Last Exit to Brooklyn - Hubert Selby Jr (13 page)

Harry knew she would still be awake when he went to
bed. The tv was still on but Harry wasnt watching it. Eventually the
cigarette was too short to allow him to take another drag. He dropped
it in the ashtray.

Mary rolled over onto her back when Harry came into
the room. She said nothing, but watched him undress—Harry turning
his back toward her and piling his clothes on the chair by the
bed—Mary looking at the hair on the base of his spine, thinking of
the dirt ingrained in the callouses on his hands and under his finger
nails. Harry sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, but it was
inevitable: he would have to lie down next to her. He lowered his
head to the pillow then lifted his legs onto the bed, Mary holding
the covers up so he could slide his legs nnder. She pulled the covers
up to his chest and leaned on her side facing him. Harry turned on
his side facing away from her. Mary rubbed his neck, his shoulders,
then his back. Harry wished takrist she/d go to sleep and leave him
alone. He felt her hand going lower down his back, hoping nothing
would happen; hoping he could fall asleep (he had thought that after
he got married he would get used to it); wishing he could turn over
and slap her across the goddamn face and tell her to stop—krist,
how many times had he thought of smashing her head. He tried thinking
of something so he could ignore her and what she was doing and what
was happening. He tried to concentrate on the fight he saw on t v
last friday where Pete Laughlin beat the shit out of some fuckin
nigga and had him bleedin all over the face and the ref finally
stopped the fight in the 6th and Harry was madashell that he stopped
it . . . but still he was conscious of her hand on his thigh. He
tried remembering how the boss looked last week when he told him off
again—he smiled twistedly—that bastard, he cant shove me around.
I tellim right to his face. Vice President. Shit, He knows he cant
fuck with me. Id have the whole plant shut down in 5 minutes—the
caressing hand still there. He could control nothing. The fuckin
bitch. Why cant she just leave me alone. Why dont she goaway
somewhere with that fuckin kid. Id like ta rip her cunt right the
fuck outta her.

He squeezed his eyes shut so hard they pained then
suddenly rolled over on Mary, hitting her on the head with his elbow,
squeezing her hand between his legs as he turned, almost breaking her
wrist—Mary stunned for a moment, hearing more than feeling his
elbow hit her; struggling to free her hand; seeing his body on hers;
feeling his weight, his hand groping for her crotch . . . then she
relaxed and put her arms around him. Harry fumbled at her crotch
anxious and clumsy with anger; wanting to pile drive his cock into
her, but when he tried he scratched and burned the head and he
instinctively stopped for a second, but his anger and hatred started
him lunging and lunging until he finally was all the way in—Mary
wincing slightly then sighing—and Harry shoved and pounded as hard
as he could, wanting to drive the fucking thing out of the top of her
head; wishing he could put on a rubber dipped in iron filings or
ground glass and rip her guts out—Mary wrapping her legs around his
and tightening her arms around his back, biting his neck, rolling
from side to side with excitement as she felt all of his cock going
in her again and again—Harry physically numb, feeling neither pain
nor pleasure, but moving with the force and automation of a machine;
unable now to even formulate a vague thought, the attempt at thought
being jumbled by his anger and hatred; not even capable of trying to
determine if he was hurting her, completely unaware of the pleasure
he was giving his wife; his mind not allowing him to reach the quick
climax he wanted so he could roll off and over; unaware that his
brutality in bed was the one thing that kept his wife clinging to him
and the harder he tried to drive her away, to split her guts with his
cock, the closer and tighter she clung to him—and Mary rolled from
side to side half faint with excitement, enjoying one orgasm,
another, while Harry continued driving and pounding until eventually
the semen flowed, Harry continuing with the same rhythm and force,
feeling nothing, until his energy drained with the semen and he
stopped suddenly, suddenly nauseous with disgust. He quickly rolled
off his wife and lay on his side, his back toward her, and gripped
the pillow with his hands, almost tearing it, his face buried in it,
almost crying; his stomach crawling with nausea; his disgust seeming
to wrap itself around him as a snake slowly, methodically and
painfully squeezing the life from him, but each time it reached the
point where just the slightest more pressure would bring an end to
everything: life, misery, pain, it stopped tightening, retained the
pressure and Harry just hung there his body alive with pain, his mind
sick with disgust. He moaned and Mary reached over and touched his
shoulder, her body still tingling. She closed her eyes, her body
relaxing, and soon went to sleep, her hand slowly sliding from Harrys
shoulder.

Harry could do nothing but endure the nausea and
slimy disgust. He wanted to smoke a cigarette, but was afraid, afraid
that the slightest movement, even the taking of a deep breath, would
cause him to heave his guts up; afraid even to swallow. So he just
lay there, a sour taste in his throat; his stomach seeming to be
pressuring against his palate; his face still buried in the pillow;
his eyes tightly squeezed shut; concentrating on his stomach, trying
to think the pressure and foul taste away or, if not, at least
control it. He knew, after years of fighting it, losing each time and
ending up hanging over a bowl or sink if he was lucky enough to make
it there, that this was all he could do. Nothing else would help.
Except crying. And he was no longer able to cry. He had many times,
locked in a bathroom or on the street after running from the woman he
had been with, but now the tears no longer rilled from his eyes, even
if he tried relaxing and allowing them to, his eyes just ached,
feeling swollen and damp, unrelieved, just as the pressure at his
throat remained constant and unrelieved. He just lay there ... if
only something would happen. He clutched harder at the pillow;
clenched his jaw tighter until a piercing pain in his ear and a spasm
in his neck muscles forced him to relax. His body jerked slightly,
involuntarily. Nothing broke through or even slightly grayed the
darkness; his eyes were shut and his head was jammed in the
hemispherical blackness, the boundaries unseen, unfelt, to Harry
nonexistent. It was just black.

He tightened the muscles in his toes until they
cramped, the pain increasing; trying to concentrate on the pain
enough to forget everything else. His toes felt as if they would
shatter and his feet started to cramp, then the calfs of his legs,
and still he didnt relax his muscles until the pain became unbearable
and he wanted to scream and only then he relaxed but the muscles
remained tightened and he had to direct all his energy to the
relaxing of the muscles before the pain killed him. His calves still
ached, though they started to loosen slightly, but his feet felt as
if they were going to twist and bend back upon themselves and his
toes felt as if they were going to snap. His ears and neck started
paining again from the clenching of his jaw-one thing though
accomplished, he was no longer aware of the nausea and disgust, of
the pressure against his throat and the taste of bile—his ears and
neck pained though he was only vaguely aware of it. His calves
loosened a little more and slowly the muscles relaxed until his feet
and then his toes started to straighten and he then became aware of
the ache in his jaw, then that too started slowly to lessen and
eventually the cramps and pains disappeared and he loosened his grip
slightly on the pillow and lay there, enervated, sweating, feeling
for a moment nothing but weakness, then slowly aware of his throat
and stomach, the disgust and nausea forcing themselves upon his
consciousness again. If something would happen . . . tears pounded
against his eyes but couldnt force their way through, something . . .
anything . . . krist. jesus fuckin krist. He allowed his eyes to
open—the tears still pounding behind his eyes. His eyes focused on
the bureau: there were two large knobs, a smaller one above, another
large one to the side; a wall. His eyes started to smart from sweat.
He wiped his face against the pillow. He turned his head slightly
until he could see the ceiling. Now his vision reached to an end. The
ceiling was there. The walls were there. No mysteries. Nothing
hidden. There was something to be seen. It had an order. His eyes
felt better. No longer felt pinched. No longer afraid to look. Now he
had to move. The pressure must have gone down. It was still there,
but it must have lessened. It must have. Should be able to move. He
swallowed . . . again ... his throat burned with the bitterness. He
lay completely immobile. Not breathing. Stomach bubbling, trying to
erupt. Throat pulsating. Burning. He swallowed again . . . breathed.
Shallowly. Eruption subsiding slightly. Throat quieting. Still
burning. Swallowed . . . breathed . . . slowly pulled his legs up . .
. let them slide over the side of the bed. Sat up slowly. Not
breathing. Contracting his nostrils. Sucking air gently between his
teeth ... he stood. Rubbed his face . . . went slowly to the parlor.
Sat down and lit a cigarette and stared out the window. Smoked.
Nothing on the street. No one. Car parked across the street, empty.
Lit a second cigarette from the first. Throat burned, but stomach
relaxing. Nausea no longer critical. Still there though. Foul. Mouth
tasted foul. He sat and smoked. Stared. Eyes damp. Aching. No tears.
Dropped the cigarette in the ashtray. Rubbed his face. Went back to
bed. Stared at the ceiling until his eyes started to close. If
something would happen. What? What? What could happen?? For what?
About what? His eyes burned and watered. Couldnt keep them open. His
body started to loosen. His head rolled slightly to one side. He
adjusted his body. Still hadnt looked at Mary. Hadnt thought of her.
His body twitched. He brushed his face against the pillow. He moaned
in his halfsleep. Soon he slept.

The Harpies swooped down on Harry and in the darkness
under their wings he could see nothing but their eyes: small, and
filled with hatred, their eyes laughing at him, mocking him as he
tried to evade them, knowing he couldnt and that they could toy with
him before they slowly destroyed him. He tried turning his head but
it wouldnt move. He tried and tried until it rolled back and forth
but still the eyes glared and mocked and the gigantic wings beat
faster and faster and the wind whirled around Harry and his body
chilled and he could sense their large sharp beaks and feel the tips
of feathers as they brushed his face. He tried to slide down the rock
but no matter how often he did he was still on the top with the wind
whirling and the Harpies screeching, screeching and above the roar of
the wind and the screeching he could hear his flesh being ripped from
his belly, could hear the sharp tearing sound prick its way into his
ears and then he heard his screams and the Harpies slowly, very
slowly tore bits of flesh from his belly then slowly tugged as the
long strips of flesh were pulled from his body and he yelled and
rolled over and over and leaped up and ran, tripped and tumbled down
the rock yet he was still on top of the rock and the Harpies still
mocked him as they tore the flesh from his belly, his chest, and
scraped their beaks on his ribs and suddenly thrust their beaks into
his eyes and plucked them from their sockets and he heard the plop,
plop of his eyes leaving his head and the screeching of the Harpies
increased until he no longer could hear his own screams and he kicked
and punched at them yet his body refused to move and all he could do
was lie still as they once again, and again, over and over started
ripping the flesh from his belly and chest, scraping his ribs and
once more plucking the eyes from his head

and he was alone on a street looking, turning slowly
around in a circle, looking, looking at nothing. Everything was
endless in every direction until there were walls that seemed to be
moving on an eccentric rod and the walls came closer together, still
rolling in half circles and Harry still turned in a circle and the
walls came closer together and Harry yelled and started crying yet it
was silent not even the walls making a sound as they approached each
other and Harry ran until he hit a wall and was in the middle of the
diminishing room and he could feel the slate smoothness of the walls
as they touched his arms, the back of his head, his nose, and the
wall slowly crushed him

and his eyes rolled and bounced up the hill and Harry
stumbled after them trying to find them, picking up stones, pebbles
and burrs and trying to force them in the empty sockets and he spit
out the stones and yelled as the burrs tore the already bleeding
sockets and he continued to stumble up the hill and occasionally the
eyes would stop and they would look at each other with a gigantic
stare and wait until Harry almost touched them then continued to roll
up the hill and Harry jammed two more burrs into the sockets and
screamed as they ripped the lids and he screamed louder and louder as
he twisted the burrs trying to get them out, his bloodied hands
preventing him from getting a firm grip on them and his screams were
louder and louder until he finally did scream and he sprang up in bed
and opened his eyes waiting years for the wall and the chest of
drawers to be recognized.

Mary stirred slightly and
Harry held his head with his hands and moaned. The nightmare wasnt
always exactly the same but after it was over it always seemed as if
it had been. Year after year Harry would bolt up in bed occasionally,
near dead with terror, trying to shove the weight off his chest so he
could breathe and then slowly some familiar object would be seen and
he would know he was finally awake. Again his eyes swelled but no
tears flowed. He sat for many minutes then slowly lowered his head
back to the pillow, wiping his face and head with his hand then
covering his eyes with his arm.