Bruce Bauman - Broken Sleep

“She has no desire to see him or you. None.”

“That was not your intended question, was it?”

He asked, almost giddily, “Why are you seeing Nathaniel Brockton? Don’t try to deny it.”

“You little prick. What you really mean is: Will I help you send him to jail? Junior, see this?” I stuck out my fuck finger. “You suck it until it squeezes out of the pinhole in your skinny dick.”

“Your insults will not help him. He is being arrested at this very moment.” My fury at his arrogance overwhelmed the sword thrust to my heart. I leapt up and moved closer to him. “You know what Diogenes said about a rich man’s house?”

“No, no. I don’t.”

“He said that the only place to spit — is in his face!” I launched a gob that nailed him in his right eye.

“You crazy cunt—”

He lunged at me as the door swung open and this not-so-jolly giant, who must’ve been listening, lumbered in. Jr. had got me around the neck and I was clawing his face. The giant tossed Billy Jr. away and grabbed me with his glommy, Cyclops-like hands. His ring dug into my arm. He lifted me as if I were a feather duster and dropped me onto one of the divans. He was too massive for me to kick or bite and do any real damage.

“Miss Savant, please do not move.” His voice, stern with me, switched to agitated contempt as he turned to Jr. “Bill, you should go wash up. Come back when you’ve regained your self-control.”

The galoot stood well over six feet, dressed in a green polyester suit with a ridiculous handlebar mustache and a ’70s crew cut. His soulsmell reeked of larceny and fired gunpowder. He turned back to me.

“Please excuse Bill, he is not always the most mature of men. Miss Savant, you must understand that your response, despite his tactlessness, was most unwomanly.”

“Your definition of unwomanly, not mine.”

“Let us agree to disagree about that for now. We asked you here today to consult with you on a vital matter. To help you avoid trouble for yourself.”

“Are you threatening me? I haven’t done a fucking thing wrong.”

“I agree you’ve probably done nothing illegal. Which is different from wrong. Now, our purpose is to inform you that Nathaniel Brockton will be arrested today. I am asking you, for your own good, and for that of your son and your mother”—I sensated when he said “your mother,” he hadn’t meant Hilda—“to spare them pain and embarrassment, to refrain from seeing Brockton when he is imprisoned. Also during his trial, if there is one.” I realized he knew much more than I first suspected.

“Is there a deal? Is he surrendering?”

“I am not at liberty to answer that. There are forces at work, and some of them would deem you unfit to retain custody of your son if you were to cosset a criminal and an enemy of America such as Brockton.”

“He’s a patriot. If you believe he is an enemy, then you are the enemy.”

“Miss Savant, as you said of yourself, do not presume to know me.”

“So fill me in, then. You a Fed? CIA?” That face, which looked like a drunken sculptor had pasted it together from used coffee grounds, didn’t reveal a damn thing.

“Let’s assume I work for the government. Our country is one in which people are free to disagree as long as they do not break the law by distributing illegal substances or acting in a violent manner to destabilize the constitutionally established order.”

“Nathaniel never dealt a drug in his life. And he does not advocate violent revolution.”

“That will be decided by the justice system.”

“Fucking bullshit. You and Billy Jr. with your illegal spy games, threats, and self-righteous attitude. Since you are so concerned with protecting Greta—”

“Miss Savant, we are here to speak about Nathaniel Brockton. I may be able to ask William to work with you regarding other matters, but first you have to work with me.” Obviously, Papa Bicks was playing some version of puppet master.

“Depends on what you mean by other matters. You tell me who my father is and then maybe we can ‘work’ with each other about Nathaniel.”

The phone rang. Junior must’ve picked it up in another room. A minute later the doors burst open and he came charging at us. “The bastard disappeared.” Billy Jr. turned to me. “Did you talk to Brockton last night after you got my note?”

“Bill, shut up. Just shut up.” The galoot curled his upper lip and sniffed through his large nostrils in absolute disdain. “Goddamn incompetent. Sh-eet. Miss Savant, I must go. For your own sake and for the sake of your child, please stay away from Brockton if he contacts you. We will talk again.” The two of them left the apartment.

Lorraine and Marcella the maid brought Alchemy to me. Oblivious (willful or not) of the atrocious machinations of her husband, Lorraine complimented Alchemy. “Your son was playing our piano. He plays splendidly. He’s quite precocious.”

“Thank you, Lorraine.” I wasn’t sure if there was another implication beyond his musical ability. “What’s the name of Bill’s friend?”

“Oh, that’s Laban Lively. He’s more of a business associate than a friend.”

“Of course,” is what I said, thinking, How lucky you are to live in Blissland! We got the hell out of out there right then and took the bus crosstown. At 68th Street, we took the 6 train down to Spring Street. I checked Fanneli’s. Maybe he’d left a note. No. So we walked over to the gallery. I asked one of the gallery assistants to take Alchemy back to the Chelsea before I strutted outside. If they were watching me, I didn’t want to appear afraid. I hailed a cab, and some Russian coot picked me up. I told him to keep driving around SoHo.

Nathaniel never showed up.

I’d never felt so lonely or helpless. I’d had plenty of men come and go — a few meant more than others — but they never reached inside my soulsmell. Nathaniel certainly wasn’t the best looking or even the best lover, though he became more skillful under my tutelage. But he could be silly and smart, and unlike so many others who went on a charm offensive until they got sex and just became offensive, Nathaniel accepted me for me and remained true to himself. Sitting in a room while he read and I sketched, or in an abandoned room in the Christodora — those times with him and only him, I felt safe from myself and the forces of the dark matter. Even as he grew despondent by political defeats and frustrated by his inability to end my “episodes,” he was always the kindest man, in all respects to all people. He didn’t parade around like some famous do-gooder in public life and become a double-dealing whoremonger in private. In the end it was a stroke that killed him. But Gravity Disease corroded his cells.

Xtine was too smart to offer superficial salves for my oozing sore-of-a-self. She took special care of Alchemy. I spent a lot of time at the gallery hanging and rehanging the show, hoping Nathaniel would reappear. I heard nothing from him or the Bickleys.

The night of my opening, I forced myself to don my party mask, wearing a black cocktail dress and a jacket I pastiched out of an American flag, cut from the bastard cloth of Abbie Hoffman and Jasper Johns. Xtine was Alchemy’s “date” for the night, and he’d be sticking by her side at the gallery, so I felt safe in disobeying my usual preopening injunction — no drugs, no drink until the after-party — and snorted a couple of speedballs Holencraft had brought to the gallery. I had no idea what to expect.

“Decorative.” “Soft.” “A total regression.” Those were the rehearsed phrases lip-synched by the pandering class. Myron Horrwich sniggered with his new student appendage by his side. Les Tallent’s remarks emasculated me like no one else’s: “Retinal painting is dead and you will not be the one to resurrect it.”