The Executor Part 33

"... I'm sorry."

"Oh, I don't care. I have my earplugs. But you always used to sleep like a log."

I said, "I guess I'm stressed."

"I'm sorry. Is there something I can do?"

I shook my head, which in movement felt large and dense and graceless and above all suffused with heat. The room-my visual field-they were still rippling, and I began to sway drunkenly.

"I'm going to sit in the living room," I said.

She looked at me.

"It's the stovetop," I said. "It's making the whole room stuffy."

Without waiting for her response, I got up and left the room and took a seat on the sofa, staring at the empty fireplace. It might as well have been going full bore; the small of my back felt humid and so did my armpits and I untucked my s.h.i.+rt. My feet, too, seemed swole up, too big for my shoes, which I kicked off, flexing my toes in discomfort. The drunkenness was intensifying, and along with it came a truly unnerving sensation of my mind slowly migrating outside my skull, so that my thought process was happening a foot in front of me, and that when I turned my head my awareness followed on a delay, drifting like a buoy.... To release the heat building up under my s.h.i.+rt, I undid the top b.u.t.ton, rolled up the sleeves, and finally pulled it off, and that was when I became conscious of Yasmina, watching me from the doorway.

An aura surrounded her, golden and lambent.

"Honey?"

I stared at her, fascinated.

"Honey, you ..." She did not sound like her usual self. "Do you want a drink?"

"I'm not thirsty." I said it but then realized that I was thirsty; very thirsty, in fact, thirstier than I had ever been. But I didn't want to ask her for anything or do anything to alarm her further. I wanted to be left alone, to keep very still until the room slowed down.

"You should check on the stew," I said. My words had a close echo, like I was speaking into a paint can. "You don't want it to boil over."

"What's going on with you," she said.

"Of course I'm okay," I said.

Silence.

"That's not what I asked," she said.

I said nothing.

"You look ..." she said.

"I look what."

"Nothing," she said.

Silence.

"I think you should go to the doctor," she said.

"I'm not going to the doctor."

"It doesn't look like it's getting any better." Timidly, she approached. "It looks infected."

"You're not a doctor," I said. I gathered my mind, made a bulwark against this attack of hers.

"That's why I want you to go see one."

"I don't have any coverage."

"Go to UHS."

"I'm not a Harvard student."

"I thought Linda said she would reinstate you."

"She said she'd think about it."

"You can't just ignore it."

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm letting it heal."

"But it's not healing."

She was standing close to me now, and I could feel her body radiating heat. I edged away from her, toward the end of the sofa. "Will you leave it alone? Please? Leave it alone."

"There's a free clinic a mile and a half from here."

"Yasmina-"

"Or go to the emergency room. They have to take you. It's the law. Here," she said, bending toward me, "let me have a look."

She plucked at the gauze and it was a faceful of nettles and I seized away from her and flew back over the arm of the sofa as though jerked by a harness; I landed on my arm and got up, reeling down the hallway.

"G.o.ddammit. " "

"s.h.i.+t. Oh, s.h.i.+t. I'm so sorry."

"I told you to leave it alone." alone."

"Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay, that hurt." hurt."

"I didn't mean to-"

I slammed the bathroom door. My face in the mirror was glossy with sweat. I hadn't taken the gauze off in several days, and as I peeled back one corner I saw a thumb-sized patch of flesh, hysterically swollen and red, so sensitive that I had to bite down to prevent myself from crying out as I removed the rest of the dressing.

"Joseph?"

"Hang on a minute."

I tried to trim myself a new piece of gauze, but I couldn't hold the scissors straight and I was afraid of stabbing myself in the wrist. I let the scissors drop to the floor and tore off a ragged strip, good enough.

"Can I come in?"

The tape got stuck to itself. I wrung it in frustration; it twisted into rope.

"Are you okay?"

"Just-hang on."

As I put the new dressing in place, I inadvertently pressed down on the hot spot, sending a spike through the entire right half of my head. Everything capsized, but I stayed up, gripping the sink.

The door started to open. "Joseph-"

"Not now. "

Silence.

The door closed.

Six ibuprofen, dry-swallowed: they caught in my throat, it was like sc.r.a.ping asphalt all the way down, and as I cupped sink water I saw my palms blotchy. My arms, too. And my chest, and my neck; all of me, I was speckled pink and white. I drank. The heat was back within seconds, and, shutting the medicine cabinet, I saw not me but him, his little smile.

h.e.l.lo.

And I lurched down the hall to my office, where I lay on the bed, sweating into the duvet, until it began to feel like lava against my back, and I got up and threw open the window, letting the cold night air stream over me like mercy itself. I began to plan, ignoring Yasmina's voice calling me for dinner until I heard her coming down the hall, heard my name, heard her pause at the threshold.

"What are you doing," she said.

"Working," I said.

"Joseph," she said. "Come away from there."

"I like it here."

"You're going to get sick."

The horizon canted; I righted myself against the sash. Brother, was it ever hot in here. "I'm working, Yasmina." It appeared that I was stuttering. It's my teeth, I thought, they're chattering. That they should chatter when I felt so hot was strange. Everything was strange. Why was she looking at me in that way. I lunged toward the doorway, causing her to cringe and leap back.

"Wait-"

I shut the door, locked it, leaned against it, listening to my blood. She was knocking, the rat-a-tat of her knuckles against the door rapid and insistent and telltale. I unb.u.t.toned my pants and kicked them off. G.o.d, it was so intolerably awfully hot, hottern two mice hump in in a wool sock. Even the outside air wasn't helping anymore, and so I tugged off my drawers. Still no relief. I was on fire. My face was on fire. My face hurt. Pressure behind my right eye, I wanted to gouge it out. She was talking, it was driving me mad. Why wouldn't she leave me alone? I had worries to worry, plans to plan. I walked in circles. Why did he come here, he had to have a reason. We have reasons for what we do: reasons are what make us different from other animals, they're the core of decisions, which are the core of our ability to choose, and hence our freedom. Without reasons we are machines. Was he a machine, he looked like a machine. Maybe he was a machine? But he had a photograph. She was his mother, she gave birth to him, machines didn't reproduce that way. Maybe she was a machine, too. Maybe we all were. I was a robot who looked and sounded exactly like myself but who was a halfway decent writer. He was a.n.a.lyzing me with his camera eyes: he had built-in apparatuses. I thought of his smile and then I thought of the pen, of course: the pen. the pen. He took the pen because it had my fingerprints on it. He was goofing on me, getting me to write down my phone number: he didn't need my number; he had it already; my number was his and it was up. Well I'd show him. I knew what I would do, it was foolproof. I would wait for him. I would follow him, study him until I learned his patterns and habits, better than he knew them himself, I would educate myself. I would find the right moment and then I would act to quiet him, thereby reducing the total overall risk I faced. Life is full of risk, one can never be risk-free, but one can certainly mitigate the forces acting against one, and that was what I would do. I would act to protect myself. Somewhere in a small, dark room there were small, dark men laying small, dark plots against me, I would not be their plaything. There existed the possibility that they already had the pen in their possession, but that problem was not insurmountable, because fingerprints are made of skin and skin can be removed. I put my hands against the woolen blanket and began to sand away, I would do this one thin layer at a time. It didn't seem to be working, though, and I searched the room on my hands and knees for something rough with which to exonerate myself. Underneath the bed near the baseboard I found a leftover piece of gla.s.s, a fragment painted in orange houndstooth, and with its longest edge I began systematically to shave the soft pad of my left thumb, one thin layer at a time. It wasn't working, was it? I scrutinized. My thumb was red but the ridges and whorls were still very much intact, so I investigated the possibility of perhaps slicing off a layer parallel to my thumb. All it did was bleed, though. I felt nothing, the nerves wired for pain were all jammed with signals from my face, so I sat there grinning at my own blood, watching as it trickled down my wrist and into the crook of my elbow and pooled on the floor. I was thinking I had so much planning to do. I wanted to plan as far ahead as possible, but it was impossible to concentrate with her making noise like that. Listen to her. Honey. Please. What's going on here? Please open up. I'm scared. You're scaring me. Please. I love you. I know you love me. I don't know what's going. Let me know you're okay. I'll leave you alone if you say something. Don't do this to me. Please. I want it to be better. You're going to be okay. Everything is. I promise. I can help you. Let me help you. Please open up. Please don't stay locked in there all night. And on and on and on and on and you only wish she would stop talking. Shut up. Shut up. You can't stand it anymore, just shut up and let it be, shut up. Listen to how scared she sounds. It's nothing compared to what you feel, though. You feel capable of anything. You need silence so you can think. Put down the gla.s.s and stand up and walk again in circles, covering your ears to wall her out. Shut up. The anger inside you has teeth; is it its own living thing, independent of you. You are merely a host to it. Shut up, please shut up. If she doesn't shut up, you might have to do something about it. Please shut up. You might have to bash her brains in. You wouldn't enjoy it, but it's all you can think about right now. Once upon a time you loved her but now there is nothing but fear, fear and heat and pain and the pressure of a billion vises, and standing at the closet, you reach for your good old friend, cold and heavy, the coolness of it feels wonderful pressed against your molten skin, hug him close. Things don't work out, do they. Shut He took the pen because it had my fingerprints on it. He was goofing on me, getting me to write down my phone number: he didn't need my number; he had it already; my number was his and it was up. Well I'd show him. I knew what I would do, it was foolproof. I would wait for him. I would follow him, study him until I learned his patterns and habits, better than he knew them himself, I would educate myself. I would find the right moment and then I would act to quiet him, thereby reducing the total overall risk I faced. Life is full of risk, one can never be risk-free, but one can certainly mitigate the forces acting against one, and that was what I would do. I would act to protect myself. Somewhere in a small, dark room there were small, dark men laying small, dark plots against me, I would not be their plaything. There existed the possibility that they already had the pen in their possession, but that problem was not insurmountable, because fingerprints are made of skin and skin can be removed. I put my hands against the woolen blanket and began to sand away, I would do this one thin layer at a time. It didn't seem to be working, though, and I searched the room on my hands and knees for something rough with which to exonerate myself. Underneath the bed near the baseboard I found a leftover piece of gla.s.s, a fragment painted in orange houndstooth, and with its longest edge I began systematically to shave the soft pad of my left thumb, one thin layer at a time. It wasn't working, was it? I scrutinized. My thumb was red but the ridges and whorls were still very much intact, so I investigated the possibility of perhaps slicing off a layer parallel to my thumb. All it did was bleed, though. I felt nothing, the nerves wired for pain were all jammed with signals from my face, so I sat there grinning at my own blood, watching as it trickled down my wrist and into the crook of my elbow and pooled on the floor. I was thinking I had so much planning to do. I wanted to plan as far ahead as possible, but it was impossible to concentrate with her making noise like that. Listen to her. Honey. Please. What's going on here? Please open up. I'm scared. You're scaring me. Please. I love you. I know you love me. I don't know what's going. Let me know you're okay. I'll leave you alone if you say something. Don't do this to me. Please. I want it to be better. You're going to be okay. Everything is. I promise. I can help you. Let me help you. Please open up. Please don't stay locked in there all night. And on and on and on and on and you only wish she would stop talking. Shut up. Shut up. You can't stand it anymore, just shut up and let it be, shut up. Listen to how scared she sounds. It's nothing compared to what you feel, though. You feel capable of anything. You need silence so you can think. Put down the gla.s.s and stand up and walk again in circles, covering your ears to wall her out. Shut up. The anger inside you has teeth; is it its own living thing, independent of you. You are merely a host to it. Shut up, please shut up. If she doesn't shut up, you might have to do something about it. Please shut up. You might have to bash her brains in. You wouldn't enjoy it, but it's all you can think about right now. Once upon a time you loved her but now there is nothing but fear, fear and heat and pain and the pressure of a billion vises, and standing at the closet, you reach for your good old friend, cold and heavy, the coolness of it feels wonderful pressed against your molten skin, hug him close. Things don't work out, do they. Shut up. up. Things are what they are until they aren't any longer. You have changed and changed again, you are a creature constantly evolving. Who can say when these transformations occur? Think about your brother. Was that fair? Think about the house and the money and the jewelry, was that fair? Sometimes the inequity lists in your favor; sometimes not. The universe moves and it moves you, the future pulling with inexorable gravity. You wonder if it is true, if you might actually harm her, and then you are small and curled and shaking, babbling to yourself as she pounds at the door, holding your friend by the neck, willing her to leave you be. You stay there until she gives up with an angry kick and you release him and he falls languidly to the floor and you fall, too, right there. Where you remain, and in some infinitely small time you dream Things are what they are until they aren't any longer. You have changed and changed again, you are a creature constantly evolving. Who can say when these transformations occur? Think about your brother. Was that fair? Think about the house and the money and the jewelry, was that fair? Sometimes the inequity lists in your favor; sometimes not. The universe moves and it moves you, the future pulling with inexorable gravity. You wonder if it is true, if you might actually harm her, and then you are small and curled and shaking, babbling to yourself as she pounds at the door, holding your friend by the neck, willing her to leave you be. You stay there until she gives up with an angry kick and you release him and he falls languidly to the floor and you fall, too, right there. Where you remain, and in some infinitely small time you dream

dream of a horse being whipped to death

waking to the moonlight streaming lucid through the open window and you are unclothed with a fist in your chest and your groin dripping and above all pain, obliterating the right half of the world, your brain a champagne bottle shook up ready to pop and as you move howling to the bathroom vertigo sends you cras.h.i.+ng into the door. Your face is thick. Your cheek explodes every second. Get it off. It hurts. You must get it off. You cannot hear her, she is so far away, but she's calling your name as you grope for the lightswitch. See your reflection through a one-dimensional haze.

"Oh G.o.d."

In the doorway, her hands at her throat, looking at you. Nothing can conceal it, not anymore. Red and turgid, the inflamed rump of an animal in heat. Along your neck below your bulging jaw a b.l.o.o.d.y thumbprint where you earlier left evidence of yourself.

"Oh G.o.d. Oh my G.o.d. I'm calling an ambulance. Where are you going. Joseph. You can't go out like that. Wait. Wait." Wait."

Outside stroll naked through the snow. You expect it to be cold underfoot but it's not so bad. In fact, it feels warm, with a pleasant beachy crunch. You dip your hands in the snow to see if it will remove the texture of your fingerprints, but to no avail, oh, well, keep on going, go on, walk.

Some distance away your name is being called.

Ignore it.

Maybe the brick of the sidewalk will work? But no. Your hands are bleeding again. This isn't going to work. You need professional help. They can do amazing things with surgery.

Your name again, farther away.

A siren whines.

You're almost there.

The tall hospital winks a thousand white eyeblinks.

They all blur together into one.

A sliding door, a wet rubber mat, a room full of people, good evening ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.

The woman at the desk sees you and coming out of her chair breathlessly says the name of the Lord G.o.d.

[image]

"-FEVER UNDER CONTROL FIRST."

"Okay."

"Quite honestly it should never have been allowed to get to this stage."

"I had no idea-oh. Oh, no. Joseph."

Head up.

"Relax."

"Sit back, honey. You have to sit back."