have entered some new, limbo-ish place where there was only fatigue, only the dreamy relinquishing of no way out. I had a vision that Rita had come and was tending to me, that she was there on the bed wiping fever sweat from my neck, my brow, with a heated cloth. There was a chipped enamel basin on the night table, a crucifix on the wall. At the door, a sound of hooves against cobblestones, the grind and complaint of cartwheels: someone was coming for us, in an instant we’d rise and ride off together into golden afternoon light.
When I awoke, Easter Sunday, the fever had dimmed. The apartment looked as if the storm of the previous day had ripped through it: there were clothes strewn about in the bedroom, a couple of vomit-flecked towels on the floor, a heap of bedsheets, the ones Rita had bloodied, bundled in a corner; in the kitchen, pots of half-eaten food on the table and dishes I couldn’t remember having dirtied piled up in the sink.
I couldn’t form my thoughts around any plan. On my desk were spread the pages of a paper I hadn’t finished, more than a week overdue now, then beside them a stack of library books, also overdue. My mind was fixed somehow on thatoverdueness, the nickels and dimes of it, the vague forces lined up to punish me. I stood staring at the pages I’d written out, with their slanting blue scrawl, the evidence that I’d formed thoughts, made decisions, considered one thing more important than another; and then at the books with their arcane titles, their careful systems of words. I had the sense I’d been tricked in some way: none of this mattered, there was nothing holding the systems in place.
I went out. The streets looked scrubbed, hosed down, from the previous day’s rain. It was still overcast, the air liquidy and thick, wisps of fog rising up from the pools that had formed in parking lots and on front lawns.
At the back of my mind was the thought that Rita hadn’t returned my call; and then I was ringing her doorbell.
Elena came to the door.
“Hey, Vic.” She gave me her sardonic smile. “Happy Easter.”
There were footsteps in the background, then a woman’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Rita’s brother.”
She was coming toward us down the hall, an older woman, hair wiry and streaked grey, who I recognized from the party.
“Suzanne,” Elena said, by way of introduction. This was probably as far as she’d ever gone in allowing me into this side of her life.
“Hello, Rita’s brother,” Suzanne said, but didn’t extend her hand.
They were both dressed in sloppy house clothes, jeans, tattered sweats.
“Rita’s out,” Elena said. “She went for a walk.”
“Did you say I phoned?”
“To tell you the truth, she got in pretty late last night.”
“Where did she go?”
“I dunno,” Elena said. “Maybe she had a date.”
Suzanne laughed.
“You know, boy meets girl,” she said.
I couldn’t get my mind around any of this. The thought that kept forming in my head was that it was Easter Sunday. But none of this was like Easter, everything was out of whack.
“You should ask him in for a coffee,” Suzanne said. “He looks a little beat up.”
“No. Thanks. I should get going.”
When I got home my shoes and socks were completely soaked, though I couldn’t remember stepping in any water. The fever began to come on again, a dark glow at the back of my brain.
The phone rang. It was Elena.
“Just thought you might want to know that she’s back.”
“Is she there?”
“She’s in the shower. I’ll tell her to phone you.”
But no call. They were playing a game: Elena was in on it, Suzanne, perhaps even Sid. At some point I had the impression again of an urgent ringing and clanging, the jangling pouring-forth of a million nickels and dimes. But by then I was back in the fever’s darkness, burrowing through its conduits and tangled paths trying to trace there the connections, the careful, deliberate scheme being laid out for my downfall.
It
When I awoke, Easter Sunday, the fever had dimmed. The apartment looked as if the storm of the previous day had ripped through it: there were clothes strewn about in the bedroom, a couple of vomit-flecked towels on the floor, a heap of bedsheets, the ones Rita had bloodied, bundled in a corner; in the kitchen, pots of half-eaten food on the table and dishes I couldn’t remember having dirtied piled up in the sink.
I couldn’t form my thoughts around any plan. On my desk were spread the pages of a paper I hadn’t finished, more than a week overdue now, then beside them a stack of library books, also overdue. My mind was fixed somehow on thatoverdueness, the nickels and dimes of it, the vague forces lined up to punish me. I stood staring at the pages I’d written out, with their slanting blue scrawl, the evidence that I’d formed thoughts, made decisions, considered one thing more important than another; and then at the books with their arcane titles, their careful systems of words. I had the sense I’d been tricked in some way: none of this mattered, there was nothing holding the systems in place.
I went out. The streets looked scrubbed, hosed down, from the previous day’s rain. It was still overcast, the air liquidy and thick, wisps of fog rising up from the pools that had formed in parking lots and on front lawns.
At the back of my mind was the thought that Rita hadn’t returned my call; and then I was ringing her doorbell.
Elena came to the door.
“Hey, Vic.” She gave me her sardonic smile. “Happy Easter.”
There were footsteps in the background, then a woman’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Rita’s brother.”
She was coming toward us down the hall, an older woman, hair wiry and streaked grey, who I recognized from the party.
“Suzanne,” Elena said, by way of introduction. This was probably as far as she’d ever gone in allowing me into this side of her life.
“Hello, Rita’s brother,” Suzanne said, but didn’t extend her hand.
They were both dressed in sloppy house clothes, jeans, tattered sweats.
“Rita’s out,” Elena said. “She went for a walk.”
“Did you say I phoned?”
“To tell you the truth, she got in pretty late last night.”
“Where did she go?”
“I dunno,” Elena said. “Maybe she had a date.”
Suzanne laughed.
“You know, boy meets girl,” she said.
I couldn’t get my mind around any of this. The thought that kept forming in my head was that it was Easter Sunday. But none of this was like Easter, everything was out of whack.
“You should ask him in for a coffee,” Suzanne said. “He looks a little beat up.”
“No. Thanks. I should get going.”
When I got home my shoes and socks were completely soaked, though I couldn’t remember stepping in any water. The fever began to come on again, a dark glow at the back of my brain.
The phone rang. It was Elena.
“Just thought you might want to know that she’s back.”
“Is she there?”
“She’s in the shower. I’ll tell her to phone you.”
But no call. They were playing a game: Elena was in on it, Suzanne, perhaps even Sid. At some point I had the impression again of an urgent ringing and clanging, the jangling pouring-forth of a million nickels and dimes. But by then I was back in the fever’s darkness, burrowing through its conduits and tangled paths trying to trace there the connections, the careful, deliberate scheme being laid out for my downfall.
It