first time, the note was like something washed up in a bottle: indecipherable and strange.
Must leave. Try to understand.
What did
that
mean? It didn’t even look like Benjamin’s writing.
He had talked about going away. True. But
this
—
It was too weird.
She washed the dishes. George had given her the evening off. She watched
Entertainment Tonight,
followed by a game show and a detective show. The images slid on past, video Valium. One day, she thought, we’ll get cable. Then maybe there’ll be something good to watch.
But the “we” made an odd hollow sound in her head.
She went to bed alone. Deep, brooding, dreamless sleep, and then she woke up—still alone. Well, that happened sometimes.
You couldn’t predict with Benjamin. Obviously, he had problems. It was not as if he could entirely control… what he was.
She forced herself to make the trek to the bathroom, cold these mornings. She looked at herself in the minor, naked and shivering, and she didn’t like what she saw. Small breasts, pinpoint nipples, a mouse-brown thatch of pubic hair. A ratty little body, Amelie thought. Someone, probably Sister Madelaine from the école, had called her that. “Amelie, you are a ratty thing.”
Ratty little me, Amelie thought.
She went to work without thinking about Benjamin.
It was an ordinary day at work, and that was good. She thought maybe she was projecting some kind of aura, because nobody bothered her much. Even her customers were polite—even George was polite. At the door, as she was leaving, he put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Are you okay?”
“Just a little down,” Amelie said… regretting it instantly; because, in a strange way, saying so seemed to make it true.
“Some woman thing,” George diagnosed.
Yeah, she thought, I’m getting my period. George could be such a moron sometimes. But he meant well. “Something like that.”
“So cheer up,” he said.
Thank you a whole lot for that terrific advice, Amelie thought.
She walked home in the cold dark. When she reached the apartment, the note was still attached to the cupboard.
She looked at it harder this time. Forced her eyes to track it. Blue Bic hieroglyphics. Really, what language
was
this?
And at the back of her head, where impossible thoughts were nevertheless sometimes pronounced, she heard:
I am alone now.
Oh, no.
Screw
that
He’d be home. He would! It was only a matter of time.
She poked through the dresser drawers looking for something to smoke, something that would soothe her to sleep. This turned out to be a bad move, because she discovered that Benjamin’s clothes had been pretty much cleared out. The vacant space was a signal to her, more comprehensible than the note and more final. This sad empty drawer. She slammed it shut. As it turned out, there was a joint hidden at the bottom of her purse—something she’d bought from Tony Morriseau a while back.
It got her stoned enough to enjoy a William Powell
Thin Man
movie coming fuzzily over the border from a network affiliate in Buffalo… but not so stoned that she didn’t leap up from the sofa when the telephone rang. Benjamin, she thought, because it was late now and he must be thinking about her and who the hell else would be calling her at this hour?
Her hand trembled on the receiver. “Hello?”
But it wasn’t Benjamin. It was Roch.
She couldn’t understand him at first. He was speaking thick, muddled, obscene French. He’s drunk, she thought. She said, in English, “What do you want?”
There was a long pause. “I need a place to stay.”
“Oh, no… hey, come on, Roch, you know that’s not a good idea.”
“Oh,
it isn’t? Isn’t
it?”
Amelie wished she hadn’t smoked. She felt suddenly feverish and sweaty. She felt her brother’s attention focused on her like a heat-ray through the telephone.
“They fucking kicked me out of my apartment, Amelie. Nonpayment. Bitch landlady calls me a deadbeat. You know? This…
toad,
with a
Must leave. Try to understand.
What did
that
mean? It didn’t even look like Benjamin’s writing.
He had talked about going away. True. But
this
—
It was too weird.
She washed the dishes. George had given her the evening off. She watched
Entertainment Tonight,
followed by a game show and a detective show. The images slid on past, video Valium. One day, she thought, we’ll get cable. Then maybe there’ll be something good to watch.
But the “we” made an odd hollow sound in her head.
She went to bed alone. Deep, brooding, dreamless sleep, and then she woke up—still alone. Well, that happened sometimes.
You couldn’t predict with Benjamin. Obviously, he had problems. It was not as if he could entirely control… what he was.
She forced herself to make the trek to the bathroom, cold these mornings. She looked at herself in the minor, naked and shivering, and she didn’t like what she saw. Small breasts, pinpoint nipples, a mouse-brown thatch of pubic hair. A ratty little body, Amelie thought. Someone, probably Sister Madelaine from the école, had called her that. “Amelie, you are a ratty thing.”
Ratty little me, Amelie thought.
She went to work without thinking about Benjamin.
It was an ordinary day at work, and that was good. She thought maybe she was projecting some kind of aura, because nobody bothered her much. Even her customers were polite—even George was polite. At the door, as she was leaving, he put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Are you okay?”
“Just a little down,” Amelie said… regretting it instantly; because, in a strange way, saying so seemed to make it true.
“Some woman thing,” George diagnosed.
Yeah, she thought, I’m getting my period. George could be such a moron sometimes. But he meant well. “Something like that.”
“So cheer up,” he said.
Thank you a whole lot for that terrific advice, Amelie thought.
She walked home in the cold dark. When she reached the apartment, the note was still attached to the cupboard.
She looked at it harder this time. Forced her eyes to track it. Blue Bic hieroglyphics. Really, what language
was
this?
And at the back of her head, where impossible thoughts were nevertheless sometimes pronounced, she heard:
I am alone now.
Oh, no.
Screw
that
He’d be home. He would! It was only a matter of time.
She poked through the dresser drawers looking for something to smoke, something that would soothe her to sleep. This turned out to be a bad move, because she discovered that Benjamin’s clothes had been pretty much cleared out. The vacant space was a signal to her, more comprehensible than the note and more final. This sad empty drawer. She slammed it shut. As it turned out, there was a joint hidden at the bottom of her purse—something she’d bought from Tony Morriseau a while back.
It got her stoned enough to enjoy a William Powell
Thin Man
movie coming fuzzily over the border from a network affiliate in Buffalo… but not so stoned that she didn’t leap up from the sofa when the telephone rang. Benjamin, she thought, because it was late now and he must be thinking about her and who the hell else would be calling her at this hour?
Her hand trembled on the receiver. “Hello?”
But it wasn’t Benjamin. It was Roch.
She couldn’t understand him at first. He was speaking thick, muddled, obscene French. He’s drunk, she thought. She said, in English, “What do you want?”
There was a long pause. “I need a place to stay.”
“Oh, no… hey, come on, Roch, you know that’s not a good idea.”
“Oh,
it isn’t? Isn’t
it?”
Amelie wished she hadn’t smoked. She felt suddenly feverish and sweaty. She felt her brother’s attention focused on her like a heat-ray through the telephone.
“They fucking kicked me out of my apartment, Amelie. Nonpayment. Bitch landlady calls me a deadbeat. You know? This…
toad,
with a
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