coming from the direction of the kitchen,
probably the red grapes I’d purchased months ago, sickly shriveled and stinking
like rotten wine. Throw in a few dried-up carrots and a plate of stale baked
potatoes and, yeah, that would definitely explain the scent bouquet.
“Who are you?” I ask again, pushing him away from the
doorway. Joshua follows me in and gently closes the door.
The man backs up a step. The room is cool and I can almost
feel the body heat radiating from his pores. “They told me you wouldn’t … be
back.”
“Who?” I ask. “What are you talking about? Tell me who you
fucking are!”
“I live here,” the man says.
I grab him with both hands by the collar of his shirt. “Then
why are all of my fucking books sitting on the bookshelf? Why is my couch
sitting in front of my TV? Why is my … why is my wristwatch sitting on the
goddamn end table!”
Just as I left it. I’m sure of it. This can’t be a trick.
“They said you wouldn’t be back,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I
never touched anything, not even the food. I just slept on the couch. It never
felt right, living here.”
“Then why were you?” I ask, clutching his shirt tighter.
“They gave it to me. This section of the city … it belongs to
the Muslims now. The Christians are all moved out.”
“I’m not a Christian!” I shout. I can’t control myself. I
pull the man closer to me. His head bounces on his neck like a rubber doll. His
forehead is glistening with sweat. “Did you turn me in? Did you turn me over to
the Coalition, you son of a bitch!”
“Please,” he says through shaky breaths. His liver-spotted
hand rests on mine. The fingers feel cold. “Please, no. This home belongs to
me. This is a Muslim neighborhood.”
“I don’t believe him,” Joshua says. “He’s lying.”
“I’m not a bad person,” the old man says. “I just needed a
place to stay and the men with guns offered this to me. It’s been so bad.”
“They paid you,” Joshua says over my shoulder. “Or they
promised you this place, knowing things would be so chaotic no one would even
notice you were here, maybe ever. You turned him in.”
“No,” the man says. “That’s not how things happened. I’m a
good person … I didn’t move in here until about a month ago …”
I grab his throat, alternately squeezing and pulling away,
squeezing and pulling away. His whiskery flesh feels flabby and loose between
my fingers. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I want to do. All I know is it
feels right to see the fear on his face when I start squeezing, to see the pain
in his eyes when I apply pressure with my thumb to his soft, spongy windpipe.
“Please,” he chokes out.
I let go. He falls to the floor, coughing.
Joshua walks over the wall on the other end of the living room,
running his fingers along it. He looks down at the heating vents, then walks
into the kitchen, opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, testing the light
switch. He walks slowly back into the living room, testing the floor with each
footfall.
He’s looking for the Catch, that’s what he’s doing. As if the
room is booby-trapped, like in the torture facility.
“I need to think,” I say, grabbing my car keys and wallet
from the table. I check my wallet and pull out two bills, probably the same
amount I had over a year ago.
“You see?” the old man says. “Nothing stolen. Nothing
changed.”
“Except my home,” I mutter. I run a hand across my bookshelf,
touching the copy of The Bell Jar . My
home … it doesn’t feel like my home for some reason. Maybe the old man is telling
the truth. I’ve been gone for so long. If my bank account ran out of money …
maybe someone bought it. Maybe the bank sold it. This might not be my home.
The thought frightens me.
“I had an accident,” the old man says. “I bled onto my shoes
and then I lost one. There was a firefight at the end of the street. That’s the
only reason I took your shoes. I
probably the red grapes I’d purchased months ago, sickly shriveled and stinking
like rotten wine. Throw in a few dried-up carrots and a plate of stale baked
potatoes and, yeah, that would definitely explain the scent bouquet.
“Who are you?” I ask again, pushing him away from the
doorway. Joshua follows me in and gently closes the door.
The man backs up a step. The room is cool and I can almost
feel the body heat radiating from his pores. “They told me you wouldn’t … be
back.”
“Who?” I ask. “What are you talking about? Tell me who you
fucking are!”
“I live here,” the man says.
I grab him with both hands by the collar of his shirt. “Then
why are all of my fucking books sitting on the bookshelf? Why is my couch
sitting in front of my TV? Why is my … why is my wristwatch sitting on the
goddamn end table!”
Just as I left it. I’m sure of it. This can’t be a trick.
“They said you wouldn’t be back,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I
never touched anything, not even the food. I just slept on the couch. It never
felt right, living here.”
“Then why were you?” I ask, clutching his shirt tighter.
“They gave it to me. This section of the city … it belongs to
the Muslims now. The Christians are all moved out.”
“I’m not a Christian!” I shout. I can’t control myself. I
pull the man closer to me. His head bounces on his neck like a rubber doll. His
forehead is glistening with sweat. “Did you turn me in? Did you turn me over to
the Coalition, you son of a bitch!”
“Please,” he says through shaky breaths. His liver-spotted
hand rests on mine. The fingers feel cold. “Please, no. This home belongs to
me. This is a Muslim neighborhood.”
“I don’t believe him,” Joshua says. “He’s lying.”
“I’m not a bad person,” the old man says. “I just needed a
place to stay and the men with guns offered this to me. It’s been so bad.”
“They paid you,” Joshua says over my shoulder. “Or they
promised you this place, knowing things would be so chaotic no one would even
notice you were here, maybe ever. You turned him in.”
“No,” the man says. “That’s not how things happened. I’m a
good person … I didn’t move in here until about a month ago …”
I grab his throat, alternately squeezing and pulling away,
squeezing and pulling away. His whiskery flesh feels flabby and loose between
my fingers. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I want to do. All I know is it
feels right to see the fear on his face when I start squeezing, to see the pain
in his eyes when I apply pressure with my thumb to his soft, spongy windpipe.
“Please,” he chokes out.
I let go. He falls to the floor, coughing.
Joshua walks over the wall on the other end of the living room,
running his fingers along it. He looks down at the heating vents, then walks
into the kitchen, opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, testing the light
switch. He walks slowly back into the living room, testing the floor with each
footfall.
He’s looking for the Catch, that’s what he’s doing. As if the
room is booby-trapped, like in the torture facility.
“I need to think,” I say, grabbing my car keys and wallet
from the table. I check my wallet and pull out two bills, probably the same
amount I had over a year ago.
“You see?” the old man says. “Nothing stolen. Nothing
changed.”
“Except my home,” I mutter. I run a hand across my bookshelf,
touching the copy of The Bell Jar . My
home … it doesn’t feel like my home for some reason. Maybe the old man is telling
the truth. I’ve been gone for so long. If my bank account ran out of money …
maybe someone bought it. Maybe the bank sold it. This might not be my home.
The thought frightens me.
“I had an accident,” the old man says. “I bled onto my shoes
and then I lost one. There was a firefight at the end of the street. That’s the
only reason I took your shoes. I
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