Hesitantly, he advanced to the mouth of the alley. It was nearly midnight. He peered round the corner of the wall. The street was badly lit, deserted and under two inches of water. A car went by throwing up wings of spray from its front wheels. Automatically, he ducked back into the darkness of the alleyway. Why hadn’t he stepped out and flagged it down, he asked himself? Remember where you are, was his reply. No-one is going to come to the aid of a half-naked, bloodstained, card-board-box-wearing man after midnight in this city…He saw that the torrential rain was going to be as much his ally as his enemy — driving everyone off the streets, forcing everyone and everything into dry corners, leaving the empty rain-lashed avenues to him.
He worked out a plan. It was too risky, he thought, to head for his own apartment. He had a feeling that Freeborn and the others would be paying it a visit at some juncture. Freeborn might go looking for Shanda; or Gint might be there, with his pliers. He needed friends. He would head north up Manhattan to his only friend: Irene. Go to Irene.
Chapter Three
At half past two in the morning, Henderson set out. Sereno had said his ‘gallery’ was on the lower east side, ‘in back of Canal’. Henderson paused at the alley’s entrance. This must be Canal Street. The rain still fell, everything was quiet. He slipped out of the alley and loped in a half crouch along the street, hugging the walls.
At Canal and Forsyth he paused and took shelter in a doorway. He was out of breath, not from exertion but from excitement. Across Forsyth was a thin tree-lined park. He scampered over to it. ‘Sara D. Roosevelt Park’, a sign read. He climbed over the railings and hid behind a tree. A couple beneath an umbrella hurried past, heads down. He followed the park north, sprinting across the streets that bisected it — Grand and Delancy — until he reached East Houston Street.
Hiding behind a bush he looked at the Second Avenue subway station. Wraiths of steam drifted from manhole covers. Two cars went by and a yellow cab. Should he seek help in the subway? It looked like a gate to hell. He climbed over the park railings and walked over to the entrance. He had no money, he realized, and no identification. He stood on the sidewalk, indecisive, his chest heaving. A man came out of the subway, glanced angrily at him and went on his way, muttering and shaking his head. Of course, Henderson suddenly realized with tender elation, they think I’m mad. Just another fucking weirdo. It was a moment of true liberation. A revelation. He felt all the restraints of his culture and upbringing fall from him like a cloak slid from shoulders. He felt, in the Eugene Teagarden sense, spontaneously, unusually pure. He saw a yellow cab drive by, its ‘for hire’ light on. Emboldened, indifferent, careless, he stepped out into the street and hailed it. The taxi driver looked disgustedly at him, swore and drove on. Henderson shrugged, smiled, turned and jogged up Second Avenue. He still kept close to the walls and paused in dark doorways from time to time, but he was beginning to reassess and revalue his presence in the city…Even given the lateness of the hour New York was astonishingly quiet. He had the rain to thank for that; judging from the amount of water flowing through the streets New Yorkers would probably wake up tomorrow to find their city declared a disaster zone. Only an occasional car or empty bus interrupted the solitude. Henderson ran steadily on, his Maxi-Pad box surprisingly unimpeding and comfortable. He ran past St Mark’s Church, and paused in a doorway at Fourteenth Street. Over to his left was Union Square, but he didn’t have the nerve to go anywhere near it, even in tonight’s exceptionally inclement weather. The serious people in Union Square wouldn’t be deterred by a little rain. He would go north a few blocks and then cut over to Park Avenue South which, he knew, had a central island running the length of it, planted with bushes and shrubs and up which he could make his way, undisturbed by the rare pedestrian and with plenty of cover should the police come by.
He had thought about telephoning the police, asking them for help, but had eventually dismissed the idea. There was a good chance — given his state of dress — that they might not believe him, and he was doubtful if he could cope with the exposure of a precinct police station and all the attendant embarrassments of proving his identity. Better to forge ahead on his own, lonely and free, he calculated, and in any event he was making reasonable progress.
He moved off again, skirting Stuyvesant Square, cutting down Nineteenth Street to Park Avenue South. Gradually, confidently, he became less furtive. He realized now that he was effectively invisible in this city. With its madmen, its joggers and its twenty-four hour existence — finally, at last — he fitted in perfectly: perfectly consonant with its unique logic. Why, he was simply another mad jogger, happily patrolling the streets in the taxi-torn, rain-tormented small hours. There were, he was convinced, far stranger things going on around him. And, if he moved fast, his Maxi-Pad box, now dark brown from the rain, must look like some bizarre new athletic rig-out, setting new trends in absorbent disposable running wear…
He reached Park Avenue, ran to the central island and crouched down, getting his breath back. A patrol car motored past and he drew himself behind a small bush. He let it go. Above him the stacked lights in the tall buildings quickly grew fuzzy before being enveloped by dark clouds. A few cars hissed by on either side of him but the pavements were deserted. He set off up the central reservation. He wondered what anyone — casually watching the rain fall from their apartment window — would think if they saw him, a pale ghostly figure slipping from shrub to shrub, darting across street, incongruous in his heavy black walking shoes…This was surely, he thought as he ran, the apotheosis of his shame and embarrassment. No basically shy person could experience any ordeal so hellishly demanding and harrowing, so testing as this. After his naked run through Manhattan he could hardly complain about other travails: nothing could be as uncompromisingly harsh as what he was currently undergoing.
And yes, he felt surprisingly good. Untroubled, oddly calm. He ran on — not strongly, but steadily — stumbling occasionally, his feet catching in the ivy that grew along the flower beds of the Park Avenue Central reservation, the heavy raindrops striking his face and chest.
He made good progress up Park Avenue until his way was blocked by Grand Central Station and the Pan-Am building. At Forty-second Street he paused by a traffic light, halted by a sudden and typical flow of cars. A wet man stood waiting for the ‘walk’ sign. Henderson jogged on the spot beside him, intoxicated with his new freedom.
The man looked round, swaying slightly.
“Y’all right, man?”
“Me?” Henderson panted. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Keepin’ fit, yeah?”
“That’s it.”
“Some sorta — what — athlete, yeah? Athletics, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Mary Mount Maxi-Pads,” he read slowly.
“My sponsors.”
“Hey, congratulations.”
The light changed, Henderson jogged on. He had been accepted, the moment had come and gone, but he had joined America at last. He cut up Vanderbilt Avenue on to Forty-fifth and then up Madison. He ran slowly, easily, not exhausting himself, pausing for breath when he got a stitch, enjoying the unfettered luxury of his temporary status as madman, American and jogger. He cut across at Fifty-ninth and loped casually by the Plaza, Central Park’s dark green mass on his right. Irene was now only a few blocks away. He looked at his watch: half past four.