opposite wall. The carpeting on the floor undulant and ridged in
places, as if misplaced by someone's lurching footsteps, or even an
actual bodily fall or two, and then allowed to remain that way
thereafter. A dark stain, crab-shaped, marring it in one spot, as if
a considerable quantity of some heavy-bodied liquid had been
overturned upon it.
Dank
bed, that had once made a bridegroom blush; that would have made any
fastidious person blush now, looking as if it had been untended for
days. Graying linen receding from its skeleton on one side,
overhanging it to trail the floor on the other. A single shoe, man's
shoe, abandoned there beside it; as though the original impulse that
had caused it to be removed, or else had caused its mate to be
donned, had ebbed and faded before it could be carried to completion.
Forget-me-nots
on pink wallpaper; wallpaper that had come from New York, wallpaper
that had been asked for in a letter; "not too pink." There
was a place where the plaster backing showed through in rabid scars;
as if someone had taken a pair of shears and gouged at them in a
rage, trying to obliterate as many as possible.
In
the center of the still life a table. And on the table three immobile
things. A reeking tumbler, mucous with endless refilling, and a
bottle of brandy, and an inert head, crown-side up, matted hair
bristling from it. Its nerveless body on an off-balance chair at
tableside, one hand gripping the neck of the bottle in relentless
possessiveness.
A
tap at the door, but with no accompanying sound of approach, as
though someone had been standing there for a long time, listening,
trying to gain courage.
No
answer, nothing moved.
Again
a tap. A voice added to it this time.
"Mr.
Lou. Mr. Lou, turn the key."
No
answer. The head rolled a little, exposing a jawline pricked with
bluish hair follicles.
Once
more a tap.
"Mr.
Lou, turn the key. It's been two days now."
The
head broke contact with the table top, elevated itself a little, eyes
still closed. "What are days ?" it said blurredly. "I've
forgotten. Oh--those things that come between the nights. Those empty
things."
The
knob on the door turned sterilely. "Lemme in. Lemme just
fraishen up your bed."
"It's
just for me alone now. Let it be."
"Don't
you want a light, at least? It getting dark. Lemme change the lamp in
there for you."
"What
can it show me? What's there to see? There's only me in here now. Me,
and--"
He
tilted the brandy bottle over the tumbler. Nothing came out. He held
it perpendicular. Nothing still.
He
rose from his chair, swung the bottle back to launch it at the wall.
Then he stayed his arm, lowered it, shuffled to the door on one shoe,
turned the key at last.
He
thrust the bottle at her.
"Get
me another of these," he barked. "That's all I want. That's
the best the world can do for me now. I don't want your lamps and
your broths and your tidying of beds."
But
she was brave in the cause of housekeeping cleanliness, this old,
spare, colored woman. She sidled in past him before he could stop
her, put down the fresh lamp beside the one that had exhausted its
fuel, in a moment was pulling and tucking at the bedraggled bed
linen, casting an occasional furtive glance toward him, to see if he
meant to stop her or not.
She
finished, made haste to get out of the room again, coursing the long
way around, by the wall, in order not to come too close to him. The
door safely in her hand again, she turned and looked at him, where he
stood, bottle neck riveted to hand.
And
he looked at her.
Suddenly
a tremor of unutterable longing seemed to course through him. His
rasping bitter voice of a moment ago became gentle. He put out his
hand toward her, as if pleading with her to stay, now, to listen to
him speak of her, the absent. To speak of her with him.
"Do
you remember how she used to sit there cleaning her nails, with a
stick tipped with cotton? I can see her now," he said brokenly.
"And then she would hold her fingers up, like this,
places, as if misplaced by someone's lurching footsteps, or even an
actual bodily fall or two, and then allowed to remain that way
thereafter. A dark stain, crab-shaped, marring it in one spot, as if
a considerable quantity of some heavy-bodied liquid had been
overturned upon it.
Dank
bed, that had once made a bridegroom blush; that would have made any
fastidious person blush now, looking as if it had been untended for
days. Graying linen receding from its skeleton on one side,
overhanging it to trail the floor on the other. A single shoe, man's
shoe, abandoned there beside it; as though the original impulse that
had caused it to be removed, or else had caused its mate to be
donned, had ebbed and faded before it could be carried to completion.
Forget-me-nots
on pink wallpaper; wallpaper that had come from New York, wallpaper
that had been asked for in a letter; "not too pink." There
was a place where the plaster backing showed through in rabid scars;
as if someone had taken a pair of shears and gouged at them in a
rage, trying to obliterate as many as possible.
In
the center of the still life a table. And on the table three immobile
things. A reeking tumbler, mucous with endless refilling, and a
bottle of brandy, and an inert head, crown-side up, matted hair
bristling from it. Its nerveless body on an off-balance chair at
tableside, one hand gripping the neck of the bottle in relentless
possessiveness.
A
tap at the door, but with no accompanying sound of approach, as
though someone had been standing there for a long time, listening,
trying to gain courage.
No
answer, nothing moved.
Again
a tap. A voice added to it this time.
"Mr.
Lou. Mr. Lou, turn the key."
No
answer. The head rolled a little, exposing a jawline pricked with
bluish hair follicles.
Once
more a tap.
"Mr.
Lou, turn the key. It's been two days now."
The
head broke contact with the table top, elevated itself a little, eyes
still closed. "What are days ?" it said blurredly. "I've
forgotten. Oh--those things that come between the nights. Those empty
things."
The
knob on the door turned sterilely. "Lemme in. Lemme just
fraishen up your bed."
"It's
just for me alone now. Let it be."
"Don't
you want a light, at least? It getting dark. Lemme change the lamp in
there for you."
"What
can it show me? What's there to see? There's only me in here now. Me,
and--"
He
tilted the brandy bottle over the tumbler. Nothing came out. He held
it perpendicular. Nothing still.
He
rose from his chair, swung the bottle back to launch it at the wall.
Then he stayed his arm, lowered it, shuffled to the door on one shoe,
turned the key at last.
He
thrust the bottle at her.
"Get
me another of these," he barked. "That's all I want. That's
the best the world can do for me now. I don't want your lamps and
your broths and your tidying of beds."
But
she was brave in the cause of housekeeping cleanliness, this old,
spare, colored woman. She sidled in past him before he could stop
her, put down the fresh lamp beside the one that had exhausted its
fuel, in a moment was pulling and tucking at the bedraggled bed
linen, casting an occasional furtive glance toward him, to see if he
meant to stop her or not.
She
finished, made haste to get out of the room again, coursing the long
way around, by the wall, in order not to come too close to him. The
door safely in her hand again, she turned and looked at him, where he
stood, bottle neck riveted to hand.
And
he looked at her.
Suddenly
a tremor of unutterable longing seemed to course through him. His
rasping bitter voice of a moment ago became gentle. He put out his
hand toward her, as if pleading with her to stay, now, to listen to
him speak of her, the absent. To speak of her with him.
"Do
you remember how she used to sit there cleaning her nails, with a
stick tipped with cotton? I can see her now," he said brokenly.
"And then she would hold her fingers up, like this,
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