you." I paused very briefly. "I guess it probably does."
She reached up and patted the top of my head. "Yes, Jack," she said. "It bothers me."
I felt very foolish.
S he had an accident once that scared the hell out of me. She was cleaning the cellar floor of our townhouse in Syracuse. It was particularly dirty because we'd been gone for a week and a half, and our cats' litter box had grown too filthy for them, so they'd started using the floor. The smell was awful.
I was upstairs, making dinner, when the accident happened. She'd been moving some aluminum screens and windows that had been leaning against the wall—the cats had utilized the area behind these screens and windows—when one of the windows shattered. A shard of glass put a nasty gash in her arm, just above the wrist, and when I got down there, after hearing her scream, I found her holding the arm tightly, eyes wide, mouth open. I realized she was going into shock.
The gash was bleeding badly; my first thought was that an artery had been severed, so I led her to the cellar steps, sat her down, ran upstairs and grabbed a dishtowel, ran back, and made a tourniquet.
"I'm taking you to the emergency room, Erika."
She shook her head.
"Erika, this is a very bad wound; you might have severed an artery."
She shook her head again. "No," she whispered.
"You're being stubborn."
"I'm not," she managed. "The bleeding will stop, Jack." She sounded very sure of herself. "It's not bad."
I believed her. I told myself that I was being foolish. "Yeah, and where'd you get your medical degree?"
And she said, with that same stiff self-confidence, "I know my body, Jack."
I sat beside her. I saw that much of the towel, which was white, had turned a deep shade of red. "What were you doing, Erika?" I asked, merely for something to say.
"I was moving one of those windows, Jack. The cats crapped behind it."
"This is foolish," I began, and she interrupted, "I know my body, Jack."
I was nervous, of course; I nearly said something suggestive, something to lighten the tension between us. Instead I asked, "Am I being overly protective?"
"Yes. But it's okay. The bleeding has stopped."
I shook my head. She took the towel off her arm. The bleeding had indeed stopped. I shook my head again. "Keep it wrapped up, Erika, please—"
"No," she said. "It's okay."
And it was. A narrow, almost invisible scar is all that remains.
S everal days after Jim Sandy's discovery I told her, "Jim Sandy said that other . . . body parts have been found in the area."
We were in bed. I felt her stiffen up beside me; she said nothing for a few moments. Then: "On our property, you mean?"
"I think so. I'd have to check."
"Check what?"
"The survey map. I'd have to pace the boundary out, I think. What does it matter?"
"It matters," she said, her tone very earnest. "I don't care if they find 'body parts' somewhere else, Jack. It's no concern of mine. But when they start finding them on my property—" She paused. When she continued, her tone was softer. "It's spooky, Jack."
"It gives the place atmosphere," I said.
She said nothing.
"Don't you think it gives the place atmosphere, Erika?"
"No," she whispered.
"Do you think we should move?"
"Not yet," she said.
"When, then?"
"When they start finding heads and torsos and thighs and eyeballs and . . ." She paused. "Then we move!"
"It's a deal," I said.
But we never moved from the house. In retrospect, maybe we should have. It probably wouldn't have made any difference, after all, but the effort might have given me some brief comfort.
I' m a commercial artist. In college I studied fine arts—it's what I got my master's in, in fact—and I had grand ideas of making some kind of living as a painter. I didn't care if it was a good living, or even a poor one. I was willing to suffer. I did suffer. For ten years, I went from one lousy job to another—I laid sewer pipe; I washed dishes; I was a gardener's helper, a carpenter's helper, a
She reached up and patted the top of my head. "Yes, Jack," she said. "It bothers me."
I felt very foolish.
S he had an accident once that scared the hell out of me. She was cleaning the cellar floor of our townhouse in Syracuse. It was particularly dirty because we'd been gone for a week and a half, and our cats' litter box had grown too filthy for them, so they'd started using the floor. The smell was awful.
I was upstairs, making dinner, when the accident happened. She'd been moving some aluminum screens and windows that had been leaning against the wall—the cats had utilized the area behind these screens and windows—when one of the windows shattered. A shard of glass put a nasty gash in her arm, just above the wrist, and when I got down there, after hearing her scream, I found her holding the arm tightly, eyes wide, mouth open. I realized she was going into shock.
The gash was bleeding badly; my first thought was that an artery had been severed, so I led her to the cellar steps, sat her down, ran upstairs and grabbed a dishtowel, ran back, and made a tourniquet.
"I'm taking you to the emergency room, Erika."
She shook her head.
"Erika, this is a very bad wound; you might have severed an artery."
She shook her head again. "No," she whispered.
"You're being stubborn."
"I'm not," she managed. "The bleeding will stop, Jack." She sounded very sure of herself. "It's not bad."
I believed her. I told myself that I was being foolish. "Yeah, and where'd you get your medical degree?"
And she said, with that same stiff self-confidence, "I know my body, Jack."
I sat beside her. I saw that much of the towel, which was white, had turned a deep shade of red. "What were you doing, Erika?" I asked, merely for something to say.
"I was moving one of those windows, Jack. The cats crapped behind it."
"This is foolish," I began, and she interrupted, "I know my body, Jack."
I was nervous, of course; I nearly said something suggestive, something to lighten the tension between us. Instead I asked, "Am I being overly protective?"
"Yes. But it's okay. The bleeding has stopped."
I shook my head. She took the towel off her arm. The bleeding had indeed stopped. I shook my head again. "Keep it wrapped up, Erika, please—"
"No," she said. "It's okay."
And it was. A narrow, almost invisible scar is all that remains.
S everal days after Jim Sandy's discovery I told her, "Jim Sandy said that other . . . body parts have been found in the area."
We were in bed. I felt her stiffen up beside me; she said nothing for a few moments. Then: "On our property, you mean?"
"I think so. I'd have to check."
"Check what?"
"The survey map. I'd have to pace the boundary out, I think. What does it matter?"
"It matters," she said, her tone very earnest. "I don't care if they find 'body parts' somewhere else, Jack. It's no concern of mine. But when they start finding them on my property—" She paused. When she continued, her tone was softer. "It's spooky, Jack."
"It gives the place atmosphere," I said.
She said nothing.
"Don't you think it gives the place atmosphere, Erika?"
"No," she whispered.
"Do you think we should move?"
"Not yet," she said.
"When, then?"
"When they start finding heads and torsos and thighs and eyeballs and . . ." She paused. "Then we move!"
"It's a deal," I said.
But we never moved from the house. In retrospect, maybe we should have. It probably wouldn't have made any difference, after all, but the effort might have given me some brief comfort.
I' m a commercial artist. In college I studied fine arts—it's what I got my master's in, in fact—and I had grand ideas of making some kind of living as a painter. I didn't care if it was a good living, or even a poor one. I was willing to suffer. I did suffer. For ten years, I went from one lousy job to another—I laid sewer pipe; I washed dishes; I was a gardener's helper, a carpenter's helper, a
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