Exile on Kalamazoo Street (16 page)

One time, Elsa made an abrupt naked dismount from astride me on the bed, and I grabbed her thigh, thinking the bell had sounded on the round too soon. Somehow we landed on the floor, elbows over assholes, with Black Kitty rushing over to investigate. Elsa laughed and leaned against the bed, drawing her knees up under her chin, that 23-year-old shaved vulva winking at me—an old friend saluting another old friend. Well, hopefully not an
old
friend but instead a new friend.

I stretched out on the hardwood floor on my back like I was doing the backstroke. Sweat ran through my butt cheeks onto the floor beneath me. Black Kitty stretched out between us, against me, his tail swishing against my half-erect penis.

“Now
that's
kinky,” Elsa said, her hand over her mouth as she giggled, her eyes big.

“I had no idea Black Kitty was gay,” I said, chuckling, though a little embarrassed, too, and then catching his tail and gingerly scooting him away a bit. He seemed not to mind at all and rolled over onto his back.

“I bet you liked it,” she said. “Admit it.”

I pulled myself up on an elbow.

“I'm not admitting anything. It was incidental contact—no blood, no foul.”

“It was foul all right,” she said.

“And your fault. You suddenly jumped off like there was someplace you had to be.”

“I was tired,” she said. “I just needed a break.”

“The rest of the team needs to know when you change the play.”

“Team? Do you need help?”

“I feel like I'm doing my part,” I said.

“So far.”

“So far?” I said.

“The second half starts soon. We'll see how you do then.”

“Put me in, coach.”

She giggled and opened her legs some more, allowing the 23-year-old vulva to peek out at me. I suspected she was learning its power and how to use it. I wanted to look at it, study it, admire its symmetry, but didn't want to seem obsessed. A tall order.

“You'll have to put yourself in,” she said.

“I thought that was what I was doing … doing my part.”

“More like doing me
with
your part,” she said, giggling again and letting her legs fall all the way open. I could imagine her suddenly a sexual ventriloquist, able to speak through her 23-year-old vulva. It had been speaking to me all night. I hung on its every word.

* * *

The house needed a good cleaning and I pitched into that for several days, Black Kitty often dogging my every step. Then I switched on the vacuum cleaner and he disappeared until that monster was slain.

The kitchen required the most work and I steamed the tiles and wiped counters and scrubbed the sink and emptied cabinets of the jetsam and flotsam of a winter. In one of the cabinets I rediscovered that mysterious blank envelope that had seemed to appear out of nowhere in my mailbox.

I held the envelope up to light, as I had when it had materialized seemingly out of nowhere, but as before there was nothing to see. The mystery of it came back to me and ignited curiosity again, and I placed it on the coffee table and tried not to look at it. I would occupy myself with other things to avoid the sight of it, but always my eyes drifted back. I truly wondered why I put so much time into not opening it. But time was a commodity I had in abundance. Exile had taught me to pace myself in everything. Time in exile was not time in the world. Two different places. Different time zones. Separate planes of existence. And yet separated only by a side door of wood and glass. Hardly a real barrier at all. The cold leaked through it, slipped through cracks. But somehow most of the outside reality did not penetrate. A curious thing. As curious a thing as the unopened envelope.

The afternoon of that day lengthened and light lost its vibrancy slowly as the sun descended into the west. I could no longer resist and picked up the envelope, knowing as darkness fell that for some reason I did not want to open it and learn whatever secret it contained.

It was a secret that required light, even waning light.

Black Kitty appeared and jumped onto the coffee table as I held the envelope in a hand like a high school love note I wanted to open but feared opening. He rubbed his face against the envelope and then jumped onto the sofa and settled in next to me.

I opened the envelope and saw a slip of paper inside. A message? From who? Why? But the slip of paper was blank. I looked at both sides as if somehow I had missed something. I even held it up to the light. A blank piece of paper. In a blank envelope. Where had it come from? Who took the time to place it in the mailbox? Why? When had they done it—the middle of night? Early morning? Did that even matter?

And my mind turned again to contemplating fate: what if whoever had placed it in my mailbox had been mistaken and the envelope was intended for another mailbox—a simple error regarding an address—and so the mystery handed to me was meant for another? And what was the mystery? Did the envelope and blank paper solve a mystery at all? Were they clues? Solutions? Random irrelevancy?

I put the slip of paper back into the envelope—closing Pandora's box?—and flipped the envelope onto the coffee table. Black Kitty jumped onto the table, batted the envelope several times with a paw, and then lost interest and jumped down, meandered into the kitchen, and ate from his bowl.

On her next visit, unannounced as usual, Elsa sported a new black crotchless body stocking beneath her coat. She slipped out of her coat, handed it to me, and stood in the cold driveway. She pulled one breast free and let it hang, tweaking the nipple until it was firm and pink.

“If any of the neighbors is looking out a window, I'll have to move,” I said. “Which will be tough since I can't actually leave my house.”

“Then no treats for you,” she said, slipping the breast back into hiding.

“Do you want your coat back?” I said.

“Warm me up with your body.”

Some of the things she said seemed to come straight out of a secret and rather juvenile manual for how to seduce older men. Or from a reality TV show. Then I would look at her 23-year-old shaved vulva and lose my train of thought, thank God.

“And what if I just keep the coat and leave you standing there?” I said.

“Then there'll be no more cookies in the jar for you.”

The argument was flawless.

Just like the 23-year-old vulva.

* * *

The mysterious blank envelope and slip of paper remained on the coffee table. Black Kitty grasped it once between his paws and chewed off a corner and licked the adhesive. He made a sour face and licked a paw—to neutralize the taste, I supposed. He shook his head several times and sneezed. I wished he could talk. Maybe he did, too.

Mavis called again to offer … encouragement?

“Bryce, are you actually writing, or just playing with your lightsaber?”

“That's good, Mavis. That could be a line in the screenplay, if I was writing a screenplay.”

“Well, you're certainly being paid to write one,” she said. “Eventually—call me crazy—but eventually, they just might suspect you aren't writing a screenplay.”

“You think they'll notice?” I said.

“They're morons, Bryce, but not stupid morons.”

“That doesn't really make sense. A moron who isn't stupid can't be a moron.”

“Well, you get my drift.”

“If you say so.”

“Are you going to write the damn thing, Bryce?”

“Should I?”

“Well, are you doing anything else with your life, for example, besides exile with a black cat?”

“I don't really think of it as exile anymore.”

“What are you calling it now?” she said. “Jedi House Arrest?”

“Maybe that should that be the title of the film.”

“I thought you weren't writing one, Bryce?”

“It's more fun to just play with my lightsaber.”

“I have no doubt. But grappling with your lightsaber isn't in your contract.”

“I thought you got me the grappling clause.”

“You should have mentioned it,” she said. “Too late now.”

“I suppose it is,” I said. “Next time I'll ask.”

“There's no next time, Bryce, if you screw this up. This is the life ring they've tossed you. It's grab and live, or … sink.”

“Am I on the Titanic, Mavis?”

“You
are
the Titanic, Bryce. It's up to you to avoid the iceberg or plow smack into it. And the water's damn cold.”

“I can imagine.”

“I'm not so sure you do,” she said.

“No, I know,” I said after a moment.

“It's high stakes poker,” she said.

“I liked the Titanic analogy better, Mavis … more drama.”

“You want drama, Bryce? Go ahead, have the movie people ask for their money back and watch yourself become forever associated with the third novel that not even the Jedi could fix.”

I had the sudden desire to never watch
Star Wars
again.

Black Kitty appeared and went to the deck door and looked out. The nearest tree was full of chattering crows perched precariously as wind made the branches bob up and down.

“Still there, Bryce?” Mavis said.

“Yeah, sort of. Barely.”

I sniffed loud enough for her to hear. I felt like crying but choked it back.

After a short pause Mavis said, “Bryce, are you afraid to go outside?”

“Yes.”

* * *

And so I had fixed one problem, drinking, but created a new one—fear of going outside. Fear of reality. Fear of … life. That sucker had really snuck up on me. Blindsided me like a quarterback with a shitty left tackle. I hoped that
fear
would prove too strong a word—that
apprehension
would be more precise.

I was pulling for apprehension. Fear seemed like a tough cookie to defeat.

I recalled a day back in the dead of winter when snow fell thickly and the side door had been open for a moment and Black Kitty had been behind me, assessing the opening and deciding not to go through it, despite his wild nature. I knew that the cold and falling snow contrasted against warm food and a warm bed had much to do with his decision, but I wondered if he, too, had a fear of going out into the world again. For Black Kitty, maybe it was merely a case of instinctual practicality. Emotion without intellectual analysis. For me it was much more complicated. For a human, the world could not be ignored forever. Could it?

Of course, in order to address my apprehension, I would need the world to yet again come to me. Janis arranged for a therapist from the building she worked in to visit me at my house. Paula Santorelli was fortyish and quite attractive, with long dark hair and large expressive eyes. Sort of like Cher playing a therapist back when she had a movie career. But I didn't mention that to Paula, who turned out to be related to the Santorelli family that owned the pizza parlor I had helped to stay in business throughout the winter.

Even though it was not snowing or very cold outside, I made a small fire and lowered the house temperature a few degrees to compensate. I recalled hearing that Richard Nixon did that in the White House. But the days of making a fire were almost at an end. Spring had one foot planted firmly from around the corner.

Paula wore a burgundy sweater and black slacks. She was about five-six and slender but curvy in the right places.

“I sometimes wish I had a fireplace in my office,” she said as she sat on a living room sofa and gazed into the fire a moment. “It would have a soothing effect on clients.”

“A fire's comforting,” I said. “Seems ironic, though … comfort from such a destructive force.”

She nodded and appeared to be processing that idea when Black Kitty came down the stairs and bounded onto the sofa next to her.

“Do you mind if he checks you out?” I said.

“Not at all. I have a cat at home. He must smell her.”

She petted Black Kitty and he preened and rubbed his face against her hand.

“He answers to Black Kitty,” I said.

“Very straightforward.”

“Does that seem … unimaginative?” I said.

She looked thoughtful.

“As a writer, does it worry you that his name might seem so?”

“Not really. I just felt it suited him. It was sort of a neutral way to start us off in the beginning and it stuck. He was a stray.”

“Then it's the right name,” she said.

“What's
your
cat's name, Paula?”

“Suzette.”

“Very feminine.”

“She's milky white and sometimes finicky,” she said. “A little spoiled, no doubt. Suzette seems to suit her.”

“It has cachet,” I said. “By the way, I love Santorelli's pizza.”

“That's my uncle's place. I had lunch there this week.”

“Delivery for me, of course.”

She nodded. “Yes, the reason for our chat today.”

“Thanks for agreeing to come by. I know it's not the usual.”

“Given your predicament, I couldn't insist you come by the office.”

“If I could come to you,” I said, “I guess I wouldn't need you.”

“A fair point.”

She produced a pen and notepad from her purse.

“I like to jot down a few notes, Bryce. Will that be too distracting?”

“Whatever works. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks.” She looked around the room a moment and rested her gaze on the bookshelves against the wall leading to the stairway.

“Have you caught up on your reading this winter?” she said.

“Exile offers a lot of time for that, yes.”

“What have you read lately, Bryce?”

I pointed to
Dubliners
on the coffee table.

“Early in the winter, Joyce,” I said. “Just recently,
Gatsby
and
A Farewell to Arms
.”

“And do you measure
your
books against them?” she asked.