there, your thing get caught?”
Then laughter.
“Maybe he’s playing with it.”
“Who is he, anyway?”
“I think it’s Rita’s brother.”
“Hey, Rita’s brother. Cute sister you’ve got.”
When I came out, a group of them was clustered outside the door.
“He must feel like he’s in Holland,” one of them said, though not unkindly. “Lots of dykes.”
I looked for Sid. Somehow he’d managed to insinuate himself into a group of four or five women in the living room.
“I’m not telling you I’d do it,” he was saying. “But maybe that’s more a social thing because of the way I was raised.”
“Whoa. Mr. Philosophical.”
And yet it was clear he’d won them over, the group of them focused on him as on some mascot or prize.
Rita passed around us making her way to the kitchen. Then for a moment she was alone there. I came up to her as she was bending into the fridge and instinctively reached out to touch her. She flinched.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Look, Rita –”
But the thing seemed impossible. She stood at the fridge door, inert, half-turned from me, and for an instant the same repulsion, the same spasm of loathing, seemed to pass through us, the kind of loathing only siblings could feel, intimate and humiliated and searing.
Sid came into the room.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?”
For the first time he was showing an edge beneath his casualness, the need to know what his status was.
“I’ve got to bring these drinks out,” Rita said, and was gone.
“Everything okay with her?” Sid said.
“I don’t know. Yeah.”
“A little heavy on the make-up, I’d say. It’s not her style.”
I noticed now the cake that had been set out on the kitchen counter. HAPPY 20TH , it read.
“I have to go,” I said.
“It’s up to you. I think I’ll stick around a bit.”
I passed John on the way out. I had the sense suddenly that he’d been keeping an eye on me the whole time I’d been there.
“You’re not feeling any better?” he said.
“Sorry?”
“Your friend. He said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Yes. No. It’s just a cold or something.”
“Ah.” He seemed to want to hold me there, to impart something to me. “Well. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
Outside, I realized my head was spinning. I was dimly aware of feeling feverish and sore, but still with the sense that my body had nothing to do with me any longer, was just a burden, something I might slough off at any moment if I could only find the way to unshackle myself from it. It was like reaching a point just beyond pain, just beyond the bearable. In Africa, once, I’d walked for miles in sub-Saharan heat stupidly trying to make my way to a remote Dogon village; and at some point the weight of my pack, my aching muscles, the desperation in me at having gone wrong, had given way to this same dizzy feeling of detachment, the sense of floating in the present moment without recourse.
Along the street, the windows of the houses shone with curtained light. Each window was like an eye I passed by: this was where I was not, each seemed to say, curled in front of a television or fire with children, a lover, a wife, my life staid or nearly over or still all quivering possibility.
One of the neighbourhood’s regular street people had come out to squat in the doorway of a College Street bank, the mysterious burgeonings of great stuffed garbage bags and burlap bundles tied with twine heaped up behind him. He was one of the crazy ones, a regular at the psychiatric institute across from my building, moving in and out of it like the cats we’d had on the farm who’d hole up a few weeks in the warmth of our boiler room, then run wild again. Eddy called him José, which simply might have been some private joke of his since the man didn’t look especially Latino,didn’t look like anything at all except a street person, with that generic look street people had, the acned skin, the clotted hair. Sometimes he would
Then laughter.
“Maybe he’s playing with it.”
“Who is he, anyway?”
“I think it’s Rita’s brother.”
“Hey, Rita’s brother. Cute sister you’ve got.”
When I came out, a group of them was clustered outside the door.
“He must feel like he’s in Holland,” one of them said, though not unkindly. “Lots of dykes.”
I looked for Sid. Somehow he’d managed to insinuate himself into a group of four or five women in the living room.
“I’m not telling you I’d do it,” he was saying. “But maybe that’s more a social thing because of the way I was raised.”
“Whoa. Mr. Philosophical.”
And yet it was clear he’d won them over, the group of them focused on him as on some mascot or prize.
Rita passed around us making her way to the kitchen. Then for a moment she was alone there. I came up to her as she was bending into the fridge and instinctively reached out to touch her. She flinched.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Look, Rita –”
But the thing seemed impossible. She stood at the fridge door, inert, half-turned from me, and for an instant the same repulsion, the same spasm of loathing, seemed to pass through us, the kind of loathing only siblings could feel, intimate and humiliated and searing.
Sid came into the room.
“Hey, guys, what’s up?”
For the first time he was showing an edge beneath his casualness, the need to know what his status was.
“I’ve got to bring these drinks out,” Rita said, and was gone.
“Everything okay with her?” Sid said.
“I don’t know. Yeah.”
“A little heavy on the make-up, I’d say. It’s not her style.”
I noticed now the cake that had been set out on the kitchen counter. HAPPY 20TH , it read.
“I have to go,” I said.
“It’s up to you. I think I’ll stick around a bit.”
I passed John on the way out. I had the sense suddenly that he’d been keeping an eye on me the whole time I’d been there.
“You’re not feeling any better?” he said.
“Sorry?”
“Your friend. He said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Yes. No. It’s just a cold or something.”
“Ah.” He seemed to want to hold me there, to impart something to me. “Well. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
Outside, I realized my head was spinning. I was dimly aware of feeling feverish and sore, but still with the sense that my body had nothing to do with me any longer, was just a burden, something I might slough off at any moment if I could only find the way to unshackle myself from it. It was like reaching a point just beyond pain, just beyond the bearable. In Africa, once, I’d walked for miles in sub-Saharan heat stupidly trying to make my way to a remote Dogon village; and at some point the weight of my pack, my aching muscles, the desperation in me at having gone wrong, had given way to this same dizzy feeling of detachment, the sense of floating in the present moment without recourse.
Along the street, the windows of the houses shone with curtained light. Each window was like an eye I passed by: this was where I was not, each seemed to say, curled in front of a television or fire with children, a lover, a wife, my life staid or nearly over or still all quivering possibility.
One of the neighbourhood’s regular street people had come out to squat in the doorway of a College Street bank, the mysterious burgeonings of great stuffed garbage bags and burlap bundles tied with twine heaped up behind him. He was one of the crazy ones, a regular at the psychiatric institute across from my building, moving in and out of it like the cats we’d had on the farm who’d hole up a few weeks in the warmth of our boiler room, then run wild again. Eddy called him José, which simply might have been some private joke of his since the man didn’t look especially Latino,didn’t look like anything at all except a street person, with that generic look street people had, the acned skin, the clotted hair. Sometimes he would
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