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fact, that it was better that I just go home and take a couple of days off to
recuperate. Margaret said she'd call Lisa, explain the situation, and tell
her
to expect me shortly. Alan wondered aloud why Lisa had even let me out the
door.
I assured them that I could call Lisa myself. They proceeded to usher me out
of
there with expressions of measured distaste smeared uncomfortably across
their
faces. It was no better--in fact, it was worse--on the train ride home. Could
I
possibly look or smell so bad? Was my rage, my embarrassment, my humiliation,
so
obvious?
The first thing I did when I entered my shabby little apartment was check the
time. It was only 10:30 A.M. The next thing I did was examine my face in the
bathroom mirror.
I was almost unrecognizable. My cheeks, my lips, and neck were swollen and
purple, shimmering and almost translucent except for the red, peppery patches
of
rash scattered across my face. My bloodshot eyes were almost swollen shut. My
forehead was a protruding field of pustules. Every time I opened my mouth, a
stringy mass of mucus appeared, as thick as a finger and as long as my mouth
could open to accommodate it.
And there was that smell again.
I lay down on the damp and crumpled bed sheets and fell into a restless,
vision-laden sleep. I don't know how long that sleep lasted. I was not in a
clock-watching frame of mind when I finally awoke to find my room veiled in a
special kind of darkness that had nothing to do with the world outside my
windows. I stumbled
138
around the apartment, sometimes failing to recognize a wadded mass of my own
clothes piled on a chair, or sometimes recognizing features in that luminous,
deeply shadowed semidarkness that I should not have recognized at all. I
looked
into the bathroom mirror once with the hot fluorescent lights on, but the
figure
in that mirror was still draped in mist and shadow. All I could see clearly
was
a head, which was far too large--lopsided and edged with creases and nodules.
When I leaned in close to decipher the features, darkness swallowed the
entire
face.
I watched television--a Friday night lineup of sitcoms and cop shows. I was
unable to follow the dialogue or the plotlines, as though the events made no
linear sense, as though I was hearing a familiar language I had never
bothered
to learn.
I would occasionally run soft, fleshy palms over a bulbous, monstrous face,
and
open my mouth to let out a whimper or a whine. The sound that came out was a
long, fluttering wheeze that rose in pitch and shaped itself into a fragile,
beautiful melody before hissing away.
The next thing I remember is the phone ringing. It was bright out. A quick
look
at my hands and feel of my face told me I was no longer swollen.
It was Lisa.
"Donald? Is everything all right? Margaret Schuman called me last night to
ask
how you were. I guess you haven't said anything to them about ... us."
"I... no, I haven't."
"Well, don't worry. I didn't tell her, either. She says you left work sick
yesterday morning. She made it seem as though you were ... She paused. How
much
would Margaret have dared tell my wife? Obviously my boss had put her up to
this.
"As though I was what?"
"She seemed very concerned about you. Are you all right? You don't sound too
good."
"What the hell do you care, anyway?"
"Listen, Donald. Are you so set on this? I mean, were things all that bad for
you here? The kids miss you so much. Couldn't you even come home when you're
sick?"
139
"Home." The word came out as a long, bitter snort. "Oh, God, Donald. Please.
Don't be so stubborn. We need you here. The kids need you. I need you. We can
get you out of that stupid lease. ..."
"No."
"Well, at least let me come over and visit you."
"Not a fucking chance, Lisa."
"I thought maybe I could talk you into going to that party."
"What fucking party?"
There was a silence. She was losing it. How much longer could she actually
hold
out?
"Alan's secretary, Margaret. Remember? She's having a party. The one you--"
"Hey, look, sweetheart, I don't feel up to partying tonight. Why don't you
just
go there without me?"
"Donald, they're your friends. Not mine. I couldn't go there without you."
"Friends, are they? Just because I work with them? Don't make me laugh! They
all
hate my guts, do you know that? So you think they'd really invite me unless
they
thought it'd look too obvious or uncouth not to invite me? They're no better
than you, you little pig. You and your fucking, overstuffed little kids."
I could feel the shudder of disgust over the phone. It thrilled me enormously.
"Okay, Donald. We'll talk about this later. You know ... I've put up with ...
Dammit! You love making me feel like a fool, don't you? What do you want me
to
do? Cry? Beg? Listen, Donald, let's not talk about it. If you need someone to
talk to, just call your little friend, Margaret. Oh, and by the way, Donald,
the
kids could care less about you not being here. I don't think they'd even
notice
you're gone, except that you're not here to wake them up with your whiny
little
tirades at six in the morning." Click.
Click. Hmmm. The bitch! I'd give her a while to reevaluate it all. See where
you
stand in a week, Lisa! I collapsed back on the bed. I found myself thinking
about Margaret. So young and sweet and unattached. Suddenly a power surged [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]