Ten Little Indians by Sherman Alexie Page A

or lonely or whatever, I drink a glass of water, and I usually feel better.”
    What the hell was he talking about? What kind of fool was he? He walked into the kitchen to get the water. He was happy to step away from her. He wondered if his charity was not really charity at all. Perhaps he’d helped her, a smallish act of human goodness, as a way of dealing with a larger fear. What if this one explosion was only the first? How many more terrorists were walking the streets of Seattle? How many more suicide bombers were building bombs? There was no way of knowing. That information would be forever unknowable. He would sooner know if God were real.
    While he was gone, she stood and looked around the apartment. What a strange time for a self-guided tour! The front room was large, with exposed brick walls. Tasteful and anonymous two-sided prints hung suspended from the ceiling. Forming a sort of art curtain, they cut the room in half. Odd and beautiful, she thought. The bedroom was large enough for only an unmade bed and an end table stacked high with books. The bathroom was small as well, with a clean white sink, a toilet, and a shower. She’d never be able to live without a tub. But there were no guitars, no musical instruments of any kind. So maybe this chubby guy wasn’t a bass player. She walked into the small kitchen where he stood quietly and stared out the window.
    “What’s going on?” she asked.
    “I can see the smoke,” he said.
    She heard the sirens and the helicopters and the other human and machine noise. If anything, it was louder than it had been before. Nobody would sleep tonight.
    “Here’s your water,” he said and handed her a full glass.
    She drank it all in one swallow.
    “You drink water like a man,” he said.
    “What does that mean?” she asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said and laughed. She laughed with him. They were flirting. How could they flirt at a time like this? She’s beautiful, he thought, and then he was ashamed of himself for noticing.
    “I’m married,” she said.
    “Do you want to call him?” he asked, relieved that she’d established her barriers.
    “No,” she said. “I hate him.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I have children, too,” she said. “Two sons.”
    Oh, man, he thought, maybe she was covered with her children’s blood.
    “They weren’t in the restaurant with you, were they?” he asked.
    “No, they’re in school. And I told you, I wasn’t in the restaurant when it happened.”
    “You’re lying. I don’t know why you’re lying. But you are lying.”
    “If you think I’m a liar, then why did you bring me home?”
    “I don’t know. I thought you needed help.”
    “You thought you might help by getting me in bed, right?”
    “No.”
    “Now who’s lying?” she asked and walked back into the living room.
    He followed her. “Listen,” he said. “I think you might have hit your head or something. You’re not talking right. I think you need to see a doctor.”
    “Maybe I talked like this before the bomb,” she said. “Maybe I’ve always talked like this.”
    “But what about your husband and kids? Won’t they be worried about you?”
    “I told you, I hate my husband.”
    “But you can’t hate him.”
    “A wife can’t hate her husband? You can’t be that naive, can you?”
    “No, I was married.”
    She laughed. “You’re funny,” she said.
    “I’m not trying to be funny,” he said.
    “Funny people don’t have to try.”
    “Listen, forget all that. What about your kids?”
    “They hate me more than I hate them.”
    “I don’t believe that.”
    “You don’t think a mother can hate her kids?”
    “No, it’s not that. Mothers aren’t supposed to hate their kids.”
    “What kind of jerk are you?”
    She threw her empty glass against the brick wall, and this second explosion was stronger for him than the first one. He was afraid of this woman and her possibilities.
    “I don’t want you to be here anymore,” he