17. I
should’ve left the party. . . .
I should’ve left the party after I
got sick. Instead, I threw away my shirt, washed my face, smoked hash with
Krupp and Kerrigan until I felt better, and started drinking again, gin this
time so my stomach wouldn’t fill up. After that, things got blurry. I
remembered following Selva Andersen from room to room, screaming, calling her a
stuck-up bitch. Also I had taken a swing at someone; maybe it was Kemp. Now it
was all in the past, consigned to that revolving wire cage of regret-slips from
which the mind reaches in to draw a winner from time to time. My problem in
present tense was to sit up. If only I could manage it without opening my eyes.
Gently. Gently.
My feet encountered resistance in
the bed. “Don’t,” a voice said. This was completely unexpected; I was not
alone. I was going to have to open at least one eye after all. My right eye
usually saw things most reliably, so I opened the left.
It was a largeish person with
chestnut-colored hair, or hair that would be chestnut-colored once it was
rinsed. No one I knew. Wait, the party— The Halliday woman? Good God, was I in
bed with some kind of minister? I opened the other eye and pain swept in,
blindsiding me like a Nebraska defensive end smearing a Kansas quarterback. I
must’ve moaned, because the person who was with me covered her head. “Shut up,
you,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said, “sorry.” I edged
toward the floor; I needed the bathroom.
“Stop shaking the bed,” she said,
“or I’ll pound the crap out of you.”
I made my move abruptly, getting it
over with; from the groan she made, I didn’t think I was in much danger. We
were at my place. The bathroom was dark except for a little wintry light that
entered through a window above the shower. A circular object floated in the
bowl; I fished it out. A diaphragm. I placed it on the edge of the sink, and
did what I had come to do.
Later, as I was boiling coffee, she
sat up. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, piss. Look at you.”
“I can’t,” I said wistfully. “It
would hurt too much.”
“Sociopaths,” she said. “Why is it
always sociopaths?” She swung her feet to the floor, wincing and holding the
blanket to her chest. “Find my clothes,” she said.
“Have you looked?” I asked. “You
might be wearing some of them.”
“Shut up,” she said. “You have to
help me, I don’t feel good.”
I did my best. Her skirt was under
the bed; it cost me something to kneel down for it, I can tell you. I located
her sweater at the end of the sofa, along with my pants, and a soft knit
turtleneck pullover that was tangled up in it. No sign of bra or underpants. I
handed her the marijuana-reeking clothes and she went into the bathroom with
them, still clutching the blanket. A howl arose and she emerged abruptly,
blanket forgotten. “What is this?” she shrilled. “Just what in the hell do you
think this is?” She held up her diaphragm, shaking it in my face.
“It was, uh, floating,” I told her.
“I put it on the sink.”
She was a handsome woman in her
wrath and sickness, and some numb and distant part of my anatomy may have
responded. “Oh, you bastard,” she cried. “Put something on yourself! Why should
I have to look at you?” She returned to her toilette, while I searched in vain
for the shirt I’d worn the day before. Then I remembered I’d left it at the
party. I picked out one from the laundry pile, and got myself a pair of jeans
as well.
Blue-eyed Mattie Halliday was being
very ill in there. I burned two pieces of toast in the oven and made her some
weak tea to go with them. When I opened the door to check on her, I found her
kneeling on the tiles; she’d closed the lid over the toilet bowl, and was
resting her face against it, weeping.
“Come on,” I said. “Up. You need a
shower.”
“Get out,” she said. “I’ll punch
you.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “Here. Sit
on the lid, and I’ll help you brush your hair.”
She struggled to comply, sitting
crosswise on the toilet with her back to me, covering her breasts. I found a
brush and, gently as I could, began scratching out the tangles a little at a
time. She continued weeping. “You have pretty hair,” I told her. “Too bad
there’s all these gunders in it.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she
said. “In fact, I would prefer that you not speak to me. There’s a terrible
echo in here.”
I continued my careful brushing. As
I began making longer strokes, at last pulling the brush through the full
length of her richly colored, slightly coarse hair, some terrible grief was
released in her; she shuddered and shook and sobbed as if her heart would
break. Finally, without a word, she rose, stepped inside the bathtub, and stood
there with her face raised, waiting for rain. I ran water through the spigot
until it warmed. “Shampoo and soap are just behind you,” I told her; I flipped
the lever and pulled the curtain. She winced audibly when the spray hit. I
cleaned the hairbrush and stepped out the door.
When Mattie emerged from the
bathroom, she looked pale but composed; she’d put on the pullover and the skirt
and wrapped her head in a towel. “Have you found my shoes,” she asked, “and do
you have any aspirin?”
“Look above the kitchen sink,” I
replied. “I have aspirin, codeine, Darvon, and APC’s. I
took a couple of the Darvons, myself. What kind of shoes am I looking for?”
“Flats,” she said. “The Cordovan
ones, I think.” I found one shoe under the sofa, along with a pair of
silver-colored tights. The other shoe was sticking out of my typewriter.
Mattie Halliday frowned at my
medicine bottles as she chewed the blackened toast. “These are from the VA
pharmacy, I see. Except for the APC’s,
which you stole.” She glanced at me. “I’m an Army brat. My father’s a colonel;
he’s stationed in Germany right now. I also have a brother in the Air Force
Academy.”
“A zoomie,” I said.
“Congratulations. Those prescriptions are legit.”
“If you say so,” she said. “I’m a
licensed psychiatric counselor, in case you ever feel tne need to talk about
it.”
“Do I look like I need counseling?”
“No.” She smiled bitterly. “Do I?
What did I tell you last night? All my secrets, I suppose.”
“I have no recollection of anything
after the party,” I said. “Do you remember me trying to slug somebody, by the
way?”
“That was Ted Kemp,” she said. “He
used to be my lover. And will again.”
“Did he knock me out, or something?
Do you think I might have gotten a concussion?”
“If you’ve got a headache, it’s
self-inflicted,” she said. “No, you just sort of fell into the rubber plant.
That’s when I picked you up. I thought you had a nice level swing. I was sorry
you missed.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Of course,” she said. “There’s no
getting over Ted.”
“Kind of a weenie if you ask me,” I
said.
“That’s part of his charm.” She
scowled. “This tea is terrible. Could I please have some coffee?”
I poured her a cup and refilled my
own. “I recently started seeing someone myself,” I said. “I don’t know if I’d
call it love. She’s not from the University.”
“Bully for you,” Mattie Halliday
said. “I didn’t say I was seeing him. Do you have plans? I should be getting
out of here.”
I glanced at the stove clock: five
till ten. “I thought I might drive up north and see my father,” I said. “Don’t
rush. He doesn’t get home until after six. I’ve got all afternoon to get
there.”
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