She didn’t know. She didn’t care. He was an evil, cracked-faced hyena, a jackal, living in rundown filth, stealing from the one person who’d shown him any kindness, fornicating with men. My God, Hammond.
Muddy boots. The cold handle of a tin pail half-filled with scraps for the dogs. A feeling that her legs were too heavy to move. Hammond, pinched and spiteful and red-faced.
The thought that he wouldn’t feed the dogs stirred her from under her blankets at last. She slid one heavy leg and then the other over the edge of the bed. Even the little rug that was supposed to protect her from the shock of cold floor was cold and it slid under her as she stood up. She felt nauseous and sat down again, pressing her fingers to her eyes and rubbing her upper lip, a habit she had formed to cover her perpetual illness when in public. She liked to feel the hair of her moustache. It reminded her that she was making progress, that all the sickness would be worth it.
In a moment she was able to stand and make her way to the bureau, on which she always kept a wash basin. It was old-fashioned of her, but often in the night she needed to rinse her face without going downstairs to the water closet. She soaked her head in the cold water and pressed her hair back from her face and looked in the mirror. She tried not to look at herself too often, aside from checking in store windows as she passed to see if she was walking correctly or how a new suit looked. She didn’t like to look at her face intently; it had, she thought, gone to mush at some point, folding softly in from forehead toward her chin, cut only by a thin nose like her father’s and the moustache. Her hair was graying.
She leaned on the bureau panting for a while before taking the previous day’s gray wool trousers from a chair in the corner and pulling them on. She wrapped her bandage carefully and tightly around her breasts, a fat drop of sweat rolling from under her breasts, over her belly. She needed to clean the bandage. She put on a fairly clean white shirt and a sagging black sweater, like a sailor’s, with a high neck that scratched under her chin. She sat on the edge of her bed, nauseous, thinking she needed new boots as she pressed a bit of rubber lining back into place between sole and upper.
She descended the stairs slowly, smelling coffee and bacon. So Hammond was up, after all, getting himself breakfast; as she entered the kitchen he was adding a log to the stove, a dirty white shirt without a collar hanging untucked, his brown trouser legs stuffed into his boots. The room was spare: worn-smooth wood floor, table, chairs. On the left was the black squatting stove, and on the right the faucet and the deep sink. The door to the backyard was open.
She sat down, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Good morning,” she said, weakly.
“Good morning, Miss South,” he answered, not looking at her, gently shaking the skillet.
She frowned at him. She felt so tired. “Would you get me some coffee, please.”
He took a mug from the drying rack next to the sink and banged it down on the table. “Get it your damn self, please,” he said.
“How dare you,” she said, but it was as if the air behind the words ran out halfway through.
She heard the skillet bang against the stove. The mug was taken away and returned full of coffee. It took all the energy she had to put her lips to it. The room seemed utterly pale and watery, only the black stove and skinny Hammond stood out. Her arms felt heavy and hung to her lap, motionless; sweat like ants ran down her sides.
“I don’t suppose you’ve fed the dogs,” she said.
Hammond grunted and put two plates on the table and sat down to eat. She pulled herself up straight and held a fork and slid her plate toward her but the sight of the glistening soft yolks stopped her from eating. The smell of the fried meat was sickening.
Hammond ate furiously, grinding his fork into his plate, fingering greasy strips of bacon to his millwheel mouth, pouring coffee in on top of it all and wiping his chin clean of dribbling remnants with a black and white checked dishtowel.
“This is disgusting,” she said, standing up as forcefully as she could. But her legs shook and she had to steady herself against the table.
“You didn’t even taste it,” he said, bits of egg in the corners of his mouth.
“Look at the eggs! Look at them!” she cried, panting. “You know I hate them undercooked.” Her right arm, extended toward her plate, gestured as if throwing something. She turned her head.
“Crying over your eggs,” he said, chewing, grinding, sipping.
“You parasite,” she said, but she couldn’t look at him.
“Go to your pipe,” he said, quietly. “Go on.”
She breathed deeply but the smell of the bacon did her no good.
“Go to your pipe,” he said again, still hunched over his breakfast, his eyes wide with hate.
“You’ll pay for this,” she told him. “I want you out of here immediately.”
“And who’ll take care of the dogs? You?” he said, taking a strip of bacon between his fingers and running it through egg yolk.
She staggered to the back door and vomited. She straightened but was immediately bent double again, a cramp like the twisting of a wet towel around and around itself taking hold of her stomach. She vomited again.
“For God’s sake, help me,” she said.
She felt Hammond’s hands on her shoulders, pulling her up.
“Water,” she said, letting the hands support her; suddenly they were gone and she was pushed to the floor. Her shoulder struck the wall and the black and white dishtowel landed on her head.
“Wipe your goddamn mouth,” Hammond said.
The towel was soggy and smelled sour, as if it hadn’t been dry in a long time. She pulled it off and threw it weakly at Hammond. It landed at his feet. She managed to sit up against the wall.
“You filthy invert,” she said, panting.
“Get your lawyer,” he said. “Get your goddamned lawyer to help you now.”
His eyes flashed and she saw his leg coming toward her. She sagged out of the way and his boot hit the wall, chipping paint, denting wood. He took the skillet from the stove and threw it toward her but not at her, scattering grease and bits of egg and meat. It clattered to the floor.
“Hammond,” she said, weakly, but his boots shook the floor and he was gone. “You’ll clean this mess up, by God,” she called after him. She crawled to the back door and vomited again.
She couldn’t tell how long she lay there on her side, half in and half out of the kitchen. There was one gray stone step and, her jaw slack, she tasted it. The ground beyond it was mud. Eventually the cramps subsided and she stood up, brushing mechanically at her clothes with sweaty palms. As she walked by the table the plate of eggs startled her like swollen eyes. She clenched her teeth.
Upstairs she put on another sweater and sank into a soft armchair. With a long wooden match she fired her pipe and soon the nausea went and the sweat dried on her brow and belly and under her arms. Hello, orange and brown, she thought. Hello spinning and up and long, slow falling. Forgive Oh Lord Your humble watery egg-faced servant; here the sun rises and sets and the planets prowl watchful circles Oh Lord all glory to the watchers, to You in the form of Your creation, man, who stands on a dark circling planet surrounded by instruments and machines, measuring out the length and breadth of You and Your passing, the tiles of Your years stacked holding us up to You in quiet infinite blue. Big Dipper, Little Dipper. Watchful watchful. Your image. A dark planet. Praise be to he who measures, who glorifies You in the search and himself in the telling. Long-lived limber-limbed shank bones roasting like cracked nuts; tiny dots of light buzzing in orange-hot circles spitting off blue sparks; life. Life. Organs at work, blood circular and blue. Forgive Your sinner. Hello orange, hello blue, hello gentle.
She walked on stiffstraight legs to the window. The babies had to be fed and run and Hammond would have to clean up the kitchen. But the morning was clotted with gray and it was raining again. Was she seeing the same day or another just like it? She took the stairs quickly as if to prove to her legs
and stomach that they must not and therefore would not hamper her. In the kitchen the two plates were still on the table, the skillet still on the floor. The sight of the old breakfast, cold and hardened, turned her stomach again. She made it to the front door. Pulling on a barn coat and canvas hat she left the house and crossed the mud. She could feel her legs striding, mud sucking at her boots, even as, at eye level, she seemed to be floating. Each step was tiring. As she crested the incline she saw the kennel, which seemed very far away. The rain spattered against her hat with a hollow sound like tiny fists knocking on soft wood. The thick smell of wet wool gagged her.
“Hammond!” she called as she approached the kennel.
He emerged from the low doorway, pushing his wet black hair from his eyes. His face, red and flat, twisted into a grimace. A tin pail was lying on the ground next to the door.
“You will go inside now and clean that kitchen,” she said.
He blinked.
“Did you hear me?” she said, drawing close to him. “I will feed the dogs and run them. You’re not competent to handle them. Now get inside.”
He stood still, water streaming down his cheeks. “What’re you doing with that lawyer?” he asked.
“That is not your business. You are nothing. Nothing. Don’t you dare forget it.” She was nearly screaming, pointing at him, her finger almost touching his nose. “Now go clean the kitchen.” She started to walk past him.
He nodded, looking at her steadily.
Why on earth didn’t he have a hat on, she wondered.
He ducked around the building and re-emerged, rushing toward her. He bumped her with his chest and she staggered backwards.
“Hammond!” she shouted, trying to sound forceful. “What—”
His arm rose up and began a violent decent.
My God, she thought. She cried out “Hammond!” again but a terrible blow struck her head and her legs gave and she sank into the mud. The tin pail was close to her, she was staring at it, close, she could almost touch it. Her vision shook and she felt sick. She felt another blow, this one on her temple. Soggy spinning earth pricked with light. Soggy flattened breasts pressed achingly against her ribs with the sheet: oh to tear it off. To shred and tear. Oh Lord help Your poor sinner. Yea though I walk. She wondered how badly she was hurt, how long she’d be in the hospital; she needed her pipe. Gyrating bubbles of blue sparks hanging off red atoms. She could see the toe of her right boot, the strip of rubber was hanging off of it, sticking out of caked mud like a broken finger.
Her eyes closed. Then darkness, and hovering. Then light, bright and far away, coming closer and receding, closer and receding.
Chapter Nineteen
Alice and Ed
Alice smoothed an uneven spot of makeup on her cheek and turned to the side. She’d bought a new sweater and bra—maybe she didn’t have as much as some women up top, but it looked good now. She had curled her hair a little and was wearing it loose around her shoulders, even letting it fall over her eyes. Her skirt reached just below her knees; she checked her thighs in the mirror. That part of her wasn’t ever the problem—maybe not the greatest, but nice.
It was 7:25.
She transferred the things she needed from her pocketbook into a smaller, black leather handbag and hurried downstairs, almost tripping once; she hadn’t worn heels in a long time.
The kids were prone on the living room floor, Eddie playing a video game and Jenny talking to the skinny babysitter about her day in school.
“All right,” Alice said, standing in the middle of the floor.
“Where you goin’, Ma?” Eddie asked.
“Just to dinner with Dad,” she said, trying to think if there was anything else she needed to do before she left. She wondered if she would get to talk to Sam the next day and felt guilty for wondering it. Tonight she was going to talk to her husband, she was going to try even harder to talk to him.
“I wrote down all the numbers,” she said to the babysitter. “They’re on the pad in the kitchen. And you remember their bedtimes, right?”
“Yeah,” the babysitter said.
“No bedtimes! No bedtimes!” Eddie yelled, his eyes on the television.
“No bedtimes!” Jenny yelled.
“Enough,” Alice said, raising her voice. “I expect you all to be good and to listen to Karen, ok?”
The kids didn’t answer.
Alice felt herself getting angry and was surprised at how rapidly it came on. She couldn’t start this evening with Ed frustrated, that would make communication with him impossible. She counted to ten.
“I need a ‘Yes, Mom,’” she said.
“But Ma, I’m too old for a bedtime,” Eddie said.
“We can talk about that another time,” Alice said, straining. “Right now I need you to be good and listen to Karen, ok?”
“But Ma—”
“One more word, Eddie, and I’ll take the game away. I mean it.”
Alice hurried into the kitchen to check the clock. It was 7:35. So Ed was late, that was ok. She had hoped he’d be home in time to shower and change, but that didn’t matter so much. He’d look fine. She sat at the kitchen table, listening to the explosions and crashes of the video game. She needed to find something to do; obviously, if she sat there checking the clock every two minutes she would feel stressed. It was 7:40. The kids’ dinner dishes were done. She needed to clean out the fridge, but that probably wasn’t the best pre-dinner activity. She looked at her chapped hands and rubbed in some cream. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes. Calm, Alice, breathe slowly. She opened her eyes. It was almost ten to eight. Why hadn’t he at least called? Ok, something to do. She hadn’t picked a new book for book club yet, she could do that. She passed through the living room.
“I’ll be downstairs for a sec,” she said. “Their dad should be home any minute, just tell him I’m down here.”
The babysitter nodded.
“Eddie, why don’t you turn off the game and put in a video so everyone can watch,” Alice said.
“But Ma, I’m in the middle—”
“When you finish the game,” she interrupted him. “Please.”
Not waiting to hear if he’d argue anymore she started cautiously down the cellar steps. She turned on the computer and when it finished beeping and humming she typed in Ed’s password and then the web address for the television show. There were several books suggested. Alice tried not to look at the pictures of the covers too much, it was better to read what other people thought, and not the descriptions on the books themselves, which always read as if the book was the be-all and end-all of books forever.
She could pick a memoir this time, there was one of a poor Irish childhood and one of a normal suburban childhood. But she was hoping for a novel, and maybe a light one that wouldn’t leave Mr. Childs and Gretchen arguing over narrative voice again. She could pick a thriller, a mystery of some kind, maybe an old Agatha Christie. She had read a bunch of those in high school. But maybe that wouldn’t offer enough for people to talk about, enough themes. She could call Sam and ask what he thought. It occurred to her that she was taking up the only phone line by being on the computer, so if Ed was trying to call he’d get the voicemail. Well, at this point he should be hurrying home, not worrying about calling. Besides, she’d be right off.
She could email Sam the titles, she had his email address somewhere. He couldn’t write back to her husband’s account, though. But why not? It was just an email about book club. Never mind. She picked one of the new best sellers and emailed the title to Viv with a note about dividing up the calls to everyone.
The white box appeared in the corner.
Is it you, Ed? Kimoh asked.
Alice blinked. No, it’s his wife, she typed but she didn’t click “send.” She erased what she’d written and wrote Hi. Send.
Oh, good. Ever since I talked to your wife that time I get nervous.
Alice didn’t respond.
So you got back all right, Kimoh
wrote.
Yes.
Is everything ok?
Yes, fine. I’m tired.
Alice slumped in her chair.
Did you check your email? I sent you some.
Hang on, Alice wrote. She clicked on the email picture and saw several from Kimoh. She clicked on the most recent one.
You’re going to read it now? Kimoh asked.
Alice shut her eyes. There was something, some way of explaining this, and reading Ed’s email wouldn’t help. No good could possibly come from turning into a snooping, hysterical wife. Don’t do it, Alice, she thought. Just talk to Ed. She looked at the clock in the corner of the computer screen. Ten past.
Ed? Kimoh asked. Are you there?
Alice opened the email.
“Eddie,” it read. “I just want you to know how much fun I had today. You stud! :) I feel so close to you now. Talk to you soon! Kim.”
How long have you known my husband, she typed. Did you meet on here?
She waited a few seconds and then typed, Answer me. And then, Please answer me. When she sent the last message the machine told her Kimoh was gone.
Alice stared at the screen, waiting to cry. Maybe nothing really had happened yet, maybe this was just a friend of Ed’s or maybe it was only a computer thing. But Ed had told her Kimoh was a colleague from work, so it wasn’t just on the computer. Alice paced. Ed would do this? After eleven years—and with two kids—Ed would do this? She stamped her feet and clenched her fists. Oh, please, Ed, tell me you didn’t. Please.
“Oh God,” she said out loud. Calm down, Alice, she thought. You and Sam had lunch, and you called him afterwards, too. Maybe that’s all this Kimoh person is, too. Nothing wrong with that, even if Kimoh was flirting way more than she and Sam ever did. If Ed was sleeping with someone else she was no better, she was wanting to, having deep conversations with Sam and concealing it from Ed. It wasn’t the same—Sam. Not at all, she didn’t want to sleep with him, right, he was a friend. If Ed—if he was actually—what would she do? Eleven years and he wouldn’t even tell her to her face. Bastard.
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 19
