startled, horrified expression still on his face. As we walked him toward the corner of the roof, his knees kept buckling and dragging, and by the time we got there both his shoes had fallen off. Neither one of us felt brave enough to get very close to the edge, and so we could never be sure if anyone was down in the street to see what happened. About a yard from the edge, not daring to go any further, we counted in unison to synchronize our efforts and then gave Ferdinand a hard shove, falling backward immediately so the momentum would not carry us over with him. His stomach hit the edge first, which made himbounce a little, and then he toppled off. I remember listening for the sound of the body landing on the pavement, but I never heard anything but my own pulse, the sound of my heart beating in my head. That was the last we ever saw of Ferdinand. Neither one of us went down to the street for the rest of the day, and when I went out the next morning to begin my rounds with the cart, Ferdinand was gone, along with everything he had been wearing.
I stayed with Isabel until the end. That includes the summer and the fall, and then a little bit beyond—to the edge of winter, just as the cold began to strike in earnest. In all those months we never talked about Ferdinand—not about his life, not about his death, not about anything. I found it hard to believe that Isabel had mustered the strength or the courage to kill him, but that was the only explanation that made sense to me. There were many times when I was tempted to ask her about that night, but I could never bring myself to do it. It was Isabel’s business somehow, and unless she wanted to talk about it, I did not feel I had the right to question her.
This much was certain: neither one of us was sorry that he was gone. A day or two after the ceremony on the roof, I gathered up all his possessions and sold them, right down to the model ships and a half-empty tube of glue, and Isabel did not say a word. It should have been a time of new possibilities for her, but things did not work out that way. Her health continued to deteriorate, and she was never really able to take advantage of life without Ferdinand. In fact, after that day on the roof, she never left the apartment again.
I knew that Isabel was dying, but I did not think it would happen so fast. It began with her not being able to walk anymore, and then, little by little, the weakness spread, until it was no longer just her legs that wouldn’t work, but everything, from her arms down into her spine, and finally even her throat and mouth. It was a kind of sclerosis, she told me, and there was no cure for it. Her grandmother had died of the same disease long ago, and Isabel referred to it simply as “the collapse,” or “the disintegration.” I could try to make her comfortable, but beyond that there was nothing to be done.
The worst part of it was that I still had to work. I still had to get myself up early in the morning and shove off through the streets, on the prowl for whatever I could find. My heart was no longer in it, and it became increasingly difficult for me to track down anything of value. I was always lagging behind myself, thoughts going in one direction, steps in another, unable to make a quick or sure move. Time and again I was beaten out by other object hunters. They seemed to swoop down from nowhere, snatching things away from me just as I was about to pick them up. This meant that I had to spend more and more time outside in order to fill my quota, all the while plagued by the thought that I should be at home taking care of Isabel. I kept imagining that something would happen to her while I was gone, that she would die without my being there, and this would be enough to throw me off completely, to make me forget the work I had to do. And believe me, this work had to be done. Otherwise, there would have been nothing for us to eat.
Toward the end, it became impossible for Isabel to move by
I stayed with Isabel until the end. That includes the summer and the fall, and then a little bit beyond—to the edge of winter, just as the cold began to strike in earnest. In all those months we never talked about Ferdinand—not about his life, not about his death, not about anything. I found it hard to believe that Isabel had mustered the strength or the courage to kill him, but that was the only explanation that made sense to me. There were many times when I was tempted to ask her about that night, but I could never bring myself to do it. It was Isabel’s business somehow, and unless she wanted to talk about it, I did not feel I had the right to question her.
This much was certain: neither one of us was sorry that he was gone. A day or two after the ceremony on the roof, I gathered up all his possessions and sold them, right down to the model ships and a half-empty tube of glue, and Isabel did not say a word. It should have been a time of new possibilities for her, but things did not work out that way. Her health continued to deteriorate, and she was never really able to take advantage of life without Ferdinand. In fact, after that day on the roof, she never left the apartment again.
I knew that Isabel was dying, but I did not think it would happen so fast. It began with her not being able to walk anymore, and then, little by little, the weakness spread, until it was no longer just her legs that wouldn’t work, but everything, from her arms down into her spine, and finally even her throat and mouth. It was a kind of sclerosis, she told me, and there was no cure for it. Her grandmother had died of the same disease long ago, and Isabel referred to it simply as “the collapse,” or “the disintegration.” I could try to make her comfortable, but beyond that there was nothing to be done.
The worst part of it was that I still had to work. I still had to get myself up early in the morning and shove off through the streets, on the prowl for whatever I could find. My heart was no longer in it, and it became increasingly difficult for me to track down anything of value. I was always lagging behind myself, thoughts going in one direction, steps in another, unable to make a quick or sure move. Time and again I was beaten out by other object hunters. They seemed to swoop down from nowhere, snatching things away from me just as I was about to pick them up. This meant that I had to spend more and more time outside in order to fill my quota, all the while plagued by the thought that I should be at home taking care of Isabel. I kept imagining that something would happen to her while I was gone, that she would die without my being there, and this would be enough to throw me off completely, to make me forget the work I had to do. And believe me, this work had to be done. Otherwise, there would have been nothing for us to eat.
Toward the end, it became impossible for Isabel to move by
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