kitchen, similar to the one above. The refrigerator was different, but it was in the same place. The door to the cupboard was there too, except it was green instead of white. A black woman stood at the stove reaching for a pot of coffee. Her face began
to turn toward Claude, and then all he could see was the blur of the shaft wall.
He landed with a bump. Gesturing rapidly with one hand and reaching in with the other, Al pulled him out.
"Al!" came a voice from above. "Is that you?"
Al tilted his head to call up the shaft. Claude sat down on the floor and rubbed the back of his head.
"Right here," Al yelled.
"She might have seen me," Claude said.
Al's eyes snapped down. "What?"
"She mightâ"
"Well did she or didn't she?" Al said. "Quick!"
"I don't know. It was too fast."
The woman called from above. "What's going on down there?"
Al stared upward and didn't say anything for a moment. Then he shouted, "What you mean, what's going on?"
"You hear me ring?"
Claude could see the relief on Al's face. "Sure I did."
"Well, didn't that thing just fly by here like a subway train?"
"It was the ropes. The ropes got messed up. Just hold on a minute, I'm coming." He began to pull, hand over hand. To Claude, he said softly, "That's Madge. She didn't see nothing."
"I don't want to do it anymore."
Al began to laugh. "We'll," he said, giving a little gasp, "I can see that."
He came home one day to find that a telephone had been installed. It stood next to the radio, and he felt both curiosity and excitement. The gleaming black instrument was provocatively modern in the dingy apartment, suggesting, in this dark room where everything for as long as he could remember had remained more or less the same, the possibility of change. A telephone! He examined it closely. The number printed on the round insert in the center of the dial was ATwater 9â6058. He picked up the receiver, listened to the dial tone, and replaced it in the cradle.
"Don't play with it," his mother said, coming in from her room. "Just leave it alone."
"But what's it for?" He noticed a thick telephone book on the floor. "I mean, who are you going to call?"
She paused, staring at him. He began to worry that he had inadvertently said something wrong, but then she turned away. "Just don't worry about it," she said.
For days it simply sat there. It never rang, and in the evenings she never used it. Browsing in the yellow pages, Claude stumbled upon the Music Store section, his eye caught by the illustrations of various instruments. It was thrilling to find a listing for Weisfeld's, and after a few false tries, he got through.
"Hello."
"This is Claude."
"Claude!" Mr. Weisfeld said. "What a pleasant surprise."
"We got a telephone." He looked down and touched the base with his fingers. "It's right here next to the radio."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it."
A long pause. "I like boogie-woogie."
"I thought you would. No more than half an hour at a time, though. It can be bad for your left hand."
"Okay." Claude listened to the hum of the line. He didn't know what to say, and it felt odd. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Claude. I'll see you tomorrow."
And then one night, in the middle of the night, it rang. He sat up on the cot and heard his mother come out of her room to answer it. She said a few words and put the phone down as Claude peeked through his door. She got pencil and paper and returned to the phone. "Okay, ready," he heard her say quietly, and then she wrote. When she hung up he ran back to the cot and pulled up the covers.
Suddenly the lights went on. She stood at his door, naked, her great white body startling him into full wakefulness.
"Get dressed," she said. "We're going out."
"Now?"
"Quick." She turned away. "And bring a blanket."
He obeyed, and found himself following her up the iron stairs into the dark and silent night. As they approached the parked cab he asked, "What's going on?"
She opened the rear door. "Just get in. You can go back to
to turn toward Claude, and then all he could see was the blur of the shaft wall.
He landed with a bump. Gesturing rapidly with one hand and reaching in with the other, Al pulled him out.
"Al!" came a voice from above. "Is that you?"
Al tilted his head to call up the shaft. Claude sat down on the floor and rubbed the back of his head.
"Right here," Al yelled.
"She might have seen me," Claude said.
Al's eyes snapped down. "What?"
"She mightâ"
"Well did she or didn't she?" Al said. "Quick!"
"I don't know. It was too fast."
The woman called from above. "What's going on down there?"
Al stared upward and didn't say anything for a moment. Then he shouted, "What you mean, what's going on?"
"You hear me ring?"
Claude could see the relief on Al's face. "Sure I did."
"Well, didn't that thing just fly by here like a subway train?"
"It was the ropes. The ropes got messed up. Just hold on a minute, I'm coming." He began to pull, hand over hand. To Claude, he said softly, "That's Madge. She didn't see nothing."
"I don't want to do it anymore."
Al began to laugh. "We'll," he said, giving a little gasp, "I can see that."
He came home one day to find that a telephone had been installed. It stood next to the radio, and he felt both curiosity and excitement. The gleaming black instrument was provocatively modern in the dingy apartment, suggesting, in this dark room where everything for as long as he could remember had remained more or less the same, the possibility of change. A telephone! He examined it closely. The number printed on the round insert in the center of the dial was ATwater 9â6058. He picked up the receiver, listened to the dial tone, and replaced it in the cradle.
"Don't play with it," his mother said, coming in from her room. "Just leave it alone."
"But what's it for?" He noticed a thick telephone book on the floor. "I mean, who are you going to call?"
She paused, staring at him. He began to worry that he had inadvertently said something wrong, but then she turned away. "Just don't worry about it," she said.
For days it simply sat there. It never rang, and in the evenings she never used it. Browsing in the yellow pages, Claude stumbled upon the Music Store section, his eye caught by the illustrations of various instruments. It was thrilling to find a listing for Weisfeld's, and after a few false tries, he got through.
"Hello."
"This is Claude."
"Claude!" Mr. Weisfeld said. "What a pleasant surprise."
"We got a telephone." He looked down and touched the base with his fingers. "It's right here next to the radio."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it."
A long pause. "I like boogie-woogie."
"I thought you would. No more than half an hour at a time, though. It can be bad for your left hand."
"Okay." Claude listened to the hum of the line. He didn't know what to say, and it felt odd. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Claude. I'll see you tomorrow."
And then one night, in the middle of the night, it rang. He sat up on the cot and heard his mother come out of her room to answer it. She said a few words and put the phone down as Claude peeked through his door. She got pencil and paper and returned to the phone. "Okay, ready," he heard her say quietly, and then she wrote. When she hung up he ran back to the cot and pulled up the covers.
Suddenly the lights went on. She stood at his door, naked, her great white body startling him into full wakefulness.
"Get dressed," she said. "We're going out."
"Now?"
"Quick." She turned away. "And bring a blanket."
He obeyed, and found himself following her up the iron stairs into the dark and silent night. As they approached the parked cab he asked, "What's going on?"
She opened the rear door. "Just get in. You can go back to
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