'You were snoring,' she said.
'I was not.'
He glanced at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked puffy, saggy. Usually he got up feeling pretty good.
'I was not.'
He couldn't believe it — wouldn't believe it. Snoring was something old people did. He was forty. His father had snored and you could hear it through every room in the house. There was nothing at all funny about that. It was repulsive. It was so…out of control.
If there was one thing Bill Dumont couldn't stand it was lack of control. That was exactly why he'd left Laura — and his son Philip too. Without looking back, without a twinge of guilt.
They hadn't the foggiest notion of control.
Laura chronically late, forgetting appointments, forgetting to put gas in the car after it got below half a tank for godsakes, scattered.
Philip constantly losing things at school — his lunchbox, his gloves, his new down jacket. So what if he was only five years old? That's what Laura kept telling him — Bill, he's only five! So what? Did that mean you automatically had to yell for a glass of milk every time the Jets were on the goddamn five-yard line?
Everybody had excuses. Laura's mother had cancer. It was on her mind. Of course it was. He knew that. And Philip, according to his counselors at school, had a mild learning disability which he would eventually learn to cope with nicely.
Eventually.
In Bill's book none of that mattered. You either had control of things — of yourself — or you didn't.
He'd stood it for five years. Then he dumped them. Three months later he found Annie sitting on a barstool at the Allstate. You could do that if you were in control. Make your life over on a dime.
He was living proof.
That was two months ago now and he'd managed to talk Annie into moving in with him and everything was fine.
But now this…
…indignity.
Snoring.
He tried everything. Special pillows from The Sharper Image. Sleeping on his back. On his left side, on his right, on his belly. Finally Annie bought earplugs too.
And mornings he'd wake up angry. Because he knew what he'd done the night before. There were nights lately he even woke himself up. It was that loud.
Snoring. Like an old man. He was starting to look lousy in the morning. Like an old sick man who was failing, losing control. Tired. Slack. There was too much hair coming out in his comb.
He went to work with a tic in his upper lip that just wouldn't quit. His eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
'Bill? You okay?' asked his partner, R.J., another less-than-reputable broker.
'Uh, why do you ask?'
'You look like shit.'
All right. That about said it all. R.J. was a forthright man. They were very forthright with one another about which clients they were going to sink in favor of their own till and which they'd swim along with. So in spite of the blow to his vanity he wasn't put off by the observation.
'You're not back into the coke again, are you?'
'No I am not back into the coke again. I haven't been sleeping right. Wake up feeling rotten. Annie says I snore so loud sometimes the windows rattle.'
'You got to get yourself squared away, man. We gotta be on the mark. How can we beat the SEC if you're all wrung out and strung out?' As if that weren't clear enough he made it clearer. 'Your work's been slipping, Bill, you're fucking up. Unfuck yourself.'
Bill got the message. He could guess the reason for all this. Job stress, pure and simple. Bill was not only proverbially tall, dark, and handsome — he was also the proverbial workaholic. It was starting to wear him out. To be on the mark for his job he needed to be rested, but the snoring and sleep talking were taking their toll on his rest. They, in turn, were caused by the stress. The snake was eating its goddamn tail here. He needed some leisure, needed to blow off some steam, so he figured he'd do just that.
Annie never got home from her job until seven, so by five Bill was blowing off some serious steam — if seminal fluid could be referred to as steam. He had Millie bent over the kitchen sink, her dollar-store skirt pushed up to her bra, his Armani slacks pooled at his ankles. Millie was short, so Bill was lifting her up by the hips, banging away. At one point, as the crisis neared, it might have looked like he was trying to stuff her down the drain — an appropriate symbol, since that's where her life had gone years ago. When he was done he nearly collapsed.
'Wow,' Millie said through a mouthful of chipped teeth. There was also a sharkfin nose. He wasn't that discriminating — at fifty bucks a pop the price was right. She seemed winded.
'You've never given it to me like that. Bad day at work or something?'
Bill was offended. How dare this bitch make some personal judgment about him? She was a whore, period. Not some buddy of his. He pulled up his pants, frowning.
'And if you don't mind my saying so,' she went on, 'you look like…'
'I look like what?'
She pulled her skirt back down, sheepish now.
'You were going to say I look like shit, weren't you?'
'No,' she said. 'But I mean… I mean, look at yourself. Your face is all red, you've got veins sticking out. Are you okay?'
Annie had a little mirror encircled by sea shells hanging above the stove. Bill about wailed when he looked into it.
She's right, and so's R.J. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. Veins pulsed fat as earthworms at his forehead. I do look like shit…
What the hell was happening? In the course of a week or so, all this had come down on him. All of a sudden, Bill Dumont was tall, dark, and not terribly handsome anymore.
He supposed he appreciated Millie's honesty, at least to some extent. 'Here,' he handed her some money. 'Get out.'
'Are you mad at me?'
'No, I'm tickled fucking pink.'
'I'm just concerned for your health! You don't look good. You look sick!'
I look like shit. 'Get out.' He spun her around, shoved her toward the door.
'Hey, this is only thirty dollars!'
'I'm a little short today. With that nose on you, you're lucky to get ten.'
'I got a kid!'
'Your trick-baby's not my problem. Use rubbers. Get out. And let the door hit you in the ass on the way.'
He could hear her blubbering in the hallway. Whores shouldn't be allowed to have kids anyway. She's probably on welfare, sapping honest taxpayers like me. The state should make 'em all get abortions.
'Bill,' Annie said when she got home, 'you look like shit.'
Bill's shoulders slumped as he sat on the couch with his beer.
'And I've been thinking about that,' she continued. She walked to the couch with a white paper bag in her hand and pulled out a box.
'I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. The snoring, the tossing and turning at night, the narcolalia…'
'The what!'
'The talking in your sleep, Bill. These are all signs of a progressive sleep disorder. And sleep disorders can lead to serious health problems. Like hypertension.'
She ought to know. Annie was an LPN for a hypertension clinic.
'Dr. Seymour let me bring this home.' She was unwinding a long black rubber tube from a plastic box with a
