The Fall of Never(29)

After regaining composure, she climbed back out of the woods and up the steep embankment toward the house. She was nervous and shaking, like a small child coming out of a horror movie, and twice she nearly lost her balance, almost sending her rolling back down the hill.

She reached the top with some difficulty. Her heart was working overtime and she was practically out of breath when she stood and looked back down at the woods. A mix of confusion rushed through her body—the embarrassment of her soiling herself coupled with the vision of the limping dog. And though the urination disturbed her greatly, something about that dog bothered her even more.

Because that dog wasn’t real. I don’t know why I know this, but it’s true. That dog wasn’t real, yet I just saw it limping along. I heard it howl in pain as it disappeared into the woods. Saw it, heard it—this thing that wasn’t really there.

Or was she just losing her mind? This urination thing was nothing new—had been happening to her for some time now—along with her constant anxiety.

It’s like standing on the edge of the world and watching it all end, she thought. It’s just a matter of time before it ends for me too.

She leaned up against the house to catch her breath. Above the wooded valley the sky looked gunmetal gray, pregnant with storm. Still catching her breath, she pulled away from the house and stared up at Becky’s bedroom window.

What the hell is going on around here?

The window was open.





Chapter Nine


Early evening, and the bus was crowded. Carlos Mendes sat, his eyes unfocused, his hands slowly wringing the unread newspaper on his lap. It was raining, and as the bus trundled along through the cluttered streets, he listened to the rain patter peacefully against the window next to him. The small Hindu woman beside him shouted something at her little boy, who spilled a bag of Skittles on the floor, then started to cry.

Think about something else, he thought. And he did: he thought of getting home in time for dinner with Marie and his mother. He imagined the kitchen smelling of stir-fry, of grilled onions and scalloped potatoes and those sliced tomato wedges covered in cheese Marie sometimes made. He would have some wine with supper, something dark from the Russian River Valley. And afterwards, maybe a cigar or two out on the back porch. He was fairly certain he had an unopened box of Macanudo miniatures hidden in an old margarine container toward the back of the refrigerator. And then—sleep. No thought; just sleep. He’d wrap his arms around Marie’s body and pull up against her, just the way he liked it. You are a little child, Marie would say—she always said that when he curled up around her—but she would laugh quietly to herself. Because she liked it too.

Thinking of Marie made him smile. Even after such a strenuous day. Even after what that old woman in Room 218 had said about Julian, about their unborn baby…

You see? There you go again—thinking of crazy, crazy things. You are like a superstitious old woman!

But she had known the baby’s name…

No!

He turned away from the small boy (he was bending forward in his mother’s lap, trying to touch the rolling tide of candy that he’d spilled) and looked back out the window. Yes, he thought, dinner would be nice. Very nice.



And it was. There was no stir-fry, no potatoes or cheese-covered tomato slices. Instead, there was grilled salmon, doused in butter and lemon and garlic cloves, and there was wine and there was a box of cigars hidden at the back of the refrigerator.

Marie hummed while she set the table, was in a pleasant mood during dinner, and picked up her tune again once it was time to clear the dirty plates away.

“You look tired,” his mother said to him. She limped on her bad leg over to where he stood, rooting around in the junk drawer for a book of matches. “I worry about you.”

“Don’t worry, Mamma.”

“Ahhh,” she scolded, “trabajas demasiado.”

“I work when I’m needed. I don’t make my own hours, Mamma, you know that.”

“Still, you look very tired.”

“You wanted me to be a doctor, remember?”

“I wanted you to be a plastic surgeon,” she corrected. Then she smiled wearily and patted the loose flesh at her chin. “This way you fix this. Now I look like a big, gray-haired turkey.”

“You don’t look like a turkey, Mamma.” He found the matches, glanced around for Marie (she had disappeared into the small laundry room off the main hallway), and slipped the book into his pocket.

“And smoking,” his mother said. “These are the things I teach you, right?”

“We’re all going to die at some point,” he told her.

“Marie said you quit.”

“I did. Before. Anyway, I’m not smoking cigarettes.”

“Oh, then.” Sarcasm. “Maybe next week you start up with the heroin, with the marijuana and cocaine.”

“Mamma.” You couldn’t reason with the woman. Instead, he opted for changing the subject. “How’s your leg?”

She waved her hand at him and ambled to the kitchen sink. “Llaga,” she said, turning the water on and hunting for a dishrag.

The rear porch was cold but quiet. He lit one of the Macanudos, inhaled, and blew the smoke out over the porch railing. He lived in a renovated Long Island brownstone just five blocks from the neighborhood he grew up in. Five blocks—but such different worlds. Not that they were living high on the hog now, but he did all right for himself and his family, and that was all that mattered. There were times as a child when he’d have to go down to Smitty’s and buy a wheel of electrical tape to mend his sneakers. Rubber soles only had so much life in them. Between him and his three brothers, they became good at finding ways to help objects—particularly clothing—live past their life expectancies. But not anymore.