Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,18

rose from my bed.

I performed all of my morning ablutions very carefully for Yolanda was arriving at eleven.

At 10:30 I sat down on my sofa & placed the phone on my lap. I lifted the receiver & dialed Charlene’s number, which I memorized the first time she gave it to me.

The phone rang seven times & I had nearly given up hope when suddenly I heard a sort of clatter on the other end.

“Hello,” she said, after taking a little breath.

“This is Arthur,” I said.

A second pause, this time longer.

“Charlene?” I said.

“This isn’t Charlene,” said Charlene.

“I’m sorry?” said I.

“Wrong number,” said Charlene, & then she said it again, & then she hung up the phone.

I looked at the receiver in my hand for a long time. The dial tone came out at me viciously. I considered looking up her number & trying her again, but there was no point—I knew it had been Charlene on the other end. I also knew certainly, this time, that she was drunk or drugged or something of the sort. It made me heartsick & I did not know what to do.

At eleven Yolanda came. I fear I was short with her. I had a group of thoughts whirling through my mind in turn, involving the emotions of shame (for in sending her such an honest letter, I had made Charlene my confessor, and it seemed to me that her refusal to talk to me was an act of rejection) and fear (for her safety; for her health; for her son). Then while Yolanda was vacuuming the living room I brushed up against her accidentally in the process of making my way to the bathroom. I certainly didn’t mean to, & I was horrified when it happened—I always make very sure not to come anywhere near her. I shouted, “Sorry! O I’m sorry,” and drew in my stomach immediately, though ineffectually, but she didn’t respond.

• • •

I happened to be looking out the window today right at the time Yolanda arrived. And when she arrived she did so by Vespa again & this time I saw the driver. He got off and they kissed goodbye. He was young, about her age, and meatheaded. Large muscles & that sort of thing. He was small in stature but taller than her. He was tattooed; I could see one creeping up his neck from under the collar of his coat. A scrawling blue script. When he took his helmet off I saw he had a tight short haircut like a Marine.

They spoke for a moment while he sat on the seat of his bike & she stood before him. Then she leaned in to him and he put his arms around her and they stood like that for a while silently & I did not like the look on his face. Then she turned away from him & trotted up my stoop and he called after her & she waved him off playfully. He kept watching her.

She rang the bell and I went to the door & hesitated to open it because of the young man outside but when I opened it he was already driving away.

“Hi,” she said, and came right in & tossed her purse on the floor by the door, already very much at home. “I guess I’ll start upstairs today?”

“Well—” I said. “Well.”

I felt the need to make lots of excuses for the state of the upstairs but I couldn’t really think of any that would not call attention to my weight. Which does not need to be called attention to. So all I said was that I thought it was probably very dusty and I apologized.

Without waiting for me to say anything else, she went to the kitchen and got her bucket of cleaning supplies and then trotted gaily up the stairs & for the first time I noticed that she looked like someone in love.

I heard by her footsteps that she had gone all the way to the top floor & I wondered what she would find.

Meanwhile I sat up very properly on my couch. I cannot move myself around quickly so every time she has been here I’ve been careful with what I’m doing & watching & reading & eating. She could catch me at any time doing anything. So while she is in my house I generally don’t have anything to eat, nothing at all. Today I tried to read at first but my eyes wouldn’t focus on the words