The First Day Read online

  There was no name. The handwriting was neat, precise.

  This is your brother?

  I would guess so.

  Does it mean anything to you?

  Not specifically.

  I have a duty to look after the museum, he said.

  I nodded. I felt sorry for him.

  I went back to the floor, wandered the long rooms stared at by the paintings. It seems strange to insist upon it, but I was calm. I did not know around which corner Philip would appear, but I knew he would, eventually, and when he did I believed I would be ready for him. A sense of destiny settled in me, and even the memory of Anna’s scepticism was not enough to drown it out.

  I did not have to wait long. A few days later I was walking through Bushwick, coming home from a friend’s house, and I spotted him. He was almost a block away, walking, it appeared, without particular intention. He took a right, walked down Harman as far as Evergreen. As he walked he glanced around him, looking up at the apartments on either side. At Evergreen he took a left, then another left at Greene, walking back towards the main road. He was scouring. He did not know—not yet, at any rate—but he had the neighbourhood. I lived a good half-mile away. I got there quickly, but my father was absent. I ran down to the church. As I arrived congregants were leaving; I saw my father towards the back, laughing with a young black man. I pushed through the rest of them—most of them knew me by now and nodded or smiled—and took him by the arm.

  Dad, we need to go.

  He was effusive; his pride of me at its greatest among his fellow worshippers. Samuel, he said, calm yourself.

  Philip’s here, I said.

  He was caught between maintaining his easy charm with the young man at his side, and something else; not fear. Maybe anticipation.

  Here?

  Nearby. Looking, hunting. We need to go.

  The young man stared at us. Are you okay? he enquired, gently but with unconcealed excitement, sensing scandal.

  Orr excused himself and I guided him away from the church, whispers already at our backs. It was getting dark, the air chilling. We walked quickly. I told him what I had seen. He said nothing, allowed me to lead him.

  Inside the apartment he sat down at the table. I was exasperated; he appeared unfazed.

  So what now? I said.

  I don’t know, son. To every thing there is a season.

  That doesn’t help.

  What do you want to do? he asked.

  You can’t stay here.

  I saw him weigh me up. I saw him measure his objections, then hold them.

  He is around here somewhere, looking for us, I said.

  It will be okay.

  How do you know? It’s a matter of time. Today, tomorrow. He will find us. Then what? It’s a matter of time.

  Everything is a matter of time.

  You’re a fool, I said.

  Fear and shame.

  What?

  Fear and shame, he repeated. Almost everything we do is out of fear and shame. All of us. I do not want for you and I to live like that. Philip must be Philip. You and I must be you and I.

  I called Guest, who called his grandson in Queens, Zico. He and his wife agreed to put my father up for a few days. We took a taxi around midnight, and I got him settled, thanked them for their kindness. They seemed bemused. By the time I got home it was almost two in the morning. I went to bed but lay awake, my body pulsing; the sight of Philip walking in front of me—leading me, I began to imagine—forced itself into the space where sleep should have been. I got up, opened a beer. I stared at the street below, almost willing him to appear. How dedicated was he, how far would he go? I felt again that appetite, that unnameable hunger. I returned to bed and fell asleep, eventually, and woke at six with the image of my mother, younger, attending Philip’s scar. She is close to his face, he can feel her breath, smell her skin, see the moist glisten of sweat on her shoulderblade. Except it is not Philip, it is Orr. Except it is not Orr, it is me.

  The following evening, I went to a bar in the Village. Let’s leave it anonymous. I used to go there for sex, years ago, so much easier to find than love, and less expensive. Anyway, I knew this bar, I knew the men who frequented it. The type of men. It was not as clean as the others; the hangers-on all hung on a little more, if you know what I mean. I nursed a drink, watching the room just like everyone else. One or two men nodded towards me; I waved them away. Eventually I was approached by someone who looked like they might do. His hair was greasy, and he repeatedly, as he offered me a drink, tucked it behind his ears. His skin was pock-marked, darker on one side of his face than the other. His eyes were bright though, clear, too clear. Tripped up, high. He spoke slowly, deliberately, as though to a foreigner. None of this was important. It was the marks on his knuckles that appealed.

  We went to the bathrooms and I tried to fuck him. I knew already that he wouldn’t let me, but I saw how far I could push him, how much he had in him, where the line was. I was good at this, at least. When I had his measure—just before he beat the living shit out of me—I stopped, and sat on the floor.

  Do you want to make some money? I asked him.

  This is not . . . he said. I am not . . .

  Not for this, I said. I need you to hurt somebody.

  I stepped out of the entrance to my apartment. I walked, slowly, down the street. I paused halfway along, punched at my phone. I smiled, laughed, as though having received a humorous message. A group of teenagers swam past me, around me, parting then re-forming, their shrill voices ringing in their wake. I was invisible to them. There are none so blind as those who will not see.

  It was late, after eleven. My friend—I shall resist naming him too—had not told me where he would be standing, so I would be less inclined to look for him. Nonchalance as weapon. I dropped my phone back into my pocket. My heart hammered in my chest, but I steadied myself. This was the third time we had tried this. It was no more likely to work this time than the others, but there persisted an unmistakable thrill, a charge. I walked to the end of the street, turned right towards the park a quarter-mile away. Much of Bushwick had been prettified; but not this part. Drunks and users stalked it at night, looking for fixes. Half the lights were broken. Scattered glass flecked the path. I sat down on a bench, took out my mobile, feigned attention. I waited.

  After ten minutes I became aware of being watched. I mean, in this park you were always watched, but it was a specific kind of attention, directed. I knew it was him. After five minutes he stepped forward, towards me. The sick, pale light caught his scar, rendered it even more garish. He nodded, as though a friendly greeting.

  I stared at him. It was a strange moment; the hatred I expected did not materialise. I felt something closer to curiosity, almost empathy. Though I knew what was coming. From behind him, out of the darkness—very noir, I know—appeared my friend. Philip glanced over his shoulder to where I was looking, realising too late. The first punch hit him clean; a crunch, a kind of echoey thud, and he dropped. I stood up and moved away while further punches were delivered. It was not like the films, I was thinking. The sounds were less full, more muffled. I looked around the park but if there were other people there they were wise enough to pay no attention. I heard the report of a bone breaking (arm? collar? rib?) and Philip cried out, more whimper than scream. I told my friend to stop. He didn’t stop. He kicked Philip in the stomach now, now the face. Stop, I said louder, and he looked at me, and swung his foot again, his heel this time landing on the side of Philip’s face. I heard myself shouting now. Fucking stop. Money? I shouted, money?, but still he ignored me. I hurled myself towards him, and as I arrived I felt my own face caught by his fist. The pain was sudden, intuitive, but I was on my feet again in a second and forced my shoulder, low and hard, into his midriff. He fell back. I was on my knees, staring at him. He glared back, breathing heavily; returned, it seemed, to sense. I threw money at him—I’m not even sure how much—and he picked it off the ground, climbing to his feet. He smiled at
me, and walked nonchalantly away.

  I turned around. Philip was lying prone, one arm splayed awkwardly above his head, a fictional victim. I got close enough to hear him breathing, but he didn’t respond when I spoke to him, tapped his face. I hid my number, dialled an ambulance. I got slowly, painfully, to my feet. I watched him. One minute, two. In the moment I cannot say what I feel because I do not know. I saw a figure at the far end of the park, a woman, swaying, apparently drunk, looking towards us. I walked out of the park, along the cycle lane. There was a dive bar open on the corner. I stepped inside, ordered a whisky, and sipped silently until I heard the sirens.

  I slept like a child.

  I wasted two days before going to the hospital. Waited. Freudian autocorrect. I called first, told them I was a work colleague. They outlined visiting regulations and explained that he would not be released any time soon. He had had a haemorrhage in his chest—a blunt trauma, they said—and, whilst he was stable, he was not yet out of the woods. I hung up and searched ‘blunt trauma’: This happens when a body part collides with something else, usually at high speed. Blood vessels inside the body are torn or crushed either by shear forces or a blunt object. Examples are car accidents, physical assaults, and falls.

  After work I took the subway downtown to Mount Sinai Hospital—honour thy father and thy mother—and made my way to the ward. It was a small, personal room at the end of a long corridor. I steeled myself; I still felt blank, impassive, but something rattled in me, ice in a glass: a mute awareness of deception. I looked through the small window and saw a girl sitting beside the bed. She was fifteen, sixteen; dark-haired, pale. Her back was mostly to me, so I could not clearly make out her features, except when she shifted position. For some reason she put me in mind of a Velazquez. She was leaning towards him, talking. His eyes were closed. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep. There seemed to be, in the carry of her shoulders, her delivery—I could not, of course, hear what she was saying—something more of complaint than story. An exasperation.

  The corridor behind me was empty, silent. I felt—bluntly—like an intruder. After a few minutes she turned, as though suddenly aware of my presence. She stared at me—my face framed inside the tiny window—and turned back to Philip. I was well dressed, of course. I suppose to her I looked like a doctor.

  I went downstairs, drank a coffee. I considered leaving—What am I here for anyway?—but forced myself back an hour later. I looked through the small window: the girl was gone. A small hesitation and then I was in the room, standing beside his bed, staring down at him. He was asleep, or appeared to be. I stared at him without—strike me down etc.—remorse. His face was bruised; dark patches gave way to a sickly spreading yellow. His mouth had been reset; I saw the marks of the wires on his neck. It was strange to stand in front of him like this, above him. Fear absent, and pity. But so too hatred, anger. My eyes searched his face, his body, as though for clues; something to hang myself on. The past, where I had lived for ever, opened up into the present. It felt like the lines between these were no longer relevant, no longer existed.

  I saw myself reach out and touch him. I pulled back hair from his forehead, and moved the back of my fingers down his cheek. His breathing did not change. I set my hand, palm flat, on his chest. His heart: thump, thump, thump. We have been here before. Haven’t we? I press down a little. Testing. He does not flinch. I wonder if he has slipped into a coma. I lean my head down above his, turn my ear to his mouth. His breath comes in short, sharp draws. No, then. It is warm against me. I feel it enter my ear, travel inside, to where? I stand up again, again stare at him. My hand moves to his chest, up to his neck. His skin is clammy, tight; a thin film of moisture. My hand rests on his throat. I feel the pulse through it, his life pressing back. It is too easy, I think, but my fingers find such easy purchase. I am a longing I cannot say. I feel my arm stiffen, tighten, as though he is resisting. I move my face to his, closer and closer. Still his eyes are shut, still his breath, barely. I lean my face to his, my lips to his lips, and I kiss him.

  I do not know for how long this happens. I move back, take my hand away. I feel my own heart, but it is barely beating. I stand in the middle of the room, a little away from the bed, a supplicant. The hum of the equipment suddenly seems deafening. His eyes remain closed, the landscape of his face unmoved. I am convinced, somehow, that a transaction has taken place.

  I returned the following day. I do not know exactly why. There is something to be said for presence. I walked along the corridor towards his room; from behind me I heard a shout. I turned to see the girl. She moved towards me, quickly.

  You fucking asshole, she said.

  She looked different at this angle, this distance. Less Velazquez, more Goya. Her eyes were tiny black balls, penetrating, direct. Her features seemed somehow undefined, as though she was still growing into them, finding their edges. I suppose she was. No more than sixteen. I knew too, with certainty, that Philip was her father.

  She reached me and pushed me hard, in the chest. I stumbled backwards, stayed on my feet.

  Who are you? she asked.

  She went to push me again; I put my arms up.

  Who are you? she repeated, louder. I saw her see it, the scar. An infinitesimal flinch, a calculation.

  I’m a friend, I said, stupidly.

  She stared at me, hatred pushing at her speech. Bullshit. You brought them. She flickered in the air, her taut movement shimmering, her body a vibration.

  Brought who? I said.

  She paused, measuring me. Her narrow eyes narrowed.

  Who? I said again. She looked towards Philip’s room. I turned towards it, took a step.

  He’s not there, she said. They took him away.

  I turned to her. Who?

  The police. She was retreating from the anger, beginning to believe me.

  When?

  Who are you? she asked again.

  So I told her.

  I picked my father up the same evening. As I helped him into the cab, Zico pulled me aside, smiling.

  He is some piece of work, your father.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  You know a young woman came every day? For an hour. Ceci. She would rub his feet, listen to him talk. He is teaching her about music. So he says. It is okay, it was not a problem. I hope I have that when I am his age.

  I shook Zico’s hand, climbed in beside my father, smiling. We sat in silence as the cab snaked its way through Queens, down into Brooklyn. The bland, grey streets seemed transformed, illuminated. Rescued. I was aware of the foolishness of the thought, but it rooted in me regardless.

  Before we got through the door of the apartment, Orr tightened his grip. Tell me what happened, son.

  He was unsurprised by it, by all of it, it seemed. I had told Sarah almost everything; but I spared him nothing. We had come this far together, what harm a little further? It was true: I found myself wanting something from him. A word, a sign. Do we ever grow up?

  Tell me more about her, he said.

  I described her as best I could, her sharp wit and hot blood, but really I did not know. She lives with her grandmother in Fordham, I said. Her mother died, a few years ago. Philip did not cope. The more I talked the more I wondered myself.

  I would like to meet her, he said. What’s her name?

  I can’t believe I haven’t told him. Of course I can. Sarah, I said.

  She had given me her number, but for two days my messages went unanswered. I stared at my phone for what felt like hours at a time, but it lay on my desk unresponsive. I examined my own texts—had I been too forceful, too insipid, too quick or slow?—like a teenager myself, I couldn’t help thinking. At home in the evening my father stalked, manhandling his way around my apartment like a blind Humboldt. Our interactions were minimal; each of us awaiting an announcement, an invitation we could not conjure.

  On the third day it arrived. Short, direct, straightforward—Come for dinner, Sarah—and an address. She lived near the train statio
n, and my father, ever the democrat, insisted we take the train. To prepare ourselves, he said, as though the New Haven line were a pilgrimage.

  I do not recall ever being as nervous as standing on the steps of the house, a two-storey grey-clad working-class Connecticut affair, basic as they come. Paint peeled off at the edges; a dull grey stain spread from below the guttering on the right, like a disease. The street itself was quiet of traffic, though Mexican music blared from somewhere nearby. My father stood beside me as we waited, immaculate in a suit, seemingly unfazed. I stared at him, as much to distract myself as anything else, and he reached out and took my hand, as though I were a child again, and I was flooded with both gratitude and anger. I almost jumped when the door finally opened and there stood Sarah, looking first at me but then ignoring me entirely, turning her attention to Orr, my father, her grandfather, who looked up towards her and said—I’m not sure whether ironically or not, as though it were his door she had just opened—Welcome.