I Live With You (10 page)

They’re all still pretty wild. They won’t let him pick them up. So far only two sit on his lap. They’re nocturnal and the doctor’s not home in the daytime to keep them awake. There’s a lot of action through the night. They’ve staked out their territory and defend it with caterwauling. The doctor has learned to sleep through it.

He leaves paper grocery bags on the floors all around the house because the cats like to go into them. Also cardboard boxes here and there.

Even though he can’t pick any of them up, if he sits quietly (and he makes a point of sitting quietly) one might jump into his lap.

He doesn’t go on vacation anymore because he can’t leave the animals. He doesn’t attend medical conferences. Even going away for a weekend might be dangerous for them. Nobody could ever be persuaded to come in there to feed them. He wonders what they would do if something happened to him. The minute he comes in, he says Hello to all the cats in the kitchen. (Some of them are good at meowing back to him.) He comes in the back door, the front door is never used and wasn’t even when his wife was here. There’s a nice little porch out front but it’s never been used either.

The doctor brings in forsythia and pussy willows to force into bloom. On hands and knees, he puts in tulip bulbs, thinking all the time that, instead, (if, that is, he had actually noticed the need for paint and bought it) he should be painting the house or at least starting to. He has no illusions about what a big job it is and how long it’ll take but he thinks himself capable of anything regardless of his age.

The doctor brings in a large cocoon. It was hanging on a limb right over where he parks his car. He’s surprised he didn’t notice it before since that’s exactly the kind of thing he always notices. He brings in the whole branch and nails it on the wall over the breakfast nook. High enough so the cats can’t get to it.

What is born in the warmth of the kitchen is a moth of unusual beauty. The doctor can’t bring himself to put it in alcohol, pin it and put it up on his wall along with the others in his collection, even though it’s the largest and most beautiful of any of them.

The moth won’t survive these cats. He takes it upstairs and puts it in the master bedroom where there’s a big bay window. (He doesn’t sleep there anymore.) He shoos out the cats and shuts the door. Of course it won’t last long. It doesn’t have a mouth. It’s purely a sex creature, alive, not to eat, but to copulate.

Fairy dust covers his hands.

The third wife never comes around to the house. It pains her to look at it. He won’t let anybody in anyway. They always meet someplace else—at a nice restaurant or at a movie. Last date they had, the third wife thought the doctor looked a little odd, kind of fuzzy… greenish, mossy…. And he smells odd. Not so much the damp man-smell of sweat, though that, too, but musky and marshy—a smell of growing things. It’s sexy but it worries her.

The house itself is sending out waves of pheromones that bring yet more creatures to the little cat door into the basement. Nobody can guess what’s in there now.

Finally the smells bring the third wife.

It’s so dim in there and there’s this odd strong smell. She’s not sure if a good smell or bad one. At first it makes her choke. She goes back out but then she sees eyes… two huge scary black eyes peering out at her from an upper window. What might be up there looking out with such big eyes? Maybe the smell is the smell of death. (Unlike the doctor, the third wife doesn’t know what death smells like.)

The third wife puts her hand over her nose and mouth and goes back into the kitchen, moving slowly. It’s hot outside, but not bad in the house. It’s three stories high, and it’s shaded by big trees, and the doctor has pulled all the shades to keep it cool.

At first she sees shiny eyes all around her and there’s scuffling noises. She steps around boxes and stacks of magazines. She steps on a paper bag. Something yowls and tears out of it in a fury.

Then she sees Nimbus on a high kitchen shelf. The doctor has already told the third wife about her—how he looked at her fur under the microscope—how it had a glassy quality.

The third wife is wearing white. She’s almost as luminous as Nimbus. One wonders how long she can be in here and keep her skirt and blouse clean.

She calls out, Are you there? It’s me. It’s me. Calls out, Honey? Dear?

One wonders who, or how many, out of all these creatures, might answer.

Does she dare go on, farther in? Is the doctor even home? But what about those strange big eyes in the upstairs window? The Doctor might be up there helpless, at the mercy of…. Or sick… maybe sick from his own house-smells.

She heads up the narrow back stairs that go straight from the kitchen. She wonders: Is he still sleeping where he used to sleep? There are two big bedrooms, a big bed in each. He might be in either. Though what if those rooms have gotten filled up with junk? He might have had to move to a smaller one.

Then she thinks maybe she should have called the hospital first, to see if he was there. You never know when he might be operating. He’s called out at all hours. (She always thought it odd that he never seemed to mind. She remembers one Christmas dinner, all the family there, the turkey just brought out….) But she’s come too far now, she might as well take a look.

The upstairs hallway is narrow and dark by the back stairs but broadens out for the fancier bedrooms. It’s daytime, but it’s awfully dim back in the narrow part of the hall. Cats have followed her. The white cat, in its catty way, circling her feet, first one side and then the other. She has to be careful not to step on her.

At the far end, where the hall broadens out, there’s a window with a dirty lace curtain. The window sends out dusty beams of light. The third wife can see… or she thinks she sees, tiny creatures in the dust, flying in the light. But how would you know the difference, dust or bugs?

But where
is
the doctor? She calls, “Honey? Are you there?”

She’ll go on. She has to see if the doctor is all right.

The white cat still circles her legs, purring now.

“Honey?”

She was right about the first big bedroom. Nobody could sleep in there. There isn’t room. The shades are drawn against the heat and the third wife sees the gleam of a few sets of eyes. She backs out and shuts the door.

It’s from the window of the second big room that she had seen the huge eyes staring at her while she was still outside. She doesn’t want to look in there, she’s scared to, but it might be important.

As she opens the door, something flutters out from behind the curtain. That’s what the eyes were. Big wings with huge eyes on them. And it seems as if it’s looking at her but of course that can’t be. Those eyes are phony—meant only to scare, but they work, She can’t help but step back and huddle into herself.

The big, big-eyed moth follows her out of the room and back down the hall, always just a few yards behind. It seems to be growing. The third wife wonders if that’s really happening or if she’s just scared. And she wonders if it’s true about moths not having mouths. Maybe
some
do.

She finally gets to the little maid’s room. As she opens the door somebody says, “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you. Waiting and waiting.” The voice is deep, resonant. Growly. Is it really her husband’s? Perhaps he’s sick. He sounds sick. But it’s a voice full of love. The third wife wonders how she ever could have brought herself to leave him.

The white cat goes in first. She lights the room with her glow. But the third wife’s white blouse glows, too. The moth comes in last. The third wife thinks it’s grown to the size of a blanket.

There’s something long, lumpy, and greenish lying on the maid’s little bed.

The wife lies down beside… it… him… whatever it is that’s so warm and soft… that smells both very good and very bad. Lies down and sinks in. First she thinks, I’m sorry I came and right after that, I’m glad I came.

She says it, “I’m glad I came,” and, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

The thing beside her growls. She always thought he was sort of like a bear.

The neighbors across the street don’t call the fire engines. They don’t mind such a ramshackle eyesore burning down—good riddance, though too bad about the oak paneling and the oak staircase. And there are too many cats. Besides, they know the doctor is almost always at the hospital so there’s nobody there to be rescued. They had been glad the deer preferred the doctor’s yard to their own—glad possums and raccoons stayed over there. Even the crows like the doctor’s land best.

Up from the flames comes a big black cloud and out from it, sparkling ashes rain down.

Everybody in the little town nearby wakes up and looks out the window. They think somebody has set off firecrackers. They haven’t seen such a good show in a long time.

W
ALKING AROUND SAYING
, I love you, I love you, I love you, and not being in love with anybody…. Perhaps it’s too much coffee. Or the air today, transparent—pinkish. It usually isn’t. After all, it’s the city, everything black and gray. Chewing gum stuck all over the sidewalk. And spit. A quarter falls and you hate to pick it up. You get soot in your eye. But that won’t happen today.

I love. I love. I could fall in love with the very next man who appears. I check them all out. Compare mustaches. Lots these days. How nice to smooth one. Or stroke a beard. Stroke rough man cheeks. Chest hair. Small of the back hair.

The city glimmers. I’m looking at the tops of buildings, not down at the spit. All kinds of architecture all mixed up, up there. Some shine golden. Some painted Aztec colors: aqua and dull peach. Some art nouveau.

But how nice, right this minute, to be bouncing along the street looking up, but also into faces. Smiling. Evaluating. Thinking about beards and eyebrows. Thinking, I love you, I love you, but who? Love. How nice to be in it.

Except for the yearning. That’s the hard part.

Where
is
somebody?

My goal in life is this one thing. (As if it hasn’t always been.)

Walk proudly. But not too proud. You never know what the man in question might like best in his women. I won’t be anything particular until I find out his taste.

There goes a possible man right now. I always did like skinny dark ones. And here’s another right behind him. What a generous world!

The look in the eye is important. I peer. I stare. Here’s another one. He’s wearing a cowboy hat (I was always a sucker for a big hat). He’s not from around here. What wonderfully bushy eyebrows! He’s from out West. Patience is needed with animals especially horses. A patient man would be nice. Of course patience is needed in the city, too. Just crossing the street can be aggravating. And all that honking.

I wonder if he’s rich. Of course he could be a farmer, not an oil man.

Even so I turn and follow that one. I don’t remember if he had a kind eye. His mustache was so big I didn’t notice anything else.

But I don’t want any short-term relationships, I want somebody from right here. I turn back. I wander on with all the other walkers. I watch the Chrysler building roof glimmer in the setting sun.

Here’s another man. Hat, dark suit, black turtleneck makes him look all the thinner. I turn and follow him. His legs are nice and straight, not like some.

How begin? Drop my package? Trip him?

When’s the proper time to say, I love you? How long do I have to wait? I’ve been saying it to myself at every step. I may not be able to hold myself back. I put a cough drop in my mouth to keep me quiet, and follow.

Besides, love can go bad. Love can turn with the weather. I’ll not commit myself until I’m sure.

(I have a picture in my purse of a man I never met. I cut it out of a magazine. Perhaps now’s the time to throw it out—before some other man sees it and thinks things. Though I hate to. What if no other man ever works out? At least I’ll have this one.)

New Yorkers walk for miles. It’s the most walking city in the world, I’ll bet. Now four of us: a trench coat guy, a girl with upscale backpack, my man, me…. We’ve gone on for an hour as though we knew each other. From West 57th to East 15th. That’s the way it always is in New York. The girl and I have smiled at each other though none of the men have. The girl turns off on 14th but the rest of us keep going, down, down, downtown. It’s getting late and I’m hungry.

I almost lose him as he turns on 4th, stops for a newspaper. I do, too. I look deep into his eyes. I put all my yearning in that one glance. You’d think he’d notice but he doesn’t. Or perhaps he’s afraid of commitment. I know his kind.

He’s up the steps and in his building—not a very nice one—before I have a chance to trip him or drop my package. I had hoped he’d let me in. I could have said I was delivering my package. (I’ve bought new shoes. I was happy with them. That’s another reason I was feeling so full of love.)

Where will I go from here? Walk all the way back up to Central Park?

But a light goes on in a basement apartment right beside the front door. I hunker down and look in and there he is, taking off his jacket. What a room! He needs a wife, that’s for sure. Well now I know a bit about who he is. I’d feel claustrophobic in there.

Two other black turtlenecks exactly like the one he’s wearing are on the bed. Silky black socks all over the place. Piles of books and papers sideways on the floor because of no bookcases. No plants. I could see to that, though there’s no place for them. If I cleaned it up, there might be room for a little stand by the window.

There’s a pile of ropes in a corner on the floor. A funny pair of shoes on top. They’re kind of like ballet slippers but with more rubber. What’s the meaning of those?

I keep squatting down, watching. He cooks himself a couple of eggs on his hot plate. Sits on his bed to eat. He doesn’t have a table. His bottle of wine is on the floor. He drinks straight out of the bottle.

After eating, he takes off his turtleneck. I evaluate his chest. He’s got muscles and nice curly black hair in the middle.

He flops on the bed, which is smaller than a twin bed. How could we make love on that? Besides, it’s sagging. Maybe we should do it on the floor instead.