It was Max, speaking in a whisper, “Carla. I’m at my apartment.”
“They let you go—”
“Yes!” he hissed in his hurry to tell her. “Listen. I can’t talk long. Can you meet me somewhere? Or do I have to go down to you?”
“Are you supposed to be—?”
“Carla, I don’t have much time!” He almost moaned. “Brillstein and my wife — they’re going to put me in a mental institution. I have to get away. Can you meet me somewhere?”
“No!” she said, shocked.
“You can’t?”
“No, I mean, they’re not going to put you away.”
“I can’t talk. Listen, I don’t know where…Grand Central. Do you know the Oyster Bar Restaurant?”
“No.”
“It’s underneath Grand Central. Take the Lex. That’s near you, isn’t it? Or a cab. I’ll pay you back. Go into Grand Central and look for the signs. The Oyster Bar Restaurant. Meet me there at noon. Don’t go in. At the entrance. Okay? Please?”
“Sure, Max.”
He hung up. He had sounded crazy. She was sad for a moment and didn’t want to move. She was reluctant to go out, blocks away from home, into the underground with beggars and crazies, to the middle of Manhattan filled with people, thousands and thousands, all indifferent, all strange.
It passed quickly. She had wished for something to do. Max needed her. Wasn’t that better than a job? If he was really crazy then she owed him her help all the more.
The trip uptown was scary. Everyone in New York seemed demented in one way or another. Many were openly so: in rags, shouting at invisible tormentors, thrusting paper cups and insisting on money as if you owed them charity. Many more were fearful, pretending to be self-absorbed while they peeked from behind newspapers, wearing earphones that disappeared into their clothing or shoulder bags, as if they were switchboard operators wandering sadly to find something they could plug into. The teenagers were scary, especially the black teenagers, whose eyes were so angry and so hopeless that she couldn’t believe there was any mercy in their hearts. She avoided meeting their defiant stares.
“Don’t look at him,” Manny had once whispered to her because she looked closely at a man on the subway whose pants were gray with filth, who had a cut across his forehead, and whose left shoe top had come off. “When you’re really poor you don’t want people to look at you,” he explained later. “All they got is their pride. You were shaming him. He could kill you for that.”
“Oh, come on, Manny!” She had laughed, nervous at the idea.
“Don’t laugh.” Manny had been grave. He pointed to the sky to emphasize the importance of what he was saying. “I know what I’m talking about. I was one of them in Manila. I didn’t care the Americans were so rich so long as they didn’t look at me like I was an animal in the zoo.”
She got to Grand Central without incident. The station seemed to be in another time. The curved interior walls were made of smooth gray stone as thick as a tomb’s. The clocks were old-fashioned and so was the lettering embedded in the walls that directed people to the trains or the exits. Carla thought it was too gloomy.
Max probably thinks it looks beautiful, she realized and felt better about this meeting. Grand Central was Max’s kind of place. At least he was still partly himself.
She found the Oyster Bar easily. It was also preserved from New York’s past. She liked it better. The arched entrance walls were cunningly made with once white tiles that now had a yellow tint. One half of the restaurant had snaking U-shaped counters to accommodate quick lunches; the other half had tables with red-checked cloths. It reminded her of her hardworking father.
She stood outside in the station’s tombs, soothed by the echo of footsteps. She saw Max from a long way off coming toward her. Behind him a cloud of dusty light from the street darkened his face. He walked like an old man.
She hurried to help him.
“Hello, Carla,” he said as she reached him and put her arm through his. He smiled at her anxious grip. “I’m okay. I’m just getting used to walking distances. I guess I don’t trust that my head is better.”
“How are your eyes?”
“They’re great!” he said. They paused at the archway leading to the main waiting room. “Wow,” he said, peering up at the vaulted ceiling. “Look at how much they’ve cleaned! It looks so grand, doesn’t it? A public place designed like a palace. And clocks with faces!” he said, beaming.
“That Oyster Bar looks good. Can we get something to eat?” Carla was hungry, and had been made hungrier by the sight of the lobster tank in the restaurant. But she also wanted Max to sit.
They had a delicious lunch. She loved seafood, but the sweet fat oysters Max ordered for her as a starter were new to her. Max insisted she have a lobster and they shared a thick chocolate cake for dessert. She was so full her stomach ached dully and her eyes felt heavy.
Max ate feverishly and jabbered about how he knew that Debby and Brillstein were going to have him committed. When she challenged this suspicion, he explained the lawyer could get more money that way.
“But your wife wouldn’t lock you up just to get more money,” Carla said.
“That’s not why. She’s got a choice. Either accept I don’t love her or decide that I’m crazy.”
“How do you know you don’t love her?” Carla said, not as an argument, a wondering question.
“I don’t think I ever did love her. I loved the idea of her.”
Carla slid down in her chair a little. The heavy meal was dragging her down. She wanted to yawn. “I don’t know what that means, Max,” she said, again not as an argument.
“I don’t even know what love is,” Max said. He yawned without restraint. “I’m exhausted.”
Carla laughed. “I could sleep right in this chair.”
“Let’s go,” he said. She didn’t ask where. She didn’t think about where either, although somehow she knew. He hailed a taxi — there were rows of them out on the street — and said, “The Plaza Hotel, please.” He sagged back, his head against the backseat. His Adam’s apple and strong chin made sharp angles. His face had only a trace of puffiness from the crash; a healing cut on his jaw gave his handsome features a romantic wound. “I reserved a suite this morning,” he said to the car roof. “Asked them to make sure it was on a high floor. It’ll be my last look at New York for God knows how long. I was too tired to figure out where to go. I thought I’d leave the state tomorrow morning. I don’t think they can institutionalize me if I move to another state.” He sat up and turned toward her. His eyes were lively, their pale blue as clear as a boy’s marbles. He reached for her hands. She gave them to him. His skin was soft and warm. “I want you to come with me,” he said.
Jonah. If not for Jonah, Max would not have minded the necessity of running away. He was even willing to lose New York City. He knew it too well. He could go to the prettiness of San Francisco; or relish Chicago’s earnest skyscrapers. Parody didn’t interest him so LA was out of the question. But he was willing to abandon buildings altogether — seek the spareness of the western desert. Or get out of the United States — confront Europe’s dead ambitions.
The truth was, he’d rather visit them. He didn’t know where to go to live. Perhaps someplace no one wanted to — like Oklahoma. A place where people left to come to New York. There Max could walk on a landscape without challenge. Maybe he could draw again; build himself a house that wasn’t fit for a family, that wasn’t fit for summering at the beach, that wasn’t fit for a person, but that fit only the earth and sky. A useless house, a child’s dream. Maybe after that he could believe in the practical world again.