My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead (28 page)

“Why does it have to have depth?” William said. “It
refers
to depth. It’s good, clean science.”

“It’s not science at all, it’s a cliché. It’s a redundancy.”

“Otto, why do you always scoff at me when I raise a scientific point?”

“I don’t! I don’t scoff at you. I certainly don’t mean to. It’s just that this particular phrase, used in this particular way, isn’t very interesting. I mean, you’re telling me that something is biologically
inherent
in human experience, but you’re not telling me anything
about
human experience.”

“I wasn’t intending to,” William said. “I wasn’t trying to. If you want to talk about human experience, then let’s talk about it.”

“All right,” Otto said. It was painful, of course, to see William irritated, but almost a relief to know that it could actually happen. “Let’s, then. By all means.”

“So?”

“Well?”

“Any particular issues?” William said. “Any questions?”

Any!
Billions
. But that was always just the problem: how to disentangle one; how to pluck it up and clothe it in presentable words? Otto stared, concentrating. Questions were roiling in the pit of his mind like serpents, now a head rising up from the seething mass, now a rattling tail . . . He closed his eyes. If only he could get his brain to relax . . . Relax, relax . . . Relax, relax, relax . . . “Oh, you know, William—is there anything at home to eat? Believe it or not, I’m starving again.”

There was absolutely no reason to fear that Portia would have anything other than an adequately happy, adequately fruitful life. No reason at all. Oh, how prudent of Sharon not to have come yesterday. Though in any case, she had been as present to the rest of them as if she had been sitting on the sofa. And the rest of them had probably been as present to her as she had been to them.

When one contemplated Portia, when one contemplated Sharon, when one contemplated one’s own apparently pointless, utterly trivial being, the questions hung all around one, as urgent as knives at the throat. But the instant one tried to grasp one of them and turn it to one’s own purpose and pierce through the murk, it became as blunt and useless as a piece of cardboard.

All one could dredge up were platitudes: one comes into the world alone, snore snore; one, snore snore, departs the world alone . . .

What would William have to say? Well, it was a wonderful thing to live with an inquiring and mentally active person; no one could quarrel with that. William was immaculate in his intentions, unflagging in his efforts. But what drove one simply insane was the vagueness. Or, really, the banality. Not that it was William’s job to explicate the foggy assumptions of one’s culture, but one’s own ineptitude was galling enough; one hardly needed to consult a vacuity expert!

And how could one think at all, or even just casually ruminate, with William practicing, as he had been doing since they’d awakened. Otto had forgotten what a strain it all was—even without any exasperating social nonsense—those few days preceding the concert; you couldn’t think, you couldn’t concentrate on the newspaper. You couldn’t even really hear the phone, which seemed to be ringing now—

Nor could you make any sense of what the person on the other end of it might be saying. “What?” Otto shouted into it. “You what?”

Could he
—the phone cackled into the lush sheaves of William’s arpeggios—
bribery, sordid out
—

“William!” Otto yelled. “Excuse me? Could I what?”

The phone cackled some more. “Excuse me,” Otto said. “
William!
”

The violin went quiet. “Excuse me?” Otto said again into the phone, which was continuing to emit jibberish. “Sort
what
out? Took her
where
from the library?”

“I’m trying to explain, sir,” the phone said. “I’m calling from the hospital.”

“She was
taken
from the library
by force
?”

“Unfortunately, sir, as I’ve tried to explain, she was understood to be homeless.”

“And so she was taken away? By force? That could be construed as kidnapping, you know.”

“I’m only reporting what the records indicate, sir. The records do not indicate that your sister was kidnapped.”

“I don’t understand. Is it a crime to be homeless?”

“Apparently your sister did not claim to be homeless. Apparently your sister claimed to rent an apartment. Is this not the case? Is your sister in fact homeless?”

“My sister is not homeless! My sister rents an apartment! Is that a crime? What does this have to do with why my sister was taken away, by force, from the library?”

“Sir, I’m calling from the hospital.”

“I’m a taxpayer!” Otto shouted. William was standing in the doorway, violin in one hand, bow in the other, watching gravely. “I’m a lawyer! Why is information being withheld from me?”

“Information is not being withheld from you, sir, please! I understand that you are experiencing concern, and I’m trying to explain this situation in a way that you will understand what has occurred. It is a policy that homeless people tend to congregate in the library, using the restrooms, and some of these people may be removed, if, for example, these people exhibit behaviors that are perceived to present a potential danger.”

“Are you
reading
this from something? Is it a crime to use a
public bathroom
?”

“When people who do not appear to have homes to go to, appear to be confused and disoriented—”

“Is it a
crime
to be
confused
?”

“Please calm
down
, sir. The evaluation was not ours. What I’m trying to tell you is that according to the report, your sister became obstreperous when she was brought to the homeless shelter. She appeared to be disoriented. She did not appear to understand why she was being taken to the homeless shelter.”

“Shall I go with you?” William said, when Otto put down the phone.

“No,” Otto said. “Stay, please. Practice.”

So, once again. Waiting in the dingy whiteness, the fearsome whiteness no doubt of heaven, heaven’s sensible shoes, overtaxed heaven’s obtuse smiles and ruthless tranquillity, heaven’s asphyxiating clouds dropped over the screams bleeding faintly from behind closed doors. He waited in a room with others too dazed even to note the television that hissed and bristled in front of them or to turn the pages of the sticky, dog-eared magazines they held, from which they could have learned how to be happy, wealthy, and sexually appealing; they waited, like Otto, to learn instead what it was that destiny had already handed down: bad, not that bad, very, very bad.

The doctor, to whom Otto was eventually conducted through the elderly bowels of the hospital, looked like an epic hero—shining, arrogant, supple. “She’ll be fine, now,” he said. “You’ll be fine now, won’t you?”

Sharon’s smile, the sudden birth of a little sun, and the doctor’s own brilliant smile met, and ignited for an instant. Otto felt as though a missile had exploded in his chest.

“Don’t try biting any of those guys from the city again,” the doctor said, giving Sharon’s childishly rounded, childishly humble, shoulder a companionable pat. “They’re poisonous.”

“Bite them!” Otto exclaimed, admiration leaping up in him like a dog at a chain link fence, on the other side of which a team of uniformed men rushed at his defenseless sister with clubs.

“I did?” Sharon cast a repentant, sidelong glance at the doctor.

The doctor shrugged and flipped back his blue-black hair, dislodging sparkles of handsomeness. “The file certainly painted an unflattering portrait of your behavior. ‘Menaced dentally,’ it says, or something of the sort. Now, listen. Take care of yourself. Follow Dr. Shiga’s instructions. Because I don’t want to be seeing you around here, okay?”

He and Sharon looked at each other for a moment, then traded a little, level, intimate smile. “It’s okay with me,” she said.

Otto took Sharon to a coffee shop near her apartment and bought her two portions of macaroni and cheese.

“How was it?” she said. “How was everyone?”

“Thanksgiving? Oh. You didn’t miss much.”

She put down her fork. “Aren’t you going to have anything, Otto?”

“I’ll have something later with William,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. She sat very still. “Of course.”

He was a monster. Well, no one was perfect. But in any case, her attention returned to her macaroni. Not surprising that she was ravenous. How long had her adventures lasted? Her clothing was rumpled and filthy.

“I didn’t know you liked the library,” he said.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful for the computer,” she said. “It was down.”

He nodded, and didn’t press her.

There was a bottle of wine breathing on the table, and William had managed to maneuver dinner out of the mysterious little containers and the limp bits of organic matter from the fridge, which Otto had inspected earlier in a doleful search for lunch. “Bad?” William asked.

“Fairly,” Otto said.

“Want to tell me?” William said.

Otto gestured impatiently. “Oh, what’s the point.”

“Okay,” William said. “Mustard with that? It’s good.”

“I can’t stand it that she has to live like this!” Otto said.

William shook his head. “Everyone is so alone,” he said.

Otto yelped.

“What?” William said. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Otto said. He stood, trying to control his trembling. “I’m going to my study. You go on upstairs when you get tired.”

“Otto?”

“Just—please.”

He sat downstairs in his study with a book in his hand, listening while William rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, and went, finally, upstairs. For some time, footsteps persisted oppressively in the bedroom overhead. When they ceased, Otto exhaled with relief.

A pale tincture spread into the study window; the pinched little winter sun was rising over the earth, above the neighbors’ buildings. Otto listened while William came down and made himself breakfast, then returned upstairs to practice once again.

The day loomed heavily in front of Otto, like an opponent judging the moment to strike. How awful everything was. How awful he was. How bestial he had been to William; William, who deserved only kindness, only gratitude.

And yet the very thought of glimpsing that innocent face was intolerable. It had been a vastly unpleasant night in the chair, and it would be hours, he knew, before he’d be able to manage an apology without more denunciations leaping from his treacherous mouth.

Hours seemed to be passing, in fact. Or maybe it was minutes. The clock said seven, said ten, said twelve, said twelve, said twelve, seemed to be delirious. Fortunately there were leftovers in the fridge.

Well, if time was the multiplicity Sharon and William seemed to believe it was, maybe it contained multiple Sharons, perhaps some existing in happier conditions, before the tracks diverged, one set leading up into the stars, the other down to the hospital. Otto’s mind wandered here and there amid the dimensions, catching glimpses of her skirt, her hair, her hand, as she slipped through the mirrors. Did things have to proceed for each of the Sharons in just exactly the same way?

Did each one grieve for the Olympian destiny that ought to have been hers? Did each grieve for an ordinary life—a life full of ordinary pleasures and troubles—children, jobs, lovers?