Passing Strange by Ellen Klages

Author:Ellen Klages
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

The Forbidden City

They had gotten back from the fair very late, were still sleeping when a loud pounding on the door woke them.

“’Retta! Lemme in!”

Beside her, Emily felt Haskel’s body tense.

“Stay here,” she whispered into Emily’s ear. “Don’t make a sound.” She got up, put on her tartan robe, and stepped to the hallway door. She did not open it.

“Not a good time, Len. I’m working.”

“What kinda how-dee-do’s that? You got another man in there, darlin’?” He sounded as if he were drunk again. “Tha’ why you won’ lemme in?”

“No, Len.” Haskel took a deep breath. “But I do have a model—posing for a painting—and I’m paying for her time. Come back in an hour.”

“Wanna see you now.” More pounding.

“An hour, Len.”

“Wha’m I s’posed to do till then? You got any cash?”

Emily heard the sound of bare feet, the rustle of papers as Haskel rummaged on the table, steps back to the door. “Here’s a dollar. Get yourself some coffee and a doughnut.” A soft sound as she slid the bill under the door.

He swore. “Some kinda welcome home.” Then there was silence, and finally the sound of heavy footsteps on the marble stairs of the old building.

Haskel returned to the bedroom. “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Get dressed and give me a couple hours? Go to Fong Fong’s and have breakfast?”

“Are you throwing me out?” Emily heard the indignation in her own voice.

“No, I—”

“You’d just like me away from your bed so you can be alone with your husband?”

“Yes,” Haskel said gently. “I need to settle things—once and for all—and I don’t want you caught in the middle.”

“I already am.”

“Please?” Haskel took the pack of Viceroys from the bedside table and lit one with a swift strike of a match against her thumbnail. “If you’re here, it will only muddy some already very murky waters.”

“How?”

“Divorce papers. If he signs, I’m a free woman. If he sees you, he’ll use it as an excuse not to.”

Emily thought about that. She blew out a long stream of air, then nodded. “I’ll make myself scarce, but—look. I haven’t asked—Lord knows I’ve wanted to—how is it that I’m here, naked as a jaybird—the taste of you still on my lips—and you’re someone’s wife?” She crossed her arms. “What’s the story?”

“Fair enough. I left home when I was seventeen and came out here. All the black sheep, right?” Haskel began to pace. “I found where the artists hung out—a bar called the Black Cat. I was tall enough that nobody asked any questions. Len was part of that crowd.”

She walked to the window, lit another smoke off the end of the first. “Believe it or not, he was a poet. A good one, too. He’d been published—in The Atlantic. That impressed me.” She sighed. “I was young, he was handsome. That part’s an old, old story.”

Haskel was silent, staring out at the courtyard. “He was thirty when we got married; I was barely eighteen. We settled into a fleabag on Union Street with four other people, pooled everyone’s money, made a pot of spaghetti last for three days, and drank bootleg wine.

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