a little white cotton shift,” she said. “And sandals.”

“Aren’t you allowed to wear dungarees on Central Park West?”

“Well, that’s not it. I like to...”

“Are you wearing stockings?”

“With sandals?”

“What are you wearing?”

“I just told you.”

“I mean under the shift.”

“None of your business,” she said.

“Is it what you were wearing when I came into the bedroom?”

“I was putting on my face when you came in.”

“Yes, but what were you wearing?”

“Hey, Ike... cut it out, huh?”

“Do I smell lilac?”

“What? Oh, yes, I have some in a vase.”

“I thought you might be wearing lilac under your shift My Aunt Bianca used to wear lilac all the time. She ran a corset shop. They called her the Corset Lady. She made corsets, girdles, bras, everything. I used to handle a lot of bras in her shop. You wouldn’t by chance be wearing a bra under your shift, would you?”

“Yes, I would by chance be wearing a bra.”

“And panties?”

“Panties, too.”

“Pity. Is that what you were wearing when I knocked on the bedroom door? Bra and panties?”

“Yes. Are we finished with my underwear?”

“Who’d you think it was?”

“I don’t follow.”

“When I knocked on the door.”

“Well, I knew it wasn’t Seth because he called and said he wouldn’t be home till six or a little after. And my boyfriend only comes on Wednesdays,” she said, and laughed lightly. “So it had to be you.”

“Lousy tune,” I said. “Why wouldn’t you let me stay?”

“In the bedroom? Are you kidding?”

“Can’t see a fucking thing, you know. Blind, you know.”

“Poor little blind bastard,” Davina said. “Listen, I’d better get going. You sure you don’t want me to put on some records?”

“Have you got The Man I Love’?”

“Yes, shall I...?”

“Dwight Jamison’s version?”

“What else?”

“Hate it,” I said.

Davina laughed.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I never know when to believe you,” she said. “I never know when you’re serious.”

“You can believe me when I say I hate ‘The Man I Love.’ You can absolutely believe I’m serious when I say that.”

“I believe you already,” Davina said. “Is there anything else you’d like to hear?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Did I tell you about Michelle?”

“No. Michelle? Who’s Michelle?”

“A Beatles tune. Too many unpredictable chord changes in it. Goddamn tune isn’t even logical. Probably the best thing they ever wrote, but useless to a jazz musician.”

“I’m always fascinated by what you do with a song,” Davina said.