A Carnivore's Inquiry

by Sabina Murray

  I parked up on Middle Street, a few blocks from where Arthur had set up. The temperature had dropped considerably and the cold air excited me. I bought a pair of gloves at a store specializing in South American goods. The gloves cost five dollars and made my hands look like Muppets. The cold air pricked my nostrils and I clumsily pulled at the lapels of my jacket. By the time I reached Fore Street—where the bars were” my eyes were tearing.

  I stopped at the corner of Exchange Street. I couldn’t navigate my handbag with the crazy gloves and needed a Kleenex. When I looked around the corner of the building, Arthur was standing in the same spot I’d left him in, violin hanging casually in one hand, bow in the other. He was talking to a woman. She could have been anyone, a friend or some interested fan, but something in me knew better. And then she walked right past me. For one short moment I was presented with her profile, and then her back, which I studied until she disappeared down Milk Street. Arthur had described his girl-friend—her long blond hair and thin face—but he hadn’t mentioned her striking cheekbones, her heavy lips, and her swagger that clearly announced that she knew men wanted her. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that she was almost six feet tall, that her confidence projected all around her in an intrusive, sexual aura. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that she must have been at least ten years older than he was, that she was one of those people who was not ravaged by drugs but rather seemed to have been preserved by them, as if the various chemicals had leached into her internal organs, pickling them, rendering them immune to the attacks of free radical cells and aging.

  She was wearing well-worn jeans with white paint splashed in a few places. Somehow, her jeans were uniformly loose, but fitted, despite her wide hips and slim thighs. The jacket she wore was leather with tassels and silver, a jacket that would have been hopelessly outdated, a recent relic and definitely not retro, on someone else. On her, however, it looked hip and dangerous, as if she had weathered so much fashion that she was now impervious to it. Her hair hung straight down her back, and from the way it swung, seemed to weigh twenty pounds. She was making fists, clenching tight then spreading her fingers wide apart, and then she was gone.

  I almost admired her.

  I watched her go and struggled with the urge to follow her. I had been wondering about Arthur all day, what he was like, why he didn’t talk about his family, why he liked me. Men usually told me everything in a hurry, as if they hoped to control me by burying me under a mountain of useless personal information, as if—once I knew all about their childhood friends, former jobs, maudlin desires—I’d be so weighted down by all this knowledge that I would be unable to leave. But Arthur was as reticent as I was. Seeing her made me feel more in control. I had at least seen whom he had loved—what had once been enough for him—and, at the time, that was all the information I wanted.

  Arthur was despondent, looking into his violin case as if it held some answers. I stood casting my shadow there for a second before he looked up.

  “Oh,” he said smiling, “it’s you.”

  “I dropped you off this morning,” I said. “I had to pick you up.”

  He nodded. He clearly hadn’t thought about it.

  “Was that your girlfriend?” I asked. I smiled mischievously. It was uncontrollable.

  “Ex-girlfriend.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “That is true.” He scratched his head.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why?”

  “You might want to talk about her sometime.”

  “Eva. Her name is Eva.” He took a deep breath.

  “Does she miss you?” I don’t know why I thought this was so funny, but I started laughing.

  “She wanted money,” he said. “Therefore she does miss me.”

  “Did you give her any?”

  “I gave her a twenty.” He nodded at me, still smiling.

  “That was very kind of you,” I said.

  “What is so damned funny?” asked Arthur. He was kneeling now, counting up the money, lots of quarters, enough dollar bills to make it look like a reasonable day.

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. I must be happy.”

  “Do you want to get a burger? It’s my treat.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” I said.

  Arthur needed a beer and so did I. We went to Gritty’s. Bob Bob (Robert Robertson on his driver’s license) was behind the bar, a happy surprise for Arthur, because he was always happy to see Bob Bob, especially when he didn’t have to talk to him, as in this situation where Bob Bob was working. Bob Bob was a part of the Munjoy Hill household and was still housemates with Eva. He didn’t work full-time at the bar, but he knew the owner, who liked him and gave him shifts every now and then when his money was running low. Bob Bob must have been in his late thirties at this point. He wore his hair in a thick, brown ponytail that had a few silver strands racing through it. His eyes were glassy and his skin had an unnatural, paste-pink hue, but I could tell that he had once been handsome. Arthur told me that that was enough for a number of women.

  We sat at the bar side by side.

  “This is Katherine,” said Arthur. He spoke with a forced casualness.

  Bob Bob smiled warmly and shook my hand. “I feel like I should say something witty and charming,” he said.

  “So you’re Arthur’s new lady friend,” offered Arthur. “I’d be careful of this one.”

  Bob Bob thought about this and then nodded. He smiled at me, as if he had actually said it. I ordered a burger and a Black Fly, which was one of the offered brews, despite the fact I had no idea what it was. Arthur had the fish and chips. I could see Bob Bob eyeing us while we ate. I thought he might be checking me out, but he seemed more interested in Arthur. I wasn’t surprised when he came over at the end of the meal and with great purpose, rested a heavy, veined hand on Arthur’s arm.

  “You look great, man. You’re the shit.”

  “Thanks,” said Arthur.

  “You look . . .” said Bob Bob.

  Arthur waited.

  “You look fucking great.” Bob Bob smiled nervously.

  Arthur raised his eyebrows in amused suspicion. “I like you too, but just as a friend.” They both started laughing.

  “No,” said Bob Bob, “but I do have a favor to ask you.”

  Arthur angled in to Bob. “I can’t say no until you ask me.”

  “We’re playing at the Hole in the Wall next Friday. Can you play?”

  The smile didn’t leave Arthur’s face, or even shift perceptibly. “No,” he said.

  “We’re taking the door and it’s five bucks a person.”

  “You could find someone else.”

  “I could,” Bob Bob paused, “but someone’s coming out from Edge Records...”

  “I think I’ve heard that before,” said Arthur.

  “Well this time it’s true. He’s one of Park’s college buddies.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Talk him into it,” said Bob Bob, turning to me.

  “Why?”

  Bob Bob thought about this for a minute. “I’ll owe you one,” he said.

  Arthur was quiet on the way home. His hands gripped each other in his lap. He was shadowed by a grim, foreboding cloud that I should have known cast its shadow over us both.

  “You think I did the right thing?”

  “Clearly, I’m missing something.”

  “I don’t know if it’s really good for me to be around those people.”

  “Is this a drug thing?”

  “Yeah,” Arthur drummed nervously on the dashboard with his forefingers. “I guess it is.”

  “Don’t hang out. Leave right after you’re done.”

  “Will you come?”

  “Sure.” I gave Arthur a cautious look. “I know nothing is as simple as you want it to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes you want to stop doing something, but it’s not enough to want to stop. Something else has to happe
n.”

  “But what does?”

  “What?”

  “What happens?” Arthur resumed drumming. “Nothing ever happens.”

  We pulled into the driveway. I got out of the car and started heading to the house. Arthur paused by the car. He didn’t want to be presumptuous. I turned and looked at him for a minute.

  “Red Sox are on tonight,” I said.

  “I’m a Yankees fan.”

  “They’re playing the Yankees.”

  Arthur smiled and followed me, hands in his pockets.

  I unlocked the door, which swung open quietly. The house had filled with darkness in my absence. The air was cold and damp. I felt around the wall for the light switch, because I couldn’t remember where the switches were located. Much of the wiring in the house seemed to be of the handyman/husband variety. Sometimes the light switches were even upside down. Arthur stepped inside. He still had his hands deep in his pockets. I could just make out his profile—the hook of his nose and his high forehead. He took a deep breath and looked at me, angling his head to one side.

  “Just a minute,” I said.

  Suddenly, from the kitchen, I heard a scuttle of something—claws?—a weighty thud—a jump?” and then a crash, as if a whole bag of groceries had been knocked off the counter.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Arthur.

  I flipped on the light. There was a metal flashlight hanging on a hook by the door and I picked it up.

  The kitchen was still but a bag of rice was emptying itself onto the floor. “I think we have a rodent visitor,” I said. I picked up a box of Cheerios and a stream poured out of the bottom of the box. “There’s a trap under the sink.”

  “Doesn’t look like it’s working.” Arthur looked at the sink then back at me. I stood behind him while he opened the cabinet door. Arthur was squatting down to get a better look when the rat sprang out. There was a moment of complete stillness where I could see the rat—legs extended, teeth bared—suspended in the air. Then it landed on Arthur’s legs. Arthur yelled and so did I, but I still had the flashlight. I batted the rat into the cabinet door. It fell to the floor, momentarily stunned, and before it could come to I had beaten its head in, crushing the skull that fragmented with an audible crunch.

  I was out of breath. It couldn’t have taken more that two seconds. “Kill it,” I said. “Kill it.”

  Arthur looked at me. He was awed. The rat was beginning to ooze onto the linoleum. “Go sit down. Have a cigarette. I’ll clean this up.”

  Arthur put the rat in a plastic bag and knotted it. The front door slammed and I heard the metal cover clang shut on the trash can. I was still trying to light my cigarette when he came back in, flicking and flicking a dead lighter. I didn’t notice him watching me.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Do you have a light?” Arthur took the lighter from my hand and shook it, then the thing flared into life.

  “You’re shaking,” he said. I was. Trembling. Outside a stiff wind had started and the panes were rattling in the casing. Arthur sat down on the couch next to me. He picked up my left hand and held it.

  “It’s cold in here,” I said. “Why don’t you light a fire?”

  He didn’t move, just looked out the window for inspiration. A tree was losing its leaves. The tide was blowing in. The phone started ringing. It bleated and bleated, but I just sat there feeling the blood draining from my hand wondering what I should do. My heart was still pounding from the rat-slaying high. I pictured myself waging a battle against evil (rats) armed with the truth (the metal flashlight) in the name of virtue. I had no idea how to translate virtue to my life, but seeing Arthur there, feeling his warm hand—all of his warmth” projecting out to me, I felt that he was virtuous and somehow good. The phone stopped ringing. I thought of moving closer to him, resting against his chest, or some similar gesture that would have pushed the tension along, gear by gear, to who knows where, but I didn’t. I let the moment pass until the very gesture of holding hands seemed odd, as if our arms were a clothesline strung between two unfeeling trees.

  “What are you thinking?” Arthur finally asked.

  “I’m thinking about you,” I said. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that it’s been five days since I’ve bathed.” He raised his eyebrows apologetically. “It’s making me self-conscious.”

  “Then you should have a bath,” I said.

  The rain had started up again. I turned the tap off when the tub was full and steaming, and Arthur undressed. Water was coming through the ceiling and into the toilet in a constant trickle that made it seem as if the bathroom were subterranean, as if minerals were depositing themselves on the walls and curtain rod, creating slick, calcified sculptures. Arthur sank deep into the water and groaned happily. His face disappeared beneath the surface. He stayed submerged for a few seconds and I lit us cigarettes. I turned the light off so that our faces were only illuminated by their burning ends. I sat on the floor on the bathmat and leaned against the wall so we were side by side, divided only by the ceramic wall of the tub. I’d brought a bottle of wine in and I opened it and took a swig.

  “This,” said Arthur, “is heaven.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. I’m sure it is.” He sighed and leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  The wind beat against the walls. Outside, the shed door had worked loose and slammed and slammed in the wind. “Have some wine,” I said.

  Arthur slid up and took the bottle.

  “Join me,” he said.

  I stood up and undressed at a leisurely pace, then sank into the water at the opposite end of the tub.

  Arthur and I had sex that night, which didn’t really surprise me. I knew Boris would be mad if he found out, but he knew I needed to make friends and meeting women was next to impossible if you weren’t doing something normal (work, school) and meeting men was next to impossible if you weren’t destined to fuck. Why would a man speak to me if he wasn’t trying to have sex with me unless he was gay and liked my clothes? Of course, this may sound as if I’m trying to justify my actions. No. Not really. I never felt any guilt about Boris. In fact, when I sat around and thought of monogamy as a concept, the whole thing seemed bizarre.

  As a small child I had a game of repeating the same word over and over until it made no sense, until it became an unhinged sound and contemplating monogamy had much the same effect on me. I’d made peace with the fact that I had a hard time saying no to myself. If I desired it and it was in reach, I had it. And—strangely enough—the fact that Boris didn’t know that I was incapable of being faithful made me think he didn’t care to know me well, and this was a bit hurtful.

  9

  I remember that Friday for a number of reasons. First, it was the day that Intravenous was to play at Hole in the Wall with Arthur as drummer. Second, it was the day that my father found me.

  My father had been tracking me for months, ever since I had disappeared into the north of Italy sometime in March. His money transfer had sat in the bank in Florence untouched, which had caused him enough worry to send someone to look for me. My mother was not well and the daughter whom he’d fathered specifically to fulfill such needs as looking after her had disappeared. For once in his life, he was at a loss about how to best proceed. So as my mother slowly drifted into her own lonely world, I was being pursued across Europe. I knew this from my old lover Silvano, who had been contacted by the detective in Florence. The detective had knocked on Silvano’s door on a Monday morning and Silvano had sent him flying into the street with one swipe of his mighty Fascist paw.

  I can picture Silvano in his socks, underwear, and golden bath-robe—more reminiscent of the Medici than Montecatini, standing on the steps of his urban Oltrano villa bellowing the hair off the detective’s head. I could have told Silvano that anything to do with my father had nothing to do with love, but the dete
ctive was young and handsome, had come asking for me, and as far as Silvano was concerned (he hated the English since a bad experience in North Africa in 1940 and refused to learn their language) any young man asking for me was best communicated to with unmistakable physical violence.

  After Italy I had headed into Amsterdam, where I purchased a fake U.S. passport from a nineteen-year-old Canadian. I traveled as Sarah Lowenstein until my return to the United States in the early fall. And for a while, my trail had gone cold and the detective had returned to New York. When he finally tracked me down, I was living three blocks from his apartment. In all likelihood, we had been using the same subway stop.

  My father said he had a pressing need to get in touch with me. He also knew that my avoidance of him was intentional and so he decided that the matter was best handled by his lawyer and Boris, whose address was the one discovered by the detective.

  As far as I could tell, my father, who had power of attorney for my mother, had decided that it was time to liquidate some assets. Or maybe my mother had insisted that he give me my inheritance while she still could. At any rate, my father was sending me the deed for the Hidalgo Ranch, a property my mother had purchased in New Mexico when, in a brief and expensive fit of optimism, she had thought a Zuni shaman held the key to a miraculous recovery.

  Boris was so excited by the upcoming publication of The Little Vagrant that he had trouble mustering the required solemnity to deal with this delicate matter. I had never spoken of my family (he had never asked) so he remained crisp and businesslike, then added,