Bluebottle Read Free Page A

chicken a writhe with maggots beneath the wrapping. Dozen or so empty beer
     botdes lined against the back wall by the sink. Books everywhere."
    "And no writer."
    "No writer." For some reason I imagined Gardner's fingers moving about independently as he spoke, seeking phones to dial,
     yet-unbreached manuscripts, a desktop with objects wanting rearrangement, and thought of Nerval's disembodied hand, Cendrars's main coupee, Beast with Five Fingers. "I went immediately to the police, of course.
    They didn't want to hear about it. When I insisted, they filled out report forms. Told me there wasn't much they'd be able
     to do beyond getting this information out. I sat there drinking bad coffee and not doing the one thing they most wanted me
     to do, which was to go away. So finally they offered a private detective's number, said maybe I'd want to get in touch with
     him."
    "A. C. Boudleaux." Achilles. Ah-sheel.
    "The same. I finallytrack him down to this cafe the size of a railroad car on the edge of town, built out over water like
     steaming green soup. Looks like the place's been around long enough for Longfellow to have sat in there writing Evangeline. Boudleaux listens, then tells me 'No pun intended, but I'm swamped.' Gives me your number. 'Missing persons, you won't find anyone better.' When I call the number Boudleaux gave me, a young lady answers, tells
     me you're here."
    "Given the circumstances, I don't see how I can help you, Mr. Gardner."
    "Of course. But the circumstances were exacdy what I didn't know. Now I don't know why I've gone on so about all this."
    When he stood I sensed a change in light. Something moved towards me. His hand again. I found it, shook.
    "Good luck to you, Mr. Griffin."
    "And to you."
    He went out the door. Not much by way of sound out there now. Hall lights bright like a sea around the dark, dark island of
     his form.
    THAT NIGHT LAVERNE stopped by on her way to work with a cassette player and a recording of black poets reading their work.
    "Something I thought you might like, Lew."
    I did. And must have listened to it thirty or fortytimes over the next several days. Something about being cut off from the
     visual world made that tape so much more real to me, so much more substantial. I began living in those words and voices—living through them.
    LaVerne had heard the album, from a New York label that put out a steady stream of Southernfieldrecordings, folk music by
     aging Trotskyites and suburban youngsters, klezmer, polka, at a client's home.
    "Thanks."
    My arms went out and she was there, in them.
    "You smell good."
    "I won't for long. Seven at night and it still has to be a hundred degrees out there."
    "You could take the night off."
    "And do what? You just get yourself well and come home. Then I'll take the night off. Maybe several nights."
    "You mean like a date?"
    "Yeah." Whenever she focused on something close, her eyes seemed to cross. It gave her face a vulnerable, softly sexy look.
     Broke my heart every time. I couldn't see her then, but I knews he was doing it. 'Yeah, like a date, Lewis."
    She stretched out on the bed beside me, smoothed her dress back under her. Neither of us spoke for a while.
    I don't remember this, of course. Verne told me about it later, some of it. The rest, I imagined into place.
    "It's been a while since we did this, Verne."
    Turning, she tucked her head against my arm. I felt the warmth of her breath on my chest as she spoke.
    "I miss you, Lew. Miss you sometimes even when you're there. But I miss you a whole lot more when you're gone."
    I don't know how long we lay like that. Once a nurse started peremptorily into the room, fetched up stock-still just inside
     the door and backed out without a word.
    When LaVerne sat up, the fabric of her satin dress crackled. She wore her hair long then, cut straight across front and back.
    "Maybe this is different from most of life, Lewis. Maybe this is something we can fix."
    I put my hand on her waist.
    After a