I Live With You (5 page)

When the doorbell rings who else could it be?

You open the door.

“Are you Nora?”

“Yes?”

“I want to thank you.”

I knew it. I suppose he wants more money.

“But I want to bring your quarters back. That was kind of you but I don’t need them.”

You don’t know what to say. You suspect it’s all because of me. That I’ve, yet again, made your life difficult. You wonder what to do. He doesn’t look dangerous but you never can tell. You want to get even with me some way. You suppose, if he
is
dangerous, it’ll be bad for both of us so you ask him in.

He hobbles into your livingroom. You say, sit down, that you’ll get tea. You’re stalling for time.

He still holds the handful of quarters. He puts them on the coffee table. It’s hard for him to sit. Good the chair has arms.

You don’t know how those quarters got to him or even if they really are your quarters. “No, no,” you say, and “Where did these come from?”

“They were in my room with a note from you and this address. You said, Come for Christmas.”

You wonder what I’ll like least. Do I want you to invite him to stay for supper. Unlikely, though, since you only have one TV dinner and you know I know that.

“Somebody is playing a joke on me. But the tea….”

You need help getting started so I trip you in the hall as you come back into the room. Everything goes down. Too bad, too, because you’d used your good china in spite of how this man looks.

Of course he pushes himself up and hobbles to you and helps pick up the things and you. You say you could make more but he says, It doesn’t matter. Then you both go out to the kitchen. I go, too. Sidling. Slithering. The cat slides in with us. Both yours and his glasses are thick. I’m counting on your blindness. I squat down. He puts the broken cups on a corner of the counter. You get out two more. He says, these are too nice. You say they’re Mother’s. He says, “You shouldn’t use the Rosenthal, not for me.”

There now, are you both rich yet never use your money?

The cat jumps on the table and you swipe him off. No wonder he likes me better then you. I always let him go where he wants and I like him on the table.

You’re looking at our man—studying his crooked nose. You see what neither of us has noticed until now. The hand that reaches to help you, wears a ring with a large stone. Some sort of school ring. You’re thinking: Well, well, and changing your mind. As am I.

He’s too good for you. Maybe might be good enough for me.

We are all, all three, the same kind of person. In one way or another. When you leave in the morning, I’ve seen you look to make sure there’s nobody out there you might have to say hello to.

But now you talk. You think. You ask. You wonder out loud if this and that. You look down at your red and white striped shirt and wish you were wearing your usual clothes. I’m under the table wearing your brown blouse with the faint pattern of fall leaves. I look like a wrinkled up paper bag kicked under here and forgotten. The cat is down here with me purring.

It never takes long for two lonely people living in their fantasies to connect—to see all sorts of things in each other that don’t exist.

They’ve waited for each other all their lives. They almost say so. Besides, he’d have a nice place to live if… if anything comes of this.

I think about that black lacy underwear. That pink silk nightie. As soon as I have a chance, I’ll go get them. I might need them for myself.

But how get you moving? You’re both all talk. Or
you
are, he’s not talking much. Perhaps one look at the nightie might get things rolling. That’ll have to be for later. Or on the other hand….

I reach back to the shelf behind me and, when neither he nor you are looking, I bring out the sherry. You’ll both think the other one got the bottle out.

(You do.)

You get wine glasses. You even get out your TV dinner and say you’ll split it. It’s turkey with stuffing. You got it special for Christmas.

Of course he says for you to eat it all, but you say you never do, anyway, so you split it.

I’m getting hungry myself. If it was just you, I would sneak a few bites but there’s little enough food for the two of you. I’ll have to find another way.

You both get tipsy. It doesn’t take much. You hardly ever drink and it looks like he doesn’t either. And I think you want to get drunk. You want something to happen as much as I do.

Every now and then I take a sip of your drinks. And on an empty stomach it takes even less. With the drone of your talk, talk, talking, I almost go to sleep. But you’re heading upstairs already.

I crawl out from under the table and climb the stairs behind you. I’m as wobbly as you are. Actually I’m wobblier. We, all three, go into your bedroom. And the cat. You push the deadbolt. He wonders why. “Aren’t you alone here?”

You say, “Not exactly.” And then, “I’ll tell you later.”

(You’re right, this certainly isn’t the time for a discussion about me.)

First thing I grab our sexy nightie from the drawer. I get under the bed and put it on. That’s not easy, cramped up under there. For a few minutes I lose track of what’s happening above me. I comb my hair as you always have it, back away from your face. I have to use my fingers and I don’t have a mirror so I’m not sure how it comes out. I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips to make them redder.

The cat purrs.

I lean up to see what’s going on.

Nothing much so far. Even though tipsy, he seems shy. Inexperienced. I don’t think he’s ever been anybody’s grandfather.

(We’re, all of us, all of a piece. None of us has ever been anybody’s relative.)

You look pretty much passed out. Or you’re pretending. Either way, it’s a good time for me to make an appearance.

I crawl out from under the bed and check myself in the mirror behind them. My hair is a mess but I look good in the silky nightgown. Better than you do in your stipes and red pants. By far.

I do a little sexy dance. I say, “She’s not Nora, I’m Nora. I’m the one wrote you that note.”

You sit up. You were faking being drunk. You think: Now I see who you are. Now I’ll get you. But you won’t.

I stroke the cat. Suggestively. He purrs. (The cat, I mean.) I purr. Suggestively.

I see his eyes light up. (The man’s, I mean.) Now there’ll be some action.

I say, “I don’t even know your name.”

He says, “Willard.”

I’m on his good side because I asked, and you’re not because you didn’t. All this talk, talk, talk, talk, and you didn’t.

You slither away, down under the bed. You feel ashamed of yourself and yet curious. You wonder: How did you ever get yourself in this position, and what to do now? But I do know what to do. I give you a kick and hand you the cat.

Willard. Willard is a little confused. But eager. More than before. He likes the nightgown and says so.

I take a good long look at him. Those bushy eyebrows. Lots of white hairs in them. I help him take off his shirt. His is not my favorite kind of chest. He does have a nice flat stomach though. (I liked that about him from the start—back when I first saw him wobbling down the street.) I look into his green/gray/tan eyes.

But what about, I love you?

I say it, “What about I love you?”

That stops him. I didn’t mean to do that. I wanted to give Nora a good show. Of course it’s much too soon for any sort of thing that might resemble love.

“I take that back,” I say.

But it’s too late. He’s putting on his shirt. (It’s a dressy white one. He’s even wearing cufflinks engraved with W.T.)

Is it really over already?

I pick up the cat, hurry out, slam the door, and push the deadbolt on the outside, then turn back and look through the keyhole. I can see almost the whole bed.

Now look, his hands are… all of a sudden… on her and on all the right places. He knows. Maybe he actually
is
somebody’s grandfather after all. And you… you are feeling things that make your back arch.

He tells you he loves you.
Now
he says it. He can’t tell us apart. He’ll love anything that comes his way.

I have what I thought I wanted… a good view of something interesting for a change, except….

Actually I can’t see much, just his back and then your back and then his back and then yours. (How do they do that, still attached?)

Until we’re all, all of us, exhausted.

I go downstairs…. (I like how this nightgown feels. I’m so slinky and slippery. I bump and grind just for myself.)

I make myself a peanut-butter sandwich. I feel better after eating. Things are fine.

I might leave you milk and cookies. Bring it now while you sleep so I can lock you both in again. But I don’t suppose that lock will hold against two people who
really
want to get out.

I think about maybe both of you up in my crawl space. He’s taller than we are. He’d not like it. I think about your job at the ice-cream factory unfolding boxes to put the ice cream in. I wouldn’t mind that kind of job. You sit and daydream. I saw you. You hardly talk to anybody.

I think about how you can’t prove you’re you. You’ll go to the police. You’ll say you’re you, but they’ll laugh. You’re clothes are all wrong for the you you used to be. They’ll say, the person who’s lived here all this time dresses in mouse colors. You’ve lived a claustrophobic life. If you’d had any friends it would be different. Besides, I can do as well as you do, unfolding boxes. I’ve done the same when I had jobs before I quit for this easier life. I won’t be cruel. I’d never be cruel. I’ll let you live in the crawl space as long as you want.

Your daydream is Willard. Or most of him, though not all. For sure his eyes. For sure his elegant slim hands and the big gold ring. You’ll ask if it’s a school ring.

Or one of us will. He and I will get to know each other.

Then I hear banging. And not long after that, the crash. They break open the door. It splinters where the deadbolt is. If I’d put it in the middle of the door instead of at the top, it might have held better.

By the time the door goes down I’m right outside it, watching. They run downstairs without seeing me.

I look out the window. He’s leaving—hurries down the street with only one arm in his coat sleave and it’s the wrong sleave. Other hand holds up his pants. What did you do to send him off so upset?

I open the window and call out, “Willard!” But he doesn’t hear or doesn’t want to. Is he trying to get away? From you or me?

What did you do to scare him so? Everything was fine when I came down to eat. But maybe getting locked in scared him. Or maybe you told him to go and never come back and you threw his coat at him as he left. Or he thinks you’re me and is in love with me even though he told you he loved you.

But here you go, out the door right behind him. You have your coat on properly and your clothes all straightened up. You’re wearing your red leather pants. Now you’re the one calling, “Willard.”

You’d not have done that before. You’ve changed. You’ll take back your life. Everybody will make way for you now. You’ll have an evil look. You’ll frown. People will step off the sidewalk to let you go by.

I want for us to live as we did but you’ll set traps. I’ll trip on trip wires. Fall down the stairs in the middle of the night. There won’t be anymore quarters lying around. You’ll put a deadbolt on my door. Or better yet you’ll barricade it shut with a heavy dresser. Nobody will even know there’s a door there.

I made you what you are today, grand and real, but you’ll lock me up up here with nothing but your mousy clothes. Your old trunks. Your dust and dark.

I dress in the worn-out clothes I wore when I came. I pack the nightgown, the black underwear. I grab a handful of quarters. I don’t touch your secret stash of twenties. I pet the cat. I leave your credit cards and keys on the hall table. I don’t steal.

THE PRINCE OF MULES

W
HAT DO YOU KNOW
from the top of a hill but the lay of the land? I can see two little towns, one on each side, and—closer—a ranch. I see cowhides all along the fences. I see skulls over the gates. I know rattlesnake skins are there, too, and maybe a skunk pelt, but I can’t tell from here. There’s hardly any green except in thin lines coming down from the mountains, and a couple of irrigated pastures.

And there’s the irrigation ditchdigger, Blackthorn. Today he’s working just below my hill. I know it’s him. Who else would be out in a ditch, his clothes so black and floppy, letting himself get too hot in the middle of the day?

He has an ugly, brutal face. I don’t think he’s brutal but lots of people do. They distrust him because his eyebrows are too black and bushy and one eye is always off in the wrong direction. People think that eye is looking at something they can’t see—something they’re missing out on that might be important. Or beautiful.

They say he looks like a scarecrow but what he looks like is the crow. Eye, one of them, the blackish blue of crow’s eyes. Nose… not hooked like an eagle’s, but reaching straight out. That nose says: Go somewhere. Get away. Do something else.

I see his lips moving (of course not from up here, but when I pass by down there now and then). He’s always talking to his mule. I’ve heard tell you can talk softly to a horse but, when it comes to a mule, all you need to do is little more than mouth the words.