Psychic Sue's answer about Nathan placated her for a while. It was, after all, the best one she had. As if to prove her point that Nathan was healthy now and happy, Sue passed along nagging messages from him. Don't wear so much black, especially close to your face; go swimming as often as you can; don't be afraid to scream; sing more; get back to making art the way you used to; stop drinking that brown stuff, it's bad for you; eat more orange food, orange foods are good; read more Faulkner; re-read
The Little Prince
before Christmas.
It was a strange list, not all of which made sense. She rarely had occasion to scream and it was winter, so swimming was a toughie. She thought about Faulkner a lot, but found the memory of him sufficiently inscrutable to keep her from trying to read him again.
But one day, in the second hand bookshop a few blocks from her house, she found a copy of
The Little Prince,
all out of order in the stacks. It seemed like a sign, and when she took it to the counter to pay for it, JW, the kindly owner, who always had a bit of sandwich in his beard, said, “Oh, you should just take that. Don't worry.”
And so she did. She nodded mutely, put her crumpled five-dollar bill back in her pocket, and slipped the slim paperback in after. She walked home in a daze, walked directly to the bathroom, closed the door with a deliberate click though she was alone in the house, sat down on the floor and began to cry great sobs that wracked her, that made her worry she wouldn't be able to stop, that the deep sadness she felt would overwhelm her, overpower her, sweep her â and everyone she loved â out into a hot and salty sea.
She read the book one night when sleep eluded her. She read it avidly, eagerly, attentively. If there was a message there for her, beyond the one that was there for everyone, if there was something there for her alone, for Leah from Nathan, she didn't see it. She wanted to, desperately, but she just didn't.
And now, from time to time on nights like this, nights when sleep once again played hard to get, Leah sat in the kitchen, Neil on her lap, and tried to think just what the message might be. She rocked and scratched and wondered and thought. The night wore on.
* * *
Charlotte finished another drink, put the empty glass on the bar decisively. “Well, Nervous Guy,” she said, as Nervous Guy's jaw dropped open, “I've gotta ride on outta here. Been nice talking to you.” She tipped her hat once more, turned on her heel and sashayed out of the bar.
* * *
Amanda ground her pelvis into Henry's. Across the dance floor, Johnny Parker looked up from a sea of blondes and gave Henry a smiling thumbs-up. Henry swallowed the despair that was beginning to rise in his throat, smiled back at Johnny Parker and returned Amanda's pressure. She looked up at him through her bangs with a look that made Henry's heart flip. No, to be accurate, it made his stomach swoop. Okay, to be truly honestly honest, he thought, it made his cock swell. Or maybe it was the grinding of her pelvis that was doing that. Either way, Henry thought, it's now or never.
He leaned down so his mouth was just beside Amanda's ear. Her hair smelled like flowers. He breathed in as if it was oxygen. He didn't
know what he'd done to deserve this, though he could hear Johnny Parker's drunken voice in his head telling him it was his birthright, it was what he was entitled to as a young, good-looking, single, guitar-playing god. He wouldn't believe it if Johnny Parker actually said it, and he sure wasn't about to take it from the voice in his head, but Henry was past caring what he'd done to deserve what he was about to receive. He cared only about receiving it.
“Wanna go?” he breathed into Amanda's ear.
“What?” she yelled.
Henry sighed, but was undeterred. “Wanna go?” he asked, louder this time.
“What?” she yelled again.
He stepped back from her ear, made eye contact. “Go,” he yelled. “Let's go!”
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Oh, okay. Let me tell my friends.” She looked over at Johnny Parker and his blondes. “Cherry!” she yelled. “Tina! I'm going!” She pointed at Henry, whose heart â no mistaking it this time, it was definitely his heart â dropped like an elevator free of its cables. Tina, Tina, Tina. Why couldn't she have been named Emintrude or Aloysius or some rare name he'd never heard? Those two syllables, the first creased his mouth into a smile, the last left his lips wanting hers. And where was Tina this fine night? Who was she making smile, whose lips were hers gracing? He felt that in his stomach, that was certain. He felt it like ice in his bowels. Her limbs, golden, all tangled up with some old codger's. Her hair on the pillow, flaxen, mixed with obscene grey. Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes. He staggered.
“Whoops, baby, watch out,” Amanda said, putting out a hand to steady him. She gripped his left buttock, squeezed. She grinned up at him, her blue eyes depthless, her lips pink and chapped.
Henry steadied himself, shook off her hand. “Okay,” he said, “I'm okay.”
Amanda pouted at him. “Your place?” he said, in a conciliatory tone.
“Yeah,” she said. “Looks like my roommates won't be home for awhile,” she gestured to the blondes.
“Okay,” Henry said. “So. Let's go.” He put his hand on Amanda's back, felt her muscles flutter under his fingers, remembered what he
was about. He steered her off the dance floor, to the door, and out to the street, where he gallantly opened the door of a waiting taxi and guided her inside. He climbed in next to her, put his arm around her shoulder, drew her close.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked. He had a long, dirty white beard and smelled of cabbage.
“Seymour Street,” Amanda said, leaning her head on Henry's shoulder.
See, he thought, this is nice. This is nice, human interaction. This is what's been missing from my life, he thought, this kind of nice, human interaction. He pressed his lips to Amanda's hair, let his hand creep down to her breast, cupped it, lingered there. She brought her hand up to his, rested it, her fingers lining up with his.
The cab lurched forward, flinging them toward the plastic shield that divided front seat from back. “Whoa, buddy,” Henry said, bracing himself against the shield, one arm still around Amanda. “You okay?” he said to her. She nodded.
The cabbie grunted and gave the car a bit more gas. He drove with utterly straight arms; seat maximally pushed back, arms relentlessly straight, hands gripping the wheel rigidly at twelve and two. Henry looked at Amanda, rolled his eyes. She giggled and snuggled into him a little closer. He leaned down toward her till he could feel her breath on his face.
“What do you think would happen if I kissed you?” he asked.
She giggled again and said, “I don't know.”
“Want to find out?” he asked, lips just centimetres from hers.
She nodded and her lips parted slightly. He pressed his to hers, extended his tongue, felt hers extend to meet him. As the cab raced through the streets of Halifax, Henry explored Amanda's mouth with his own. He probed beneath her jacket, finding her breasts again, inside her shirt this time, squeezing, fondling, rubbing. She let her hand fall into his lap, where his cock sprang up to meet it. He wished she'd move her hand around a little, but it just sat there. Anyhow, it was more action than he'd had in months. When was the last time he'd had sex, even with Tina? He couldn't remember, and was damned if he would try to start now. He pushed Tina out of his thoughts, kissed Amanda a little more vigorously, brought both hands
to bear on her breasts. At last, they were at her house. He shoved a handful of money at the cabbie, pulled Amanda from the cab, kissed her long and hard right there in the middle of Seymour Street.
“Patience, baby,” she said, pulling away from him and laughing. She dug through her jacket pockets for her keys. She pulled out a Mars Bar wrapper, a bus transfer, a handful of Kleenex, some quarters, her driver's license, her student card. She did not, however, pull out her keys.
“Shit,” she said.
“What's that, love?” Henry asked.
“Forgot my fucking keys,” she said, patting herself all over again. “Shit goddamn.”
“Isn't there anyone home?” he asked. Then he remembered. The roommates were with Johnny Parker.
“We can go to my place,” Henry said doubtfully, picturing the mound of clothes on the bathroom floor, the dank sheets on the bed, the inhospitable, to say the least, kitchen. But if he kept the lights off, maybe it could work.
But Amanda was having none of it. “No,” she said, “forget it. It's not worth it.”
“What?” Henry said, sure he must have misheard her. Sure it couldn't have been as bad as it sounded. Turned out, it was considerably worse.
“No,” said Amanda, “forget it. I'll just go sleep at my boyfriend's.”
“Your
what
?” Henry sputtered. “Your boyfriend? What the fuck are you doing with a boyfriend?”
Amanda looked at him coolly. “The usual stuff,” she said, “movies, dinners, long walks in the park.”
“Yeah,” Henry said, “but, okay, then, what the fuck are you doing with me?”
“Well, nothing,” Amanda said pragmatically. “If I hadn't locked my keys inside, maybe, but, you know â ”
“Jesus Christ,” Henry moaned. “Jesus fuck,” he continued.
“Okay then,” Amanda said, “I've gotta go. I'll see you around. Take care, Harvey.”
She walked away, a bit drunkenly, hips swaying, knee-high black boots kicking through the snow.
“It's Henry,” he called after her. “My name's Henry.”
“Whatever,” she called back, not even looking over her shoulder. She disappeared down Seymour Street, while Henry stood in the snow, cursing.
* * *
Nathan couldn't sleep. More and more these days, he was having trouble drifting off. It was no good, he'd discovered, to think about Rebecca, no good to wonder how his parents were, to wish Leah would pop by for a visit. It didn't make him feel better, and as a matter of fact it made him feel a good deal worse. Instead, he thought about math. He'd always found his comfort in the ordered march of numbers, theorems, formulae. He sat in the bushes outside the main branch library on Spring Garden Road in the dead of night, and thought about Pythagoras and his theorem: Pythagoras Theorem asserts that for a right triangle with short sides of length
a
and
b
and a long side of length
c
,
a
2 +
b
2 =
c
2. He thought about all the times he'd used Pythagorean theory to figure stuff out â not just pure math stuff, either. Once he'd used it with his dad to help put the legs on a round tabletop Leah had found years ago and dragged home to furnish her first apartment. She was impressed and proud, he remembered, smiling, watching as he drew triangles and arrows and did computations on the underside of the big circle. He drew his knees up to his chest and leaned his chin on the platform his knees made. He pictured himself back in that kitchen. They were so young then, totally unformed. Her biggest fear had been that gravity would stop working. His had been that he'd never fall in love. And look at them now, he thought. And then he burst into tears.
* * *
Charlotte flagged a cab. “Windsor Street,” she said, climbing inside.
“Right,” said the cabbie, his long dirty white beard waggling. Charlotte sank back into the seat and started laughing.
* * *
It was a long, miserable walk home. Henry jammed his hands into his pockets and felt sorry for himself. Fucking women.
Unfuckingtrustworthy women. The wind whistled over the Common and parted his hair. He felt kicked, that was all there was to it. It wasn't Amanda, of course. Who cared about her? It was everything. His fucking songs, his fucking life, his fucking undone laundry. And Tina, Tina, always Tina. Jesus. His guts roiled, twisted, bucked and turned. It took his breath away, it really did, the thought of her, the way she used to fold herself into him in bed at night, the way she looked in the morning, all sleepy and dear, the way she'd looked that night in the kitchen, the way she'd looked at him. The way she looked in his imagination, astride some grizzled artist, head thrown back in ecstasy, the way it rarely had been for him in recent years, her tender throat bared, her tiny perfect breasts bobbing on a sea of beauty. It was too much. Too much entirely. He sank down in the snow, put his head in his hands and cried.
* * *
Leah hugged Neil hard enough to make him squeak. Maybe now, she thought. Maybe now I'll be able to sleep. It was nearly three thirty. Another couple of hours the sky would begin to brighten, and then it'd all be over. She pinched the skin and fur at Neil's neck once more then dumped him gently to the linoleum. She got to her feet and thought for a moment about pouring a nightcap but decided against it and drew herself a big glass of water instead. The water splashed against the clean sink, glistening in the lamplight. “Night Neil,” she said, taking up the glass of water and clicking off the lamp atop the hoosier. She flicked off the overhead light as well, and started down the dark hall to the stairs.
* * *
Henry pulled himself to his feet, disgusted. With himself, with Amanda, with Tina, with the whole sorry night. The snow had soaked through his jeans and left him wishing he'd worn those dank underwear after all. He stumbled out of the Common, across the street, and down the one block to James and Emily's. Turned the key in the lock, the handle on the door and fell into the house. “Thank Christ,” he said. He shed his jacket in one motion and took the first
stair in the next. On the other side of the wall, he heard his footsteps matched. “Too much booze, fuck,” he muttered. At last he gained the upper floor, made it to the bedroom, peeled off his clothes and fell into bed and fast asleep.
* * *
The birds stirred as she entered the room, but she whispered
shhh
, though she was sure it made no difference. There was her dear looking little nest of a bed, the hollow where her body had been still carved out. She slid out of her bathrobe and beneath the duvet, closed her eyes and sighed, waiting for sleep to come again at last.