Men Seeking Women Read online

  It was the strangest, most fascinating face he’d ever seen. A beautiful face, slightly masculine, hinting at a chic androgyny; a familiar face, a face from his dreams, as of a lover, a kindred spirit. He understood this person, he felt. He wanted her. He knew this instantly. He rarely wanted anyone, but when he did, it became a fixed idea and he pursued it to the end. He stared at the face so intently that the eyes appeared to move; and it was then that he realized there was something wrong with her. Her beauty appeared unnatural, as if she were disfigured once, and her face remade by wizards. Don’t Burn. Byrne considered that phrase. Had there been an actual fire? Byrne saw no scars, but the image could have been enhanced, altered. Or perhaps she did mean it in a biblical sense—as an appeal to a sinner—and it was the power of the Infinite within her that graced her outward appearance. She had black hair to her shoulders, blue eyes as bright as cut sapphires, an aristocratic nose, and a wide, shapely mouth that seemed to be suppressing, in its perfect neutrality, a pair of fangs and a forked tongue. That, or she was a true angel of heaven: she was nothing in between. Her age was hard to determine—she seemed not so much young as ageless—and she had chosen not to tell. Her handle was Nemesis2001 (whose nemesis? God’s or the Devil’s?), and her statement was brief: Surrender to me, and I’ll take you to Heaven. Together we can escape this fallen world, together we can make angels, and they will inherit the Earth. (Please send a picture.)

  Byrne was ecstatic. He rushed to send her his photograph, along with a note saying that he needed to meet her immediately, and to give him her phone number—he would call her from somewhere on the road, they could make their arrangements on the fly. Byrne could see no other way.

  He brought her image back to the screen and looked into the eyes. His hands were clasped tightly together.

  Here she was, he thought—his reward, for having avenged the innocent. Byrne had never been in love before, but he had dreamed of love, and it had felt like this.

  He leaned forward and kissed the lips on the screen.

  He then heard a noise from the living room—the front door. Georgie barked from outside. Byrne’s trance was shattered.

  Who was it?

  He went to the window, prepared to lift it so that he could dive out. The sky was purple and orange, the trees black. He could run into the woods.

  “Kyle?” came a voice. “Yoo-hoo!”

  It was Carly.

  Byrne exhaled, wiped his hands on his shirt. “I’m in here,” he said.

  Carly approached timidly—Byrne discerned this in the sound of her steps—then stopped in the doorway and poked in her head.

  “I tried calling,” she said, “but the line’s been busy forever.” Her cheerfulness betrayed her suspicion. “Were you online?”

  “A little,” said Byrne. “I was listening to music. Downloading some old songs.”

  “Which songs?” said Carly, her interest exaggerated by her desire to believe him.

  “All kinds,” said Byrne. “What’d you do today?”

  Carly laughed. “What do you think? Somebody brought a pet pig in. It had depression.”

  “Maybe it just needs some mud,” said Byrne. He then noticed the car keys dangling on Carly’s finger.

  He thought: the car. Her car. Pennsylvania tags.

  He could take her car. He could drive her car to Boston.

  “Well, let me get out of these clothes,” Carly said. “Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. I’ll be quick.” Carly disappeared.

  Byrne stood there. He could drive to Boston in the hatchback, undetected. Once there, he could go to a library, or an Internet café, and send an e-mail to Nemesis2001, telling her that he was in Pennsylvania, and would be in Boston in a couple of days. In reality, he’d be able to reach her in minutes, well before the cops made their move.

  From the bathroom Byrne heard a rush of water.

  He wondered if he should just take the car now. But no: Carly would report it stolen, and he’d be worse off than he would in his own car. He’d have to ask to borrow it. But how? On what pretext?

  Byrne paced the room. He heard the screech of the faucets as the water was shut off. A moment later, the bathroom door opened. Was she coming this way? Byrne looked around. He saw the ceramic dog on the dresser; without thinking he picked it up. It was cold and heavy.

  “Kyle?” Carly was standing by the doorway, just out of view.

  Byrne froze. “Huh?”

  “Will you put some lotion on my back?”

  Byrne said nothing.

  Carly then appeared, wearing only a large yellow bath towel; her skin was pink, flushed from her bath and a certain tingling excitement that caused her to take one tentative step into the room.

  Byrne kept the statue behind him, gripping it in one hand. He had no idea what he was doing.

  “Who’s that?” Carly said, her eyes fixed sharply on the computer screen. She advanced to get a closer look, moving past Byrne, who stood there helplessly.

  “Don’t!” Byrne said, and without thinking he lunged and brought the statue down upon the back of her skull, striking her with such force that he could feel, through his hand and up his arm, the bolt of life that must have instantly left her: the next thing Byrne knew she was crumpled on the floor in front of the desk. Everything was silent.

  Byrne dropped the statue and went to Carly’s bedroom. It contained a bed, a television, two old wooden dressers, and a vanity in whose mirror Byrne saw his pale, unshaven face: in the dim light he looked as scared and incongruous as a deer that had just slammed through a window.

  He turned and saw the car keys on the flowered bedspread. Beside them was Carly’s black handbag. Byrne pocketed the keys, then turned the bag upside down. Among the items that fell out of it was a wallet. Byrne opened the wallet, took out all the bills, and pocketed them, too. Then he returned to the other room.

  The body hadn’t moved. Byrne did not know if he was appalled or relieved. He went to the desk and switched on the color printer. Because of the body he had to lean over the desk at an awkward angle. Carly’s towel was still fastened, but the cups of her buttocks were exposed. Byrne printed out the photograph of Nemesis2001. He watched as the image was rolled out to his fingertips, the face even more alive to him on the paper than it had been on the screen. Now he could hold it in his hands.

  He heard a groan.

  He looked down. Carly’s hand had traveled to the back of her head.

  Byrne felt a panic. Should he run? But no—he couldn’t just leave her like this. He crouched and spoke in her ear.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “Daddy.”

  Byrne was silent.

  “It hurts,” said Carly. Her voice was barely audible.

  Tenatively, Byrne touched her hair.

  He said, “Do you know Kyle?”

  “Kyle.”

  “Yes. The man who came to see you. Do you remember him?”

  There was no answer. Byrne moved the hair from over her ear, and saw that the ear was plugged with a thick clot of blood. Byrne jumped up.

  He was aware of his own breathing as he packed his bag. He went out and closed the door behind him. Georgie was still barking outside.

  Byrne went to the kitchen and opened the back door. Georgie came in, hungry. Byrne filled the bowl to overflowing, and left the bag out so that Georgie could get to it if he had to. He also changed Georgie’s water, filling the dish to the rim. Some of the water spilled over as he slowly set it down.

  He left the back door open, so that Georgie could get out.

  The hatchback had a full tank of gas—enough to get to Boston, Byrne calculated. He retrieved some maps from the glove compartment of his own car. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get to Boston, but it was dark now and it would surely be dark when he got there—he’d have to wait out the early morning hours in the car, on a side street, until he could get to someplace that had a computer. With any luck, Nemesi
s2001 would have replied to his e-mail by then, and given him her phone number. Byrne would then call her and arrange to meet.

  Byrne drove onto the highway where the diner was and headed north to the interstate. All he needed was to make it to Boston. The map was folded on the dash, and on the seat next to him was the picture of Nemesis2001: Byrne could not keep himself from glancing at it.

  Each pair of headlights in the rearview was like a threat on his life.

  Byrne turned on the radio and found a station playing classical music, which reminded him of his brother. He wondered if Ted had believed him today, on the phone. Probably not. Ted had always been wary of him, Byrne felt.

  Byrne kept catching his own eyes in the mirror, and sometimes this would distract him from his thoughts; or else the beams coming toward him in the opposite lane lashed his face, and left, as they fled, a ghost of his own image in the side window, an image that persisted if he concentrated on it, hanging there in the glass, to be washed away again by another blast of light.

  He took the picture of Nemesis2001 in his right hand and held it so that it would be illuminated in the oncoming beams. It was the one face that could beguile him as much as his own; in fact there was even a kind of resemblance, Byrne saw—he hadn’t really noticed it before. The eyes, he thought. He looked more closely, then checked his own eyes in the mirror. Yes, the eyes: and the mouth, too—it was almost the same exact mouth. Anxious, Byrne held the picture beside the mirror. He looked between both, and then he realized where he’d seen the face before: it looked like a picture of him that he kept on his desk at home, taken last year—but before he could make any further connection, he heard the blaring pitch of a car horn. He then saw his own frozen expression in the side window—there was a screech of tires, a panel of black night, and a sudden, hovering mass—and in a clash of steel his head flew into the windshield, which caught him, held him, in its crystal web.

  Ted had decided to look for a new puppy online, but each dog that came up on the screen had a curiosity in its eyes, a kind of dreamy, unformed intelligence that reminded him unpleasantly of Kyle. He pondered getting a cat instead. He needed company. The house had become strangely quiet without Kyle; there was a sense of some living thing holding its breath behind doors, waiting crouched around corners. Ted didn’t believe in ghosts, but having more or less reared his brother it was only natural that he’d feel a pang of responsibility for what had become of him, even though he knew it was all decided beforehand, that destiny had been written in the womb. Three people were dead. Kyle would have said that it was four.

  Ted had yet to unpack the box of Kyle’s things—his computer and the pictures from his desk—that had been returned to him from Messerschmidt’s office just before Christmas. The package came to the bookshop and was promptly shoved by Ted into a corner behind the register, and was now covered with stacks of old, mildewy books. Ted was never sure why the authorities had confiscated the pictures—they must have put them on TV, or on the Internet, under “Most Wanted.” Kyle hadn’t given them a chance. He’d driven off the road and into a tree; an apparent suicide. Ted had never claimed to understand his brother.

  In any case, Ted found himself spending more and more time at the shop, staying deep into the night, writing florid prose to various women on the Internet. He had so much to tell them.

  Sometimes, when he found a face he really liked, he composed a poem and sent it off, not really caring if he got a response. It felt good simply to know that his words were being read. In the past two months he’d written more verse than he had in years. He’d even established contact with a couple of young lovelies, one in Sweden, another in Belgium. Why limit himself to a fifty-mile radius? If need be, he could sell the house and move anywhere. He felt lighter, freer. The heft of words, dusty and mite-ridden and in piles all around him, had achieved a new fluidity in his blood, gone from the hulk and mess of printed paper to the weightlessness of light traveling through space.

  Late into the night, he zapped his love across oceans.

  THE RISK-REWARD RATIO

  Robert Anthony Siegel

  Danny Price lived on a houseboat on the Gowanus Canal. Whenever anybody asked, he told them he loved it there—which had been true for the first couple of months, when it was all new and exciting. The canal and its environs made up a fascinating postindustrial ecosystem compounded of abandoned factories, rotting docks, floating tires, and sunken barges. After decades of industrial dumping, the water was a luminous green, the color of Scope. The smell was beyond chemical, however—reaching toward something dark and organic, reminiscent of death, decay, and bodily shame. The dogs that scavenged the wharves all seemed to be missing an eye or an ear, and the cats had no tails. The people looked worse and were more dangerous.

  Danny had come with the intention of changing all that. He wasn’t an environmentalist but an entrepreneur, what he liked to call a “guerrilla capitalist,” by which he meant that he was in business for the adventure as much as the money. When he heard that the city was auctioning off an abandoned factory site by the canal, he was intrigued, and when he learned that there were plans to install a new lock on the canal, one that would flush the toxic water out to sea, he decided to bid. His idea was to knock down the factory and build a luxury marina.

  Improbable, yes, but think of the possibilities: the only marina in South Brooklyn, just minutes from Wall Street by way of the tunnel. Where those sunken barges now lay, there would be a row of sleek yachts, flags fluttering in a sweet-smelling breeze. Where that wall of rusting oil drums stood, a ferry slip for the hovercraft to Manhattan. Waterfront condos would take the place of the factory building. The clubhouse would hold a four-star restaurant, with a terrace overlooking the canal. A helipad would go way out over there, near the lock, where the diesel pumps now stood. And there, that patch of broken glass where the wild dogs liked to fornicate—that would be the gazebo where the band played on summer nights, in a little park strung with Chinese lanterns. Couples would dance in the moonlight.

  The city commission had loved it. His visionary presentation, combined with the absence of competing bids, had gotten him the factory. He was so stunned by his good fortune that he had stumbled out of the Municipal Building and wandered into the first bar he found in Chinatown, where he had spent the rest of the afternoon getting very drunk on something sweet that came in a ceramic skull, while the karaoke system played “Come Ye Back to Mandalay” over and over again.

  Winning had cost him the four buildings he owned in Boerum Hill and the condo in Brooklyn Heights—all gone to buy the factory site. It had cost him his chance to buy a franchise in the Women’s Professional Football League, an opportunity with enormous upside potential. Most important, it had also cost him his live-in girlfriend, Clarissa Wyre, who refused to move with him to the houseboat. This last was a source of continuing pain.

  Danny was ready to concede that Clarissa had some grounds for complaint. The interior of the houseboat was spartan. The kitchen consisted of a hot plate, the rest of little more than a camp chair, folding table, and narrow bunk. The walls were damp and the floor often wet—he had never seen such a fascinating variety of molds. His books were all moldy. Even his clothes had mold growing on them now.

  But that wasn’t really the issue, as he had pointed out that night in Brooklyn Heights, when she left him.

  “Of course it’s not the issue,” she had shouted back. “What do you think I’ve been telling you for the last three hours?”

  He wasn’t really sure, because for Danny, as soon as an argument began, it was like somebody had turned the sound off on the TV. Clarissa was still there, frowning, gesticulating, very rapidly moving her lips, but the words were all gone, and he had to try to make sense of the pictures: She’s pointing to something. She seems upset. She’s clutching her head.

  But on that night Clarissa had disappeared into the bedroom, only to reemerge carrying a suitcase. “Hey, wait a second,” he said.

  “The
issue, Danny, is that we are going nowhere. Because you are going nowhere.”

  He could only assume she was questioning his instincts about the marina. “This is a major opportunity, Clarissa. A onetime deal.”

  “I want to have a family.”

  He had a moment of fright while searching for the right answer. “You’re my family.”

  “I want children. I want a home.”

  “We’ll get there,” he said, as if this were someplace far, far off, and almost impossible to find.

  “No, we won’t get there. You won’t. But I will.” And with that she had lifted her suitcase and headed for the door.

  There had followed one of those agonized, impossible-to-define, neither-nor periods that can only be alluded to as pre-postbreakup: e-mails three or four times a day, with one side or the other threatening to change his or her e-mail address. Phone calls at two in the morning, full of demands that the other side stop calling. Meetings with more conditions attached than a Middle East summit, the point of which was to establish that there would be no more meetings under any conditions whatsoever—followed by frantic, shamefaced sex and then a week of silence, during which time each would be haunted by the fear that the other had been killed in a traffic accident.

  It had gone around and around like that with no end in sight—one month, two—even as Danny sold his buildings and his condo, liquidated his stock portfolio, and moved into the houseboat. It had continued while he consulted with architects, engineers, and urban planners, while he talked to banks and contractors, while he used the last of his cash to install a security fence around the factory site.

  And then suddenly it had stopped. “Don’t call here anymore, Danny,” Clarissa had said to him one night, after an unusually long period out of touch.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” he told her. “We can’t keep going around like this.” Stretched out on his bunk, the cell phone to his ear, he had taken in the interior of the cabin with some satisfaction: blueprints spread over the folding table, correspondence stacked on the camp chair. The houseboat had actually seemed like an exciting place, back then—moldy, but exciting. “I’ve got too much on my plate right now to deal with your separation anxieties.”