I’m running wild with the one I love
I see no evil—
I’m running wild with the one-eyed ones
I see no evil—
Pull down the future with the one you love
Louis turned off the tape player. “Let’s go get some stuff from my apartment.”
“Can you drive?”
“Spoken like a true punk.”
On the stairs Renée said, “The time to be a punk was fifteen years ago. It’s just utterly embarrassing to try to be one now.”
“Anarchy’s a very old idea,” he said, breathing through his mouth in the dog zone.
Outside, on Pleasant Avenue, it was no longer a holiday but a dead Thursday night. The night was cool, with a foretaste of dew in the air. Louis drove as fast as he dared and in his drunkenness caught only about one out of every three or four seconds as they passed. Distant, ghostly sirens in the night formed a cushion of noise on which the tires seemed to glide and bounce like water skis. Just east of Davis Square, the Civic plunged into a tunnel of powerlessness, deep inside which was visible the turning of blue flashers. Two figures lit only by glowing urban clouds were straining to hustle what appeared to be cartons of liquor up a side street.
“Looters! Were those looters? They were looters!”
Lights were burning in his apartment. The biggest pieces of furniture hadn’t budged, but the vase made of Mount St. Helens ash had fallen from the wall unit and broken in two, and some of the dining-room chairs had edged away from the table. Behind the closed door of Toby’s room a dot-matrix printer gulped and stridulated. Renée flopped in a U-shape on Louis’s futon. He had to set down the beer and gin and tapes he’d collected and pull her to her feet.
When they returned to her apartment she opened beer bottles briskly. “What’s your favorite kind of music?” she said.
“I don’t believe in favorites. I don’t have any. This is my favorite, just a second here.” He turned the machine up loud.
I love the sound of breaking glass.
Especially when I’m lonely.
I need the noises of destruction.
When there’s nothing new.
“This is good. Who is it?”
“This? My God. The great Nick Lowe? It’s a classic.”
“How old?”
“Bronze Age. Here.” Louis interrupted the song. “We’ll put in something almost as old as me. Everybody likes this record. It’s a classic. It never gets old. Isn’t that what a classic is?”
“I can’t think of anything more pathetic than radio stations that play ‘classic rock’ . . .”
“Is this pathetic?”
It was Exile on Main Street.
“No,” Renée said. “But I don’t think you understand me.”
“I could play you stuff from now until next Thursday that’s old but not pathetic.”
“That’s right. Because you’re one of those people. I mean, you’re in radio. It’s your business.”
“So don’t complain. I’ll take care of your music for you. Do I feel like an old fart when I listen to this? This is not James Taylor here. It’s sloppy, it’s basic, it’s good.”
“Good for you, maybe. For me it’s just retro. Which feels very sweet right now, but it won’t last. None of these feelings last.”
She continued to match him beer for beer. It was a little before three when “Soul Survivor” played and the tape finally ended. They drank gin and passed a mouthful back and forth until Louis lost it down his neck. A raccoon came to the window and pressed its rubber nose against the screen and stuck a paw through a hole in the screen. “My raccoon!” Renée exclaimed, stumbling towards the window. “It’s my raccoon, that comes and visits me. It comes . . . sometimes. Oh!” She cried out tragically. “It’s hurt! Look, it’s hurt. I’m saying look. It’s hurt. You can see, it cut its face. It comes up a drainpipe and comes to the window. It likes potatoes but I don’t have any. And it’s cute, but oh boy am I spinning.”
For five minutes Louis had been sitting at the table with his mouth open and his brow furrowed.
“It’s not my raccoon but it comes . . . frequently. It must live around here. I have an apple,” she told the animal, which had grabbed the top of the screen and was gingerly putting a hind foot through the hole in the mesh, its head wandering and sniffing, daunted by the sheemess of the wall above the window. “I’m coming with the apple,” Renée said, surging over with two quarters of a golden delicious on a saucer and raising the screen an inch. “It’s gone!” she said. “It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s . . .”
Her face was gray. She threw herself against the sink and emptied her stomach into it and dropped to her knees, hands still hanging on the rim. Louis was similarly occupied in the bathroom. Sometime after this she was lying on the kitchen table and he was chasing an unrolling roll of paper towels towards a corner of the bedroom where he’d thrown up again. Sometime after this he was sleeping in the hallway, pillowing his head on the mud rug, and she was under her desk with her face against the wall and her legs sticking out. The reflector strips on her sneakers shone in the light from bulbs burning in the bathroom and kitchen. The toilet was motionless. The sink was motionless. The walls were motionless. The refrigerator fell silent, and the sphere of ambient sound swelled enormously, encompassing expressways from which a few low-frequency waves managed just barely to reach Pleasant Avenue before expiring, a stretch of train track in some northern suburb made to clack by passing tank cars, and the tiny aural remnant of a hot rod’s buzz in far eastern Somerville, on the McGrath Highway, heading out of Boston. The stove ticked, once. The lights dimmed by forty lumens, once. East wall stared at west wall and north at south, unblinking in the light. One manila folder had slipped down between paper bags and the others yawned; there was not a breath to stir the photocopies or the blade of the fan where it lay by the window. The table stood on the floor. A wineglass had shattered on the countertop. All the pieces still lay exactly where they’d first come to rest, as if the glass were still whole and could be seen whole again if only the break in time could be repaired. Books were scattered on the floor of the extra room. Two beer bottles nestled in the armchair. The armchair motionless. The motionless bookshelves silently bearing their load. The walls bearing the load of the ceiling. The ceiling motionless. Eleven beer bottles on the kitchen windowsill, green in the unsegmented incandescent light. Eleven bottles jiggling, clinking. They tumbled off the windowsill in a green shiny wave, some landing on the fan, some breaking. Thuds in the cabinets, the table rocking, a door turning on its hinge. A tower of cassettes collapsed. Crumbs danced behind the stove. Water in the toilet sloshed, panes buzzed.
The body in the hallway motionless. The body under the desk motionless. Everything motionless.
For fifteen days after the night of two earthquakes the files on Sweeting-Aldren and the Peabody microseisms lay untouched in the space by the refrigerator. It was something like superstition that prevented the otherwise orderly Renée from putting them away when she cleaned the apartment—superstition and maybe also a loathing like the one Louis felt when his eyes happened to fall on them, and the one he’d felt towards his radio equipment during those weeks before he sold it, and the one induced by the very thought of alcohol for several days after they got so drunk.
Renée set great store by the “fact” that although he recovered quickly and spent the next morning straightening the apartment, he’d thrown up before she had. He had doubts about this chronology and was surprised by the vehemence with which, still pale and unable to stay on her feet for long, she stuck to her version. It seemed like she was being rather mean about this.
On Saturday, awakened by the smell of toasted English muffins, he found an apartment key on the kitchen table. He twirled it and twirled it on its ring. He drove to his apartment and collected some supplies and appliances. In the afternoon he walked to the East Cambridge apartment of his friend Beryl Slidowsky and hung out with her. When the conversation t
urned to Thursday’s earthquakes, which he knew from the Globe had occurred in the neighborhood of Peabody, he not only managed to keep silent about Renée’s theory but also denied, absurdly, that he’d felt anything. Beryl was volunteering at WGBH now. She had no help to offer him employment-wise but was suitably outraged by Stites’s acquisition of WSNE. She blamed it on Libby Quinn. Libby—or someone—really had given Beryl an ulcer; she showed Louis her bottle of Tagamet.
He had a Sugar Cubes recording playing loudly when Renée came home from work with a bag of groceries. “Is that dinner?” he said.
She tossed him a fishy-looking package from DeMoula’s.
“Fish! Do I ever eat fish?” He watched her stock a cabinet. “I had some coquilles Saint-Jacques in mashed potatoes when my parents were here. I ordered them to impress my mother with my French skills. The place used insto-spuds, sort of summer-camp quality. It’s very famous.”
She broke her silence. “Do you want me to talk about well-known fish restaurants in Boston? I can do it if you’d like. I have a lot to say.”
“What kind of fish is this?”
“This is cod.”
“You bought this yourself?” He put his finger on one of the coarse-grained filets. “No one made you buy it? You decided, I’m going to eat cod tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“You felt like cod. You saw cod and were inclined to buy.”
She sniffed.
“Did you get us some liver for tomorrow?”
“Actually, I thought you might buy the food tomorrow.”
“Shit,” he apologized. “Of course. I will. I would have bought it today, but there was no way to reach you.”
“I said. You can buy it tomorrow. Did I complain?”
“No, you didn’t complain.”
She crouched to file vegetables in the yellowed plastic drawers of the Fiat refrigerator. “I’m not at all positive it’s a good idea for you to move in like this. At least not before we discuss a few things.”
“The age aspect. Our, uh, Memorial Day - Flag Day relationship.”
She laughed.
“You find me twerpy,” he said. “I don’t apply.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I find you very attractive and fun to be with. This is not what I’m talking about at all.” She frowned. “Is that how you see yourself? Why do you see yourself that way?”
Louis didn’t answer; he’d retreated up the hallway, swatting the air with his fist. No one as reliable as Dr. Seitchek had ever told him he was very attractive. He returned to the kitchen with a swagger in his step.
“So what’s to discuss?”
“Nothing. Everything. I feel like things are—out of control.” She looked him in the eye as though she wanted him to help her speak. Then she got scared and seemed to realize there was no one in the room but him and her. She vented her helplessness on the tape player, turning it off, unplugging it, and removing the cassette.
“If you want me to leave,” he said, “say leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave. That’s what I’m saying.”
He assumed the abstracted expression of a Frenchman listening to an American fail to express herself in French.
“I just want to have things clear,” she said.
“You don’t want me to leave; I don’t want me to leave; what could be clearer?”
“You’re right.” A smiley smile. She began to peel an onion. “It’s all very clear.”
Louis looked sadly at the silenced tape player. “What are you doing to that cod?”
“I’m cooking garlic and onion in olive oil and wine and saffron and tomatoes and olives and then putting the fish in and simmering it briefly.”
“Is there something I can do?”
“Do you know how to make rice?”
“No.”
“Maybe you could make a salad.”
“You could show me how to make rice.”
“Why don’t you just make a salad.”
“You mean, so I don’t fuck up the rice?”
“That’s right.” With slashing strokes she began to slice flesh from the pits of brown olives. He was sure she was going to cut herself, and when she suddenly dropped the knife he thought she’d done it, but she was only angry.
“Do I want you watching me make dinner? Older woman mothers younger man? Adorably inept younger man? Feeds him first good meal he’s had in months? Shows him how to make rice for himself? If you want to know how to make rice, look on the package, same as I did ten years ago.”
She attacked the olives again. He watched muscles and tendons come and go beneath the skin of her pale, thin arms.
“So where’s this package?”
“Where do most people keep their food?”
He sighed. In the third of her three cabinets he found a bag of Star Market rice. “No instructions here,” he said.
“Boil a cup and a half of water and half a teaspoon salt stir in one level cup rice cover and reduce to low flame check in seventeen minutes.”
She watched him spend nearly a minute trying to measure exactly half a cup of water, taking too much, pouring out too much, taking too much, pouring out too much. “Oh, come on.”
“I’m trying to follow your instructions.”
“You’re not making a bomb, you’re making rice.”
“I’m trying to do it right.”
“You’re trying to goad me. You’re trying to be cute.’”
“I am not!”
Later they lay on her bed and watched the Red Sox play the Rangers on Channel 38 and looked at the Globe. For a long time Louis studied a full-page ad that showed a businessman using IBM equipment in his office at home. “The books on the shelves in the background of these things. Like this one here. Is that Mein Kampf?” He turned his head. “It’s Mein Kampf! The guy’s got Mein Kampf on his shelf! With his ten-thousand-dollar computer. And these, I bet these are Hustler magazines.”
“Let me see that.” Renée scrutinized the photograph. “It’s Main Street.”
“It’s Mein Kampf!”
“This is an S. It’s Sinclair Lewis. It’s Main Street.”
“I bet he keeps his Hitler stuff in the file cabinet.”
“I noticed you reading about Sweeting-Aldren.”
“Hence my attitude? Yeah. It’s a probing news analysis. They’re comparing the company to an ant.” Louis paged back. “‘Wall Street looks on as the injured insect crawls slowly in a circle, trying to get its legs to work again. It is obviously injured, and yet it may be able to absorb the damage and begin moving again. Long minutes go by; it might be dead; it might be about to continue on its mission. No one knows what kind of pain it might be feeling. If too much time passes and Sweeting-Aldren still doesn’t move, it will be presumed dead. But Wall Street has seen a lot of injured ants over the years, and it knows not to give up on this one quite yet.’ Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah . . . Analyst David Blah of Blah-Blah Emerson attributes much of 17 percent drop in stock price since March blah to recognition that it was overvalued! Price-earnings blah blah. However, investors not encouraged by Dr. Axelrod’s statements on Friday that in light of continuing significant earthquake activity in neighborhood of Peabody ‘we just don’t know what to expect in the way of future earthquakes’— Who’s this Dr. Axelrod?”
“Seismologist at MIT. He’s good. He’s—fine.”
“Concern focusing on disruption of production lines. Company operating near capacity, blah blah . . . If all production shut down more than three weeks, losses in neighborhood of million dollars a day. Further worry regarding lawsuits arising from release of greenish effluent containing biphenyls and other halogenated hydrocarbons . . . suspicion that hazardous wastes are being stockpiled rather than incinerated as company claims. (Ha.) Fear also of spillage in event of large earthquake, includes chlorine, benzene, trichlorophenol, and other highly volatile and poisonous or carcinogenic substances. Company insured against damage to capital investments, is ‘lo
oking into the details’ of its liability coverage, undoubtedly meaning coverage is insufficient. However, considering strong revenue history, moderate long-term debt burden, and relatively low risk of a major earthquake, three out of four analysts polled on Friday considered Sweeting-Aldren a good buy at Thursday’s closing price.”
Renée took his glasses off and joined him on the business section. As they kissed, he began to scratch the thick denim seam between her legs, below the zipper.
Two quick outs here in the seventh inning.
“I don’t know where you came from. You just crashed in.”