by Jack Douglas
“Welcome!”
Craig’s heart jumped. He spun from the door to face the living room.
“You’ve got mail!”
The throbbing in his ear quickened with his pulse.
Shit, he thought. He must have inadvertently turned the speakers on. But when? They weren’t on when he checked his email earlier.
Whatever. He wiped off the chair and sat.
A click later he was examining his inbox, searching for a reply from Amaro Dias Silva. Nothing yet. Just a few new items of spam and a message from an old law school chum, which he deleted without reading.
He pulled up a search engine. He typed the terms pulse, ear and throbbing, and clicked go. The search took point-five seconds and returned approximately twenty-one thousand, four hundred entries.
Craig perused the first ten.
It took him all of twenty-six minutes. Self-diagnosis: pulsatile tinnitus. Possible causes included arteriovenous malformations, vascular tumor, aneurism.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyelids drooped and his head felt light.
A few anxious clicks later and he knew all about Betty from Durango, Colorado. And Allison from somewhere in the U.K. They had both suffered the incessant beating, the horrid pulse in the ear. They had both been through a slew of physicians. Both had been repeatedly misdiagnosed. Turned out Betty had a tick in her ear. Allison’s posts ceased rather abruptly. After June of last year she had never been heard from again.
He considered waking Amy. Then he thought better of it. She would only offer an exaggerated sigh and call him a hypochondriac. It wouldn’t matter that the information was staring them right in the face. She’d be dismissive, aloof. She would tell him to calm down and see a doctor if he was so concerned. She’d say there was nothing they could do tonight, so lie down and close your eyes and go to sleep. As though it were the easiest thing in the world.
He slapped the laptop shut.
“Goodbye!”
The pulse in his ear oscillated madly.
He stuck his pinky finger into the ear cavity and felt around.
Is that a lump?
He pulled it out and placed a forefinger on his jugular. He tried to time his pulse. It was fast. Well over a hundred beats per minute.
Of course it’s going to be fast, you dolt. You’re scared to hell you might have a tumor.
(Or an aneurism.)
(With an aneurism you go like that!)
He swallowed hard and clicked his fingers.
Like that, he thought.
He imagined himself slumped over the table. Pictured Amy discovering him four hours later, his skin death cold. His body as stiff as cedar.
Just like that.
Xavier wakes on the floor in the living room, where he finally drifted off some six hours ago. He rubs at his eyes, still sore from last night’s cry. A gray light seeps through the flat’s lone window, signifying dawn. His mother still hasn’t come home. She stayed out again all last night.
It’s Saturday, the first of November, 1755. Xavier recently turned eleven years old, his birthday marked only by an extra piece of fish and an unexpected plate of rice. Not that it matters; birthdays are silly, childish events, and Xavier already considers himself a man.
Her little man. Her paqueno masculino. That’s what she calls him on the good days. On the bad days, she calls him things he isn’t even permitted to think, let alone say. But on the good days, Xavier is his mother’s little man, “the man of the house” one might say.
Xavier’s father disappeared one day, so long ago now that Xavier has trouble recalling his face. That was when Xavier’s mother began the drinking. Began spending her nights at the tavern by the pier, talking to rough men, sometimes even going home with them.
Xavier knows she must have gone home with one last night. His mother doesn’t like being alone. Doesn’t like sleeping alone. But then, neither does Xavier. And that is exactly what he does on nights when his mother doesn’t come home. He curls up on the floor in the middle of the living room, where he can watch the door, and stays awake until he can no longer keep his eyes open. He’s afraid to sleep in the bed.
Now he picks himself off the floor and lifts the shade, letting in light. Xavier is glad it is no longer night. He sees things at night, shadows dancing on the walls. Hears noises coming from the flat next door, even when their neighbor is not home.
He looks down at the narrow cobblestone path three floors below and sees a dog. The dog looks lonely, hungry— tired like him. The dog is sniffing the garbage. Xavier hopes the dog finds something to eat.
He heads into the kitchen, knowing there will be nothing there. His mother stopped cooking once his father left. Stopped buying food at the markets. Once in a while she stops at the bakery and buys Xavier a fresh loaf of bread.
But if Xavier is bad, if he acts out, she takes the bread away and sends him to bed hungry.
In the kitchen, Xavier opens the cabinets. They all are bare, just as he thought. Maybe his mother will be home soon.
He heads to the closet and opens the door, removes a few sheets of paper. Xavier likes very much to draw. He finds his thick lead pencils, and places everything on the living room floor. Then he gets to work on getting his mind off of his stomach.
Chapter Eight
Craig sat up past sunrise working on the novel. By night’s end he had written nearly five thousand words, and he felt invigorated, refreshed, even without a moment’s sleep. He could have easily gone on, could have banged out another two thousand words at least, but at half past eight he heard Amy rustling around in the bedroom. He stopped typing, stretched his neck, and cracked his knuckles. It would be a long day, and there was plenty to do.
He scrolled through the twenty-one pages of text. He couldn’t read any of it, of course; Craig typed his first drafts in a Greek font so that he was less apt to censor himself. Being completely unable to revise as he trudged along also helped stamp out the voice of perfectionism—that pesky son of a bitch that drove many good writers insane. Not until an eighty thousand-word draft was complete did he finally change the font into Times New Roman. Then, and only then, did the arduous process of rewriting begin.
When he heard the shower turn on he stood from the table and arched his sore back.
A gray light leaked through the flat’s only window and spilt onto the faded shag carpet. Craig stepped away from the laptop and into the light.
He couldn’t see the sun from their window. They were situated in the shadow of a taller building that somewhat resembled theirs, a structure built so close that if Craig opened the window and spat the saliva would come pretty damn close to reaching it.
Craig stuck his fingers into the jambs and pushed up, but the window wouldn’t budge. He tried again with more force, but the window wouldn’t open, and now his fingers hurt. He cursed the damn thing under his breath and turned away. Then he turned back and stared at the brass do-hickeys just above the window. He laughed at himself when he realized that they were locked.
He was about to unlock the window when he heard the shower turn off. He glanced at the clock on his laptop computer. So much to do. He considered the irony, the fact that he had left New York to escape the distractions, to flee the unavoidable busy life that came with living in Manhattan. All he wanted now was peace and quiet, time to write. A costly, time-consuming move from the Alfama was never in his plans, never even thought of as a possibility, let alone a stark reality.
He turned back to the window. Their flat was located in the rear of the building and overlooked a narrow alleyway, where a small dog skulked along the cobblestones. Not small, really, but scrawny. Even from three stories up, Craig could see its ribs. The dog sniffed at some rubbish and pawed behind some bent metal trash cans, clearly looking for food.
Craig felt a rush of empathy, an overwhelming urge to rush downstairs and feed the dog. If only he had something it could eat.
He thought about Duke.
Duke was the name he
had given to the kitten he adopted when he was ten. A tiny black and white ball of fur he had found at an outdoor flea market in North Jersey. The kitten was seven weeks old, given to Craig for free by a kind old woman who cared for stray cats. Craig fell in love with the animal right away, what with his bright green eyes, tiny pink paws, the rapid beating of the kitten’s heart against Craig’s chest.
Craig leaned his forehead against the window so not to lose sight of the dog. The glass felt cool against his skin, like a wet towel relieving a fever.
The dog lifted its hind leg to pee.
As a child, Craig had begged his mother every Christmas for a puppy. He didn’t care what size, large or small. It didn’t matter what kind, beagle or greyhound or golden retriever. Purebred or mutt. It didn’t have to be store-bought; it could have come from the pound. In fact, Craig would have preferred it that way. He’d wanted to save a life if he could. As a matter of fact, it didn’t even have to be a pup; it could have been full grown. So long as it was a dog. So long as Craig could call it his own.
But every year his mother’s answer was the same.
(“They shit everywhere.”)
Santa can’t bring one this year. Maybe next Christmas, she’d say. Throughout the year he would lobby, research, plant pictures of dogs all around the house. Once he even bought a water dish and a leash, left them in his room in a conspicuous spot where she was sure to see them.
She saw them. But Christmas came and there was another excuse.
(“They’re filthy fucking things. I won’t have a goddamn animal in my house.”)
She said they were broke. Or that they would be moving soon.
Maybe next Christmas. If not then, the following one.
By the time of that flea market, Craig had come to accept that he would never have a pet of his own. He’d resigned himself to a lot by then. By then not having a dog was the least of his worries.
But then like magic, there was Duke. Perfectly free and tiny enough to move. With big bright kitten eyes and white kitten whiskers. Playful and friendly and completely litter-trained.
For three full summer days they played. With yellow yarn, with tin foil, with a fresh pair of Craig’s balled-up white and blue tube socks. He’d stroke Duke’s soft white belly. The kitten affectionately licked Craig’s hands and face. Even Craig’s mother got in on the scene, snapping a photo with her old Polaroid now and then. Tossing a sock as Craig tried to teach little Duke to fetch.
Three full days of play. Three nights of tiny Duke lying beside him on his twin bed, purring Craig to sleep. The kitten even accompanied Craig in his dreams.
Then came that awful Tuesday evening.
It was sometime after nine o’clock, sometime after Craig had dressed in his Superman pajamas, brushed his teeth and otherwise readied himself for bed.
It was then that something happened, something that stayed with him to this day.
As he gathered Duke’s toys, he heard a small clawing noise coming from the living room. Not quite a tearing sound—more like a pulling of fabric. A lump formed in his throat. Craig knew his mother was out there. He had seen her in the kitchen when he put away Duke’s crunchy seafood treats. He listened. He knew she’d heard it too.
Craig rushed into the living room, but it was too late.
He could barely see the scratch mark where Duke had run his tiny kitten nails down the arm of the couch. Even when he sat up close and studied it, that night and every night from then until fall, he could just barely make it out.
Yet it was enough, enough to make his mother release a blood- curdling scream, to make her go after the kitten, to chase little Duke from room to room.
Craig tried to intervene. He cried and shouted, begged for mercy, pleaded for the infant cat’s life. “It was my fault,” he screamed. “Punish me. Hit me. Kill me.”
He wept so hard he popped a blood vessel in his left eye. The eye turned blood-red and stayed like that for days, maybe weeks. He couldn’t remember.
But no amount of crying tore her from the chase.
And she caught Duke, of course. When she did, Craig howled and threw himself in front of the door.
“Out of my fucking way,” she said. She was breathing hard, had Duke held tight by the nape of his tiny neck. “Out of my way or I’ll rip its head off right here.”
Craig tossed his slender body aside, curled himself into a ball on the floor and let the tears stream down his face and fall into the rust shag carpet.
She flung the door open and carried the kitten outside. Down the stairs.
And Craig never did see Duke again.
(Oh yes you did.)
Yes, he did. It was six days later on Market Street. Less than a mile from their home in Elmwood Park. In the middle of the two-lane roadway. In the dead center of the double yellow line.
His skull was crushed down the middle, his eyes pouring out from either side. His furry white belly was split open, his insides scattered around him on the street.
Craig collapsed onto the blacktop. He lay in the road and shrieked, hoping a car would strike him out of his misery. But no car ever came. Now, as he watched the scrawny dog scrounge for food in the alley, Craig’s eyes grew moist again. He lifted his head off the glass and wiped the tears away with his sleeve. He was tired, exhausted really. He hadn’t slept since his brief nap on the plane.
Amy stepped out of the bedroom. She looked good, dressed in a pretty pink sweater and jeans. But her nose was noticeably swollen, and the flesh beneath her eyes was a bit darker than it should have been. “I’m going to run out and pick us up some breakfast,” she said. Craig nodded, squeezing the last tears from his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I had something in my eye.” Craig quickly changed the subject. “Have you called your mother?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.” Her eyes darted toward the door. “I’ll call her when I get back.”
(She’ll call while she’s out, tell her she’s coming home.)
“All right.” He reached into his pocket and handed her some euros. “Be safe. I’ll be here when you get back.”
“I know.” She started toward the door.
Craig wanted to stop her, to sit her down and have a long talk. He wanted to explain how everything would change now that they were in Europe. To convince her they would find a great apartment and decorate it any way she wanted. That they would be happy together in Portugal. He just needed some time to prove it. He just needed to persuade her to stay.
But before Craig had a chance to articulate his thoughts, the door was closed and Amy was gone.
He bit his lower lip and turned toward the window again.
Chapter Nine
Amy was frustrated. Her head ached and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours she was lost. There was no one on the street to ask for directions. And even if there had been, she couldn’t speak the language. This while Craig sat on his ass back at the apartment. Probably curled up in bed with his laptop looking at Internet porn. She was about to give up, to turn around and head back, when she spotted a small grocery shop at the end of the street.
It didn’t look like any grocery shop she had ever seen before. Certainly not like any grocery in the States. It was set back from the street in an old decaying building. There was no storefront, there were no windows. Only a narrow wooden doorway with a few crates of fresh fruit stacked outside. She squinted and walked toward it.
It had always fallen on her to get the groceries. In Manhattan, in Honolulu, and now here in Lisbon. Craig said he simply couldn’t deal with people anymore. Couldn’t wait in lines and make small talk with cashiers. He couldn’t even call to order a large cheese pizza.
At first she figured he was eccentric. Now she wondered if he wasn’t just plain lazy. She wondered if he wasn’t using what had happened in that Battery Park apartment as an excuse. An excuse to sit at home and dictate to her what had to be done.
A relationship was
supposed to be a partnership, but what she and Craig had was something else entirely. She bought the food. She cleaned their apartments. And she was the one who had gotten up every morning and went to work.
Sure, Craig wrote every day. But it was like her mother said: People get paid to work. And Craig wasn’t getting paid to write fiction. He had written three novels and sold not a single one. And even now that he’d sold a memoir, there was no guarantee that his next novel would sell. He could waste another year—they could waste another year—and be no better off when they returned to New York.
Amy stood in front of the grocery shop, thinking. Staring up into the dreary gray Portuguese sky. Her mother was right. Why should she help Craig pursue his dreams? What about hers? What about the life her mother envisioned for her? The life her mother was unable to lead herself.
She stepped inside the shop.
It was tiny, like one of those cruddy old bodegas near Yankee Stadium up in the Bronx. Not much of a selection either. A few fresh loaves of bread, some cheeses and fruits. And of course, a number of bottles of port wine.
Craig would want a piece of pound cake. She wasn’t going to find that here and that made her anxious. Craig was a picky eater. If she brought back the wrong thing she would never hear the end of it. Like the time she picked up Stouffer’s frozen French bread pizza instead of Ellio’s. Or the time in Hawaii when she purchased the wrong kind of pancake mix. No, it wasn’t a good idea to guess. Not where Craig was involved. Better to wait. Better to pick up nothing at all.
Well, maybe just a couple of bottles of port for tonight. The rest they could go out and purchase together after the movers arrived. That’s the way it should have been to begin with. Craig should have offered to come along. Or better yet, he should have offered to go all by himself. Why should she be his gofer?
Besides, she had no appetite, thanks to this hangover. She paid for the two bottles of wine and left.