encountered my cat before, radiated a kind of fondness, a kind of palpable love, that in fact was something new to me. Some of the very early statues of the god Apollo reveal that sweet smile. Totally absorbed in petting Magnificat, the kid remained oblivious to me, to my nearby presence; I watched, fascinated, because for one thing Magnificat was a rough-and-tumble old tomcat who normally did not allow strangers to get near him.
All at once the kid glanced up. He smiled shyly and rose awkwardly to his feet. "Hi."
"Hi." I walked toward him, carefully, very slowly.
"I found this cat." The kid blinked, still smiling; he had guileless blue eyes, absent of any cunning.
"It's my cat," I said.
"What's her name?"
"It's a tomcat," I said, "and he's named Magnificat."
"He's very beautiful," the kid said.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I'm Kirsten's son. I'm Bill."
That explained the blue eyes and the blond hair. "I'm Angel Archer," I said.
"I know. We've met. But it was—" He hesitated. "I'm not sure how long ago. They gave me electroshock ... my memory isn't very good."
"Yes," I said. "I guess we did meet. I just came from the hospital visiting your mom."
"Can I use your bathroom?"
"Sure," I said. I got my keys from my purse and unlocked the front door. "Excuse the mess. I work; I'm not home enough to keep it neat. The bathroom is off the kitchen, in the back. Just keep on going."
Bill Lundborg did not close the bathroom door behind him; I could hear him urinating loudly. I filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner. Strange, I thought. This is the son she derides. As she derides us all.
Reappearing, Bill Lundborg stood self-consciously, smiling at me anxiously, quite obviously ill at ease. He had not flushed the toilet. I thought, then, very suddenly: He has just come out of the hospital, the mental hospital; I can tell.
"Would you like coffee?" I said.
"Sure."
Magnificat entered the kitchen.
"How old is she?" Bill asked.
"I have no idea how old he is. I rescued him from a dog. After he had grown, I mean, not as a kitten. He probably lived somewhere in the neighborhood."
"How is Kirsten?"
"Doing really well," I said. I pointed to a chair. "Sit down."
"Thanks." He seated himself; placing his arms on the kitchen table, he interlocked his fingers. His skin was so pale. Kept indoors, I thought. Caged up. "I like your cat."
"You can feed him," I said; I opened the refrigerator and got out the can of cat food.
As Bill fed Magnificat, I watched the two of them. The care he took in spooning out the food ... systematically, his attention deeply fixed, as if it were very important, what he had become involved in; he kept his gaze intent on Magnificat, and as he scrutinized the old cat he smiled again, that smile that so touched me, so made me start.
Batter me, oh God, I thought, remembering for some strange reason. Batter and kill me; they have injured this sweet kind baby until there is almost nothing left. Burned his circuits out as a pretense of healing him. The fucking sadists, I thought, in their sterile coats. What do they know about the human heart? I felt like crying.
And he will be back in, I thought, as Kirsten says. In and out of the hospital the rest of his life. The fucking sons of bitches.
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely' I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:
Divorce mee, untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for 1
Except you enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee.
My favorite poem of John Donne's; it came up into me, into my mind, as I watched
All at once the kid glanced up. He smiled shyly and rose awkwardly to his feet. "Hi."
"Hi." I walked toward him, carefully, very slowly.
"I found this cat." The kid blinked, still smiling; he had guileless blue eyes, absent of any cunning.
"It's my cat," I said.
"What's her name?"
"It's a tomcat," I said, "and he's named Magnificat."
"He's very beautiful," the kid said.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I'm Kirsten's son. I'm Bill."
That explained the blue eyes and the blond hair. "I'm Angel Archer," I said.
"I know. We've met. But it was—" He hesitated. "I'm not sure how long ago. They gave me electroshock ... my memory isn't very good."
"Yes," I said. "I guess we did meet. I just came from the hospital visiting your mom."
"Can I use your bathroom?"
"Sure," I said. I got my keys from my purse and unlocked the front door. "Excuse the mess. I work; I'm not home enough to keep it neat. The bathroom is off the kitchen, in the back. Just keep on going."
Bill Lundborg did not close the bathroom door behind him; I could hear him urinating loudly. I filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner. Strange, I thought. This is the son she derides. As she derides us all.
Reappearing, Bill Lundborg stood self-consciously, smiling at me anxiously, quite obviously ill at ease. He had not flushed the toilet. I thought, then, very suddenly: He has just come out of the hospital, the mental hospital; I can tell.
"Would you like coffee?" I said.
"Sure."
Magnificat entered the kitchen.
"How old is she?" Bill asked.
"I have no idea how old he is. I rescued him from a dog. After he had grown, I mean, not as a kitten. He probably lived somewhere in the neighborhood."
"How is Kirsten?"
"Doing really well," I said. I pointed to a chair. "Sit down."
"Thanks." He seated himself; placing his arms on the kitchen table, he interlocked his fingers. His skin was so pale. Kept indoors, I thought. Caged up. "I like your cat."
"You can feed him," I said; I opened the refrigerator and got out the can of cat food.
As Bill fed Magnificat, I watched the two of them. The care he took in spooning out the food ... systematically, his attention deeply fixed, as if it were very important, what he had become involved in; he kept his gaze intent on Magnificat, and as he scrutinized the old cat he smiled again, that smile that so touched me, so made me start.
Batter me, oh God, I thought, remembering for some strange reason. Batter and kill me; they have injured this sweet kind baby until there is almost nothing left. Burned his circuits out as a pretense of healing him. The fucking sadists, I thought, in their sterile coats. What do they know about the human heart? I felt like crying.
And he will be back in, I thought, as Kirsten says. In and out of the hospital the rest of his life. The fucking sons of bitches.
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely' I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:
Divorce mee, untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for 1
Except you enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee.
My favorite poem of John Donne's; it came up into me, into my mind, as I watched
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