by Jack Douglas
She reached her hand in, scooped out a palmful. She closed her eyes. Gagged, just picturing the slush in her mouth. Still, her body ached for sustenance. She needed something in her stomach, even if it was nothing but yellow snow. She put the slush under her nose. The frost smelled of spoiled meat. She dry-heaved then held her breath, parted her lips and shoveled the slush onto her tongue.
Her throat resisted, threatened to hurl it back up. But after some coaxing she was able to get it down. The taste lingered, but somehow she held it down.
From the living room Craig called out, “What the fuck is this?”
She turned. Her first thought was that he had found something gruesome, something ghastly somewhere in the flat. Something horrifying; he sounded so upset. She took two painful strides toward the living room and then froze.
Craig stood in the walkway, blocking her exit. In his hands he held the broken lockbox that held his homemade videotapes. The beige metal box still wore that hideous grin.
“Well?” he shouted at her. “What the fuck is this shit?”
She barely remembered viewing the tapes; didn’t at all recall tucking the damaged lockbox away. She’d been so soused with wine.
“What do you mean?” she tried. “Where did you find it?”
He scowled at her. “You know goddamn well where I found it. I found it in one of my boxes when I went looking for my memory stick. What the hell did you pry it open for?”
“I didn’t...”
“The hell you didn’t.” His hands were shaking, the tapes inside the lockbox rattling against the sides like chattering teeth. “Don’t play fucking dumb with me, Amy. You went through my things, found this and took a tool and pried it open. Pried into my life. You’ve got a fucking hell of a lot of nerve. Chastising me for reading your emails, for looking in your calendar. And now you do this? You’re a sneak. A goddamn worthless sneak. Voce é curioso! Mind your own goddamn business!”
She lurched backward. “Wha- what did you say?”
“You heard every fucking word I said. Don’t play stupid with me.” His arms were shaking savagely. His face had turned a deep red. “Everything was fine before I met you. I was working hard, I was having fun. I was able to fucking sleep at night. Dormi como um anjo. My life was going just fine. I had money, I had friends. Tudo foio ptimo! Everything was fucking great.”
Amy moved backward again, her heart racing, her hands trembling now as badly as Craig’s.
She listened. His voice was deeper, angrier than she’d ever heard it before. And the Portuguese, it wasn’t spoken in the usual halting manner that he spoke all of his foreign words. The words were clear and fluid and precise, as perfect as the words he spoke in English.
He took a step toward her. She held up her hands defensively.
He stopped, softened the features of his face. “How could you?” he said calmly. His voice seemed to change again. “How could you fuck that son of a bitch downstairs?”
“What?” she cried. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes started tearing up. His mouth contorted. The tapes jumped in the lockbox as his hands began shaking again. “How could you do this to me?”
He shut his eyes. She thought in that instant of storming past him, even knocking him to the floor. But what then? Where could she go? Only as far as that goddamned sealed-up front door. When he opened his eyes they seemed darker than before, almost navy. His lips were quivering; he parted them and bore his teeth.
“You cunt,” he spat. “Tu das-me nojo.” He raised his thin pale arms above his head, the lockbox grinning down at her. He was poised to strike. “You dirty cunt. Quero que morra!”
He launched the lockbox at her. She jumped back. The box slammed against the linoleum at her feet, spilling the tapes on the floor. She grabbed blindly for the drawer that held the icepick, keeping her eyes on Craig. She jerked it open, fumbled around with one hand and found it.
But by then he was somewhere else, his head returning to that odd angle, his eyes open yet unseeing. He turned for the living room just as she raised the icepick over her head.
She remained there, frozen in that position. She listened as he padded across the carpet then heard the bedroom door slam closed.
Slowly she made her way out of the kitchen, the icepick still in hand.
Her feet welcomed the carpet. She surveyed the room and then moved cautiously toward the window.
In the fading light in the alley she saw the dog lying in the shadows on the cobblestones. It looked exhausted, ragged. It shivered as though from the cold.
She swiveled from the window and faced the table. Craig’s laptop sat open, the screen saver now a deep navy blue. The marquee swept by fast; it took Amy a few passes to read it. It no longer read keep writing, as it had for the past three years.
Now it read socorro! ajude-me!
She stared at it curiously. She knew what the first part meant. And after a few turns of the page in the phrase book she knew what the latter part meant as well.
Help! the screen saver read in Portuguese. Help me!
Chapter Twenty-Six
Craig stormed into the bedroom, microcassette recorder in hand, the pulse beating obsessively in his ear. Whatever it was, it was worsening, growing louder, fiercer. Beginning to take over his world. He dropped face-down onto the mattress and tossed the recorder. Broke down and sobbed into the pillow on the bed.
The room was sweltering. As hot as a tanning bed. And it seemed to be getting smaller, too. He lifted his head and looked around. Yes, the bookcase seemed closer to the bed. The dresser, too. He sat up on the bare, stained mattress. Fado permeated the room.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he barely noticed the sting.
(“Get the fuck over here! I’ve got the blow dryer.”)
Were the walls really closing in on him? Can’t be, he thought. It’s my fucking imagination.
He pulled himself to the edge of the bed. Reached out toward the heavy wooden bookcase standing like an armed guard just outside the bathroom against the wall. His hand stretched at full length and still came up a foot short.
He waited, taking in the stench of his own sweat, the pungent body odor seeping out from under his arms, mixing with the vomit and shit filtering through the bathroom door into a hellish potpourri.
He lay back down on the bed. His pillow was drenched with sweat.
(“Get the fuck over here!”)
He didn’t know much about nutrition or survival. But he knew the heat would cause them to dehydrate much faster.
(“I’ve got the fucking blow dryer.”)
He lifted the microcassette recorder and rewound the tape a bit. He didn’t have the strength to type, but at least he could still speak, could still record his story before it was too late. He hit play, listened to the empty air, the static. Remembered searching through the phrase book as the recorder ran. A waste of batteries—what a waste, when there was no store right down the street. When there was, in fact, no street. At least no way to get to it.
“...corno...”
What was that?
He put the recorder closer to his ear. His left ear, since his right was beating like a goddamn drum. He heard nothing but white noise. Dead air.
Then: “...chupa me a...”
It was clearly a voice. Male. Angry. No, not angry. Incensed. “...puta...”
He listened closely, his breathing quickening, the thumping in his right ear sounding along with his pulse. Puta. The Portuguese word for bitch.
“...Va’ se foder!”
He punched the stop button and threw the recorder down onto the floor. It bounced up and smacked into the bookcase, its battery door flying off, its AA Duracells becoming dislodged and rolling on the gray carpet.
The bookcase was too close. Craig stared at it wide-eyed, in disbelief. It can’t be, he thought. But it was. The bookcase was closer than it was just moments before.
He had to know. So with his left hand he grabbed the edge of the
mattress. With his right he reached out again. Stretched as far as he could.
This time his middle finger nearly touched the binding of one of the dust-covered old books. He snapped his arm back and shook.
I moved the mattress, he thought. That’s it. I shifted the mattress by accident. And that book I almost touched, it’s sticking out a bit from the others. I must’ve reached for another one last time. One set back on the shelf.
The room was so fucking hot, sweat was now burning his eyes and blurring his vision. He felt a steady and intense heat on his head. Like a blow dryer. Just like the blow dryer his mother used to hold to his scalp every time he had dared to sweat as a child. Every time he managed to slip outside to toss the ball around or engage in a game of freeze tag with some of the kids from school.
“I told you not to fucking sweat,” she’d say. “I warned you. Now you’re dirty, it’s disgusting. You smell like a piece of shit.” He’d always try to run away. “Where do you think you’re going? Get the fuck over here. I’ve got the blow dryer.”
And then she would hold the damn thing to his head. It didn’t matter the time of year, even if he’d just been outside running around in ninety-degree heat. He’d get the blow dryer. And not just until his hair was dry. He got the blow dryer until his scalp was raw, until it began to burn and he started to scream.
He watched the bookcase for a while longer. Tried to convince himself that the light that spilled in from the living room was insufficient, that his mind was playing tricks. But the bookshelves seemed even closer than they were just a few moments ago when he had reached for them a second time.
Again with his left hand he grabbed the edge of the mattress. With his right he reached out. He stretched with all his remaining strength, the muscles in his arm finally giving in to spasms.
This time the tip of his finger touched the broken binding of one of the books.
He cried out.
Then a hardcover flew off the top shelf, struck him on the forehead. Another shot out of the second shelf, hit him square in the chin. Then two more from the bottom, three from the middle. Firing at his shoulders until he could no longer maintain his grip.
The fabric of the mattress slipped through his fingers and he fell awkwardly to the floor, landing on his right elbow, the full right side of his body taking the brunt.
The books continued firing at him as he shielded his face with his hands, curling up his legs to protect his groin.
He screamed.
The bookcase itself then started tipping over, threatening to land on his head. The fado was as loud as ever, drowning out his calls for help. The pulse in his ear intensified, and he feared it would be the last thing he heard before his death.
He cried out for Amy one last time, just as the bookcase came down at his face.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
She sat silently on the floor by his side as he rested on the couch. She had found him on the floor of the bedroom, unconscious, under the fallen bookcase. He had a deep gash on the right side of his head. Blood had been pouring down his forehead and into his eyes. The top of the bookcase rested atop the bed. The bare stained mattress may very well have saved his life.
Outside it had become dark, and the dying living room bulb had finally burned out. All that was left in the flat was the bleak light from the kitchen and the useless fixture in the bathroom above the sink. She supposed she could take one of those bulbs and replace the one in the living room, but what was the point? There was nothing worth seeing, no real reason to see.
She had been able to rouse Craig after a few minutes, had been able to help him out from under the weight of the bookcase by using the bed as leverage. A good thing since the wooden bookcase was far too heavy for either of them to lift. After another half hour or so she’d been able to help him to the couch.
Now she listened to him breathe, in and out, in and out. Watched his chest rise and fall with the rhythm of the relentless fado. It no longer sounded as though it were coming through the wall in the bedroom. It now sounded like it came from somewhere inside their flat.
He didn’t look well. His face had lost all of its rosy hue. Short rough hairs rose out of his normally clean-shaven cheeks; welts formed where he had scratched at his face. He was too thin, losing weight far more quickly than she was. And the whites of his eyes, when visible, were now as red as blood.
Part of her felt sorry for him. Another part of her wanted to kill him.
It was his mistakes, not hers, that had led them to this. When they’d first met he had never expressed any discontent over his life as a lawyer in Manhattan. Never a word until the day after that rainy night in November. And that night was certainly his mistake.
Hawaii was his mistake, too. Leading her there without a plan. Allowing the bills to pile up. Not working, not helping to earn his keep. Letting her fall deeper and deeper into debt without affording her any relief. His mistake, not hers.
And she had never forced him to come back to the mainland, back to Manhattan. It was his choice, not hers. His choice to seek her out again, to ask her to move back in with him. He had assured her then that he could be happy living in New York, happy so long as he had her. And she, of course, had fallen for it. She hated herself for that. He had waited to spring Portugal on her until she felt as though she couldn’t live without him again. Now here they were, in the country’s capital, in its most ravaged district, trapped like rats in a tumbledown flat.
It was her fault. Her fault for getting on that plane at all when she’d had such reservations. Her fault for not listening to her mom, or to her own gut instincts. Her fault for not getting back into that taxi with her bloody nose (that was a sign if there ever was one, wasn’t it?) when she’d first seen the building’s exterior, when she’d gazed down the decrepit street. Her fault for not running out the door and down the stairs the moment she saw the condition of the flat.
She got to her knees. Her joints remained achy and weak. She felt her legs spasm as she pushed herself to her feet and stepped toward the bedroom. Felt she needed to check the phone.
They had already searched the entire flat for another jack. She didn’t hold out much hope for a dial tone but she had to see. Had to give it a shot.
She stepped into the bedroom and held her breath against the stench. It was getting worse, spilling under the bathroom door without relent.
The bookcase was blocking her path to the phone. She would have to navigate around the bed and climb over to her side to get to it. She slipped between the mattress and the dresser and caught her reflection in the mirror. She turned to it. The darkness played with her eyes. She looked shorter, older, heavier, than she did in real life.
She shook off the image and moved around the bed, careful not to stub her badly bruised toes again. Pain still shot through her legs. Slowly she lifted a knee onto the mattress.
And that was when the phone began ringing again.
The sound alarmed her at first. She felt a rush of fear but also a dash of hope. She hurriedly crawled along the mattress toward the sound, toward the outline of the plastic phone on the night table.
Something suddenly grabbed hold of a fistful of her hair and yanked as though it were trying to rip it from her head.
She shrieked in pain as her neck jerked back. Her scalp tingled as though it had been sliced with a knife.
The phone kept ringing, the sound piercing through the fado.
Just as suddenly the pressure ceased and her damp hair fell back over her face.
Her breathing deepened. She gathered herself and reached for the phone.
But something suddenly smacked her hard across the left cheek. She cried out in shock and buried her head in the mattress.
Something like an open hand struck her back, her calves. Then a rude, vicious slap against her ass.
She screamed again, rolled like a crocodile and nearly tumbled off the bed.
Then the fado fell silent, the ringing for the moment the only sound in the
flat.
She squeezed her eyes shut and crawled frantically toward the phone.
But something snatched at her hair again, lifted her in the air and flung her off the bed, into the dresser.
Her back cracked against one of the drawers, then she slumped to the floor.
It came at her again, yanking her hair, slapping her face, kicking at her ribs and back. She cried out again, screamed until it chopped at her throat, silencing her.
Then she heard a pounding on the bathroom door.
She tried to glance toward it, but something like sand struck her square in the eyes.
The bathroom door rocked thunderously in its frame. The phone still rang.
The mirror atop the dresser fell and cracked, shattered on top of her, spraying her with glass.
Curled up in a ball, she tried to get to her knees but was immediately battered back down to the floor. In a panic she clawed at the carpet, tried to drag herself toward the bedroom door.
Another few feet.
But just then, the door swung closed. Slammed shut with the violent report of a gunshot.
Amy tried again to find her voice as an icy pair of strong male hands closed around her throat.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Get your hands off me,” she said later in her sleep.
Craig lay on his back on the bare mattress next to her, eyes wide open, unable to drift off. Light spilled in from under the bathroom door. Barely enough to subdue the blackness. Barely enough to allow Amy to sleep.
It had taken him hours to calm her down, to assure her she was safe, that whatever had attacked them had gone and wasn’t coming back. That so long as they stuck together, nothing further would happen. Nothing could cause them to break.
When he’d finally regained consciousness after the brutal blow from the bookcase, Amy had helped him out from under it, led him to the living room where he collapsed again and went back out. When he’d come to a second time, she was screaming from the bedroom, crying his name, pleading for help.
