and then, instead of cleaning it or going to an emergency room, had covered it with gauze and never looked at it again, even while it itched and festered.
“Monsters,” Audrey whispered, as the others looked upon his gore, and laughed, clapping all the harder.
“Boo!” Francis shouted, then peered down at Audrey as she convulsed: “BOO!” The tenants kept clapping, only they were jeering, too. Galton leaped across the den, waltzing with an imaginary partner. “BOO!”
In the commotion, Marty leaned too close. She flinched, thinking he might kiss her. Instead, he rubbed his lips against her ear and whispered so fast that she had to replay his words a few times before she understood them. “HoldonOkayHoldon!”
Then he stood and announced to the others, “Someone get her a blanket. She’s gone into hypoglycemic shock.”
Audrey closed her eyes. Her heart clenched and unclenched. She tried to think of calming memories, to slow down its beating. Her old apartment with Saraub. His hands on the back of her neck. The rooftop design of the Parkside Plaza.
“What-sa matta with her? Why doesn’t she have blankets? Is this another homeless?” the woman holding her laptop asked. “The homeless never work, they’re too stupid.”
“—I thought we told Edgardo no dirty girls. Didn’t we say that? An architect. A career girl, no attachments. That’s what we said,” Evvie answered.
Audrey drifted, closing her eyes. Chest clenching, she couldn’t catch her breath.
“—And what did he bring us? A psycho or something? Isn’t her mother in the loony bin? She gives me the craziest fucking nightmares!”
“—I like them. I haven’t been to the Film Forum in thirty years. Nobody here ever dreams anything new.”
“—I’m glad Edgardo’s gone. I didn’t care for his accent. I only like Castilian Spanish. Besides, we should get Irish to clean,” the doctor with the kind face announced.
“—It’ll work this time. I could tell the second she took the tour. The Breviary likes her.” This from Evvie.
“—Shaddup! It likes me better than any of you!” Loretta shrilled.
And then, something heavy on Audrey’s chest. It was soft and relieved her shivering. Jayne’s pink comforter.
“—Do you think it’ll work this time, smarty Marty?”
Marty cleared his throat. She recognized his voice without having to look because it was ripe with contempt. What was more remarkable, they knew it, and didn’t care. From the way they interrupted and shouted, not one of them held another in regard. They’d known each other since they were children. Half of them were probably siblings or at least distant cousins. It occurred to her that after more than eighty years in the same building, without ever having kids or getting jobs, they played the role of children, and The Breviary their parents, in the oldest dysfunctional family in New York.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Marty said. “The Breviary could get inside the others, but it was like using a pencil to build a house. The tools weren’t right. Even when they offered a sacrifice, they couldn’t get their doors to open. She will.”
“Who will she sacrifice?” Evvie asked.
“Romeo!” Loretta cried. “I knew I liked that darkie!”
“It’s all about proper tools,” Marty muttered. He sounded like he might be near tears. “None of us were equipped. Not even Jayne. Just this one.”
“You’re the tool, Marty Hearst,” somebody shouted, and they all started hooting again. The sound grew distant as they headed back down the hall.
“—Where’s my Mr. Frisky? Mr. Frisky!” Loretta asked.
“—I could kill that stupid cat…” This from Evvie.
“Im nadda tool. You cant useme. Not gonna kill my boyfriend I’ll kill you!” Audrey mumbled, but by now they were too far away to hear.
“—My apartment is so full of red ants I had to move up to 14A. When are we getting a new super?” Now Galton.
“—I ate your goddamned Frisky, and Toto too,” Evvie announced.
Their voices trailed. The last to leave turned out the lights, and everything in 14B went dark.
36
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, III: Light Through the Keyhole
At first, she chewed her lip to keep from falling asleep. Tasted salt. Tried to frighten herself by imagining Schermerhorn with her in the room. Knew logically that she had to escape but did not feel the urgency. Shaking too hard. Too tired: her chest was a tightened fist.
Insulin. She wasn’t diabetic, and two hypodermics of the stuff didn’t sound safe. What propelled her was the possibility that she might die. With some of the larger strips of her own torn clothes, she tied her