Big Swiss(6)

“Something terrible happened to this Swiss person,” Greta said.

A little color returned to Sabine’s cheeks. Her only sustenance lately was gossip, especially if it involved money and real estate, and most of Om’s clients had both. Sabine lit another cigarette.

“It’s only been hinted at,” Greta said. “But it seems this person took a terrible beating—”

“In the real estate market?”

“Physically,” Greta said.

Sabine’s face went back to gray. She only seemed to eat actual food on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and Greta had never seen her drink a glass of water. Granted, their water came from an ancient well and smelled like toe jam.

“Eat one of those donuts I bought at the gas station,” Greta said.

“I’d rather eat ice,” said Sabine.

Anorexics eat ice, Greta thought. They love ice, can’t get enough of it. In fact, they actually crave ice, don’t they? Because it contains iron?

“Does ice have iron in it?” Greta asked.

“No,” said Sabine. “But a lot of anemics chew ice. I forget why. I think it makes them feel… alive, or alert, or something.”

Greta suspected Sabine was anorexic—both traditionally and sexually. She hadn’t been laid since her divorce. Romantic relationships seemed to utterly repulse her, and sex wasn’t worth the trouble of making small talk. She’d lost twenty pounds in three months, though that was just a guess, as the only articles of clothing Sabine wore were a pair of off-white overalls and an oversize moth-eaten sweater. Anorexia was about control, Greta remembered having read somewhere, and Sabine lived in chaos. Perhaps exercising control over what she allowed into her body made her life feel less crazy.

“What day is it?”

“Monday,” said Greta.

“I should score us an eighteen-dollar steak,” Sabine said.

Mondays were meat. Tuesdays, cheese. Wednesdays, yogurt, milk, and occasional flowers. Thursdays, fruits or veggies. Weekends were nothing—too many tourists, too many witnesses. But Sabine only stole from super-rich farmers who gouged their customers and were dumb enough to rely on a cash box—the so-called honor system—and she didn’t really care who knew about it.

“Are you anorexic?” asked Greta. “You can tell me.”

“I’m too old for that shit,” said Sabine. “I probably have lung cancer. Or some other cancer. I just hope it kills me quickly.”

“If it doesn’t, I’ll put a pillow over your head while you’re sleeping,” Greta said. “And then sit on it or whatever.”

“You’re a good friend,” said Sabine seriously.

“I don’t think it’s cancer,” Greta said. “I think it’s Lyme.”

“If I hear that word one more time…,” said Sabine.

They didn’t have Lyme disease in California, so when Greta first started transcribing for Om, she’d assumed everyone was talking about limes. Were these limes from outer space? They seemed to have abducted everyone in town and taken over their brains.

Greta was itching to get back to Big Swiss. In the recent past, if Greta didn’t excuse herself right around now, Sabine would talk both of Greta’s arms off, and then both of her legs, until Greta was twitching on the floor like one of the bees. Sometimes it was necessary to back out of the room slowly while Sabine was still talking, and then do an about-face and run to her room. But Sabine’s gabbing had tapered off once the bees started dropping dead.

“Do me a favor,” Greta said. “Choke down one of those donuts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Sabine.



* * *



GRETA STEPPED OUTSIDE TO FETCH PI?ON, as well as three logs from the woodpile. The only source of heat in her room was a woodstove with a busted damper. The damper was stuck and would not close. Yes, she’d tried banging it with a hammer. One, two, three times. The flue remained wide open. Consequently, the fire in her room was never mellow and romantic, but rather an angry, raging inferno. The inferno demanded to be fed every three hours, and if Greta didn’t obey, it burned out completely and she had to start from scratch. This made sleeping through the night impossible. It was also dangerous—a chimney fire seemed imminent. Luckily, their only neighbor was a fire station.

Greta wrestled the logs into the stove and brushed the dirt off her filthy kimono. Pi?on jumped onto the bed with his muddy paws. Last week she’d pushed her desk toward the middle of the room, which was a little warmer. Any day now, Sabine would bring down a box of heavy drapes from the attic and nail them over all the windows, and Greta would work in near darkness. Such was the hardscrabble life in the Dutch House in the Big Woods. She liked to think of herself as a Laura Ingalls Wilder type, i.e., feisty and resourceful, but, if anything, she was more like the blind sister.

She donned her headphones and tapped the foot pedal.


OM:?You have a dog?

FEW:?Yes. His name is Silas, and he’s terrifying.

OM:?You’re frightened of your own dog?

FEW:?Me? No. He’s terrifying to other dogs—and their owners.

OM:?What do you love about him?

FEW:?My dog? He likes to hold hands. He dislikes kissing.

OM:?Is that also true of you?

FEW:?Yes.