behind such rituals but the form. In a curious mix of sacredness and absurdity, these things suggested—perhaps insisted—that the dead do not entirely leave us. Was it really only wishful thinking? Or was there old knowledge in our bones, a stubborn holding on to things ancient and true that, though they did not mold themselves to our current way of thinking, were nonetheless valid?
I resettled myself under the covers. Probably better not to think about such things now. In the morning I would make gingerbread, and on my most beautiful dish, I would set one piece aside. My little boat, anchored. Anchoring me.
I waited until Friday to try Lorraine again. Then, at half past seven in the morning, before I got out of bed, before I was fully awake, I dialed the number. No answer. I was becoming obsessed. But who cared? Who would know? It came to me how necessary the near presence of others was in keeping me civilized and sane; I could see how quickly I might become a woman gnawing a chicken leg over the kitchen sink for her dinner, a woman wandering around the rooms of her overly large house, talking aloud to no one. After my father died, I’d called my mother one night to see how she was doing. I’d asked what she’d had for dinner, and she’d said cereal. Straight out of the box. “Mom,” I’d said. And she’d said, “I know,” in a voice so thin and apologetic it broke my heart.
I hung up the phone, lay back, and pressed my fingers against my temples—I had a bad headache, probably from a poor night’s sleep. I’d awakened many times, suddenly very much frightened at being alone in this new place. The darkness had seemed alive, slithering about me like snakes, and turning on a light hadn’t helped much—it seemed as though that only irritated the blackness, pushing it into corners, where it waited with ratcheted-up intentions.
It had never happened in this way before, that I had felt so afraid at night. When John had gone on business trips, I’d sometimes gotten a little frightened. But that was a woman feeling a little nervous because she was used to someone being around—a woman who listens overly hard to a normal rattling in the pipes; a woman who puts her head under the pillow to hide from lightning. Sitcom fear. What I felt last night was different.
At one point I’d had a dream in which it seemed as though I were wrestling with a smoky-faced, slit-eyed, terrifying presence. I’d awakened wide-eyed and struggling to breathe, and I’d not been able to swallow—it was as though someone’s hands had been around my throat. I’d sat up quickly, so flushed, so hot, and then everything suddenly stopped—the terror seemed to crack open and fall away. There were my hands, clenched in my lap. There was the sound of my rapid breathing. There were the books stacked on my bedside table; there were the shadowy outlines of perfume bottles on my dresser. Eventually I’d fallen back into an uneasy sleep.
I splashed water on my face, put on my robe, and headed downstairs. Already my headache was receding. After I started the coffee, I went to the living room window to look out at the day. The temperature had risen again—what could have been snow became a downpour during the night, and now the sky was a redemptive blue, the pale pastel that often follows a rain. Birds sat in a convivial row on the nearby utility wire. Elongated drops of water hung beneath them, shimmying in the breeze. I watched the birds for a while, waiting for the invisible signal that would have them all lift off together, but it did not come. They sat content, enjoying their version of a coffee klatch.
Across the street, I saw a man dressed for work come out onto the porch for the newspaper, and I watched him hold his tie aside as he leaned down to pick it up. A memory of aftershave came to me, the smell of coffee and toast. And now the smell of John, that aphrodisiacal pocket between his neck and his shoulders. How long before
I resettled myself under the covers. Probably better not to think about such things now. In the morning I would make gingerbread, and on my most beautiful dish, I would set one piece aside. My little boat, anchored. Anchoring me.
I waited until Friday to try Lorraine again. Then, at half past seven in the morning, before I got out of bed, before I was fully awake, I dialed the number. No answer. I was becoming obsessed. But who cared? Who would know? It came to me how necessary the near presence of others was in keeping me civilized and sane; I could see how quickly I might become a woman gnawing a chicken leg over the kitchen sink for her dinner, a woman wandering around the rooms of her overly large house, talking aloud to no one. After my father died, I’d called my mother one night to see how she was doing. I’d asked what she’d had for dinner, and she’d said cereal. Straight out of the box. “Mom,” I’d said. And she’d said, “I know,” in a voice so thin and apologetic it broke my heart.
I hung up the phone, lay back, and pressed my fingers against my temples—I had a bad headache, probably from a poor night’s sleep. I’d awakened many times, suddenly very much frightened at being alone in this new place. The darkness had seemed alive, slithering about me like snakes, and turning on a light hadn’t helped much—it seemed as though that only irritated the blackness, pushing it into corners, where it waited with ratcheted-up intentions.
It had never happened in this way before, that I had felt so afraid at night. When John had gone on business trips, I’d sometimes gotten a little frightened. But that was a woman feeling a little nervous because she was used to someone being around—a woman who listens overly hard to a normal rattling in the pipes; a woman who puts her head under the pillow to hide from lightning. Sitcom fear. What I felt last night was different.
At one point I’d had a dream in which it seemed as though I were wrestling with a smoky-faced, slit-eyed, terrifying presence. I’d awakened wide-eyed and struggling to breathe, and I’d not been able to swallow—it was as though someone’s hands had been around my throat. I’d sat up quickly, so flushed, so hot, and then everything suddenly stopped—the terror seemed to crack open and fall away. There were my hands, clenched in my lap. There was the sound of my rapid breathing. There were the books stacked on my bedside table; there were the shadowy outlines of perfume bottles on my dresser. Eventually I’d fallen back into an uneasy sleep.
I splashed water on my face, put on my robe, and headed downstairs. Already my headache was receding. After I started the coffee, I went to the living room window to look out at the day. The temperature had risen again—what could have been snow became a downpour during the night, and now the sky was a redemptive blue, the pale pastel that often follows a rain. Birds sat in a convivial row on the nearby utility wire. Elongated drops of water hung beneath them, shimmying in the breeze. I watched the birds for a while, waiting for the invisible signal that would have them all lift off together, but it did not come. They sat content, enjoying their version of a coffee klatch.
Across the street, I saw a man dressed for work come out onto the porch for the newspaper, and I watched him hold his tie aside as he leaned down to pick it up. A memory of aftershave came to me, the smell of coffee and toast. And now the smell of John, that aphrodisiacal pocket between his neck and his shoulders. How long before
Similar Books
