And later still, in the dead of night, when I’ve surfaced for a moment, I hear the cat, prowling the ink-dark well of the staircase.
Friday, November 12
82
Sun cascades through the skylight, whitewashing the stairs, pooling in the landing outside the kitchen. When I step into it, I feel spotlit.
Otherwise, the house is dark. I’ve drawn every curtain, closed every blind. The darkness is smoke-thick; I can almost smell it.
The final scene of Rope plays on the television. Two handsome young men, a murdered classmate, a corpse packed into an antique chest in the center of the parlor, and Jimmy Stewart again, all staged in what appears to be a single take (actually eight ten-minute segments stitched together, but the effect is pretty seamless, especially for 1948). “Cat and mouse, cat and mouse,” fumes Farley Granger, the net drawing tight around him, “but which is the cat and which is the mouse?” I say the words out loud.
My own cat is stretched along the back of the sofa, his tail switching like a charmed snake. He’s sprained his rear left paw; I found him limping this morning, badly. I’ve filled his bowl with a few days’ worth of food, just so he doesn’t—
The doorbell rings.
I jolt back into the cushions. My head twists toward the door.
Who the hell?
Not David; not Bina. Not Dr. Fielding, surely—he’s left several voicemails, but I doubt he’d show up unannounced. Unless he announced it in a voicemail I ignored.
The bell rings again. I pause the film, swing my feet to the floor, stand up. Walk to the intercom screen.
It’s Ethan. His hands are jammed in his pockets; a scarf is looped around his neck. His hair flames in the sunlight.
I push the speaker button. “Do your parents know you’re here?” I ask.
“It’s okay,” he says.
I pause.
“It’s really cold,” he adds.
I press the buzzer.
A moment later he enters the living room, frigid air chasing him. “Thanks,” he huffs, his breath short. “So freezing out there.” He looks around. “It’s really dark in here.”
“That’s just because it’s so bright outside,” I say, but he’s right. I switch on the floor lamp.
“Should I open the blinds?”
“Sure. Actually, no, this is fine. Isn’t it?”
“Okay,” he says.
I perch on the chaise. “Should I sit here?” asks Ethan, pointing to the sofa. Should I, should I. Very deferential, for a teenage boy.
“Sure.” He sits. Punch drops down the back of the sofa, quickly crawls beneath it.
Ethan scans the room. “Does that fireplace work?”
“It’s gas, but yes. Do you want me to turn it on?”
“No, just wondering.”
Silence.
“What are all these pills for?”
I snap my gaze to the coffee table, studded with pills; four canisters, one empty, stand together in a little plastic glade.
“I’m just counting them,” I explain. “Refills.”
“Oh, okay.”
More silence.
“I came over—” he begins, just as I say his name.
I steam ahead. “I’m so sorry.”
He cocks his head.
“I’m just so sorry.” Now he’s peering into his lap, but I press on. “For all the trouble, and for involving you. I—was so . . . sure. I was so sure that something was happening.”
He nods at the floor.
“I’ve had . . . it’s been a very hard year.” I close my eyes; when I open them again, I see that he’s looking at me, his eyes bright, searching.
“I lost my child and my husband.” Swallow. Say it. “They died. They’re dead.” Breathe. Breathe. One, two, three, four.
“And I started drinking. More than usual. And I self-medicated. Which is dangerous and wrong.” He’s watching me intently.
“It isn’t like—it’s not that I believed they were actually communicating with me—you know, from . . .”
“The other side,” he says, his voice low.
“Exactly.” I shift in my seat, lean forward. “I knew they were gone. Dead. But I liked hearing them. And feeling . . . It’s very tough to explain.”
“Like, connected?”
I nod. He’s such an unusual teenager.
“As for the rest—I don’t . . . I can’t even remember a lot of it. I guess I wanted to connect with other people. Or needed to.” My hair brushes my cheeks as I shake my head. “I don’t understand it.” I look directly at him. “But I’m very sorry.” I clear my throat, straighten up. “I know you didn’t come over here to see an adult cry.”
“I’ve cried in front of you,” he points out.
I smile. “Fair enough.”
“I borrowed your movie, remember?” He slides a slipcase from his coat pocket, places it on the coffee table. Night Must Fall. I’d forgotten about that.