said. “I just thought you could have a look around.”
This was when my panic started: a pounding in my head & heart, a chill down my spine. Out of my house, I wanted to say. Out, out, out. Instead I sat down abruptly on my couch. The girl blinked.
“Can you come back another time?” I asked.
“You still have to pay for today,” said the girl. “That’s part of the deal.”
“I paid Home-Maid over the phone already,” I said. “It’s all taken care of.”
I wondered suddenly if I should tip her.
She shrugged and hoisted her purse up higher on her slight shoulder. “You’ll call?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, but I intended to call Home-Maid before then and tell them not to send her anymore. Her or anybody.
When she was gone my house felt very empty as if it had noticed for the first time its own neglect.
I needed consolation so I made a feast for myself. Cookies made from coconut and macadamias and white chocolate. A bowl of peanut M&M’s. A few bagels, coated obscenely with seeds and grains and tasty little granules of salt. Bagels, laden with heavy coats of butter and cream cheese, and topped with a lonesome tomato slice, red & bleeding with juice. A pitcher of whole milk with a tall glass next to it. An Oreo-crusted chocolate cake. Three hamburgers and potato salad and creamed spinach that I had delivered from the diner on Seventh Avenue. I warmed the spinach on my stove. I put a dollop of cream cheese in the center of it. White in a sea of pearly green.
I gave myself permission to eat all of this & felt the thrilling release that such permission delivers. A soft little munching sound escaped me and immediately I tensed; I hate hearing myself. I do not talk to myself. I do not have conversations with myself in my home, the way I imagine some people do. It’s silly. My own voice repulses me.
Suddenly I remembered why I love very much to be alone, why I love to be utterly alone in my own quiet house, & love not to be looked at.
I had a very entertaining book to read. I turned on the radio & just by good luck it was Michelangeli’s version of a prelude by Debussy called “La fille aux cheveux de lin” which always calls to mind a specific memory of summertime.
In this moment I was happy.
•
When, later, the phone rang, I leapt for it as best I could.
“Arthur Opp,” I said, but no one was there.
“Hello? Hello?” I said. All I heard was breathing. Beyond that, the low hum of something like a refrigerator. Hearing it opened some old familiar chasm of need in me & allowed an unbearable loneliness to penetrate me just for a moment, just for the time it took me to appreciate the invisibility of the caller, the fact that it could have been anyone, anyone on the other end, but then the line went dead.
• • •
For several days I have been waiting for Charlene to reply to my confessional letter. To pass the time I have been watching television, reading, pacing, cooking, eating, writing, & examining the picture that Charlene sent me of her son.
Charlene herself I remember as shy, quiet, blithe, small, curious, & observant. Therefore these were the qualities I automatically attributed to her boy as well until I looked closely at his picture, which made me reconsider my first impression. He is a different sort of boy altogether.
It is very strange to look at him. He is a portrait of potential energy. He is holding a bat. He is a big fair boy very determined to succeed. His batting helmet is casting a shadow over his left eye. His torso is a loaded spring, his forearms flexed and ready, his wrists cocked precisely. A fine blond fur on his arms is catching the sun. He is wearing a green and gold uniform & on the front of it I can see the letters G-I-A-. The background of the shot is blurry. He looks as if he might swing at the photographer. He looks like an athlete.
I can tell he’s a dreamer. He fears things. The death of his mother, perhaps, or his own death. Disobedience. Authority. He is trustworthy but he doesn’t trust others. In his heart there is bravery & cowardice. He is a baby & a man. His face is a boy’s face. His face is a crystal ball.
I am