“Six o’clock for cocktails. Seven for dinner. But come earlier if you want.”
“Great!”
“Oh, and one more thing, darling. I’m only setting one extra plate.”
Saraub’s pulse throbbed in his temples. “How’s that?”
“Only you.”
He took a breath. Thought about telling her he wanted to come home for a night, and have a meal cooked, and be loved, and safe, and treated like he was special. He thought about telling her Audrey was gone, and he was the most down he’d ever been in his life. “You know that won’t work, Mom,” he said instead.
There was a long silence. He counted to ten. The silence continued. Always a game with her. Always about winning, because she was so sure she was right. His father, when he’d been around, had softened her. After he died, she turned into a frightened, clinging person, and even for his younger sisters, home stopped being home.
“I should go,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you my good news.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Come for dinner. I miss you. And we should talk about your trust fund, too. I’ve added to it, but I haven’t put it in your name. Tax reasons.”
He winced, and remembered now, why they’d stopped talking. It hadn’t just been about Audrey. “I miss you too, Mom. Take care of yourself, and call me if you need me.” He didn’t say good-bye; he just hung up.
When he got off, his head was pounding. The apartment was veiled in a layer of filth. He shoved the clothes from the table, so they landed in a heap on the floor. In the kitchen, he mixed a large, crusty bowl with flour, milk, and eggs, and fried it in butter so that it resembled a huge pancake. It tasted like the stuff inside a horse’s feedbag, but some syrup did the trick, and soaked up the acid in his stomach. When he was done, he looked around the home he’d made with Audrey, with its empty space where a piano had been, and punched another hole through the wall.
8
Everything Old Is New Again (Rats!)
Monday morning, Audrey woke with a start. Her alarm clock read 3:18. She jumped up from the air mattress. Her throat! The man! The swarming ants!
Heart pitter-pattering, she rubbed her eyes and spun around the room like a windup toy. Her body was wet. Was it blood? Was she dead? No, it was sweat. Her black cotton trousers were soaked through. She felt uneasy, ashamed. A dream?
And then her cheeks turned crimson. Something was really wrong. Her thighs itched, and were too hot. She inspected the coat she’d slept under, and the wet mattress, and her crotch. Her breath came fast. She didn’t want to believe it. She hadn’t done this since Hinton.
But the smell. The heat. Oh, God.
The piano bench was askew, so she righted it—exactly hip distance from the keys. Her ballet flats were scattered, so she placed them next to each other, then on top of each other, then next to each other, then willed herself to drop them. The muscles of her face contracted into quiet sorrow. Saraub. The nightmares, and now, good grief, she’d pissed the bed!
She took a breath. Then another. One! Two! Three! Four!
(And Mami makes Five!)
She swiped the air mattress with a wet rag, peeled off her pants, and headed for the shower. Her wrist ached. Something sore and tight. She looked at it, then sighed with disappointment: she’d been so out of sorts last night that she’d fallen asleep wearing her watch. Its knob had worn a welt into the bone there. She unclasped the steel band and freed her inflamed skin, then glanced at the time. 10:05 A.M.
What!
She scrambled to the turret. Chiaroscuro shadows rushed as she ran so that the stained-glass birds looked like they’d been freed and were crashing against the walls. It was so dark in here—how could the sun have risen already? But when she got to the window, she saw that her watch was correct. It was midmorning. She’d slept twelve hours for the first time since…her hash-smoking days back out west. Down below, college kids rushed toward Columbia University, and throngs of Manhattanites disappeared into the sooty mouth of the 110th Street subway.
The alarm clock, she realized, was dark. Why had she thought it read 3:18 A.M.? She picked it up and found the problem. Its wire had been severed. Not cleanly sliced, but ragged, so that pieces of copper hung loose like Shredded Wheat.