Chapter 11D

Thursday I was on my own all day. After Martha left for work I went back to sleep. I woke up so late that I knew I could never make it to Fiore's on time, so I called the health club and cancelled for the day, playing sick. I managed to meet Ronnie for lunch, but I sat feeling like a truant. My guilt piled up as I listened to Ronnie talk about how hard she had worked to get through college. I could hardly speak, and soon I was almost too ashamed to look her in the eye.

For the rest of the day I wandered around the city, careful to avoid the streets and neighborhoods that Martha had warned me about. Martha came home for dinner and had more papers to work on. As we ate she casually asked, "And how'd it go with Fiore today?" Of course I lied and said it went well, and she asked me about the kinds of workouts he had set for me, and I made up an encouraging, partly fictional report.

She said, "Good. Don't you feel better about yourself now that you've found someone who can really help you?"

I said yes. And for the rest of the night I evaded her, feeling like a real slacker. I got into bed before she did, dozing off as she worked late into the night, and woke up only briefly when she got into bed beside me. She looked bushed, and closed her eyes immediately.

Friday morning I awoke to find Martha bleary-eyed and rushing to get ready for work. I dressed quickly and hurried into the kitchen to make a breakfast of toast and juice. When she finished dressing she wolfed down the toast and quickly packed her briefcase and reminded me that I had Fiore at ten and then I would meet her uptown near Columbia for lunch. She hastily scribbled the address and handed it to me.

I asked, "The subway goes there, right?"

She drank her juice in one gulp and grabbed her briefcase. "Do *not* take the subway by yourself, not to this neighborhood. Take a taxi, hon. Please. Make the driver leave you right in front of the building."

Clattering in her high heels, she headed for the front door. "I gotta go."

I rushed to close the door behind her and she gave me a quick peck on her way out. I showered and dressed. I had a listless, depressed feeling that made me dread the upcoming session with Fiore. I just wanted to relax for a change; my first New York week left me exhausted.

On my way downstairs I paused at Ronnie's door but heard nothing from inside. I thought that if she were awake I could schedule something for the morning, maybe meet her for a coffee break and skip the session with Fiore again. There was no sound from Ronnie's, so I went onto the street.

On the way to Fiore's I stopped at a bank to cash more traveler's cheques. I still had money to spare, but the bank calendar reminded me that time would be getting short sooner or later. Then I walked onto the street again, and it was the intimidating rush of the city itself, hurling itself into my face, that had me feeling guilty at my laziness. If I were going to win, to keep my promises to Martha about growing up, skipping out on Fiore wouldn't help. The city was a challenge, and as I watched people and traffic hustling around me I felt the grip of ambition creep over me and gradually take control. I remember saying adamantly to myself as I walked: You guys can't beat *me* so easily. My own words had an unexpected effect on me; I broke into a run toward the health club.

Fiore gave me hell again for an hour. But I was set on attaining the level of others who worked out in his club.

"No, no! Concentrate!" he grumbled at me as I lifted dumbbells over my head. "Watch your form! Take more time if you need it! Concentrate! Mind and body together, my friend! Together!"

I worked arduously. I kept thinking that I had less than two months in New York, less than sixty days to be more than I was when I left Memphis. I knew I had lost some baby fat and that the pimples I brought to New York were fading and I could run in place almost twice as long as I could a few days before. But I felt compelled to do more. I worked at the exercise bike until I couldn't breathe. While I rested, slumping on the handlebars and huffing and sweating, Fiore strode to me, his hands on his hips. He wore his perpetual, taunting grin.

"At first you couldn't do enough," he said. "Now you try to do too much! You can't make up for missing yesterday by overworking today! You can't go back, my friend. Only ahead. Never try to go back. Now, rest. And begin again!"

I rested. But then I worked myself to exhaustion again, feeling time rush at me. Finally, near the end of the session, Fiore walked to me and laid a hand on my arm. "Stop," he said quietly, unusually subdued. "Stop, my friend. You are working too hard. I want you to stop for today."

I said, panting, "I have to make up for yesterday."

He shook his head no. "Not possible, my friend."

I continued, averting his eyes. "It's my fault, anyway. I wasn't sick. I was just... busy."

He paused, eyeing me knowingly, and said evenly, "Your friend Martha would be proud of you. Because you are honest, I will tell you a secret. You can't build a good body by punishing it for your mistakes. My friend, never, never punish your body." He held up a warning finger. "Tomorrow, light work. Light. Understand?"

I nodded, breathing heavily.

"Understand?" he repeated. His eyes scolded me. "Light tomorrow."

"Okay," I said. I got off the bike and went to the showers. On my way out I glanced again at the dancers and others in the room. I envied their physical perfection and their grace and ease. I felt like a laggard. Outside on Lexington Avenue, I responded to my urge to work harder by jogging, determined to make my way on foot all the way uptown to meet Martha. But at 59th Street I was running out of steam. Angry with myself, I caught a taxi to Martha's and changed into nicer clothes for lunch. Fiore was right, I thought as I knotted my necktie in the mirror: I still had a lot to learn and a long way to go. But I saw my skin was clear. At least I was getting somewhere, if not far enough. In the kitchen I gulped down the vitamins and the yeast, taking an extra full serving of yeast. I told myself that at lunch I'd be meeting adults, experts. I had to look sharp.

The taxi let me out in front of a block long, dilapidated office building in the West 130's. As soon as I was on the sidewalk again I knew I was in a slum. It was unlike the shanty towns and workingclass neighborhoods I'd seen in Memphis. The street stank strongly of garbage and grease. Trash was everywhere. I found myself surrounded by tough looking, disheveled Hispanics and blacks on the busy sidewalk, interspersed with a few Orientals, Eurasians, and some students carrying books. A bearded man sat on a pile of paper wrappings in a doorway, mosquitoes swarming around him. I looked up and down the busy street; Broadway stretched for miles in both directions, downtown toward Manhattan where the scenery looked cleaner and brighter, and then uptown toward Riverside, the George Washington Bridge looming in the distance. I knew that the entire neighborhood wasn't as squalid as the block where I stood, for I'd seen cleaner areas in the taxi on my way there. Quickly I made my way through the creaking entrance of the building and found myself in a clean but aging, yellow-walled lobby where I followed a swept but dank hallway around several corners to a small office with "109" on the front door. I knocked.

"Come in," I heard Martha say from inside. Before I could open the door, Martha opened it and stood in her suit in a room with several massive, metal desks and filing cabinets.

She smiled. "Welcome to the Northern District Special Education Worksite," she said, her greeting colored with a little irony. "I'll be right with you. Like it? I share this place with six other people. They're in a meeting now, but it's almost over. Two of them are waiting across the street. Come on, I'll introduce you."

She was businesslike and matter-of-fact. It was a serious, professional Martha I saw now. She gathered her briefcase and a printed list and led me down the hallway toward the lobby, explaining tersely the various offices and cubicles we passed, and then led me across the street toward a small diner.

"This is a New York you haven't seen yet," she said somberly. "It's the working part. The tough part." She paused and added, "The heartbreaking part."

I asked as we crossed the hot, teeming street, "The people at Columbia sent you here?"

"No. Worse than that. I volunteered. Come on, they're waiting in this little diner. Watch out for the coffee, it'll keep you awake for a week."

In the diner Martha smiled tiredly and greeted two men who sat at a four-seat table near the foggy front window. One of them was a tall, virile looking man in his thirties. The other was a slight, younger man in black-rimmed glasses and a wrinkled gray suit. The taller man spoke readily and directly and reminded me of the laconic, rangy cowboys I'd seen in many westerns. The younger one was more reticent and seemed bored and annoyed as he examined a spiral bound, one-inch thick report. The taller one greeted me with, "Hello, nice to meet you, Steven," and a hefty handshake. The other one smiled weakly, reaching into his coat pocket for a cigarette. Martha, too, lit a cigarette and we ordered coffee and sandwiches.

"Welcome to New York," said the tall one, whose name was Mark. Martha told them I was an old friend from Memphis and that she brought me along to prove she wasn't kidding when she told people back home that she really had a paying job.

I found, again, that I was no expert at initiating conversation. I felt tense and self-conscious, even when Mark said jokingly, "People from down South always seem so laid back and casual. But I know better. Martha, here, came to us with her sweet Southern smile and her sweet Southern manner. Then she turns out to be a taskmaster." The younger guy smiled sardonically and added, "That's post-graduate slang for ball-buster," and punctuated the remark with an amiable, "Speaking figuratively, of course." They asked what I'd been doing in New York When they discovered I attended a school taught by the Christian Brothers they wanted to know all about the teachers of whom they'd heard a great deal and what kinds of teaching methods they used. "The Brothers have schools up here, too," Mark said, "but not in neighborhoods like this. It's enough to make me consider joining their order, but I'd like to stay married." When I told them that the Christian Brothers was one of the few religious orders that allowed marriage, Mark said, "Hey, doesn't sound bad." He grinned and asked, "Have their address on you?"

Martha asked the younger man about the list he paged through. "Are those the assignments?" she asked, and the young man said dryly, "Yes, wanna see?" Martha held out her hand and said, "Let's see what they're doing to us," and the young man handed the papers to her with a dry remark, "You won't like it, Martha." Martha looked over the first page for a second and muttered "You're right, I don't," and the young man shrugged and said resignedly, "What can I say? We don't make the decisions, we just tote the barge."

Within a few minutes the diner was more crowded for the lunch hour. Another man and a woman entered wearing business clothes and headed for our table. Martha noticed them and asked me, "Hon, would you mind terribly if you sat at another table for a minute while we talk something over with those people? They're from the meeting and we just have to review something. It'll only take a minute. Really. Do you mind? There's not enough room here for all of us."

I said, "Of course not!", feeling I was being very adult about it, and found a seat a few yards away at the lunch counter where I finished my sandwich while the others talked. The two newcomers pulled an extra chair to the table. Everyone fell into an earnest discussion over the assignment list Martha was reading. Through the mirror in front of me, I watched Martha and the group. I envied them. They seemed to fit together intimately, readily voicing their opinions about the teaching assignments that had apparently been decided upon at the meeting. Martha openly objected to many decisions and gave what sounded like very competent, well-considered reasons for her opinions. This was not the indulgent, forgiving friend I'd seen so far; she was insistent, often adamant, and sometimes passionately vocal. At one point she glared hotly at Mark, saying "Oh, you're kidding! Honestly! What do they think they're doing?" Mark began grudgingly, "Now, Martha, you know how the system works--" and Martha grumbled, "The system hardly works, Mark, come on!" And Mark said, "Well, it's allocated by ability," and Martha flicked her cigarette and said angrily, "It's allocated by race, and we know it!" And the newer guy shrugged and said, "Well, that's the way it is." Martha sighed and then simmered quietly for a moment, flicking her cigarette on the ash tray, and then she sighed again and said, "Oh, all right, there's nothing I can do about it." The young woman smirked and said, "Martha, I know it's unfair but at least we'll be able to--" and Martha interrupted, "I don't care if it's unfair to us. It's unfair to the kids, that's the point," and the other woman waved her hand and said, "Okay, okay, we know that," and Martha asked vehemently "Well, if we know it, why do we let them do this again and again?"