Black Cat Weekly #77

Chapter 5-3

But it was the opposite. The manager told him that the BSO were letting him go.

“Furlough?” he asked. It had been happening to a lot of his friends.

“The truth is, we need to replace you.”

At first Nathan couldn’t believe what he was hearing and then he realized: It was the old story. She didn’t need to point out how many rehearsals he’d come late to, or even missed. The fact that he was the best sight-reader in the orchestra didn’t matter. Talent didn’t matter. Why had he thought Boston would be any different?

Still he asked: “Why?”

There was a silence the space of a single breath and then the manager said, “Look, I like you. I really hate having to make this call. But we need all our musicians to be consummate professionals.”

“Why did you email me send me the summer schedule?”

“Our apologies, that was a mistake.”

Fucking WASP New England snottiness. Nathan didn’t tell Sophie he’d been fired. On what would have been rehearsal days he went out cruising by the river. There was better action in men’s rooms in certain office buildings and malls downtown, but he didn’t own a car and was too dispirited to go anywhere that required public transportation. When his sister asked why he was so grumpy he told her he was having trouble learning the music for Tanglewood.

Sophie said, “OK Nate, but at least wash your hair.”

They climb the concrete steps into the shell which to the walker feels like a gorge, it’s so dark. The whispery tread of their sneakers is eerily amplified by the acoustics of the wooden structure. Are they alone? It seems so. Now the walker can barely see the target, just hear soft steady breathing—or is that the wind? He strains to see in the gloom and a sick feeling goes through him, like his guts are being pulled down.

They climb the concrete steps into the shell which to the walker feels like a gorge, it’s so dark. The whispery tread of their sneakers is eerily amplified by the acoustics of the wooden structure. Are they alone? It seems so. Now the walker can barely see the target, just hear soft steady breathing—or is that the wind? He strains to see in the gloom and a sick feeling goes through him, like his guts are being pulled down.Don’t be a f*****g wuss, he tells himself. This could be the best one yet. Fingers around his wrist, drawing him to the right. Yes, the walker thinks. They are coming to the last part of the dance which began with the lighting of the cigarette. He follows until he nearly stumbles onto the target, who has stopped short.

he tells himself. Fingers around his wrist, drawing him to the right. , the walker thinks. They are coming to the last part of the dance which began with the lighting of the cigarette. He follows until he nearly stumbles onto the target, who has stopped short.A wall. He is being backed against a wall. Hands on the walker’s shoulders pressing him down.

A wall. He is being backed against a wall. Hands on the walker’s shoulders pressing him down.OK, the walker thinks. He can do this. His head descends and he feels the teeth of the zipper of the person’s open fly, the heat of soft cotton. As the walker leans his face in he feels the target’s hands slide from the tops of his shoulders to the sides of his head.

, the walker thinks. He can do this. His head descends and he feels the teeth of the zipper of the person’s open fly, the heat of soft cotton. As the walker leans his face in he feels the target’s hands slide from the tops of his shoulders to the sides of his head.That’s it.

The walker can’t tell which one of them has spoken. He doesn’t care.

The walker can’t tell which one of them has spoken. He doesn’t care.Fingertips against the walker’s ears, back down, tender, almost tickling.

Fingertips against the walker’s ears, back down, tender, almost tickling.* * * *

* * * *Reyna opened her eyes. Just like in a movie, she said aloud to no one: “Where am I?”

It took her about ten long seconds to remember. The Esplanade. Lenore Hastings, the younger daughter having to rush out of the room and the older crying without making a sound. It was so dark. What time was it? Doug would be worried. She was lying on her back in wet grass. Thank God she had fallen on the grass, although she thought she had done something to her left hip. Probably just a bruise. She felt around for her pack, then realized it was dangling from one strap around her left elbow. With her right arm she reached gingerly underneath her butt for her phone, which she usually kept in her back jeans pocket. Holding it over her face, she pressed the home button. Nothing. Battery dead? Or was it broken? She pressed power. Still nothing.

She was just about to try and sit up when she heard it. A scuffling sound, and then a splash. A very loud long splash. A splash in stages. Not any kind of normal river sound. She hadn’t realized she was so near the Charles. Had someone fallen in? Should she go down and investigate? She rolled carefully over onto her stomach.

“Sweet Ca-ro-line!”

Sweet Ca-ro-line!”Doug had explained why Red Sox fans had to sing that in the middle of the eighth inning of every home game, but it still didn’t make any sense to her.

Then she heard footsteps coming in her direction. Chuk chuk chuk. From the dock, she realized. She was lying about thirty feet away but her eyes were still adjusting to the dark. The footsteps stopped, and she held her breath. She saw the figure silhouetted. It made a half turn and looked back to where it had come from, the water. There was a tiny insect sound, and then a face.

Chuk chuk chuk.A man lighting a cigarette.

“Strangled,” said Lizzie Derringer. She wasn’t talking to Henry but to Barb Weiss in 2D. Recently Chelsea Arms residents had begun socializing in the lobby again, which they were not supposed to do during Covid. As president of the co-op board you would have thought that Barb would have known better.

They were talking about the body under the dock. It was Monday now but the fuss had started up late Friday afternoon, sirens screaming, news vans clattering by on the cobblestones. Earlier that day Henry had been looking out at the plaza and thinking that Boston finally felt back to normal. After a miserable 2020 season, the Red Sox were neck and neck with New York for second place in the AL East, and human fans were back at Fenway, their cheers carried over by the wind. Most pedestrians were unmasked now but at his station in the lobby or under the royal blue awning Henry always wore his black N95, careful not to dislodge it by too energetic talking or even smiling.

Lizzie Derringer in 4B came out to walk Cookie Monster, her Bichon Frisé. Middle-aged with a severe red bob, Lizzie had what Henry’s mother called bedroom eyes, even when she wasn’t wearing makeup. Usually she was talking on her phone or otherwise distracted but this time she stopped where Henry was stationed at his little desk. He bent to pet the dog. “Hiya Cookie Boy.”

“Did you hear what happened?” Lizzie sounded breathless. She wasn’t wearing a mask, and when she stopped speaking her mouth remained a little open.

“The sirens? Sounded like they were going to the Esplanade.”

Lizzie nodded. “They found a body.”

“Oh?” said Henry.

Lizzie made a face that was supposed to be Ewwww but actually looked excited. “It was in pretty bad shape. Been in the water for days, they said.”

EwwwwdaysHenry was not inclined to continue the conversation but to be polite and because Lizzie gave him two hundred dollars at Christmas he asked: “Who found it?”

“A BU grad student. He walked his bike to the end of the dock and when he sat down he noticed there was something, you know, caught under.”

“Hmm,” said Henry. He suspected Lizzie had more details, and he didn’t want to hear them.

Sure enough, she said: “Foul play.”

“That’s awful.”

“Isn’t it? Well, Cookie and I are going out to have a look see.”

“They’ll have it cordoned off.”

“Oh, I know. We’ll just walk by to get the feel of things.”

Henry watched them strut across the cobblestones off towards the river. How did Lizzie know all these details? Did she listen to the police radio? He suddenly remembered the glint of Professor Plaster’s half open eyes. The pandemic had gone on too long, people were going batshit crazy. Netflix wasn’t enough, they had to go and gawk at a crime scene in real life.

Now it was Monday, with details released to the media, and Lizzie was more excited than ever, Cookie Monster dozing at her feet as she sat on the sofa gabbing with Barb.

“Makes you think of the Boston Strangler,” Lizzie said.

That f*****g Boston Strangler again. BS. The BS was BS.

Barb said: “I bet it was a hate crime.”

A pair of bleeding hearts, Henry thought, though not the kind who would do more than talk.

Lizzie shook her head, then leaned over and whispered into Barb’s ear. So much for social distancing. And it was f*****g rude. If they wanted to talk privately why didn’t they just go upstairs. Or text.

For the past week Henry had been what his mother would call out of sorts. He’d even gotten a PCR test just to be sure. Negative. He flexed his hands. His right rotator cuff felt out of alignment—he’d have to get a script for physical therapy.

“What do you think, Henry?” Barb called out to him.

Henry turned around to face them, shook his head. “Terrible. You ladies should be extra careful. Don’t go out by yourselves after dark.”

For some reason this made them both titter like teenage girls.

“Oh, Henry,” said Lizzie. “Who would want to hurt an old lady like me?”

Barb stopped laughing. “Well, I hope they find whoever did it soon. This is all we need, a new crime wave in Boston.”

It’s not clear to the walker how many seconds elapse before he knows. By then it doesn’t matter. His brain is not forming clear thoughts anymore.

It’s not clear to the walker how many seconds elapse before he knows. By then it doesn’t matter. His brain is not forming clear thoughts anymore.He’s fighting, and then he’s not. He’s glad he got high before he went out walking. The last thing he hears in his head is the opening measures of the violin in Bruch’s Concerto No. 1 in G minor, the solo that made him want to become a musician in the first place. By the time the wind instruments come in, the music is mixing with the sound of blood in his ears, and then finally he hears nothing at all.

He’s fighting, and then he’s not. He’s glad he got high before he went out walking. The last thing he hears in his head is the opening measures of the violin in Bruch’s Concerto No. 1 in G minor, the solo that made him want to become a musician in the first place. By the time the wind instruments come in, the music is mixing with the sound of blood in his ears, and then finally he hears nothing at all.