She’s an artist, a sculptress. She uses ceramics, old rusted iron, bits of antique wood, and assorted trash to make dollhouses. She populates the houses with handmade glass figures shaped to look like people from her own life or books or TV or movies or whatever. Sometimes she sells them, sometimes she breaks them up and uses them in new pieces and sometimes she sets them on fire, takes a picture of that and sells the picture. I have two of her houses in my apartment and last year I gave another one to Mom for Christmas. I think they’re pretty cool. I think Yvonne is pretty cool. I’m just not in love with her.Which would be fine if I didn’t know she was in love with me. We carried on for quite a while, but I cut it off in the end.Mostly.
I wake up and the cabbie is pulling my arm and shouting at me:
– Not for sleeping in. You are here now, so you must pay. Pay and get out. Stop sleeping and get out.
We’re parked in front of Yvonne’s building. I shake the cabbie off, give him some cash, get my bag and step onto the curb. The cabbie doesn’t even wait for me to close thedoor, he just peels out and crams his taxi into the never-ending stream of cars sweeping past. I stand there for a moment, collecting myself. My side feels damp and the throb in my nose is worse than ever. Plus, the hangover still has my head wrapped in Jell-O. I try to buzz Yvonne, but there’s no answer.
She still has my key and I still have hers. I open the door and start up the stairs. She has a small loft on the sixth floor that doubles as her apartment and studio. I climb the steps a half flight at a time. Bud continues to breathe.
I get to the top floor and slump against the wall. I’m losing it. I support myself against the wall and walk- stumble to Yvonne’s door. It takes a while to work out the keys and, while I’m tinkering with the lock, the door opens and Yvonne is standing there still wet from the shower, wearing a robe, her hair up in a towel. She looks great. When she gets a look at me, she gives a little gasp and puts her hand over her mouth. One of the clumps of gauze falls from my nose and a stream of blood dribbles out. I smile apologetically.
– Someone hurt my cat.
And. I. Black. Out.
– Henry. Henry. Hen, wake up for just a sec, OK?
Henry, that’s me. Henry.
– Hen, doll, I have to go to work, OK? Are you with me, doll?
Henry is my name and baseball is my game.Was. Is? What the fuck?
– Henry, please, just for a sec, OK?
Henry, that’s me, but most people call me Hank. My mom, my mom calls me Henry.
– Ma?
– Henry, just open your eyes a sec, OK?
My eyes peel open. They feel gummy. It’s dark. The room is dark and through the corner of the window I can seeit’s dark outside. It’s dark out. It’s night. When is it? Where am I? I feel gummy. Every fucking thing feels gummy.
– Ma?
– No, Hen, it’s me.
Me? Well, that’s a big fucking…
– Yvonne.
– Yeah, babe. Howyafeelin ’, doll?
– Gummy.
She giggles, she actually giggles.
– Good, gummy is good.
– Crummy. I don’t feel gummy, I feel crummy.
I’m in a bed on my stomach and my body feels far away. She’s stroking the back of my head. I want to roll over and look at her, I want to ask her questions about things I don’t really remember, but I can’t. I just can’t seem to move and my eyes keep falling shut.
– Hen, I have to go out for a while. I’m leaving water and the phone right here and a note in case you forget where to call me, OK?
– Yeah, right.
– Henry?
– Yeah?
– What did I just say?
Oh,fuck, a quiz.
– Henry!
– What?
– What did I say?
– Water, note,call you.
– I’ll be back late, so just sleep, OK?
– No problem.
I feel her get up off the bed. I hear her grabbing keys and her bag. I hear the front door open and close and I hear her locking up. Then I hear her walking away down the hall.
I drift.
I wake.
I drift.
Henry, that’s me. I’m at Yvonne’s. She’s at work. I’m supposed to sleep. No problem. Sandbags fall on my head. I shake them off.
– Hey, baby, how’s Bud?
But no one is there to answer.
I wake up curled on my right side. The bed seems harder than it should be and that’s because it’s a futon instead of my mattress. There’s a morning kind of light coming in through the shades, a small digital clock next to the futon reads 11:48A.M. Next to the clock is a phone and, leaning against that, is a note:
Well, it’s morning now. And that’s when I realize that the warm thing curled against my back must be Yvonne and the smaller warm thing curled against my stomach is Bud.
He’s asleep. His left front leg is stuck straight out from his body, wrapped in a hard cast. Some of the hair on his head has been shaved away and he has a few stitches and a big scab on his snout. He breathes slowly and regularly, and when I shift, he moves a little to press his body against mine. I look over my left shoulder at Yvonne, who is pressed against my back. She’s not under the covers and all she’s wearing is an oversizeKnicks jersey. Number thirty-three, Patrick Ewing. She loves that guy, cried the day theKnicks traded him.
I try to twist around to face her and the sudden flame in my side serves as a reminder that I was busy being tortured about twenty-four hours ago. I gasp at the burst of pain and tears spill out of my eyes. Yvonne’s eyes flip open and she gives me a grim little smile.
– Morning, sleepyhead.Ready for a doctor?
After I blacked out, she got me inside and tried to call 911. Apparently, I managed to convince her that was a bad idea and she did the best job she couldrebandaging me. She took Bud to a vet with emergency service, left him, and came home to check on me, but all I did was sleep. Eventually she went to work, and when she came home early this morning, she was able to pick up Bud. She told the vet Bud was hit by a car; he told her to be more careful and gave her some little kitty painkillers for him. The stitches are the dissolving kind, but he’s stuck with the cast for at least a few weeks. So all in all, it’s not such a bad morning.Especially the part about still being alive. But Yvonne’s patience with my loose-lips-sink-ships attitude is wearing thin and she wants some answers about what
