There Are Doors
Lara
“Do you believe in love?” he asked her. “Yes,” Lara replied. “And I hate it.”
He did not know what to say. It all stuck in his throat, everything he had planned that afternoon walking home from the store.
“We use it, you see,” she told him. “My women and I. We must.”
He nodded. “Women do use love, of course. But so do men, and men usually use it worse. Don’t you think that only proves it’s real? If it wasn’t, nobody could use it.” The brandy had gone to his head; by the time he had finished speaking, he was no longer quite sure what they had been talking about.
“It’s real, all right,” Lara told him. “But I am not a woman.”
“A girl—” He was groping.
So was she, a hand in his pajamas.
“A lady.” His glass was at his lips. He took it from her hand and drank.
“ … and then the men die. Always. She holds his sperm, saves it, and bears his children, one after another for the rest of her life. Perhaps three children. Perhaps three dozen.”
“I love you,” he said thickly. “I’d die for you, Lara.”
“But this is better—your way is so much better. Now I’ll go back. Listen. There are doors—”
She did not go back at once. They embraced again, on the floor in front of the gas log. For the second time that evening he poured himself into her.
And afterward he held her to him, tightly, oh, so tightly, feeling as though the two of them were in a boat upon the sea, a little boat that rocked and spun with every billow; that only his body against hers, her body against his could save them both from freezing in the freezing spume.
“You must be careful,” she said when he was almost asleep. “Because we’ve been so close.”
He woke up with a throbbing headache. Sunlight was pouring through the window; from its angle he knew that he had missed work that day. He got up and made himself drink three glasses of water.
Lara was gone, but that was to be expected; it was nearly eleven. She had probably gone out to look for a job, or to get some clothes, maybe even to get some lunch.
He called the store. “Flu—came on last night. Sorry, so sorry I didn’t call in sooner.” I sound like a Jap, he thought. Too long selling Sonys.
Ella in Personnel said, “I’ll mark you down. Don’t feel bad—it’s your first sick day this year.”
Aspirin, he thought. You’re supposed to take aspirin. He swallowed three.
There was a note on the coffee table, a note in Lara’s angular writing.
Darling,
I tried to say good-bye last night, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m not a coward, really I’m not.
If it weren’t for the doors I wouldn’t tell you a thing—that would be the best way. You may see one, perhaps more than one, at least for a little while. It will be closed all around. (They must be closed on all sides.) It may be a real door, or just something like a guy-wire supporting a phone pole, or an arch in a garden. Whatever it is, it will look
Please read carefully. Please remember everything I’m saying.
If you go through before you realize it, don’t turn around.
PS: You always put these on, don’t you? At the end. At the end, I loved you. I really did. (Do.)
He read it three times and put it down, feeling that it was wrong, that something important had been left out, that his eyes had followed four smokestacks down to three chimneys. Was that underlined word really
He stuck his head under the shower and let the icy water beat his hair and the back of his neck full force. When he had stood there (bent, a hand braced against the tile) for so long that the slow drain had allowed the tub to fill, he washed his face seven times, shaved, and felt better.
If he went out, there was a chance that somebody from the store would see him; but it was a chance he would have to take. Knotting his brown tie, he studied the door of the apartment. It did not look significant, though perhaps it was.
Capini’s was only a block and a half. He had a glass of red wine with his linguine, and either the wine or the linguine made him feel almost normal.
But Mama Capini was gone or back in the kitchen, and it was Mama Capini he would have to talk to. There were three or four sons—he had never learned their names—but they were not likely to tell him anything. Mama Capini might, and he decided to come back for dinner. Meanwhile, the police, the morgue …
“I’m looking for a woman,” he told the gray-haired, buck-toothed woman at the Downtown Mental Health
