—You have to be joking. What, you think this is some kind of date?
She said I was no friend to her brother. She called me a series of vile and hurtful names. She wouldn’t believe that I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but she waited while I got my laptop and went online. To my horror, beneath items on a diet guru’s divorce and a domestic violence charge involving two RnB stars was a post headed Coma heir “cruising for sex.” What was a young music producer with a glittering career doing at 3am in the industrial wasteland of Hunts Point? It was clearly at least partly based on the conversation I’d had the day before. His roommate claimed…according to his producing partner…It was picture-bylined Lewis Carolle, who seemed to be a preppy young black guy in tortoiseshell glasses and a bow tie.
A gossip columnist. I’d been so stupid. He had seemed to know everything anyway. Like an idiot, I’d confirmed what must only have been a rumor. I’d given him his whole story. Leonie didn’t want to hear my explanation.
—You sleazy bastard.
—I swear I didn’t know he was a journalist.
—Yeah right. Did you still not know when you told him where to send the check?
—Come on, Leonie. I wouldn’t do that.
—Oh really? You cheap little fuck. How much did you sell my brother out for? I bet it wasn’t even a thousand bucks.
—That’s not fair.
—If anything changes with Carter, someone will call you. But don’t call me. I don’t want your number coming up on my screen. You took advantage of my brother, riding around on his coattails. I won’t let you do the same to me. So stay the fuck away.
I’m sorry. I never. I didn’t. I wasn’t.
Leonie, I didn’t know.
She walked out and slammed the door, leaving me with my small plates, my bottle of wine, the fresh linen I had put on Carter’s bed.
In the days after Leonie cut off contact, I underwent a sort of collapse, like a tower caving in on its foundations. The loft seemed hollow, cavernous. The pressed tin panels on the high ceilings, the great round stained glass window that flooded the space with spiritual light, these features had once seemed magical to me, signs of my charmed New York life. Now they just looked expensive. Without Carter, the light was merely an amenity, one that did not belong to me. I drank and looked at porn. I felt raw and frightened, my slug underbelly exposed.
The white rapper’s record label was leaving messages. They were sorry about Carter, but they were on a schedule. Did we have anything for them to hear, or should they look elsewhere? No, there was nothing for them to hear. There would never be anything for them to hear. I knew that. I was hopelessly lost, stunned into immobility. I spent most of my time in Carter’s room, putting 78’s on the turntable, sitting on the bed in front of the speakers.
Can’t tell the future, can’t forget the past Lord it seems like every minute going to be my last See see rider see what you done done You made me love you now you trying to put me down
Why had Leonie treated me like that? She was being unfair. I’d never wanted much, I’d meant no harm. It was worse, somehow, that she’d let me get so close before pushing me away. I conducted conversations with her, arguments. I pleaded my case. Sometimes it was almost as if she were there in my head. Yes, Seth. I understand. I see what you mean.
Don’t get mad at me woman if I kicks in my sleep I may dream things cause your heart to weep
I DID NOTHING, or next to nothing. I couldn’t work. I didn’t answer the phone or go online. I cut myself off from the world. Carter could have been alive or dead, I had no way of knowing, but I felt we were the same, each in his own coma, dislocated, floating free. One afternoon I was asleep in his bed, wrapped up in his antique patchwork quilt. By the time I heard the thumps and voices, the movers must have been working for at least an hour.
In that apartment, we put bills and bank statements and anything else official in the jaws of a stuffed coyote that sat in a corner by the door. When there were too many envelopes to fit in the coyote’s mouth, Carter stuffed them into a FedEx box and sent it to Betty. I never handled anything administrative. In terms of paperwork I was almost invisible. Perhaps there had been a letter. The state I was in, even if one had been addressed to me, I probably wouldn’t have opened it.
I came out to find all the furniture gone from the living area. The contents of my room were being boxed up by a crew of surly Russians or Ukrainians, big pale men with unempathic eyes. I couldn’t get any sense out of them. They shrugged at my questions, shook negating fingers. No English. They pointed out the boss, who showed me a work order. He had keys. His instructions were to empty the place and put everything in storage. I told him he had to stop and put it all back. I told him to get his guys and leave. It escalated from there. I don’t remember getting Carter’s bat. I just found it in my hands. The boss said if I touched him, he’d call the cops. Go ahead, I said, swinging the bat. Call them. Then I locked myself in Carter’s room and tried to get Cornelius on the phone. His assistant said he was unavailable.