killing.
“No, God, no… I hear them inside my head. THEY’RE INSIDE MY HEAD!!”
Everything suddenly turned cold-abnormally cold. I cleared my throat, like a jerk.
“Come on, calm down now…” I whispered. “Come tell me all about it…”
I picked her up and carried her to the bed. I switched a lamp on. She turned the other way, poised like a hair trigger, her fist shoved in her mouth. I ran and got a washcloth-I was incredibly efficient-and folded it over on her forehead. I kneeled down beside her. I kissed her. I held her fist to my lips.
“And now do you still hear them?”
She shook her head no.
“Don’t be afraid, it’ll be all right,” I said.
But what did I know? Dumb-ass that I was, what was I supposed to tell her? What could I promise her? Did I hear them in
We came home two days later and I immediately made an appointment for myself with the doctor. I felt tired, and my tongue was covered with bumps. He made me sit down between his legs. He was wearing a karate outfit, with a small light bulb strapped to his forehead. I opened my mouth, death ringing in my soul. It took three seconds.
“Vitamin overdose,” he said.
I coughed delicately into my fist while he filled out some forms.
“Uh, doctor, I wanted to tell you… there’s something else bothering me…”
“Huh?”
“Sometimes I hear voices…”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
He leaned over his desk and handed me the prescription. His eyes became two tiny black slits, and his mouth twisted into a kind of smile.
“Listen to me, young man,” he snickered. “Hearing voices, or punching a clock for forty years of your life, or marching behind a flag, or reading the stock market returns, or tanning yourself under a sunlamp… what’s the difference, really? Believe me-don’t worry about it. We all have our little quirks.”
After a few days my bumps went away. Time seemed to have gone haywire. It wasn’t yet summer, but the days were already warm, white sunlight sprinkling the streets from dawn till dusk. Delivering pianos in such weather was like pulling teeth, but things had gotten back to normal. The pianos were starting to get to me, though-it sometimes felt like I was selling coffins.
Naturally I avoided saying this out loud, especially when Betty was around. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I wanted to keep swimming, making sure her head stayed above water. I kept all daily problems to myself, never saying a word to her about them. I had acquired a certain look in my eye which I used to stare down people who threatened to bother me. Folks are quick to recognize someone who would just as soon kill them as say hello.
I did a good job of keeping trouble away from her. Things went fairly well. What I didn’t like were the times I’d find her sitting in a chair, staring into space. Or when I had to call to her two or three times, or go and shake her. It caused certain physical problems too. Saucepans burning, bathtubs overflowing, and washing machines turning with nothing in them. But all in all it wasn’t horrible. I’d learned that you can’t live under the sky without seeing a few clouds. Most of the time I was happy with the way things were. I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone.
Along the way, I noticed something strange happening to me. Though I had not, in the end, become the writer she dreamed of, and though I could never put the world at her feet-no use looking back-still, I was able to give her all that was inside me, all that I had to give. It wasn’t easy, though. I found myself producing these spoonfuls of honey each day, but not knowing what to do with them. They accumulated into a stone that swelled in my stomach-a small rock. I felt like I had an armload of presents and no one to give them to. As if I’d grown a new, useless muscle, or had arrived with a pile of gold bullion on Mars. It did no good to cart pianos around until my veins were ready to pop, or to run around the house puttering-I simply could not exhaust myself. I could not sap the ball of energy that was inside me. On the contrary-fatigue seemed to feed it. And even if Betty herself didn’t use it, it was hers, I’d given it to her. I couldn’t do anything else with it. I felt sympathy for the general who has hundreds of bombs on his hands, and no war.
I had to watch myself closely-holding onto such a treasure made me nervous. I almost lost Bob as a friend because of it. I’d gone to give him a hand with his inventory. We were on our knees among the boxes, and for some reason we got to talking about women. Ile was the one who started it-it was not exactly my favorite topic of discussion. The gist of what he said was that he was dissatisfied.
“You don’t have to look too far,” he said. “Mine has hot pants, and yours is half crazy…”
Without thinking, I grabbed him by the neck and plastered him against the wall, between the instant mashed potatoes and the Cheez Whiz. I nearly strangled him.
“
I let him go. I was shaking with anger, he was coughing. I left without saying a word. Back at the house, I calmed down. I regretted what had happened. Betty was fixing something in the kitchen, so I took advantage of the situation. I took the phone into the bedroom. I sat down.
“Bob… it’s me…”
“What, you forget something? Wanted to know if I was still alive?”
“I don’t take back what I said, Bob, but… I don’t know… I didn’t mean to do it. Let’s forget it ever happened…”
“It feels like I got a scarf around my throat, made out of fire…”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Shit, don’t you think you went a little overboard?”
“I don’t know. Only real Love and real Hate can make you do great things.”
“Yeah? Well, then you want to tell me what you used to write your book?”
“I loved it, Bob. I really loved it!”
Bob was one of the privileged few who had read my manuscript. He’d made such a big deal out of it that I finally gave in. I went and got my only copy out of the bottom of a bag. I snuck out of the house with it while Betty was singing in the shower. I really love the way you write, he told me later-but why isn’t there any story?
“I don’t know what you mean, Bob-no story…”
“You know what I mean…”
“No, honestly. Bobby, don’t you get enough stories every morning in the newspaper? Aren’t you a little sick of reading police novels, or science fiction, or the funnies? Haven’t you had it UP TO HERE with all that crap? Don’t you want a breath of fresh air for a change…?”
“Nah, all that other stuff bores me stiff. All those things that they’ve been publishing for the last ten years-I can’t get past the first twenty pages…”
“Of course. Most of the people who write nowadays have lost the faith. You’ve got to feel the energy in a book, the faith. Writing a book should be like knee-jerking four hundred pounds-you should see the author’s veins pop.”
This conversation had taken place a month earlier. I realized now that my readership was too small to go around strangling them, especially the readers I needed to help me finish my roof. There were certain things I couldn’t do alone. It had been Betty’s idea to do it, but it was me who did it.
The idea was to remove about six square yards of roofing and replace it with glass.
“Do you think it’s possible?” she’d asked.
