Seize the Night

To me, Bobby said, “I see why you love her.”

I said, “My own private sunshine.”

“Sugar in shoes,” he said.

I said, “One hundred twenty pounds of walking honey.”

“One hundred twelve,” she said. “And forget what I said about you two being Curly and Larry. That’s an insult to Larry.”

“Curly and Curly?” Bobby said.

“She thinks she’s Moe,” I said.

Sasha said, “I think I’m going to bed. Unless, Bobby, you have more bad news that’ll keep me from sleeping.”

He shook his head. “That’s the best I can do.”

Bobby left.

After locking the front door, I watched through the stained-glass window until he got into his Jeep and drove away.

Parting from a friend makes me nervous.

Maybe I’m needy, neurotic, paranoid. Under the circumstances, of course, if I weren’t needy, neurotic, and paranoid, I’d obviously be psychotic.

If we were always conscious of the fact that people precious to us are frighteningly mortal, hanging not even by a thread but by a wisp of gossamer, perhaps we would be kinder to them and more grateful for the love and friendship they give us.

Sasha and I went upstairs to bed. Lying side by side in the dark, holding hands, we were silent for a while.

We were scared. Scared for Orson, for Jimmy, for the Stuarts, for ourselves. We felt small. We felt helpless. So, of course, for a few minutes we rated our favorite Italian sauces. Pesto with pine nuts almost won, but we mutually agreed on Marsala before falling into a contented silence.

Just when I thought she had drifted into sleep, Sasha said, “You hardly know me, Snowman.”

“I know your heart, what’s in it. That’s everything.”

“I’ve never talked about my family, my past, who I was and what I did before I came to KBAY.”

“Are you going to talk about that now?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m wiped out.”

“Neanderthal.”

“You Cro-Magnons all think you’re so superior.”

After a silence, she said, “Maybe I’ll never talk about the past.”

“You mean, even like about yesterday?”

“You really don’t feel a need to know, do you?”

I said, “I love the person you are. I’m sure I’d also love the person you were. But it’s who you are that I have now.”

“You never prejudge anyone.”

“I’m a saint.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’m a saint.”

“Asshole.”

“Better not talk that way about a saint.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever known who always judges people solely on their actions. And forgives them when they screw up.”

“Well, me and Jesus.”

“Neanderthal.”

“Careful now,” I warned. “Better not risk divine punishment. Lightning bolts. Boils. Plagues of locusts. Rains of frogs. Hemorrhoids.”

“I’m embarrassing you, aren’t I?” she asked.

“Yes, Moe, you are.”

“All I’m saying is, this is your difference, Chris. This is the difference that makes you special. Not XP.”

I was silent.

She said, “You’re desperately searching for some smart remark that’ll get me to call you an asshole again.”

“Or at least a Neanderthal.”

“This is your difference. Sleep tight.”

She let go of my hand and rolled onto her side.

“Love you, Goodall.”

“Love you, Snowman.”

In spite of the blackout blinds and the overlapping drapes, faint traces of light defined the edges of the windows. Even this morning’s overcast heavens had been beautiful. I yearned to go outside, stand under the daytime sky, and look for faces, forms, and animals in the clouds. I yearned to be free.

I said, “Goodall?”

“Hmmm?”

“About your past.”

“Yeah?”

“You weren’t a hooker, were you?”

“Asshole.”

I sighed with contentment and closed my eyes.

Worried as I was about Orson and the three missing children, I didn’t expect to sleep well, but I slept the dreamless sleep of a clueless Neanderthal.

When I woke five hours later, Sasha wasn’t in bed. I dressed and went looking for her.

In the kitchen, a note was fixed with a magnet to the door of the refrigerator: Out on business. Back soon. For God’s sake, don’t eat those cheese enchiladas for breakfast. Have bran flakes. Moe.

While the leftover cheese enchiladas were heating in the oven, I went into the dining room, which is now Sasha’s music room, since we eat all our meals at the kitchen table. We have moved the dining table, chairs, and other furniture into the garage so the dining room can accommodate her electronic keyboard, synthesizer, sax stand with saxophone, clarinet, flute, two guitars (one electric, one acoustic), cello and cellist’s stool, music stands, and composition table.

Similarly, we converted the downstairs study into her workout room. An exercise bicycle, rowing machine, and rack of hand weights ring the room, with plush exercise mats in the center. She is deep into homeopathic medicine; consequently, the bookshelves are filled with neatly ordered bottles of vitamins, minerals, herbs — plus, for all I know, powdered wing of bat, eye-of-toad ointment, and iguana-liver marmalade.

Her extensive book collection lined the living room at her former place. Here it is shelved and stacked all over the house.

She is a woman of many passions: cooking, music, exercise, books, and me. Those are the ones I know about. I would never ask her to rank her passions in order of importance. Not because I’m afraid I’d come in fifth of the major five. I’m happy to be fifth, to have any ranking at all.

I circled the dining room, touching her guitars and cello, finally picking up her sax and blowing a few bars of “Quarter Till Three,” the old Gary U.S. Bonds hit. Sasha was teaching me to play. I wouldn’t claim that I wailed, but I wasn’t bad.

In truth, I didn’t pick up the sax to practice. You might find this romantic or disgusting, depending on your point of view, but I picked up the sax because I wanted to put my mouth where her mouth had been. I’m either Romeo or Hannibal Lecter. Your call.

For breakfast I ate three plump cheese enchiladas with a third of a pint of fresh salsa and washed everything