Galilee

“That’s all you can say?”

She fished a book of matches out of her pocket, and striking one, began to rekindle her cigar. “What do you want me to say?” she shrugged. “It’s a bit gossipy, isn’t it?” She was now studying the book of matches. “And I think it’s going to be hard to follow. All those names. All those Gearys. You don’t have to go that far back, do you? I mean, who cares?”

“It’s all context.”

“I wonder whose number this is?” she said, still studying the book. “It’s a Raleigh number. Who the hell do I know in Raleigh?”

“If you can’t be a little more generous, a little more constructive…”

She looked up, and seemed to see my misery. “Oh, Eddie,” she said, with a sudden smile. “Don’t look so forlorn. I think it’s wonderful.”

“No you don’t.”

“I swear. I do. It’s just that weddings, you know,” her lip curled slightly. “They’re not my favorite thing.”

“You went,” I reminded her.

“Are you going to write about that?”

“Absolutely.”

She patted my cheek. “You see, that’ll liven things up a bit. How are your legs by the way?”

“They’re fine.”

“Total recovery?”

“It looks that way.”

“I wonder why she healed you after all this time?”

“I don’t care. I’m just grateful.”

“Zabrina said she saw you out walking.”

“I go to see Luman every couple of days. He’s got it into his head that we should collaborate on a book when I’m finished with this.”

“About what?”

“Madhouses.”

“What a bright little sunbeam he is. Ah! I know! This is Alice.” She tossed the book of matches into the air and caught it again. “Alice the blonde. She lives in Raleigh.”

“That’s a very dirty look you’ve got in your eyes,” I observed.

“Alice is adorable. I mean, really…sumptuous.” She picked a piece of tobacco from her teeth. “You should come out with me one of these days. We’ll go drinking. I can introduce you to the girls.”

“I think I’d be uncomfortable.”

“Why? Nobody’s going to make a pass at you, not in an all-girl bar.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You will.” She pointed the wet end of her cigar at me. “I’m going to get you out enjoying yourself.” She pocketed the book of matches. “Maybe I’ll introduce you to Alice.”

Of course she left me in a stew of insecurity. My mood now perfectly foul, I retired to the kitchen, to eat my sorrows away. It was a little before one in the morning; Dwight had long since retired to bed. L’Enfant was quiet. It was a little stuffy, so I opened the windows over the sink. There was a light breeze, which was very welcome, and I stood at the sink for a few moments to let it cool my face. Then I went to the refrigerator and began to prepare a glutton’s sandwich: several slices of baked ham, slathered with mustard, some strips of braised aubergine, half a dozen sweet cherry tomatoes, sliced, and a dash of olive oil, all pressed between two slices of freshly cut rye bread.

Feeding my face put everything in context for me. What was I hanging on Marietta’s opinion for? She was no great literary critic. This was my book, my ideas, my vision. And if she didn’t like it, that was fine by me. Her opinion was a complete irrelevancy. I didn’t just think all of this, I talked it through to myself, a mustardy mingling of words and ham.

“Whatever are you chattering about?”

I stopped talking, and looked over my shoulder. There, filling the doorway from side to side, was Zabrina. She was dressed in a tent of a nightgown, her face, upon which she usually puts a little paint and powder, ruddily raw. She had tiny eyes, and a wide thin-lipped mouth; Marietta called her a beady, fat frog once, in a moment of anger, and—cruel though the description may be—it fits. The only glamorous attribute she has is her hair, which is a deep, luxurious orange, and which she’s grown to waist length. Tonight she had it untied, and it fell about her shoulders and upper body like a cape.

“I haven’t seen you in a long while,” I said to her.

“You’ve seen me,” she said, in that odd, breathy voice of hers. “We just haven’t spoken.”

I was about to say—that’s because you always rush away—but I held my tongue. She was a nervous creature. One wrong word and she’d be off. She went to the refrigerator and studied its contents. As usual, Dwight had left a selection of his pies and cakes for her delectation.

“Don’t expect any help from me,” she said out of the blue.

“Help for what?”

“You know what,” she said, still studying the laden shelves. “I don’t think it’s right.” She reached in and took out a pie with either hand, then, pirouetting with a grace surprising in one of her extreme bulk, turned and closed the refrigerator door with her backside. “So don’t expect me to be unburdening myself.”

She was talking about the book of course. Her antipathy was perfectly predictable, given that she knew it to be at least in part Marietta’s idea. Even so, I wasn’t in the mood to be harangued.

“Let’s not talk about it,” I said.

She set the pies—one cherry, one pecan—on the table side by side. Then she went back to the refrigerator, with a little sigh of irritation at her own forgetfulness, and took out a bowl of whipped cream. There was a fork already in the bowl. She lowered herself gently onto a chair and set to, loading up the fork with a little cherry pie, a little pecan, and a lot of whipped cream. She clearly had done this countless times before; watching the skillful way she created these little towers of excess, without ever seeming to drop a crumb of pastry into the cream, or a spot of cream onto the table, was an entertainment unto itself.

“So when did you last hear from Galilee?” she asked me.

“Not in a long while.”

“Huh.” She delivered a teetering mound between her lips, and her lids flickered with bliss as she worked it around her mouth.

“Does he ever write to you?”

She took her leisurely time to swallow before answering. “He used to drop me a note now and again. But not any more.”

“Do you miss him?”

She frowned at me, her lower lip jutting out. “Don’t start that,” she said. “I told you already—”

I rolled my eyes. “In God’s name, Zabrina, I just asked—”

“I don’t want to be in your book.”