Leslie! Say you’re sorry!

But how could she pause to apologize when she was halfway down the block before the close encounter with that pink-powdered, tissue-thin, whiskered chin had even blipped on her radar? Leslie glanced quickly backward. The hunched old lady didn’t seem hurt. Rather than growing fearful or taking offense, she stood taller in her shoes than she had in years and thought: Ah, I remember that age, when the only thing in the world I could see was the path that led to Johnny’s door. Leslie strode on, navigating perilous crossings with peripheral vision, blind intuition. A woman coming from the opposite direction scrutinized Leslie’s face intently, with recognition. It might just have been her best friend Julie, from the second grade. Leslie’s gaze was on the clouds above, but she did see the woman’s face from the corner of her eye. Julie? she wondered, but put the thought aside. There was no time. She was late. She flashed past so quickly that Julie — Yes, she had sat next to Leslie in Miss Mears’s class — wasn’t even sure who she thought she’d seen. The familiar features dwindled in her memory like a dream. And Leslie was aware of only one thing: herself. No, make that two things: herself and the sensation of vigorous forward motion. No, make that one thing: the sensation of rushing, running toward Jake.

She was late, as often. For an odd reason, as often. And, as often, now that she was running behind she was also in a dreadful sweat. She couldn’t believe she’d lolled about as long as she had in the blood bank’s little canteen. She’d been enjoying herself too much, leisurely reviewing the benefits accrued through the act of donating blood. First among them, perhaps, was the chance to assert that she was free of a thousand taints, whether viral or moral, HIV or egotism, selfishness or rashes of the skin. She liked the approval: “110/70 — that’s good. You must be eating right. Hemoglobin’s okay too.” The creak of the scissor-like crimps against the tubing was a gift in itself — she loved that sound, its directness and certitude. It would stanch the flow through the tube, every bit, 100 percent, no eventualities, no leaks. Then there was the world — that blue and green foam globe they gave her to squeeze in her palm. Who could say no? Leslie was torn as to what she liked best about the rocking anti-coagulating scale, that it evoked the cradles and lullabies of primordial days or that hers always beeped first, before anyone else’s, even those who’d been punctured before her, a sign of her constitutional vigor, she imagined. She read while the hot red tube depleted her and filled the rubbery bag. That afternoon’s technician had turned out to be an actor. “It will have blood, they say: blood will have blood,” he intoned as she pumped her fist and parsed lines of verse. “Sorry, just kidding. See the movie?”

She laughed and said, “Polanski or Orson Welles?” Then her rocker beeped and there was other business for him to attend to; Leslie distracted herself, as he extracted the needle, by shooting the athletic-looking yuppie in the chair across the aisle a rather self-indulgent glance that told him she’d beaten him hands down. He looked back angrily, seeing it for himself, and determined to pulverize his next opponent on the racquet club squash ladder. The match was for the weekend, by which time he ought to have his breath back, his red cells, his strength. Slowpoke, Leslie thought, taunting, even though she realized it wasn’t necessary. She’d already won.

Afterward, the juice they offered was sweet, so too the granola bars, the Lorna Doones. She gulped and chewed and took her time, feeling both saintly and woozy at once, a rarity. They gave her a sticker for her shirt at the end and a red badge of courage, the plastic droplet. A coupon for free frozen yogurt. She was pleased to receive these gifts. While she was at the blood center, Leslie had ceased to think about what was next on her agenda — dockets dissolved like dreams in the face of blood loss and purgation. But now, now, she was late, late, for this very important date. Worried that her tardiness might prove an impediment to the hoped-for affections of her newest prospect, Jake, Leslie thought hard. What ought a woman to say when she waltzed into a restaurant a half hour late? Apologize? No. Claim that the blood bank’s canteen clock was slow? No. Nothing at all? Pretend she didn’t know or notice? Yes, perhaps that was the best solution.

It was evening, summer, 90 percent relative humidity. Leslie’d spent over an hour at the Red Cross and come out a pint lighter than she came in, a half hour later than she planned. Two cups a pint, two pints a quart, four quarts a gallon. She’d taken a few moments extra at the counter to request the new Gallon Club Gold Card for which she had just qualified. It was an incentive that appealed to her. But now she realized her timing had been awful in more than one way. Now there was a pint less Leslie for her to bring to the table, to Jake. And it seemed to be the pint that had contained all her common sense. She’d dawdled over her cookies and now there was a half hour less time in which to win him. Dates with losers were a dime a dozen but this guy, this Jake, she liked him. She was hoping he might be the big win against which she would later prorate all previous losses. There he was, curly-haired, sitting calmly on the train as she hurried, staring at the Times but thinking of her: the slightly coarse expression she affected when telling jokes, how her voice on the phone was more gravelly than in person. Was she pretty in his eyes, did he want to sleep with her, and if so, would she let him? You bet she would, but would she get the chance? What was happening, Leslie wondered. Giving blood had never made her feel like this before. Had it been wise, in this weather? On the evening of a first date? It was all because of that phone call, she thought. She had always had a soft spot for pleas from the Red Cross.

“We’re calling because there’s a serious shortage and you’re such a good donor. We thought you might be able to help us out. Your last donation date was in December. Can I schedule you for an appointment?”

Not her high school, not her college, not the Police Athletic League. She couldn’t afford that sort of giving. But every time they called, the ladies from the blood bank beguiled her with their dulcet Hispanic lisps, their lilting island tones.

“Another shortage? How terrible,” she said. It cost her nothing, it meant so much, they praised her again and again. How could she not say yes when a part of her body, a pint, a pound, since a pint’s a pound the world around, spun into its several components, serum, plasma, platelets, red cells, could save not just one but indefinitely many lives. A pint of her blood was a pound of flesh indeed. And Leslie never had to know if her recipients were junkies, hookers, murderers or drunken drivers with ruptured spleens. If they died, she’d never know. She’d have done her part and she’d still get her points, points that might redeem her for grazing the old lady’s cheek or for the day last week when she was so down and dog tired that she sat on a crowded bus ignoring the stares of a hugely pregnant woman teetering on things that no longer looked like ankles. You little bitch, the woman told her with her eyes. You think you’re tired? You don’t know the pain of labor. You haven’t lived. All of that was true, conceded Leslie, slightly wounded, her spine pressed tightly to the back of the seat. She had stayed firmly planted and told herself she was not one bit sorry.

Looking at her watch, she saw that she was still losing time. Evening had dimmed the day and brightened the lamps in the minutes she’d been rushing from the blood bank. On she fled. Toward Jake, her goal. Jakeward! It occurred to her briefly that she hardly knew him and all of this might be a bit premature, but then, hark, the subway rumbled under her feet. This was no time for hesitation. She was near, near, or getting closer, at least.

The metal grate in the sidewalk gushed an infernal wind; the cement underfoot oozed with the stored heat of the day. She was hot and thirsty, looking forward to replenishing her fluids at the restaurant. Water. Liquor. Dinner. Jake. In that order? She was looking forward to Jake. He was already seated behind the glass-topped table; he had read the entire paper. She recalled that he was musical and imagined all he had to do to occupy himself was tap out a low tattoo on the glass with his fingers. Drrum drrum drrum drrum. Did he like her enough to wait a half an hour? Maybe it would make him like her more. Leslie and Jake. Leslie and Jake. She wanted him. Yes, she would call in a few of the points she’d accrued at the Red Cross to bring her luck on this date. Would he laugh at her stories? Would he like her shirt, slightly sweaty though it was? Did he think Jake and Leslie even now, while she was thinking Leslie and Jake? Did he wait for her eagerly, patiently, impatiently, annoyed?

Then, down. Leslie descended. Down. Down. Down. Down. Each step down into the station was a bump that traveled from stair tread through shoe sole to heel and ended eventually with a reverberation at the top of her head, her head which was hot and steaming like her blouse, like her hair, like all of her. Leslie. She was hot and jostled and optimistic anyway. Each new level, each new low, was one degree hotter than the last. Bump bump bump bump. She galloped wantonly down the stair treads, grasping the rail; she swam, or the cement walls seemed to, around her. But this was no time to falter — she was so close. Almost as soon as the train came, she’d be there. The place they were meeting was on the very corner where the subway stairway would release her. Lubdub lubdub, she continued to hear, even after her feet had ground to a halt. She was there on the platform. There was nothing left but to wait for the train, but her heart was still in a terrible hurry. Train come train come. The rush of wheels was the uptown express. Not going her way. She leaned against a pillar and thought that she could blame her lateness on the train. It wasn’t original, but that might be a good thing, might be believable.

As Leslie’s heart began to slow, the lightheaded feeling soured on her, stopped reminding her of the saving burn of whiskey on a near-empty stomach or the giddy yearning of desire.Lub dub. Lub. Dub. Each flood of each atrium, each ventricle dumped her blood into her heat-swollen ankles, though her head was the body part that needed it most. The sacrifice of those 16 ounces, the gift that had forgiven her a thousand tiny failures was now, it seemed, freeing her from consciousness too. She was going to swoon. Now, that would be a good excuse, she thought.

But to faint would be melodramatic. She refused to do it. The clock on the platform read 8:02 and was decorated with a garish illuminated photograph of a woman. No, thought Leslie, that’s not just a woman, that’s a slut. The cleavage, the pose and the makeup all said slut. But at the photo shoot, the model had not had sex on her mind. No, actually it was what to get for her daughter’s fifth birthday. A tea set? She had thought about porcelain and painted-on violets as she squatted and pouted for the lens. Leslie had had a set as a girl, and served sugar water from it to her stuffed rabbit till its muzzle was drenched in sweetness and the cup was sticky-dry. Certainly the model on the clock that told Leslie she was late did not own the tiger-striped unitard she wore in the ad. She preferred to relax in a mint green warm-up suit on weekend afternoons, and she did not enjoy malt liquor, the product she promoted; wine coolers were more her thing.

Eight o’clock had come and gone, the hour of her appointment with Jake. Best thing would be to call the restaurant, but Leslie knew in her heart that she had no change in her purse. Why did I ever buy that pack of gum? she asked herself. I hate gum, it always gives me a headache. She slapped at her pockets, hoping to prestidigitate a quarter. She decided to ask a fellow commuter to break a dollar and adjusted the focus of her eyes to evaluate her options.

They were few. The fellow kicked back on the bench there was likely to have some change — that was the form in which most of his currency probably came to him — but he was unlikely to make change, Leslie thought. “Nixon was a crook!” he shouted suddenly, eyeing her. No, she wouldn’t ask him. His mind swirled in even larger and odder circles than hers, she imagined. Just then, he happened to be planning the resurrection of the thirty-seventh leader of our nation from the dead. That goddam Tricky Dick owed him a hundred bucks, and he’d gone off and died without making good. “Dirty Dick,” he mumbled, taunting the late Republican under his breath. “Dirty Dick! Tricky Dick! Dirty Dick!”

Leslie sort of knew how he felt, but she turned instead to a lawyerly type. He looked a little like her Uncle Lou the broker, but whereas Lou had always been benevolent, this guy was a shark. He was pondering a brief on a class-action lawsuit, feeling certain he’d get his client off scot-free. When the thinnish, rather unsteady-looking woman that Leslie feared she was approached him with a supplicant posture and a beseeching tone, he never looked up. In fact, he looked away. He heard not her words but a prerecorded message that started out, “Hi, my name is Marie and I’m a cancer patient. I don’t steal or rob . . . ”

Still not looking, he extended a fistful of change from his pocket.

“No, no,” Leslie said, reiterating her actual request and waving her dollar bill in his face. He said, “Listen, this is all I have.” Leslie was not finished hurrying yet, she was stuck in the station with the train not coming, and she wanted to call Jake. Badly. She took what was offered her. There was quite a lot there: almost two dollars plus the stigma of being a mendicant.

“Thanks,” she said, meaning screw you, capitalist pig, but it didn’t matter, he didn’t hear. Fainting would have been preferable to that, she thought, too late.

Telephone. 555-1212. “Manhattan,” she said, “a business listing for … ” But just as she was about to give the name of the place, she wedged the phone under her chin and felt for a pen in her pocket. Her eyes strayed across the silver metal of the telephone cabinet. She was trying to catch her reflection — how bad, how pale and peaked, how humiliated did she look? — but the chrome was all covered with something blackish. When she took a step back she could see that the entire inside of the I beam where the phone was nestled had been spattered with the stuff. Toward the left of the blue and white Baby Bell information card, there was a smear. It was a darker red than the color of her period when it ran down her thighs. It looked like the pad of an old Band-Aid, or the Kleenex she found in her coat pocket the day after getting hit in the nose during second-grade dodge ball. Julie had done it on purpose —wham! (They were in a fight.) But Leslie forgave her because they were seven, and anyway, the injury had brought her honor from her peers, coddling from Miss Mears.

It was thicker than ink, thinner than tempera. It was definitely blood, and she could picture some penny-ante dealer standing there squealing to the cops, breathing into the receiver which Leslie still, inconceivably, held in the crook of her shoulder, right up against her lips. There he was, telling the police when and where he was supposed to meet his connection. They wanted to bust the guy next higher up, they always do, and this guy was hoping to get off with community service, keep his day job even, straighten out. But just then a dude who said, “This is from Joey Big,” happened to walk past and blow his head off, thus the spatter. The messenger hopped into the disembarking crowd and vanished. The dealer fell, thus the smear. It was right off a low-budge cop show from Channel Seven. Leslie was thinking that maybe the transit janitors didn’t have it in their contract to clean up pay phones after murders, only platforms and other city property. Not wanting to breathe in the vicinity of the blood,
Leslie stopped herself from hyperventilating, but she hadn’t yet moved, for these thoughts took place in the course of a nanosecond. The phone said, “If you need further assistance, please stay on the line and an operator will assist you.” It was a recording.

Her train was pulling into the station and she leapt aboard, leaving the receiver to dangle, the way the dead guy might have left it, yesterday? the day before? It wasn’t really his blood that had made her late, but somehow she felt that the stuff was O+, just like hers. Another universal donor. At any rate, it turned out to be a boon for her. Overkill maybe, but what could she do? The dealer’s sacrifice would serve handsomely to distract from her lateness. She always hoped for things like that, so she wouldn’t have to lie. Some days when she knew she wouldn’t make it in to work until 10:25, she’d wish to be injured in a taxi accident or for the cornice of some building to fall off and hit her on the head. On those days, any truth would be preferable to owning up to dawdling, to sleeping late, to lethargy, to spacing out, no matter how dire the consequences. But this was different. The dealer’s trauma wasn’t quite even a brush with danger for her, just a slight shock that she suffered without ever having been threatened. She calculated two and half minutes a stop. She’d be there with Jake with quite a tale to tell at just a quarter past the appointed hour, not that late after all, not bad for New York. She was thinking Jake might like the Bay Ridge voice she did for Joey Big. In fact, the whole thing suited her needs so perfectly that her sense of causality was skewed for a moment — and she felt responsible for the murder. God knows if it was a murder. Maybe the guy was still alive struggling in an ICU ward somewhere, consuming pints of fresh, whole blood, maybe hers. And just maybe, with a story like that to woo him, Leslie could pull off an upbeat ending, the one where Jake gets pulled into Leslie’s swirling eddy, falls into her tangle of bedsheets, and mingles his fluids, his life and eventually even his DNA with hers.