by David Wood
Craig sighed. Typical. Her choice of capitalization said it all. She couldn’t bother to hold down the shift key to capitalize the first word of a new sentence. No, that was way too much trouble, especially when messengering someone who made his living from writing proper, grammatically acceptable English. But she never failed to capitalize “I” he couldn’t help but notice, even when it began a sentence. Because she was important enough to rate capital letters. And her key points she didn’t want him to miss (DUMB WHORE, DEAD to me, make MONEY, etc.….of course those things demanded all caps.
He stood up and walked across the room, dug into his luggage and retrieved his day planner. He flipped through and found the telephone number to the flat. He sat back down at the computer, hit reply, typed the number in and clicked send. Then he closed her message and logged out of his outdated AOL email.
“Goodbye!”
Amy’s headache had subsided some but her stomach was still upset. And the stench of her vomit now wafting from the bathroom wasn’t helping any. She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow.
She couldn’t call her mother from the apartment and she wasn’t up to going back out. She felt tired and sick and just wanted to lie around and try to sleep, to forget where she was and who she was with. But the fact that she hadn’t called her mom was gnawing at her already- nauseous gut. Her mother had been worried about her enough in New York, was in constant fear that something would happen to her, that Craig would snap and smack her around or worse. And now Amy was thousands of miles away in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language and didn’t know a soul. Her mother had to be frantic by now, had to be assuming the worst.
She heard Craig sign off of AOL and thought of emailing her mother from the laptop. Her mother checked her inbox at least once a day, and having not heard by phone from Amy, was probably sitting in front of her computer checking her email every five minutes. Amy could probably even send her an instant message. She wished she would use Facebook or any more modern social media, really, but she had never caught on and insisted that AOL Instant Messenger was good enough to allow them to stay in touch, so why not keep using it?
But then she would have to ask Craig’s permission to use the laptop. She would have to type her message with him hovering over her shoulder, looking on. The hell of the matter was that she had paid for the computer. But as far as he was concerned it was his, and he never let it out of his sight. She hated asking for permission, begging for privacy. What the hell was on the computer that he had to hide? He said he didn’t want her going through his works-in-progress but she had never wanted to and she had never tried. So what was it? Messages to other girls? Internet porn? Drug orders? She jumped off the bed. Her stomach felt too sick. She needed to put something in it to try to settle it. Maybe she had put some crackers in her luggage. Maybe there was some candy in her purse.
No crackers. But in her purse she found some candy corn and a handful of jellybeans. Not the best cure for a five-alarm hangover, but they would have to do.
Craig sat on the couch. His head was beginning to ache from the hunger. It didn’t help that he was on no sleep. Amy had created the perfect storm. She’d made sure they’d argued before bed and kept him guessing as to whether she’d leave. She’d facilitated the insomnia, then went out this morning with instructions to get them some breakfast and instead came back with two bottles of wine. To top it all off she had flushed his Vicodin to make sure that his head ached, to ensure that he stayed in pain.
And here she was always telling him he was a bit underweight. Telling him he should eat more. But, of course, she didn’t cook. No, her mom had plenty of advice for her, plenty of input when it came to men, but she had never bothered to teach her daughter how to boil a fucking egg. How to grill a goddamn steak. It was a major hassle for Amy to drop some pancake batter into a pan, to heat up some frozen pizza. It was downright ludicrous for him to expect her to prepare some pasta, or broil some burgers, or bake a cake.
He pushed himself off the couch and stood. Began pacing around the living room. Shit, he was hungry.
(“You have a tapeworm! Dr. Post will have to go into your stomach and cut it out.”)
Amy had nerve, telling him he was underweight. Living with her he might as well have been living with his mother. Might as well still be living in his mother’s house with the empty refrigerator, the unused stove, the dishwasher stacked with business papers. His mother didn’t cook either. But at least she didn’t tell him he was underweight. She would just lock what food she did buy in the trunk of her car so that he couldn’t get at it. So, he’d guessed, that he wouldn’t overeat. And once he hit eleven, once she bought the Point After, he had to work for his food. She paid him a quarter an hour to sit in that cage, to sell banners and bobble head dolls to mall shoppers. A five-hour night just about bought him a slice of pizza. And he grew accustomed to that. Working for food became ingrained. It got so that he didn’t understand how kids whose parents didn’t own sports stores ever got to eat.
Amy had nerve, returning with nothing but wine. She didn’t want to be the one responsible for going out and getting food. She couldn’t accept the fact that he couldn’t deal with people, that he wasn’t up for those kinds of tasks. What was the big deal if she was charged with doing the grocery shopping? It wasn’t like he complained he was hungry all the time. He ate twice, three times a day, tops. It wasn’t like when he was a kid, when he’d had a (“tapeworm!”) voracious appetite, when it seemed he was hungry all hours of the day and night. When he ate twice a day and was still the skinniest kid in class. Back then, too, he used to get hunger headaches and stomach pains and he’d complain to his mother and she would tell him that wasn’t normal, that there was something wrong with him, that he shouldn’t be hungry all the time, that he must be ill, that maybe he had a parasite, that maybe it was a tapeworm, that if he kept complaining she’d take him to Dr. Post, that he’d have to open him up, look in his gut and cut out that nasty tapeworm with a knife, a big sharp one.
After a while he’d stopped complaining. He dealt with the hunger, with the headaches, with the stomach pains. Better that than having Dr. Post cut into his gut.
He looked out the window but the dog was gone.
Maybe he was being hard-headed about this whole thing. Maybe he should just go into the bedroom and apologize for getting upset about the Vicodin and the toilet and ask her if she’d like to go out with him to get some lunch.
He started toward the bedroom, right as the pulsing resumed in his ear.
She was chewing on a candy corn with a blue jellybean on deck when the bedroom door swung open and Craig stepped inside. She popped the jellybean into her mouth and set her book down again.
He stood frozen in the doorway staring at her on the bed. His mouth fell open and his neck was growing red. “What the hell are you doing?”
The jellybean caught in her throat and she tried to cough it back up, but it wouldn’t come. She tried to swallow but couldn’t and suddenly she felt short of breath.
Craig didn’t move, just watched from the doorway with an indignant look on his face.
Her eyes started to tear and she pounded her fist against her chest.
It hurt and it did no good but she hit herself again. “What’s wrong?” he said calmly.
She couldn’t speak. She tried to motion him with her eyes but they were blurred by tears. She couldn’t see him but knew he wasn’t moving, wasn’t coming toward her to help. She punched herself again.
The jellybean seemed to dislodge and a sharp pain shot up from her chest. She coughed freely and violently and moved toward the side of the bed. She hung over the side and dropped her head into her hands. Wiped the moisture from her mouth, the salty tears from her cheeks.
“You’re eating?”
She took a deep breath, coughed again. “My stomach felt sick,” she said softly. “I just needed to put something in it so I wouldn’t feel so nauseous.”
“Your stomach,” he said, his face now bright red. “Well, so long as your stomach’s feeling better. So long as you got your candy. No wonder you didn’t pick up any breakfast.” He threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe this. Here I am sitting in the living room with an empty stomach and a pounding headache and you’re in here munching on marshmallows and gumdrops. Having yourself a little feast. Saying to yourself, ‘To hell with ol’ Craig. Let ‘im starve. I’ve got motherfucking candy corn. Yay for me!’”
She got to her feet and put her hands to her ears. “I can’t take this anymore.”
He put his hands out. “Can’t take what? Candy corns? You ate so many your stomach hurts while I’m in here starving?”
“Can’t take you, Craig. I can’t take us.” She walked purposefully around the bed and over to the dresser. She quickly folded her bedclothes and stuffed them into her suitcase.
“What does that mean? What are you doing?”
She closed her suitcase and pulled the zipper around. Then she looked at him, her eyes watering. “I’m sorry, Craig. I can’t stay here with you anymore.”
He looked like the wind had just been knocked out of him. His mouth fell open again and now even his ears went red. He appeared uneasy on his feet and put his right hand out, steadied himself on the dresser. “Amy, don’t do this to me.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have no choice.”
He reached for her but she pushed past him, grabbing the suitcase, letting it fall off the dresser and hit the floor. She dragged it behind her into the living room.
“Please, Amy,” he begged. “Please reconsider. Think about what you’re doing to me again.”
“I never should’ve come here,” she said, standing before the door. “I’m so sorry. I made a huge mistake.”
She was crying now, worse maybe than she’d ever cried before.
Because this was it, really it. This was The End of Amy and Craig.
He was crying, too. Standing there, running his hands through his shaggy brown hair. “You can’t,” he choked. “You can’t go.”
Her chin fell to her chest and she couldn’t find the words. Didn’t know quite how to say goodbye. Not in person. It wasn’t like in Hawaii when all she had to do was sneak out and leave a note. This was hard. This hurt.
I love you, she thought. But no, that wasn’t right. Saying that wouldn’t help matters. It would only make things worse.
Just go, she told herself. That was really the only way to handle this. Just turn the knob and leave. Head to the lift and don’t look back and if he grabs you or threatens you, open your mouth and scream bloody murder.
She reached out to unlock the lock but it wouldn’t turn. She applied more pressure but it wouldn’t budge. She tried the doorknob but it wouldn’t move. She twisted it, pushed it, pulled it, but the door stood still, heavy and implacable before her.
She turned to him. “Open it!”
He stared at the door.
“Open it,” she said again.
She stepped aside and he moved toward it, tried the lock, then the knob, then the lock again. But the door didn’t open; still it wouldn’t budge.
“What did you do?” She pushed him out of the way, grabbing at the doorknob again. Twisted it in her hands until they stung.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“I heard you. I heard you before from the bedroom. I heard you playing with the goddamn door. What did you do to it?”
He raised his voice. “What the fuck do you think I did, Amy? I oiled it. I oiled it to keep it from making noise.”
She shook the knob as hard as she could then began slapping her palms against the door, yelling, “Let me out! Let me out of here! Let me out!” Then she switched to the heel of her fists and continued pounding away. She didn’t quit until they were raw.
Craig watched, hands on his hips, a look of sheer puzzlement on his face. He didn’t help, didn’t try to stop her. Just stood there and watched and waited for her to tire herself out.
Finally she threw her hands in the air and her back against the door. She sunk down low to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and fell quiet. The tears were streaming and her cheeks were burning and her head hurt and her stomach was more nauseous than before. She breathed heavily.
What did you do?
“Calm down,” he finally said to her. But it sounded more like a command than a plea.
She stared up at him, her sore, red hands still clenched into fists. “Calm down?” she said. “Calm down? How the hell am I supposed to calm down? How? You have me fucking trapped.”
The first tremor arrives less than two hours after Xavier sits down to draw. It shakes the floor, rattles the window and walls. Xavier flings his papers aside and jumps to his feet, only to find that the tremor is strong enough to knock him back to the floor. He lands on his left side, breaking his arm.
Meanwhile, picture frames drop from their spots on the mantel and crack as they strike the furniture below. Xavier curls up in a fetal position, protecting his head with his good arm. Tiny pieces of ceiling drop on him like a light rain.
In the hall, he hears doors opening and slamming closed. He hears shouts and wails, some men barking orders. Children are crying— maybe some women and men, too.
Xavier doesn’t know what to do.
But after a minute or so the tremor quits. The room steadies and the ceiling stops falling to the floor. Xavier feels a wave of relief, the same feeling he always has when his mother walks through the door. But, as when his mother walks through the door, Xavier also experiences a certain dread.
Like something really bad is about to happen. And a few minutes later, it does.
The second tremor is far stronger than the first. And the second tremor lasts nearly twice as long. Larger pieces of the ceiling fall like a heavy hail. Furniture jolts as though it were alive and dancing. Doors shake in their frames but do not fall.
Neither does the flat’s lone window break, though Xavier was hoping it would. He wants to scream out for help but, as in a dream, he can find no voice. And as buildings collapse to rubble all around the Alfama, he is sure he can no longer be heard.
It is All Saints’ Day and many people are at church. Xavier pictures the stained glass windows cracking, crucifixes flying from the walls.
He envisions the tall church ceilings collapsing inward, dropping on parishioners in the middle of their prayers.
What Xavier fails to imagine are the candles falling, igniting curtains and carpets throughout the Alfama quarter. But this is happening nevertheless.
By the time the violent second tremor finally stops, Xavier is in tears.
His left arm hurts badly and at some point he bangs his head on a falling chair. Still, he’s not worried about himself. He is concerned only for his mother.
Where is she right now? Is she hurt?
During the brief calm, Xavier gets to his feet and heads for the door. He will head down to the pier and look for her. He will find her, even if it takes all day.
But it seems the quake has caused the door to become misshapen. Xavier struggles with the handle, twists and turns the knob with all his might, but it’s no use. The door is stuck in its frame and cannot move.
Xavier is trapped.
He runs to the window, just as the third tremor starts, just in time to see the roof of the neighboring building collapse. Xavier is finally aware that this may be the day that he dies. This may be the day that all of Lisbon is destroyed.
Chapter 15
Morning arrived. Craig stood by the window, watching the dog. He had stayed up again all night, hadn’t slept except for a two-hour nap from about ten until midnight. He’d gotten a lot written, another six thousand words. The new novel was coming along just fine.
But he and Amy were captives in their own flat. They had made no progress with the door. And the apartment’s lone window wouldn’t open, wouldn’t break. The window was made of something other than gla
ss, something impregnable, some kind of Plexiglass or something, Craig guessed. The phone didn’t work. The lines were crossed and all they heard was a crackling noise, or now and then a faint voice murmuring something unintelligible in Portuguese. They had lost their wireless signal and could no longer access the Internet, couldn’t email or Instant Message or status update someone for help. They had banged on the walls and yelled out toward the hall, all to no avail.
Eight o’clock had come and gone and Amaro’s associate had never shown. Craig and Amy waited, both of them by the door, listening— for footsteps in the hall, a knock, a voice, something, anything. But all that arrived was more silence. By ten o’clock they’d left the door and resigned themselves to the fact that Amaro’s associate wasn’t coming.
Worst of all, they had no food. Not a loaf of bread or a brick of cheese, not a celery stick or even a bag of airplane peanuts. And as of four this morning they had no running water. Craig had gone to the sink to pee and when he’d turned on the faucet to wash the urine down the drain, all he heard was a hiss and a muffled shriek as though a band of serpents trapped in the pipes were trying to scream. Craig held his breath and ducked into the bathroom, tried the sink and shower faucets, even the bidet, but no luck. The flat was dry, completely dry.
