But then I began to worry. How many people had seen us together? Did I want to be involved in this? Would the bartender remember me? Of course he would. The police were looking for more information. I threw down the newspaper and took a big mouthful of beer. I was going to have to make a statement. But what would I say? The whole thing was a monumental, frightening, pain in the ass.
I had one beer left and no one to talk to. I missed Boris, which appalled me. I was dangerously low. Mosquitos sang a measured coloratura around my head. I waved them off and they reassembled. I picked up the rest of the chicken and made my way back to the house.
I must have been drunk to call Ann, although not drunk enough to call Boris. I did have an excuse—I couldn’t find the proof of insurance and Ann knew where all that stuff was—but I was really just looking for another voice to put on the end of the receiver. I could hear the phone purring in another dimension, New York. I felt as if everything in New York were happening in the previous week.
“Yes,” said Ann, picking up.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
“Katherine?”
“Is it too late to call?”
“No. It’s eleven, but I’m up late. Where are you?”
I explained to Ann about the house.
“And Boris went for that?”
“You’ll convince him it was the right thing to do.”
“I might even visit,” said Ann. “What was the question?”
“Question?”
“You had something to ask me?”
“The proof of insurance. I can’t find it.”
“It’s in the glove compartment in a FedEx envelope. There’s an itemized receipt in there from a garage in Connecticut. I had some work done on the car in June. And the registration.” She paused. “Did Boris leave the car with you?”
I hadn’t even thought that Ann might want the car. “Are you mad?”
“Mad as in angry, or mad as in crazy?”
I wasn’t sure. I could hear the television loud in the background and the sound made me sorry for Ann, who shouldn’t have been alone.
“Is that all?” she said.
“I met this guy at a bar. Nothing happened.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. I suppose because he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“It’s in the paper. In the picture, he looks so happy and now he’s dead. He bled to death. Someone bit him, they think. There’s this crazy guy who escaped from a lunatic asylum.” I paused. Why was I telling Ann this? I put down my beer.
“What does this have to do with me?” said Ann. “What does it have to do with you?”
“Lunatic asylums are just like cages, aren’t they? They’re not an asylum for the crazies, they’re an asylum for everyone else.”
“I suppose that’s valid.”
“Can you imagine being locked up, day after day?”
“I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
“Doesn’t it scare you, Ann, to be locked up like an animal in a zoo, looked at, fed, maintained but not loved at all, not understood? To always be separated from humanity by bars?”
“We’re all alone anyway.”
“And that doesn’t scare you?”
“Katherine, are you on drugs?”
“No,” I said. “Just drinking.”
“Good,” said Ann. “Go to bed.”
* * *
The next morning I woke to the maddening caws of some perverse crows. I’d been having some dream about the Tower of London and it took a minute for me to figure out where I was. I found some coffee, sugar, tea, and flour—colonial supplies—in the cabinet. The coffee was bitter and I’d forgotten to buy cream. I dressed to go for a walk to check out the property, but then felt dragged down by guilt—a vague wariness, so after a time spent searching for keys, which I’d left on the back of the toilet, I drove to Portland. Ostensibly, this was to make a statement to the police, but I was rapidly talking myself out of it. It was a beautiful day. I had the top down and my sunglasses on. If I cut my hair into a bob and put in some highlights, I’d be harder to recognize and bartenders saw so many people that they might not make the connection. I’d been thinking of changing my look anyway. Cutting my hair would no doubt annoy Boris and this made it more attractive. The police could wait. If they found me, I’d make up some excuse. How did I know they needed me to make a statement? But I didn’t have to decide just then. There were other things to do in town. I had to apply for a job, even if none too enthusiastically. I had noticed some bookstores in the Old Port that looked fully staffed, one which seemed to be run by lesbians and where they probably wouldn’t hire me. I decided to apply there first.
I parked my car by the pub, which was the only place in town I knew. I bought the paper. Bad Billy was still at large. A photograph of the murderer was on the front page. William Selwyn looked like a classic killer. He had pronounced yet fine features and black hair that he wore slicked back. He had a broad forehead, which gave him the appearance of being intelligent, and fine, arched eyebrows. I tucked the paper under my arm. It was unseasonably warm, in the seventies, and the sky was a brilliant, garish blue. The buildings left sharp shadows on the ground, pockets of cold in an otherwise sunlit day. Shop doors opened onto the street and greeted me with the scent of coffee, then pizza, then steak, then garlic and soy, then coffee once again.
I had grown selfish in the last few hours, not so nagged with thoughts of Malley’s unfinished days and distraught parents, more concerned with my own life. I went into the bookstore to fill out an application, but for some reason couldn’t bring myself to admit this to myself or anyone else. I spent close to forty-five anxious minutes assembling a stack of hardcover books. My search for a job had—I added in my head—already cost me ninety-seven dollars. The woman working the counter frightened me. She had fierce iron-gray hair that stood straight up and short fingers, muscled hands. She could have worked in a coal mine, but was instead punching numbers brutally into a cash register.
“What have you got there?” she said. She regarded the books in turn. “Ah, Richard Noll, Vampires, Werewolves, and Demons. And The Lais of Marie de France. You’re into werewolves.”
“I also have The Little Prince,” I said. “Does that mean I’m into little boys?”
She tried to stare me down, but soon gave up, and handed me my change. “Is that all?” she said.
“I was wondering if I could fill out an application.”
“We’re not hiring.”
“Did I ask if you were hiring?”
She reached under the counter for a pad of generic application forms. “Do you want a pen?”
“No thanks. I’ll fill this out at home.” I smiled and picked up the bag with my books.
Outside the window, under the arcing, backward letters of “bookstore,” was the violin player, who had apparently been watching me for some time. He had stopped in front of the bookstore to check his hair in the window’s reflection. His hands were cupped around his face to cut the reflection, which made him look like a winged putti. We looked at each other through the glass until finally I broke into a wide smile.
He was waiting for me on the step.
“I know you,” I said. “You play the violin like an angel.”
“And you tip like you’re loaded.”
“Oh,” I said, “that. How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t have a very big audience.” He smiled. “I’m Arthur,” he said. “I’d like to take you to lunch.”
“I’d like to go to lunch,” I said.
“The seafood place across the street?”
“Sure.”
The restaurant was in the basement. We paused at the door. Hanging above was a life-size fiberglass sculpture of a giant clam consuming a man. Only the man’s trouser legs and shoes remained, protruding from the clam’s mouth. In t
he window was a sign advertising the featured beer—Sam Adams Oktoberfest, and the special—oysters.
“Do you like oysters?” I asked.
“I’ve never had oysters,” he replied.
I pushed open the door. Inside there was darkness and chill. I heard the clink of glass as the bartender sorted clean wineglasses above the bar. There was the subtle smell of smoke and behind the hiss of grilling steak, I could hear the cooks laughing. We sat at a booth. Above our heads we could see the feet of passersby—feet coming together in conversation; feet rushing off. The waiter brought us drinks. Arthur had long fingers, muscled hands. He rolled his pint glass in his hands.
“There’s a storm rolling in,” he said.
“Tonight?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“What do you do during storms?” Our oysters arrived and I squeezed lemon over the lot. “Do you still play?”
“I sit in a bar, usually.” Arthur smiled. His teeth were crooked.
“You don’t go home.”
“I live in my van.”
“That’s awful.”
“You get used to it,” he said, stoically. “One good thing about living in your van is that you don’t have to drive home.”
“Any drawbacks?”
“It’s freezing.”
“Why do you live in your van?”
“Guess,” he said.
He had beautiful, squinty green eyes. “Bad breakup?” I suggested.
“Very good.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Most of my friends have suggested I find another topic of conversation.”
I smiled, but with some prodding and three beers, Arthur was a little more forthcoming. Arthur had moved into his van two weeks earlier after leaving his girlfriend of six years, her heroin addiction, and incidentally, his heroin addiction, in a collapsing house at the foot of Munjoy Hill. Much of Munjoy Hill offered a stunning view of Portland; however, Arthur’s room looked out at a vulcanizing shop. The house was flanked by a burned-out building and the Nissen bakery, which filled the air with bread fumes at strange hours but offered the advantage of selling day-old bread at ten cents a loaf. Arthur had also recently vacated his position as drummer for Intravenous, a metal band whose songs were indistinguishable from one another. The band had a loyal following and Arthur’s departure was seen as bizarre and ill-advised. Of course, many thought the same of his cleaning-up, particularly his girlfriend, who felt betrayed. In her eyes, Arthur had aged inexplicably; his conversion made him as alien as a stockbroker.
Arthur hadn’t played the violin in ten years, not since he was sixteen. But he had always been an exceptional player whose talent had tortured those around him, particularly when he disappeared into Boston at the age of seventeen and resurfaced two weeks later as a frightening punk rocker. Arthur was once again reinventing himself. He still had his studded leather jacket and bleached white hair (which, from the back, made him look like an old man) but playing the violin made him genuinely happy. Also, now that he’d quit heroin, he couldn’t talk to any of his old crowd. There were some people, for example Intravenous’s front man Bob Bob, for whom he still felt genuine affection, but talking to Bob Bob made him feel both self-conscious and bored. So he was strangely alone.
“How long do you plan to live in your car?” I asked.
“Van,” corrected Arthur. We laughed. Arthur took one of my cigarettes and lit it. He put his feet up on the seat of the booth and watched the smoke escaping from his mouth. “Someone has to need a roommate.” He shook his head wearily. “I know I’m getting old because the notion of living in my van depresses me.”
“Once,” I said, “that might have been romantic.”
“Once,” he repeated. “I’ve been kind of degenerate for the last six years. I told myself that I was living, being young. But now I just feel six years older.”
“There’s nothing embarrassing about getting old,” I said.
“It’s nothing to be proud of either,” Arthur replied. He looked at me slyly. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Me?” I laughed. “I don’t know. I have a new house—more of a shack—that I’m renting north of here. There’s a fireplace. It’s not really cold enough, but if there’s a storm blowing in I thought I might try it out.” I had no plans. “I have to fill out this application,” I said, holding up the piece of paper.
“Need any company?”
“You want to come home with me?”
Arthur turned deep red and I saw him checking his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
I thought for a moment. Boris was two states away and he’d promised me I could have friends. “I think you should.”
“Really?”
“Can you bring your violin?” I asked.
“I bring everything I own everywhere I go,” he said.
Arthur followed me up the coast. We stopped at the Mobil and got some beer, a half-dozen Duraflame logs, and a box of candles.
“We should get a movie,” said Arthur.
“Something creepy,” I said.
One good thing about the house is that it was fully furnished, complete with monster-sized TV and VCR and DVD, among other things—microwave, electric can opener, dishwasher—American necessities, things required by the folk willing to pay the high summer rates.
At the video store I picked out Silence of the Lambs.
We pulled into the driveway at around three. Gray clouds were rolling up the sky in a wall, shutting out the sun. The tide was completely out and birds were shouting warnings—coarse and sweet—in the wooded areas and scrubby pines. The air was heavy and electric. Arthur stood a comfortable distance away with his hands in his pockets. I looked over my shoulder at him, then back down at the bay. Suddenly, a gray coyote scooted across the point, disappearing over the drop into the woods.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“Yes, I did.” He seemed very peaceful.
A sudden gust blew in a cloud of rain than clattered over the roof in handful-sized drops. There was another spell of no rain, then lightning split the clouds open and it began to pour. Arthur and I ran into the house. I kicked my shoes off inside the door and Arthur did the same, although it took him a minute to loosen the laces of his boots. The water was sheeting against the windowpanes. I flicked on all the lights. While Arthur went to the bathroom, I opened the flue. The chimney looked fine, although the number of birds around the property made nests a possibility. I cheeped up the chimney, thinking that if indeed one had made its home there, it might reply.
Arthur came back from the bathroom. “You’re cheeping,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“There’s a leak,” he said, “right over the toilet.” He began laughing.
“Oh my God.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About twenty-four hours.” I shook my head. “I was wondering why there was an umbrella in the bathroom.”
“On the bright side, the water goes right into the bowl. It’s kind of like a self-flushing unit.”
I nodded wearily. “Why don’t you light one of these logs? I’ll try the VCR.”
Arthur began flicking his lighter against the log’s wrapper. I held the remote and aimed with both hands. There was a sharp crack and the house went dark.
“What the hell did I do?”
“Power’s off,” Arthur arranged the log, which was burning well, although some smoke was coming in. “Do you know where your fuse box is?”
“The boiler’s in a closet, door after the bathroom. Maybe it’s in there.” I opened the box of candles. “Take one of these.”
I lit a cigarette and puffed aggressively. Arthur came back down the hall. His candle suffused him with angelic light. “You couldn’t find the fuse box?”
“It’s not the fuses. The power must be out.”
“Oh fuck me.”
“Call the power company.”
Power was out
all over the coast. I looked out the window, where afternoon had been blown away and night now stood with no street lamps and no stars, only the occasional swoop and blur of headlights across the bay. The electricity would be restored as soon as possible, but lines were down everywhere and we were advised to stay put.
“Do you want a beer?” I said.
“Thanks.”
“I have some leftover chicken, if you’re hungry.”
“Not right now, but it sounds good for later.”
“I want to apologize to you.”
“For what?”
“For the storm. For dragging you out here.”
“The storm isn’t your fault and you didn’t drag me out here,” said Arthur.
“Maybe I’m just apologizing in advance.”
“For what?”
“I usually manage to piss people off.” I smiled. “What are we going to do?”
“We can tell stories. Do you know any good stories?”
“I know tons of them,” I said.
I took the couch and he sat in the armchair. He put his socked feet on the coffee table.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“No, not at all. Please make yourself comfortable.”
“Tell me something about yourself,” said Arthur.
“You might not like me.”
“That is a possibility,” he said, smiling. He shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit it.
“There’s nothing to me,” I said. “I grew up south of Boston. My father’s a businessman.”
“What does your mother do?”
“Not very much,” I smiled stiffly. “She’s in the hospital.”
“Is it bad?”
“I don’t think she’s ever getting out.” We were quiet.
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur.
“Don’t be.” I began shaking my head as if I could shake loose the thoughts of my mother.
“What’s wrong with her.”
“I’m not sure. She has lupus. It’s kind of affected her brain, nerve damage.”
Arthur watched me intently. “How long has she been sick?”
“Oh, she’s always been sick. My father thinks she’s safer in the hospital,” I raised my eyebrows in a relaxed way, to make it seem that all this was acceptable. “My mother was always getting lost. She was always late picking me up from school. She’d leave the house and forget why and find herself doing the grocery shopping at four P.M. I’d be waiting for her on the steps of the gym. All the other children would be gone.”
A Carnivore's Inquiry Page 8
