LEONARD KRIEGEL
393
smoking. Only he likes to watch the smoke disappear into the ceil–
ing. "Especially for nice girls," he says. "This is New York."
Where what is ultimately forbidden is only the idea of the for–
bidden . So that now is merely the continuation of the way she used
to pull him down to the rug with the dark reds and oranges and
browns ("Pakistan! Those bastards!" his mother screams the night
his father and he maneuver it into the elevator and then into the
apartment) and he taught himself to keep his body still and his mind
absolutely receptive with anticipation and let Miriam disappear into
the death he knows is coming for his mother. "Michael," Miriam
whispers. "Michael Gordon."
And now the metallic clicking giving way in his mind to the
pleasure-filled expectancy which had once served to keep the world
at a distance. "All you have to do is call , Michael. I'll be there .
Promise."
Illusions pass into the solid presence. His mother died, not
Miriam. Now he pushes her back into the mattress and feels her
fingers dig into his shoulders and presses his lips to the still-tart taste
of the Granny Smith apple. Pushing against memories. Perhaps a
moment like this.
"What else?" he hears her whisper.
A sudden chill brushes the air. He feels himself suspended in
time. Pauses. "Don't you want to?" he asks, furious to uncover the
thirteen-year-old beggar once again in his voice.
"Bisexual," she giggles. Then the giggle spins into the metallic
laugh. "Oh, Michael, it's not as crazy as it sounds."
"Not here," he says, and begins to work his time and her body.
"Not in New York." Caught up in the love-making, he cannot even
remember whether the metallic sound is still coming from Miriam.
