Kit saw the teenager from way down the platform, and cursed under his breath. The mop of red, almost orange hair underneath the Yankees cap was unmistakable, as was the limping gait.
“That’s my ‘pimp’ walk” Kit had overheard the boy exclaim to his mother when she had inquired if he had hurt his foot, perhaps during a recent squash match or fencing lesson.
Kit observed the teenager held hands with a girl whose hair was as carrot colored as his. She was a new development, or at least, Kit had never seen her before.
He unconsciously removed the backpack from his aching shoulders as the uptown A train rumbled into the 145th street station. It was 6:30pm and this was the only tutoring session he had for the day, and yet he already felt exhausted. He’d taken a 5 milligram gummy hour earlier to take the edge off, but anxiety lurked behind his THC buzz.
Writing for his dissertation was going nowhere. He just couldn’t seem to find the fiber to stitch together a truly cogent link between John Dewey’s philosophy of education and Miles Davis’ “Kinda Blue.”
“Kit, we ran out of things to talk about a long time ago,” his white haired octogenarian advisor had said in their nth meeting earlier that week. “Just finish the damn thing.”
In a month, he’d need to move. To afford the room in the apartment he was renting for the summer, he’d had to take on extra sessions with the tutoring agency that was unabashedly overcharging it’s clients, and underpaying its employees.
The client he was going to now---with a modest apartment in the Jewish enclave of Inwood---was his own private student. Clara had set that up.
Oh Clara. What had she said last night? That she wanted to know where this “thing” they were doing was going? That she was 31, and that her life plan had included marriage and twins by 27. She’d been ok to put her plan on hold, but damn.
You got kicked out of University housing, dickwad, because you're supposed to be FINISHED by now. And stupid me thought that this, finally, was the time you’d say “Clara lets move in, Clara lets start a life. Clara you been waiting for me to get my shit together for six years, oh yes, SIX YEARS, but I’m ready to settle down now.” But no. Ohhhhhhh no. YOU go and sign a lease to live by YOURSELF. Like, what the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you LOVE me? Helllooooo?! Don’t just stand there like a fucking idiot----SAY SOMETHING!
He’d wanted to tell her that he did love her. That he didn’t know what was wrong with him. That he wanted a life with her, but that he had to be settled within himself first.
Instead, his right fist had connected with her left eye with so much force, it had immediately swollen shut. She’d fallen backward, hitting her head on the dresser as she’d crashed down. She opened her mouth, took a breath as though to scream, and then closed it again, issuing only a plaintive whine.
Kit was surprised when the train pulled up at 190th street. He lumbered off the train, and stopped suddenly when he remembered the boy and girl with orange hair. Cautiously, he peered down the platform, and saw that they were already past the turnstiles, entering the elevator that would whisk them out of the bowels of the MTA, to Fort Tryon Park above.
Some moments later, Kit stared wonderingly at the glorious park before him, illuminated by the spring crepuscular light. He sneezed six times in a row, and vaguely swatted at his watery eyes. He stood for a little while, trying to remember the walk from the train to the elevator. From her apartment to the subway. Had anyone been with him? Had anyone heard? His eyes swung from the playground to the staircase that led out to the street, to the park benches near the elevator. No, he was alone. With numb legs, Kit trudged toward the modest apartments beyond the street. The upper crust all girls Catholic school he passed on his way had thrown open its doors to let in the spring air, and the mezzo soprano lilt of the high school girl’s choir reached Kit’s ears in a dramatic rush.
Steal away
Steal away
Steal away to Jesus
Steal away
Steal away home
I ain’t got long to stay here.
It was an boxy sort of singing, the way things sound when white folks try to approximate black rhythms. Still, the notes of the old song descended heavy on Kit’s heart.
My Lord he calls me
He calls me by the lightening
The trumpet sounds within my soul
I ain’t got long to stay here.
Kit thought of Clara, her chest heaving, her blood quivering on her pasty forehead, her piss and sweat stench overpowering. He’d never been so turned on in his life. Afterwards, as he left her apartment, climbed down the five flights of stairs, and entered the street below, his phone vibrated against his thigh. When he took it from his pocket, though, he’d received no text. No call.
Steal away
Steal away
Steal away to Jesus
Steal away
Steal away home
I ain’t got long to stay here.
Kit’s neck snapped up abruptly, and directly in front of him was the boy and the girl from the train. Their neon hair was entangled, and their tongues were deep inside each other’s skulls. He’d walked faster than he’d thought---or maybe they’d just been face fucking for a while. He wondered if their pubic hair was as carrot colored as the head on their heads, and if perhaps they were cousins. He contemplated Clara’s naked body on the floor, legs splayed open, her unshaven blonde pubes inviting.
Squeezing by the teenagers, Kit punched the apartment code, and waited for a response. He put the code in again. And again.
“Hey bro,” the boy said, coming up behind him, “I can let you in.”
Kit nodded his thanks. The girl smiled tentatively at him.
Inside the lobby, the three approached the elevator, the boy talking loudly to his girl about nothing at all.
“What floor?” asked the boy, as the elevator door closed.
“Six” Kit said quietly.
“Oh! “ said the boy, laughing nervously. He’d already pressed the button to the 6th floor. The girl stared at the elevator floor.
“May I ask what apartment you’re going to?” the boy blurted.
Kit smiled. He considered what the boy would look like with a snapped neck. He felt certain he was strong enough to do it.
Wildly, his mind switched to another track. It was likely, he thought , that the girl would fuck him willingly. Maybe he could force the boy to watch before he bashed his head in.
“Brian,” Kit said stepping close to the boy, “I’m going to your apartment.” He winked at the girl.
The elevator opened to the 6th floor, and the three stood in a frozen tableau. The boy stared at Kit. Kit smiled more broadly at the boy. The girl tugged at the boy’s arm.
Kit laughed ,and grabbed the elevator door before it closed in on them again.
“I’m your brother’s tutor, dude, remember? We met a bunch of times. You go to NYU, right? “
“Oh,” the boy nearly shouted, stumbling out of the elevator with his girlfriend in tow. “That’s right. I thought you might have been...You know how this neighborhood has a lot of--”
“Graduate students?” Kit offered, helpfully. He winked at the girl again.
“What? No, no I just....I don’t have my contacts in,” the teenage boy mumbled, fumbling with his house keys.
“Danny,” the boy called when he finally managed to open the apartment door, “Your tutor’s here!”
A young boy with green eyes barrelled into the alcove. He was a paler darker haired version of the teenager.
“Oh Brian,” he bawled racing into the teenager’s arms. “It’s just awful, AWFUL!”
The child began to babble incoherently, his sobs overtaking his words. He squeezed his brother as though doing so were a necessity of life.
“Woah woah woah, What’s wrong with you little man? Dude, chill man, CHILL.”
Through the alcove foyer of the apartment flowed a gaunt woman in her late forties. She had red hair, though a few wisps of stark white strands had escaped her pristine dye job. She wore an immaculate linen green dress, and a yellow scarf that probably cost more than most of the middle class makes in a month. When she walked, she glided. There was a briskness about her, though she never seemed to be in a hurry.
“Hello Brian” she said to the elder boy, her voice cold steel. “Hello Kit,” she said to the tutor. She did not address the girl.
Kit nodded impassively. Inside, he felt his grasp on the world tremble.
“There’s been a terrible tragedy. You see, Clara’s dead.”
“What?” The teenage boy intoned, untangling himself from the younger boy who had begun wailing anew.
“Who’s Clara?” the girl asked.
Kit inched backwards.
“She was attacked last night Brian. Raped and brutalized.”
“No no no no no no” Brian began to hum to himself.
“Was she one of your exes? Your first?” the girl inquired.
Kit took another step back toward the door.
“She used to be my nanny” Brian replied, tears sprouting from his eyes.
“OUR nanny,” Danny shouted. He’d retreated to the living room couch and balled himself up. “She was the nicest person ever. And Mom FIRED her.”
“Clara was NOT fired,” the thin woman said, her voice even. “Four years of college, three years of law school---it was time for her to move on. And anyway, we got Kit per her recommendation! He’s wonderful, isn’t he?”
Danny just sniffled.
Kit leaned his body weight toward the door.
Brian wheeled on his mother.
“Ma, I TOLD you not to buy this building. How could we move here? How could you let HER move here? She was an angel, Ma, an ANGEL.”
“This part of the neighborhood is absolutely fine son. It’s New York. Bad things happen. Especially to young single women”
“Bad things happen?! Ma, this dump is only two blocks away from all kinda of hood shit!”
An awkward silence descended on the place. The teenage boy looked at Kit and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, it’s true,” he said by way of apology.
“Brian, grab a hold of yourself. ” Her voice was quiet, but fire blazed in her unblinking green eyes.
Brian whimpered. His girlfriend grabbed on to his arm. She’d begun to cry.
The thin woman sighed.
“Kit,” she said evenly, turning her attention to the tutor. His back was literally against the door as three sets of eyes rested on him.
“The police are coming back shortly. They’ll want to speak to you. You were...close to Clara weren’t you. A friend, no?”
Her tone suggested just what kind of friend she imagined him to be, though she’d never really liked considering the private lives of the help.
Kit opened his mouth as though to speak, and then closed it again.
“Did you see her at her apartment last night, after your session with Danny? Did you talk to her?”
The accusation hung in the air. Clara lived one floor down from this apartment. Had this woman heard something? Had she looked out the window and seen him leave?
Kit involuntarily gasped. Tears sprung to his eyes.
“Oh, Kit,” the white woman said. She wafted across the room, and gave the young man a long, sensual hug. “You’re in shock, poor thing.”
She didn’t sound the least bit sincere.
Look natural Kit thought desperately. That’s why he’d come here, after all. To maintain the facade of routine so as to suggest innocence. Or, maybe he had a death wish. Maybe, he wanted to get caught.
No. In a blaze, Kit found that he wanted to live. To escape.
“I can’t be here anymore,” he said, pushing the white woman away more roughly than he’d intended.
“Kit!” she gasped, but he was already out the door, bounding down the steps, two at a time.
He tore out of the apartment complex, and headed toward the park, his legs turning over in at a dull flaming clip.
My Lord he calls me
He calls me by the thunder
The trumpet sounds
Within my soul
I ain’t got long to stay here.
He was fairly flying now, deeper and deeper into the park. He would spend the night there until it all blew over. Then, he’d catch a bus south, and maybe stay with his brother down in Baltimore until things smoothed over. Or, perhaps the authorities would expect him there. No, he’d have to leave the country. He could hitch a ride north, up to Canada. He’d taken French in high school. He could make it there, he was sure of it. Yes, he would------
Kit’s body sailed through the air, headlong over a steep incline. He didn’t know what he’d hit, a root, a stone, but the failing light had taken its toll. As he fell, he contemplated his dissertation, his rent, his girl. He contemplated the orange haired teenager who could never remember him, and his cute girlfriend. He contemplated the kid’s severe mother, and the little boy he privately tutored, and all the other mediocre children assigned to him by the rapey tutoring company he worked for.
Most of all, Kit contemplated his blackness, the negritude that composed the very essence of his soul. Clara had never really understood that.
He contemplated the blackness of the void rising to meet him, and the angular rhythm of the mezzo soprano voices ringing in his ears:
Steal away
Steal away to Jesus
Steal away
Steal Away Home
I ain’t got long to stay here.
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