The Executor Part 11

"Mothaf.u.c.ka." Navel was coming at me, arms out like a zombie, dragging Non-Navel, who had her by the leg. "Mo. Tha. f.u.c.k. A."

Down a stairwell, skidding turns, slamming walls, daylight ahead; moving fast until a ghastly howl of pain brought me up short.

"Wait!" Non-Navel appeared, out of breath. "Heah," she said, pressing a piece of paper into my hand. "Call me?"

WITH THE HELP of a bus stop map, I determined that I was in Arlington, five miles northeast of Cambridge. I set out on foot, repeatedly glancing back in expectation of one or both women barreling down the sidewalk after me. Stores were open; it was long after nine, and I felt sick, having missed breakfast with Alma. I picked up the pace, jogging along until I found a cab.

I came in via the back porch and tiptoed to my bathroom. As I scrubbed away smoke and grime, I thought about Navel and her accusations. If anything had happened, Eric was surely to blame, although I suppose in her mind that made me guilty by a.s.sociation. What, exactly, had he stolen? Her purse? Phone? Drugs? Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with me. I groped indignantly for bits and pieces of the previous evening, feeling sick all over again when I got ahold of them. I saw a drinking game at the girls' apartment, everybody down to underwear; remembered grasping something sweaty and fleshy and not knowing to whom it belonged ... Had we all been in the same room? Had it been that bad? I could never know for certain, but whatever had taken place could not be revoked; it would stand between us eternally. I wanted to vomit. I was was guilty-not of theft but of lowering myself. I stood indicted in my own eyes: I'd done as he had done, I had made myself his equal, and I hated myself for it. guilty-not of theft but of lowering myself. I stood indicted in my own eyes: I'd done as he had done, I had made myself his equal, and I hated myself for it.

In the kitchen, Alma had put out a plate of herring and a mug of black coffee.

"Good morning, Mr. Geist. I trust you had a nice party. I thought you might require this."

Cheeks burning, I sat down to my Katerfruhstuck. Katerfruhstuck.

13.

There are few places more beautiful than Cambridge in its blooming days, days all the lovelier for the preceding months of misery. For Alma, however, whose attacks were triggered by heat, the spring thaw meant a greater likelihood of being knocked flat by pain. Twice in three days she failed to come down for breakfast, and when it happened again a few days later, I dialed Dr. Cargill. Her advice-wait it out-left me restless and dissatisfied, and to occupy my mind I set about making Alma some lunch, which I put on a tray and took upstairs. Her bedroom door was closed. Hearing nothing, I decided not to knock but to put the tray down, allowing her to take what she would whenever she was ready. I started downstairs again, then stopped and looked back. The tray was a few inches from the door. What if she came outside and stepped right into the food? Or worse: tripped and fell down the stairs? I nudged the tray back a few feet. But what if she was too exhausted to make it all the way over to the tray? I nudged it closer. But what if the food spoiled, sitting out here on the landing? She might get salmonella. I picked up the tray; I would take it downstairs and leave it in the fridge. But what if she was hungry and needed food and couldn't call out to me? What if she did call out and I didn't hear her? Sandwiches didn't go bad, did they? I used to bring my lunch to school and keep it in my desk, where it sat all day long, fermenting. But I was a kid back then, I had a robust immune system, I never got sick. The elderly were especially susceptible to food poisoning. They could die. It was a curse, having these factoids at my disposal . . . But Alma was healthy. Sort of. But this. But that. Up went the tray; down it went; back it went, then forth. Finally I began to worry about waking her with all my futzing around, so I left the tray where it was, halfway between close and far, and went back down to the kitchen to call the doctor again. When I got there, though, I couldn't bring myself to do anything. I didn't want to cry wolf. I had to trust that her chosen course of action (i.e., inaction) was best. But she had said to call anytime.

But but but but but.

As I stood there, arguing with myself, my finger poised over the keypad, the doorbell rang. I hurried to answer it before the noise woke Alma.

Eric stood on the front porch, leering at me in a way that confirmed everything I'd feared. We were connected now, whether I consented or not.

"Hey," he said. "Is my aunt around?"

"She's not feeling well."

"One of her . . ."

I nodded.

"That's too bad."

I said nothing.

"Cause I was kind of hoping to see her."

"She's not up for that."

"Hm." He smiled, as though it was my duty to move the conversation along.

"Was there something else I could help you with?"

"I need to see her," he said. "It's important."

"She's resting."

"No, I know. You know what, though, I think I'll wait for her."

"It could be hours."

"Right."

"And," I said, "and she needs it quiet."

"Okay."

A silence.

"So you'd really be better off coming back."

"Look, man, I'm not going to throw a party. It's hot as h.e.l.l out here." And he brushed past me, crossing the living room toward the kitchen. I followed.

"Can I get some water?" he asked.

"Help yourself."

He started opening all the wrong cupboards.

Annoyed, I fetched him a gla.s.s.

"Hey, thanks."

He drank, animal lapping sounds. When he faced me next his s.h.i.+rtfront was wet.

"Told you it was hot." He tossed me the empty gla.s.s. "But it's always cold in here, right?" He laughed, then lifted the plastic cake cover, beneath which sat the remaining third of that week's Sachertorte. Sachertorte.

"That looks fantastic. Lemme get some of that?"

With the thinnest composure, I handed him a plate and utensils.

"Nice," he said, cutting a big slice. "She loves her chocolate. She used to order it from Switzerland."

I indicated the bars on the counter.

"Really? She still does that?"

"So it would seem."

"d.a.m.n," he said, shaking his head. "Some things never change, huh."

"I guess not."

"You guess not." He laughed again. "You guess right."

He bent to take in a forkful, knots of spine poking up beneath his T-s.h.i.+rt. I realized with repulsion that it was the very same s.h.i.+rt he'd worn that night in the bar. Whether it had been washed since, I could not tell.

Correctly made, Sachertorte Sachertorte is too dry to eat on its own; unsweetened whipped cream makes the traditional accompaniment. We had a bowl in the fridge, but I didn't mention it, leaning against the counter with my arms folded, advertising indifference. is too dry to eat on its own; unsweetened whipped cream makes the traditional accompaniment. We had a bowl in the fridge, but I didn't mention it, leaning against the counter with my arms folded, advertising indifference.

The truth was otherwise. For although I hated the way he had barged in, disrupting my solitude, making me self-conscious by reminding me of our drunken escapade; hated his impertinence (lemme get some of that); (lemme get some of that); hated what he stood for, the part of Alma to which I had no access, the knowledge that I was a visitor here-while all that was true, it would be an oversimplification to say that I hated hated what he stood for, the part of Alma to which I had no access, the knowledge that I was a visitor here-while all that was true, it would be an oversimplification to say that I hated him, him, or wanted him gone. At many points I could have denied him entry. I could have refused to let him in the house. I could have ordered him to leave once he'd finished drinking or eating. I didn't, because another part of me still sensed in him an opportunity for information. And I admit that I am not immune to the purely chemical effects of charisma. I could no more deny it than pretend that the night in Arlington had never happened: I wanted him to like me. or wanted him gone. At many points I could have denied him entry. I could have refused to let him in the house. I could have ordered him to leave once he'd finished drinking or eating. I didn't, because another part of me still sensed in him an opportunity for information. And I admit that I am not immune to the purely chemical effects of charisma. I could no more deny it than pretend that the night in Arlington had never happened: I wanted him to like me.

He pushed the plate away, wiped his mouth on his wrist. "You're a philosopher."

I nodded.

"That's cool. She must love that. Huh?"

I shrugged.

"I mean ..." He pa.s.sed his hand over his head, laughed again. "You know? I never did get any of that stuff."

"Is that right."

"Oh, sure, yeah. I have learning disabilities. I mean, she used to get really frustrated with me."

I thought of something Alma had said during our first conversation. It is a terrible thing to be stupid. It is a terrible thing to be stupid.

"How long did you live with her?" I asked.

"Nine years."

"Did you like it?"

He smiled. "I was a kid. What was I supposed to do?"

"Has she always been sick?"

"Ever since I've known her." He paused. "She used to wake herself up. I'd hear her walking around upstairs, two, three in the morning. Sound familiar?"

I nodded.

"Must be rough," he said. "On you, I mean."

I shrugged.

"Sometimes she would scream in her sleep. Does she still do that?"

Horrified, I shook my head.

"For a while she did it every couple of nights." He toyed with the crumbs on his plate. "The first time it happened, the neighbors called the cops. They thought someone was being stabbed to death."

Silence.

"That sounds ... difficult," I said.

"It's messed up, is what it is." He smiled. "What can you do, though."

I said nothing.

"So," he said. "You're in the back room. That used to be my room."

Alma hadn't mentioned it. I stiffened. "Is that so."

"You know the thingamajig on the window? The painting or whatever you call it? The pattern on his hat matches the fur on the deer."

"That's interesting," I said.

"You ever notice that?"

I felt silly shaking my head.

"No?"

"I don't look at it that often," I lied.

"Yeah," he said. "Check it out the next time. Or, you know what-"

He stood up and walked out.

I couldn't exactly yell at him to stop. I got up and went after him.

"See?"

Having entered my room without permission, he was now standing by the leaded window, gesturing like a game-show host. "Check it out."

I wanted to resist, but curiosity had gotten the better of me. I crossed the room. Lo and behold, the hunter's cap and the deerskin were both rendered in the same orange houndstooth.

"I always liked that," he said.

I nodded.

We stood as one, admiring the art.

"Man, I used to hate it back here. She'd lock me in to punish me. But, hey." He laughed. "That's a long time ago."

I said nothing.