Free South Street by David Bradley Page A

boosted him upward, the doors opened again, Brown stepped out into a carpeted corridor. Walking down the hallway, Brown self-consciously wiped his face, patted his hair. He went to a door halfway along the hall, inserted his key, stepped inside, shivering at the sudden chill; the air-conditioning in the lobby and corridor had been reasonable, but the apartment unit was turned up too high. Brown hated air-conditioning. He longed to cut the unit off, but it wasn’t his air-conditioner. It wasn’t his apartment either.
    Brown crossed the carpeted living room, entered the bedroom, shucked off his sweat suit and shorts, slipping into an ancient blue terry-cloth robe that was ripped out under both arms, moving quietly so as not to disturb the woman who lay on the bed, her body concealed by the white sheet. Brown looked at her for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of the sheet as she breathed, then he picked up his soggy running clothes and carried them back through the living room and out onto the balcony. He didn’t feel tired any more. He felt strong and quick and he giggled softly as the carpet rubbed against the bottom of his feet. A small spark of electricity arced from his hand to the metal handle of the sliding door; Brown winced, slid the door open, stepped out onto the tile, and stood in the hot sunshine while he draped his wet clothing over the rail. He squinted up into the sun, lowered his eyes to look out over the city, the ugly refineries in the south, the treed jungle of Fairmount Park to the north, and, to the east, the spires of Center City. Brown’s eyes wandered slightly south, along Spruce Street until it reached the Schuylkill. He snorted and turned away.
    Brown sat in the living room, in a big white beanbag chair, feeling bored. He got up, went back into the bedroom. The woman slept on beneath the sheet. Brown looked at her for a while, then slipped out of his robe and moved around to the far side of the bed. He started to lift the sheet and ease in beside her but hesitated. He drew his hand back. Then he set his jaw and slid onto the bed. He lay there, his still-sweaty skin sticking to the sheet, pulling slightly as he moved, sending a hand sliding out, laying it across her, his fingers brushing the tuft of hair at the base of her belly. Brown felt his body start to hum, felt strength flow into him. The hesitation vanished, he began to move with almost infinite patience. Carefully, slowly, he moved his hand over her, lightly stroking the flesh between her navel and the swell of her breasts. He raised himself up on his elbow and waited, almost bored. She moaned sleepily and turned away; Brown, unperturbed, stroked her haunch. His hand moved slowly. His thoughts were elsewhere.
    The Reverend Mr. J. Peter Sloan watched as the matron cleaned up the smashed glass and smashed parts of the demolished amplifier. The sight of her bent over, sweeping, giving a panoramic view of her broad white-uniformed rear end, with fleshy legs squeezed and a roll of blubber pushed out over the top of her support stockings like toothpaste out of a tube, was enough to make Mr. Sloan faint. The matron finished her sweeping and laid her broom aside. Groaning and creaking, she eased herself down onto one knee and began to wipe the carpet with a damp cloth.
    “That will do, Sister,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.
    “Gotta get this here glass up,” she said in no uncertain terms. “Can’t have people cuttin’ they feet.”
    “It’s carpet,” Mr. Sloan said. “That won’t help.”
    The matron continued to wipe.
    “That will do,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan sharply.
    The matron looked back over her shoulder and scowled at him, her face above her ponderous posterior making her look like a misformed snowman. “All right,” she said, “but if you cuts your foot open, don’t you come cryin’ to me.”
    “I’m not likely to cut my foot unless I go walking around barefoot, now am I?” snapped the Reverend Mr.