IN THAT TIME, THE BED’S SHAKING WOKE HENRY. IT STARTED WHENClara moved in. She insisted he move his mattress from the floor onto a box spring and frame.
Sometimes the bed shook when a truck rumbled by. Once during a strong tremor. Or when he or Clara tossed and turned. And especially when he was trembling. Then, Henry would place his palm against the wall to steady things.
Clara slept soundly, her breathing regular, her body warm. The shaking never woke her. Nor would the catfight between two whores below them on Turk Street. Henry lay awake and listened to their high-pitched high-strung shrieks. It was a crazy thing to see them fight. The other night, Henry had watched one of them swing her hand right up there and start squeezing and yanking
the cord for like the 50th time, hard. The bus driver at last stopped next to a rice field. Clara clutched her swollen belly and stumbled off the bus into a windbreak of eucalyptus trees. The world stopped shaking as she kicked off her sandals and unzipped her soggy pants, wanting someone to take her
hand from the wall. The fight on the street continued but the bed no longer quivered. Henry rubbed his fingertips and felt the chalky residue of cheap paint. Next to him, Clara slept on her
side, knees bent, facing away from him. His fingers searched the backs of her legs until they found the crease between her thighs and calves. There, it was tight and warm.
A hollow explosion of breaking glass caused Clara to stir. It was the pop of an empty 40-ouncer, thrown by one of the fighting hookers. The tattoo of one prostitute chasing another, both in high heels and with stunted strides, came next and then faded. Turk Street returned to quiet, peace. Henry’s hand remained wedged behind Clara’s knee. The bed began to vibrate while his mind shuddered
weeks back, no months, no just two weeks ago, back in shaky Queens, Henry’s guy had been the one everyone called DealerLouReed. They were in an alley off Steinway.
“You need a needle?” DealerLou asked, reaching into a pocket of his Army field coat. The hollow, stainless steel tips looked recently used.
“You got any still in their plastic?”
DealerLou shook his head. “I bleached them myself.”
Henry thought of never being sure where pennies and library books had been. “You got any bleach?”
“Fuck you, junkie.”
“Thanks anyway,” Henry said and offered DealerLou a sweet smile.
“Get lost.”
“Fuck you, fuck me,” Henry muttered to himself, turning his back and then counting his steps as if in a duel. On 20 he looked back to see DealerLou turn left. Henry walked west toward the East River, gaining confidence.
He felt good. He was going to take this as a sign not to use. Everything was going to work out. He would call his folks and go home. He would start eating right. Sleep nights. Maybe
