It looks like an opportunity for a serious housekeeper, she said.
The girl nodded to herself, not taking her eyes from the pillow. She planted her feet on the ground, wide, before standing up. She squinted at Julie, finally.
You’re Ira’s friend, she said. The rude one.
Julie laughed.
No, no, I swear, she said. I haven’t done a rude thing in years. I’m completely socially acceptable these days.
I’m sorry, Patrice said as she shuffled to the kitchen. This is my day off. I’m going to have a glass of water. Do you want some water?
No thanks, I’m trying to quit, said Julie.
The girl squinted again and turned on the faucet.
Okay, she said. I accept that.
While the water was pouring from the faucet into the drain, uninterrupted by a glass, she took a fresh pack of Camel cigarettes from her kimono pocket. The cardboard had buckled under the weight of her sleeping hip.
Do you smoke? she asked, once she had lit one.
No, said Julie.
Oh, said the girl. Would you like a cigarette?
No, said Julie.
The girl nodded to herself, then came back into the living room, puffing out of the side of her mouth. There was something fascist about her again—possibly it was the cigarette smoke, pumping out of her lips like the smokestack of a train running from Rome to Austria, perfectly on time.
So why did you come here to my apartment? she asked. What’s the purpose of your visit here?
I was visiting Ira, I guess, said Julie. And he wasn’t there. So.
So, said Patrice, raising her eyebrow.
Weren’t you going to get a glass of water? Julie asked.
You’re right, said Patrice. I’m very tired. I’m so very tired all the time. Will you wait here, please?
She went into the kitchen to shut off the faucet. Then she sat down on the tile floor of the kitchen.
Are you all right? asked Julie.
I’ll be fine, said Patrice, shifting to lie down on the floor. I don’t know that I believe your reason for being here.
Julie flinched a little, but the girl hadn’t said it in the way someone would normally say something that equated in meaning to you’re a huge fat liar. She’d just come out with it, no anger, just facts. I don’t believe you. The Christmas lights burning overhead were agitating her to no end; Patrice’s legs were big irreverent smears against the checkerboard tiles.
I mean I guess I originally came over to see Ira because I wanted him to introduce me to you, she said. I thought you seemed interesting, or something. Your ideas about time and stuff.
She realized how stupid this sounded. She walked into the kitchen, planted her feet next to Patrice’s collapsed arm, and stared straight down into her glazed, upward-gazing eyes.
You want to talk about the Institute’s conception of time? asked Patrice.
Look, said Julie, do you want a glass of water or something?
That would be very wonderful, said Patrice, gazing up at her.
Julie went to the cupboard to look for a glass. The cupboard was completely empty.
You don’t have any glasses, said Julie.
That’s impossible, said Patrice. I have plenty of glasses.
Which drawer? asked Julie.
Patrice groaned and turned on her side. Julie watched her—the way the robe crinkled up grayly between the black and white tiles—then began to go through the cupboards. She found a glass beneath the sink, snuggled between two wet rolls of paper towels and a white PVC water pipe. She held the glass under the water for a full minute, turning it upside down and right-side up, and then brought it to Patrice.
Here, she said to the back of Patrice’s red-gold head. Drink this. It’s really good for a hangover.
I’m not hung over, said Patrice. I work very long hours. If you’re interested in the Institute’s concept of time, the best thing to do would be to sign up for a concentration course at the Institute itself. I can call them and let them know you’re coming.
You can’t just give me a concentration course here? asked Julie. She set the glass on the floor next to Patrice’s leg. I mean, can’t you just tell me about this stuff?
No, no, said Patrice, shaking her head. Not now. I’m too tired and everything is too difficult, all of the time.
Julie made a face. The girl shifted her legs around on the tile, lazily, like she was pedaling a very slow bike.
See, don’t you people believe that time isn’t real or something? Julie asked. So how does it make sense to say things like now or all of the time? How does it even make sense that you could get tired if there’s no time?
It takes a great deal of effort to eliminate timebound thinking, said Patrice. I would be happy to teach you more about it later, if you just sign up for a course. Have you ever studied physics?
Not yet, said Julie. This year in school, maybe we will. I’ve studied biology, and astronomy.
But physics, said Patrice. This is very important. You’ve never studied it?
I’ve studied chemistry, said Julie. In tenth grade, forever ago. I don’t remember it. What’s wrong with physics?
Did the chemistry classes deal with physics? Patrice asked.
No, said Julie. The classes didn’t deal with physics. One of the lessons did deal with physics, but the teacher told us to tear it out of our books. We burned the pages later and we were careful not to inhale any of the smoke.
Patrice snickered. Then she coughed as the water went down the wrong pipe. Julie sat her up and whacked her on the back until she stopped coughing. She could see down the front of Patrice’s silver kimono as she whacked her on the back. She told herself that she should avert her eyes, but something about the light and shadow of her breasts must have been one of those optical illusions that drew focus, because for some crazy reason she couldn’t look away. Still, what was she even doing here; she wondered whether Ira was up yet, how quickly she could slip downstairs.
Look, could I use your bathroom? she asked when the coughing was over and she had brought Patrice to rest gently, sitting up, against the kitchen cabinets.
Of course, said Patrice. You probably just saved my life.
I guess, said Julie. Anyone would have done the same.
Most people would not have done the same, said Patrice. Most people would just leave another person to suffer and die. Most people would not have taken the trouble.
The coughing had broken the spell that had been over her—the second Patrice, the vague Patrice on the kitchen tiles, seemed to have vanished. The first Patrice—the one who’d stared Julie down on the street only the day before—was staring at her with those crazy lightning eyes.
I want you to know that I truly respect this about you, she said. That you would save a person who is dying.
I’m going to pee now, Julie said.
Those eyes, staring, followed Julie all the way to the bathroom.
The bathroom was lined with white tile. Each white tile was lined with black mildew and there was a shower curtain with a fluorescent fish pattern, each fish outlined in thick cartoon black. Seven glasses identical to the one she had given Patrice were sitting on the tank of the toilet, each filled with a different level of drinking water.
On the wall was a painting. Julie could have sworn it was real oil, but it was too flat for that: some kind of print, she guessed, in a really nice frame. It was a painting of a man with a long face at right angles with itself, a weak chin collapsing into a broad neck with a prominent Adam’s apple and a turkey wattle. His nose: red and aquiline; his forelock: gray with blue airbrushed highlights, like Superman. He looked like a cross between Howard Roark and Thomas Pynchon. The high-gloss finish was dingy with smoke.
Something about his expression bothered her. When she had peed and was washing her hands, she looked at her face in the mirror and tried to match her expression to the painting. Lips that drooped in a frown before twisting up at the corners like a Dali mustac
he, seagull-silhouette wrinkles in her forehead, eyes staring straight ahead like perfect circles. She looked at herself in the mirror with water running over her hands until she got scared and stretched her jaw to relax it. The wrinkles took a long time to smooth out from her forehead; she splashed water on them until they looked like they had dissolved.
She went back into the living room; Patrice was gone. She went into the kitchen, ran a glass of water for herself, and drank it. A half-moon of lipstick was left on the edge of the glass Patrice had used. What time was it, even? She looked for a clock and didn’t find anything. There was a microwave with a digital readout; someone had put a skinny strip of masking tape over the numbers.
She went to the door and turned the knob twice without opening it, then took her hand away and stood there for a moment, watching the haloes of the Christmas lights hanging on the walls. Then she walked back down the hallway to the door ninety degrees to the bathroom. It was closed, and a song was playing quietly through the crack under the door:
Je ne veux pas travailler
Je ne veux pas déjeuner
She knocked.
Don’t come in, commanded Patrice’s voice. I need to get ready for work.
I’m just going to leave, said Julie. It was nice meeting you.
She’d turned around and made it back to the living room before she heard the door open. Patrice was standing there in the doorframe, black stockings taut on her legs, navy skirt buttoned up. She had an amazingly dirty green-and-white striped towel wrapped around her breasts, held shut under one shoulder with a white-knuckle grip.
Wait, said Patrice. You, are you looking for a job?
Julie made sure to keep looking at her eyes.
I’m not really looking for one, no, she said. I’m not interested in like, selling cult books or anything.
Patrice straightened her shoulders; the towel rustled.
No one would ask you to work directly for the Institute if you weren’t a member of the Institute, she said. And I’m not asking you to become a member of the Institute. If you don’t feel that the Institute would be helpful to you, then it won’t be helpful to you. Even though it would actually be helpful to you.
What is that even supposed to mean? asked Julie. I don’t even know what you just said. Can we talk about this not in the hallway? Could you come in the living room, or could I come into that room?
You’re not allowed to come into my room, said Patrice. Can you, can you change an air conditioning filter?
Anyone can change an air conditioning filter, said Julie, and weirdly, Patrice smiled.
I respect your confidence in your own abilities, said Patrice. It’s like you aren’t even aware of how difficult physical work can be to people who work in other spheres.
Julie shifted her weight on to the balls of her feet.
You’re saying that I’m too stupid to work for the cult, so I’d make a good manual laborer, she said. And you respect me for being too stupid to know that I’m stupid. Thanks!
Patrice frowned. Julie flinched; when Patrice frowned, she looked like Tabitha.
I’m sorry I said that, she said.
No, said Patrice. You’re right. I was speaking thoughtlessly. It was the right thing for you to point it out to me. It makes me a better person in the future.
She kept standing there in the doorway with the towel hanging off of her breasts and that pathetic Tabitha-like pout on her face, and Julie realized that Patrice might stand here forever, even, slowly age and turn into a pile of bones wrapped in a green-and-white striped towel here on the spot, if no one said anything to her.
You said you had a job available, she said.
Patrice looked up.
Yes, she said. I need a person, a someone to fix different things around this building. Clean things and repair things. I think you would be the ideal person for this.
Julie kept looking at her.
You think that I’d make a good handyman, she said. Without knowing literally anything about me.
You saved my life, said Tabitha. Not many people would do that for me.
Her voice wasn’t completely regular after all. There was a quiver to it, a suspiciously small quiver, like her words were passing through a long California hotel hallway caught mid-earthquake, and only some amazing force of will made her voice come out even at the end of it. Julie could feel the shiver in her chest, like a thief was vibrating a pin against the tumblers of her heart, lifting first one, then the other, until suddenly the lock came apart. She looked at the girl down the hallway who was watching her.
In the sixth grade a girl had asked to look at Julie’s hands.
Hold out all your fingers straight, she said. Then: Ooooooh.
What, demanded Julie.
Your ring finger is longer than your index finger, said the girl. She looked at the pack of girls that began to gather to either side of her for confirmation.
So what? asked Julie.
So that means, whispered the girl, you’re gay.
The other girls burst into laughter. Julie made a knuckle with her giant ring fingers and made sure they were the ones that stuck out the furthest as she drove her pubescent fists into their faces.
Okay, she said to the girl down the hallway. I’ll be your handyman. How much do I get paid? When do I start?
Patrice smiled; the resemblance to Tabitha faded entirely when she smiled.
Could I ask you to start today? she asked. I need the air conditioning filter fixed. Summer is coming, soon, and it will be just a disaster if that isn’t fixed.
Sure, said Julie. No problem.
Excellent, said Patrice. Then we’ll discuss the question of your salary when I get back from work.
She turned; the towel didn’t cover her bronze back. Julie flinched and walked over to the couch, rested an arm on the back of it. The door to Patrice’s bedroom closed.
You’re going to work at the cult, said Julie, loud enough for Patrice to hear. Right?
At the Institute, said Patrice. Yes.
It only took her a minute to come out this time, the white blouse in place, the lightning back in her eyes. She stomped across the carpet to the door, past Julie, then turned to look back at her. She smiled—her nervous smile clashed like crazy with her eyes. Which detail was real?
Is there anything else, before I go? Patrice asked. Anything you need?
Give me a cigarette, said Julie.
You said you didn’t smoke, said Patrice as she took out her pack.
I’m considering starting, said Julie.
3
It took maybe thirty minutes altogether to fix the air conditioning filter; she walked to the hardware store on 29th Street, a few blocks away, picked up the new filter, and had the whole job done before it could have been much past noon. Still, it wasn’t a moment too soon—the old filter was jet black, probably years out of date; how many cigarettes had passed through it in its time? She started coughing as soon as she had the grating to the intake vent open and didn’t stop until the thing was thrown away in a garbage bag in the yard.
Back inside, she sat on the couch, hunted up matches, and finally lit the cigarette Patrice had given her. She hacked her way through the first two drags, trying to wolf the nicotine down like pot smoke, then let herself just hold everything in her mouth and let it go through her lips, let it sniff around the edges of her throat, venture a tentative paw or two past the boundary line; she let her virgin-pink body get used to its new friend and it to her. Everyone must go through this, she figured: Tabitha, Linda, Patrice, everyone. Learning to smoke was just like anything, an application of total will power.
Somewhere behind the walls the air conditioning switched on and off, sucking air past its clean new teeth; somewhere outside there were cars gliding. Julie smoked and looked at the slat of yellow daylight under the drapes once, closed her eyes and counted to two hundred, looked at it again. She tried to decide if it was getting brighter or if it was slowly becoming dim.
&n
bsp; There was a landline phone on the carpet with a pink kinked cord coiled around it. She uncoiled the cord and plugged it into the jack in the wall. Miraculously there was a dial tone. She bent it around the corner of the hallway, sat on the carpet by the wall, and dialed. It took eight long rings before she heard Tabitha’s voice.
Hi, you’ve reached Applied Cryonics Mortuary. If you’re calling in regard to an immediate death, press 1. If you’re calling in regard to the death of a pet, press 2.
You are such an asshole, Tabitha, she said aloud.
If you’re calling in regard to the death of a celebrity, please stay on the line and an operator will assist you as soon as possible. If you’re calling because you want to fuck a dead celebrity, please also stay on the line. Our staff pride themselves on their discretion and beeeeeeep
Mom, pick up the phone, said Julie. I know you’re there, so pick up the phone. I’m just gonna keep talking and talking until you …
There was a click and a folksy guitar strumming away on ancient speakers.
Hi, baby, said Linda.
Mom, said Julie. I’ve got a job, maybe even for the summer.
Congratulations, Linda moaned. That’s so wonderful.
Yeah, said Julie. So she—so they want me to start today. My boss.
Oh good, said Linda. The folksy guitars got louder; she was turning the volume up.
So I won’t be coming home tonight, said Julie. Until late. Just … so don’t wait for me with dinner.
Dinner, said Linda. Okay. Listen, honey, thanks for calling, all right?
Sure, said Julie. Oh, she’s also a big dyke.
There was a dial tone, again.
A huge dyke, Julie said to the receiver. She said it louder. Dyke.
She thought she could feel the motors in the walls stop for a moment, terrified, before lurching forward again. She set the phone down in the hallway, got up, and walked to the center of the living room. The white walls felt like they were moving in on her and she could feel the heat of the Christmas lights above her, incandescent, and she could feel her stomach moving, rolling over and over itself.
The Dream of Doctor Bantam Page 6
