“Why doesn’t it disappear?” asked Edgar.
Lucy, eyeing the fat cloud, wondered the same thing.
* * *
All the windows and doors were open now (as recommended by the boys from Friendship Hook and Ladder No. 3). Lucy and Edgar sat in the dark living room under a single blanket, watching television. Earlier, when Lucy had informed Edgar about the missed funeral and the entire day stolen by sleep, the boy’s reaction had frightened her. He’d walked in small, stimming circles, knocking a fist against his head. “You mean she’s in the ground already?”—at which point both of them had started to cry. When Edgar hid behind the couch and proceeded to rock, she’d given him another Percocet-Demi (a proper half-tablet dose), and then, thoroughly chastened by the day, had allowed herself nothing more than the other half.
“Are you cold?” she asked Edgar, who was now resting quietly on the couch.
“A little,” he said. “Are you?”
“A little.” She pulled up the cover, and Edgar snuggled closer. He rubbed the satin trim of the blanket against his chapped lips. When they’d first gotten home, Lucy had smeared the boy’s red face with some anti-wrinkle cream she’d recently purchased.
Florence’s method for treating a sunburn had been decidedly more peasant: a few splashes of apple cider vinegar followed by a spoonful of olive oil, as if she were making a salad out of the boy’s face. It worked better than the wrinkle cream, but Edgar didn’t tell his mother this. The wrinkle cream smelled nice, like pink roses.
Lucy’s stomach growled. For dinner, all they’d eaten were bowls of Frosted Mini-Wheats (neither could face the leftovers from the butcher). The sun had set over an hour ago, but no hand had yet reached to click on a lamp. The strength to locate the remote and change the TV channel eluded them, as well. They stared, mesmerized, at a seemingly endless infomercial about a food dehydrator. A stoned Edgar was impressed by the contraption’s myriad skills. It did so much more than dry fruits and vegetables. It could raise bread dough and recrisp crackers; it could warm mittens, as well as dry a person’s delicate hand-washables. With a shallow pan of water, it became a humidifier—and at Christmastime you could put in sprigs of pine to add a festive fragrance to any room.
“We should get one,” Edgar said sleepily.
Lucy, equally exhausted, grunted.
When a door slammed upstairs, it startled them. Edgar’s hand found Lucy’s; she gave it a squeeze. “It’s just the wind, baby. We can probably shut some of the windows now.”
“The fireman said we could get asphyxiated.”
“Edgar, there’s hardly any more smoke. We’ll be fine.”
“I can still smell it.”
Another door slammed—this time, the front one. Edgar sat up.
“Come on, lie back down.”
“We won’t be able to lock it,” Edgar said. “They broke it.”
“I’ll put some tape on it so it doesn’t blow open.”
“Tape won’t keep people out.”
“Who’s coming? No one’s coming. Lie down. You’re gonna wake yourself up.”
“I was never sleeping.”
“Ma…”
“What?… What?”
“Did he ever have a beard?”
“Who?”
Edgar examined the weave of the brown sofa. “My father,” he said, picking at a loose thread.
“Why are you asking stupid questions?”
“It’s not stupid.”
“No. He never had a beard.”
“Like hair on his face, I mean.”
“I know what a beard is, Edgar. And what did I just say?”
“Sometimes you have to be asked twice.”
“Is that so?”
Edgar shrugged.
“He might have had one a couple of times,” said Lucy. “But not on purpose.”
“You can’t get a beard by accident,” said Edgar.
“You can if you’re lazy. Sometimes he didn’t shave. And why are we talking about this?”
Lucy wondered if maybe the drugs were too strong for the boy. He never asked about his father.
“I’d like to see pictures,” Edgar said.
“Pictures of what?”
Edgar’s fingers worked the loose thread.
“They’re right there,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the piano.
“But I want to see when he was older.”
“He never got older, Edgar.”
“And those are all blurry. You can’t really see his face. Do you have other pictures?”
“Somewhere. I don’t know. Come on, lie down.”
“I know Gramma has his baby pictures. We can look in her room.”
“Tomorrow,” Lucy said. “I want you to sleep now.”
The boy scooted down and stretched out his legs. “But what are we going to do?”
“About what?”
“I’m freezing,” Edgar said, hunching up his shoulders.
“We’ll be fine. Close your eyes.”
“We can stay on the couch, right?”
“Sure.”
“Two bodies have a better chance anyway,” Edgar said.
Lucy was glad to see the boy’s eyes fluttering again.
“Mr. Levinson, my science teacher, says that’s how homeless people stay alive. And birds, too.”
Lucy smiled in spite of herself.
“It’s not funny,” said Edgar.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled.”
Lucy slid under the cover, closer to Edgar. “It was an accident.”
* * *
When the boy was asleep, she kissed his white hair before peeling away her half of the blanket. The front door had blown open again. She stood there and saw how close the night was, how close it had always been. Even during the day, it was never far. Florence had managed to keep it away, like some clever cavewoman, with candles and night-lights, with warm milk and early bedtimes. Lucy let it in now. Night was her element. She walked outside, onto the lawn, in her bare feet—the firm, cold blades deceiving her soles with a sensation of wetness. Nighttime had always meant a respite from Florence, from the boy. But now the old woman was too far away, and Lucy was afraid.
Keeping her promise to Edgar, she found some duct tape and sealed the front door. In the kitchen she shifted the tin trays of leftovers in the refrigerator, hunting for a beer. Florence kept the brown bottles at the back of the bottom shelf, like Negroes on a bus. Lucy moved them up to the front. She opened one and took a swig.
Pio had liked his beer, too. After Frank was gone, she sometimes shared a six-pack with the old man on the porch (though the split was often four to two in Lucy’s favor). Florence would bring out salted nuts or buttered breadsticks because it was unhealthy, she claimed, to drink without eating. Sometimes, after Edgar was asleep, Florence would join Lucy and Pio on the porch, eat a nut, and eventually succumb to Pio’s insistence that she take one goddamned sip. “Just to wash the salt out of my mouth,” she’d say. A particularly salty nut might require two sips, but then her face would turn as red as Edgar’s after too much sun.
Lucy downed her beer. Florence’s departure meant a lot of terrible things—one of which was that Lucy needed to be a mother now, a job she’d been able to put off for years. Florence had been so much better at it. Lucy hadn’t even wanted a child, but Frank had been insistent. “It’s time,” he kept saying. And then when she’d finally given him one—within a year, he was gone.
The sadness in her belly pulsed like a second heart. Luckily, the gentle buzz of the beer and the lingering bloom of Percocet kept the harshest realities muffled. She grabbed another bottle from the fridge and walked upstairs.
At some point, she’d have to look through Florence’s room—not for the photographs Edgar had asked for, but for things that had real value. She’d need to find the will, though surely there’d be no surprises there. The house was Edgar’s. What the old woman had in the bank Lucy wasn’t sure. The jewelry,
for the most part, was junk. She’d been an idiot to let Florence go down wearing that diamond engagement ring. She should have slipped it off the old woman’s finger when no one was looking.
Her cell was ringing. She stood in the doorway of her dark bedroom and watched it glow on the nightstand. With each ring, a breath of weak light suffused the air, as if the call were coming from the bottom of the sea—or the grave.
She clicked on the lamp, in need of a cigarette. When she couldn’t find the pack she kept at the front of her nightstand drawer, she dug deeper, excavating the rolled-up Pogues T-shirt shoved to the back. They were a band Frank had liked; he’d often played them during sex.
Lucy placed the T-shirt on the bed and unrolled it. The vibrator hidden inside had become a faithful friend—but it seemed ridiculous now, like a rubber chicken or a set of wind-up dentures. Lucy lifted the thing and shook it (it had a slight wiggle factor). She laughed and shook it harder. When the dick slipped from her grip and fell to the floor, she blanched, thinking of Edgar’s finger.
The phone was ringing again. This time she answered it.
“Why are you calling so late?”
“It’s not that late,” the butcher said. “Were you sleeping?”
Lucy said that she was, and the butcher apologized. “You know, we were all waiting for you yesterday at the—”
“I know, I’m sorry. It was … not a good day.”
“I’ve called, like, twenty times. Are you okay? Everyone was worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“How’s the kid doing?”
“He’s not your kid, Ron.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
They were both quiet now. Lucy sat on the bed and closed her eyes. The butcher, in boxers, stood by his living room window. Neither hung up.
“You guys need anything?” the butcher ventured.
“Why are you calling, Ron?”
“I don’t know.” He scratched his belly. “I was feeling you.”
“Feeling me? Are you drunk?”
“No. Are you?”
“I have a sick kid here—what do you think?”
“You need to relax.”
“I don’t have time to relax.” Lucy reclined on the bed.
“I really was feeling you.”
“Stop staying that. That’s a friggin’ Santana song. I hate Santana.”
“The man’s a genius. Why, who do you like?”
Lucy pulled the Pogues T-shirt from under her thigh. “I don’t have a favorite band. What are we, in high school?”
“Yeah, why not? You could put on a little cheerleader skirt for me.”
Lucy was still wearing the gray slacks gifted by Florence. Slowly, she slipped them off, anticipating the butcher’s agenda.
“What are you wearing right now?” he asked.
“I’m naked,” Lucy replied flatly.
They were quiet again. Lucy worked off the rest of her garments, bringing reality up to speed with her lie. The butcher looked at the sky through his window—and though he rarely noticed such things, he considered the colors of the stars. They weren’t all white. Some were a little yellow, some a little red. He touched his crotch.
“Are you outside?” he asked Lucy.
“Why would I be outside?”
“I don’t know. I can hear the wind.”
“My window’s open.”
“Better shut it before you go to sleep. Supposed to frost tonight.”
“It’s not even October,” Lucy grumbled.
“I know,” the butcher said. “Why don’t you put your finger in your pussy?”
He said it simply, and Lucy liked the sound of his voice, the deep, thuggish rumble of it.
“You got it there?”
“Yes,” Lucy said. She wasn’t lying.
The butcher rubbed himself through his boxers. “Are you wet?”
“Taste it,” Lucy said—and the butcher made an exaggerated slurp.
“Rub your clit.”
“Are you hard?”
“This isn’t about me,” the butcher said. “Get that finger in deeper.”
Lucy did as she was told.
“Now take it out and pinch your nipples.”
Lucy moaned even before her hand reached her chest. “Bite them,” she said.
The butcher growled. “I’m devouring those fucking pink fuckers.”
Lucy shivered and pinched as the voice in her ear went hoggish with desire. “Mmmm-ahhhh-rah-rah-rah-rah-schllluuuup.”
He teased her, making her go back and forth between her nipples and her crotch. His words were not terribly original, but the timbre of his voice and his unabashed growls and slurps threw Lucy into a panic of thrusting, digging for something she’d lost, something she needed to find.
Finally, he fucked her hard—or so he said—and his grunting increased.
“Yes,” she said. “Do it. Fuck me, you fucking ape.”
He took no offense. To the contrary, Lucy’s words seemed to inspire him, and he gave her more of what she needed, became more of a beast—but there was no cruelty, only a wild and devouring kindness. In fact, when the animal next broke from its gutturals and offered human words, it said it was kissing her. “Mmmmmm, yeah. Kissing that beautiful fucking mouth of yours.”
“Yes,” Lucy said as she worked her finger deeper. “Kiss me.”
The butcher complied with absurdly wet, fruit-eating slurps.
“Grunt,” she demanded. “Grunt.”
“Ghhhuuurrrr-rah.”
“Oh my God,” cried Lucy.
“Yes,” the butcher said. “Get it, get it, make it pop.”
With her eyes closed, she began to feel the weight of the man on top of her, and when she came, she lifted her head and stretched her tongue into his invisible mouth, her whole body shivering under the burning presence of a man who wasn’t there. She turned her head into the pillow to muffle her cry. Frank had often put his hand over Lucy’s mouth, laughing, saying, “Shhhh, shhhh, my mother.”
But the old woman was gone, and the kid downstairs was blotto from drugs. Lucy allowed herself one last uncensored cry.
“Fuck,” she said, with the innocent ardor of a child uttering its first word.
The butcher sighed, for he’d spent himself, too—mostly in his hand, but a little had splattered the curtains, which he was now wiping with his boxers.
“Marry me,” he said.
Lucy swallowed; opened her eyes. “Very funny.”
Silence.
“I’m not kidding. I want you to marry me.”
Lucy stiffened, feeling a mixture of fury and mortification.
“Are you there?” the butcher said.
Lucy paused for only a moment, before hanging up the phone.
* * *
Downstairs, Edgar was still sleeping, his face damp with sweat. Gently, she lifted him, carried him to his room. She was too tired to change the bandage (once a day, the doctor had said), but at least she’d get him undressed. When she slipped off his long-sleeved jersey, she noticed the pale blue lines on his arm. For a moment she was worried that some sort of infection had set in, something to do with his finger. She turned the arm toward the night-light, and then dropped it in horror. A ghostly blur of letters seemed to spell out the word Superslut.
It was like something from The friggin’ Exorcist. And it was hard not to take the demon’s name-calling personally. Lucy threw a blanket over Edgar and backed away.
She had to stop taking the kid’s Percocet; it was making her crazy. In her own room she retrieved the dildo from the floor and tossed it out the open window.
22
Salvashon
The Chanel bottle was black, and the Virgin had lost her head. The wedding portrait showed seared streaks, giving the impression of shadows—unseen beasts moving toward a young Florence and Pio.
“What’s that?” Edgar said of a gooey patch of ash that resembled a flattened crow.
“Underwear,” replied Luc
y.
“Whose underwear?”
“Your grandmother’s. Her bloomers.”
Edgar touched the remains with a clothes hanger. “How did they—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Lucy said briskly. “Let’s just clean this place up, okay?”
Edgar opened the Chanel N° 5 and sniffed. Luckily the fire had done no damage to the fragrance.
With the old woman’s fabric shears, Lucy cut the burnt branches from the ficus. She tossed the fried scraps into a garbage bag, then reached for the body of the Virgin.
“Don’t throw her out,” said Edgar.
“It’s broken, honey.”
“We can glue it.” The way his mother was chucking things, right and left, into a black plastic bag was making him angry. “Don’t you have to go to work?” he asked.
“I’m off today.”
“You always work on Saturday.”
“What did I say? I’m off. I took the day off. Are you gonna help me or not?”
As the two of them tried to spruce things up, they saw that it was hopeless. The wall needed to be repainted; the curtains, replaced; the antique bureau was beyond repair. Ash had drifted everywhere, like the molted wings of insects; when you tried to wipe them up, they crumbled, leaving behind tarry blurs. Lucy and Edgar did the best they could with a vacuum and some rags. “I’ll get a painter next week, “Lucy said. “Maybe we could make this into an exercise room or something.”
“You don’t exercise,” Edgar reminded her.
“I should,” she said, turning to the window. The butcher had been right about the frost. The lawn and bushes were glazed with white. It had been the same for the past three days, a deep morning freeze followed by brilliant sun. Lucy and Edgar had left the house only once since Thursday—a quick drive to Edgar’s school so the boy could drop off some homework. “You’ll be excused,” Lucy had told him—but the boy had begged, claiming if he didn’t turn in his extra-credit assignment to Mr. Levinson on time, it wouldn’t be counted. It was creepy, thought Lucy, to see the boy at his desk, scribbling his homework under a haze of narcotics.
Ron had phoned several times since the night of the phone-bone marriage proposal, but Lucy hadn’t taken his calls. Her cell was on vibrate now, and she could feel it buzzing again in her pocket.
* * *
Glancing at the burnt bureau, the Virgin’s former resting place, Edgar was troubled by the absence of candlelight. His whole life, he’d known this room to exist under the constant vigilance of a small flame in a blue glass cup. The room was dead now, and, by extension, the entire house—as if the pilot light that empowered everything had gone out.
Edgar and Lucy Page 20