"THE BITTER ANGEL OF EAST SIDE DRIVE"
- Chapter 7 -
"Feeling a Little Grumpy … Except for the Dancing"
The weekend was rainy.
Saturday arrived with drizzling rain and humidity like the inside of a sauna. It was nasty for the middle of July, and especially messy in downtown Princeton, New Jersey. Traffic was doing a snail's crawl and all traffic signals nearby were blinking amber. A transformer had blown somewhere, making it a suicide mission for weekend travelers trying to get across town. Maggie didn't see any nervously rotating line lights that indicated utility trucks or crews working on the problem, or at least on the way. Must have just happened!
She had her chores finished by noon, and sat in the recliner with a cup of coffee, staring balefully into the pitiful day. Nothing on the local news indicated any kind of electrical problem. The media wasn't on it yet either. She shrugged and turned off the TV.
Across the way, Fancy Nancy's place was still dark, and Maggie wondered when she would bring back her fuzzy little crew to finish removing the odds and ends of dishes, glassware, knick-knacks and the rest of the clutter. Plus the big oak credenza!
Nancy still had two weeks until the month … and her lease … ran out. Then she would be forced to vacate. But there was a lot of time until then. Maybe she wouldn't bother with more scut work on this dreary weekend.
Scooter and his family were not around. The lights were on over there, but she could see no movement. But then, their apartment was a little too high up to see anyone over there who was not within a few feet of the window or close to the furthest wall.
Maggie lowered her attention for a moment to Paul's apartment, breaking her vow to let him (them) alone on weekends, except for times when she succumbed to the need to check on his well-being. Panning around the space, she got the surprise of her life. Richard was there, of course, because it was Saturday.
They must have had music playing on a radio or stereo, because they were …
Dancing.
Dancing!
Not slow dancing … cheek to cheek … so Richard could hold Paul steady within his arms … but dancing-dancing … spirited jumping up and down and around.
How could Paul possibly … ?
Maggie's mouth fell open in astonishment, and her lower jaw dropped like a stone, almost landing in the middle of her ample chest. Dancing! Paul too. She stared, and found herself filled with astounded delight until the tears ran down her cheeks when she saw how they were doing it.
Good for them!
It was wonderful. They were both in sock feet on the bare floor, and it was sweet Richard who was in complete control. Arms outstretched, his hands grasped Paul securely at the shoulders. Paul's arms lay on top of Richard's, the other man's hands holding firmly to Paul's biceps, forming a perfect tripod of upper body strength. Richard's feet were making all the moves, forming the steps gently, leading Paul's one functioning foot into a matching rhythm.
Paul held his bum leg in a bent position, gingerly, only his toes touching down, but his good leg was busy, moving gracefully. His body arced back, swayed side to side, matching the tempo set by his friend. Between the two of them, they were doing quite nicely, thank you.
The music ended a minute or so later. They broke apart, huffing and puffing like old men. Laughing. Heads thrown back in delight. Richard kept a hand protectively near Paul's right arm, and Paul, for once, did not dispute it. After a moment he broke away and hop-stepped across to the couch where he'd left the cane. His smile faded quickly as he lowered himself down.
His pain was returning. He'd pushed a little too hard, and Maggie could not watch. She turned away and put the binoculars down on the windowsill just as Richard went to his knees and gently touched Paul's hurt leg.
Maggie waited a few minutes before picking the glasses up again. She did not look across the street. A flock of birds, braving the weather, flew high over Gateway, probably heading for the park in hopes of bread scraps from people walking over there. Dumb arses! People didn't "do" rain in quite the same manner as birds. Those feathered freeloaders were in for a big disappointment.
She moved her gaze down across the roofline, following the stainless steel trim across the squared-off roof. Wetness running off it made the whole façade look like a giant birthday cake with icing running down over the edge; a touch of sweetness in the gloomy east coast weather.
Further down, all the lights were still on in the Atherton apartment. At the window, Scooter stood looking out, frowning into the murky daylight. Peering straight into her eyes! He was saying something to someone behind him. Momentarily, a man stepped up to the window also. A large hand on a small shoulder. Looking in the direction where a small finger was pointing. A woman moved into the picture. She nodded, said something.
Maggie sighed, put the binoculars down. Maybe we could all have a party! She thought sarcastically. She retrieved her coffee cup from the windowsill. The coffee was stone cold. Again! If she counted up all the cups of coffee she'd allowed to turn to ice on that windowsill, she could probably line them end-to-end halfway to Plainsboro.
She was feeling a little grumpy.
Maggie made herself some lunch sometime after noon. Sandwich, Monterey Jack, tossed salad, glass of milk with two pecan sandies on the side. Boring. She did her dishes, went to the bathroom and washed up.
There was a Busch Race on TV. Lots of baseball on ESPN and elsewhere. Some dumb old John Wayne movie, filmed so long ago that she had actually seen it in the theater as a kid. She didn't remember the title. You saw one you saw 'em all.
She channel surfed awhile, then switched back to the race. Arthur used to get a kick out of the NASCAR Winston Cup races. "No right turns," he would laugh when she looked at him in puzzlement. It took years before she finally got it. They were doing all the silly pre-race rituals. Interviewed the same drivers they interviewed every week; every sentence out of their mouths an annoying sing-song of praise for their sponsors. Lots of shrieking and yelling and waving at the camera from the sidelines. Good ol' boys!
"Raaht naow!"
Another off-key acappella rendition of the national anthem. (Most country singers really needed those loud electric guitars to keep them on key!) Another inarticulate slicked-back southern preacher who asked everyone to "remove yer hats an' stand for the 'innovation' …" and soon after that, some ancient dude she'd never heard of, screaming: "Gennelmen … startcherengins!"
She sighed and turned it off.
Maggie went back to the window awhile later with a Fifth Avenue candy bar in her hand. Bit off a chunk. Chewed thoughtfully. Ummm … She popped the second half into her mouth and chewed again. Sat down on the recliner. Picked up the binocs.
Fancy Nancy had returned to her apartment. She was alone. She looked a little worse for wear today, as though she had been working her little butt off at some other location. She was slightly damp; probably setting up her new place at the same time she was tearing this one down. She already had the drawers out of the credenza, lined up to the side of it like square soldiers. Four extra dining chairs were standing near the front door, two standing, and the other two upside down atop the first.
A box of odds and ends stood waiting nearby. For now, she sat on the floor sorting linens into two more boxes fished out of a pile dumped haphazardly behind her. She hadn't left herself much room to work.
The glass doors of the credenza top were standing open, revealing rows of beautiful, fragile long-stemmed glasses, silver-ringed water glasses, and a nice set of bone China. On the floor in front of the bottom display shelf, a large statue of an elegant horse stood with foreleg lifted, neck arched. Leonardo's horse?
After fifteen minutes or so, Nancy finished sorting linens and dragged two of the boxes across to the front door to stand with those already there. She paused a moment, then walked into the (probably) kitchen and returned with a stack of old newspapers. She dropped them in front of the credenza beside the horse.
Nancy straightened a moment and wiped her hands down the front of her jeans, then turned in the direction of the (probably) bathroom. Nature called! She went inside and closed the door. Three minutes later, back again and back to business. Maggie watched, impressed. The girl was efficient.
Nancy stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the mess on the carpet, a little undecided about what to tackle next. She stared up at the glassware, and Maggie smiled. She knew exactly what the kid was thinking, because she hated wrapping glassware too. It was tedious, boring, and one had to be so careful, or the damned things would literally jump out of your fingers, searching frantically for a hard place upon which to smash themselves to smithereens. Like a blister on your toe … any little careless touch made them exquisitely angry!
Nancy finally turned around, ready to begin taking glasses off the shelves to wrap them in newspapers. She took a step in that direction and reached out a hand …
… and at the same instant … from her apartment all the way across East Side Drive … Margaret Kincannon shot to her feet, dropped the binoculars to the carpet and screamed.
"Oh my God! Look out!"
Only silence. Only the desperate silence of shattering glasses, shattering China, shattering stemware and glass shelves. Only the silence of Fancy Nancy's desperate scream as her foot dashed into the base of the heavy horse statue. And only silence when she lost her balance and crashed, arms outthrust, instinctively shielding her face and head, into the corner edge of the credenza.
Maggie heard the silence of shattering glassware, as the eminent disaster took on a life of its own. The heavy top half of the credenza came loose from its mounts and fell forward in slow motion, directly on top of Nancy's upper body, hitting the side of her pretty face, spewing shards of splintered glassware and splintered bone China everywhere.
Nancy's hands flew up, still in reflex motion, protecting her face and eyes, but otherwise she was too late, her reaction not in time. Her forward momentum gave her no chance to get out of the way. The top tilted forward, knocked off its mounts, and threw her down against the pile of cardboard boxes and then onto the carpet, scattering silvery slivers that fell like spun-glass rain, much more deadly than the rain outside.
The entire top section of the credenza, plate-glass doors wide open and terribly overbalanced, buckled at the middle seam and landed across her slender body, pinning her out of sight beneath the near corner. It rocked for a moment and then lay still. So did Nancy. Only the lower portions of her legs and the pair of worn sneakers stuck out where Maggie could still see them when she stared through the binoculars.
Maggie froze for a moment in horror. Fancy Nancy did not move. She was out cold. Then Maggie's analytical mind began to function. She dropped the binoculars on the carpet, raced to the telephone stand and opened the drawer for her hearing aids. She dialed 911 and waited.
Calmly she gave the basic facts when the operator came on the line. Gave accurate information, left her name and address and phone number and hung up.
She ran back to the window, picked the binoculars off the carpet and hoped like hell that Scooter was still staring out the window. Even Richard … or Paul … someone who would see her and try to help. She was no longer hiding behind the draperies, spying on the neighbors. She needed those neighbors desperately.
Scooter was still standing at the window. Paul and Richard, nowhere to be seen. Paul's leg was hurting. He was probably resting, and Richard had gone with him.
Maggie gestured to Scooter frantically, pointing down toward Nancy's apartment. Pointing and pointing. The boy frowned. He was looking at her quizzically, but he did not understand.
His father appeared suddenly beside him, also looking at her with a puzzled expression.
Then he looked suddenly across the room. He was being called away from the window. Scooter had left too.
Maggie despaired. She had not gotten her message across.
She turned the binoculars back on Nancy's apartment. The girl still had not moved.
A tint of bright red began to appear among the shards of glass under the credenza's crazily tilted top …
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