The Little Men Read Free

flip-flipping of banana leaves
against the shutter. “I think he loved the actresses
the most, famous or not.”
    â€œHe said he liked the feel of a woman’s skin
in ‘bay-ed,’ Benny said, rubbing his left arm,
his eyes turning dark, soft. “’Course, he’d slept
with his mammy until he was thirteen.”
    As she walked back to her own bungalow, she
always had the strange feeling she might see
Larry. That he might emerge behind the rose
bushes or around the statue of Venus.
    Once she looked down into the fountain
basin and thought she could see his face instead
of her own.
    But she didn’t even know what he looked
like.
    Back in the bungalow, head fuzzy and the
canyon so quiet, she thought about him more.
The furniture, its fashion at least two decades
past, seemed surely the same furniture he’d
known. Her hands on the smooth bands of
the rattan sofa. Her feet, her toes on the banana
silk tassels of the rug. And the old mirror
in the bathroom, its tiny black pocks.
    In the late hours, lying on the bed, the mattress too soft, with a vague smell of mildew,
she found herself waking again and again,
each time with a start.
    It always began with her eyes stinging,
dreaming again of a doctor with the head
mirror, or a car careering toward her on the
highway, always lights in her face.
    One night, she caught the lights moving,
her eyes landing on the far wall, the baseboards.
    For several moments, she’d see the light
spots, fuzzed and floating, as if strung together
by the thinnest of threads.
    The spots began to look like the darting
mice that sometimes snuck inside her childhood
home. She never knew mice could be
that fast. So fast that if she blinked, she’d miss
them, until more came. Was that what it was?
    If she squinted hard, they even looked like
little men. Could it be mice on their hindfeet?
    The next morning, she set traps.
    â€œI’m sorry, he’s unavailable,” the receptionist
said. Even over the phone, Penny knew which
one. The beauty marks and giraffe neck.
    â€œBut listen,” Penny said, “it’s not like he
thinks. I’m just calling about the check he gave
me. The bank stopped payment on it.”
    So much for Mr. D.’s parting gift for their
time together. She was going to use it to make
rent, to buy a new girdle, maybe even a television
set.
    â€œI’ve passed along your messages, Miss
Smith. That’s really all I can do.”
    â€œWell, that’s not all I can do,” Penny said,
her voice trembling. “You tell him that.”
    Keeping busy was the only balm. At work, it
was easy, the crush of people, the noise and
personality of the crew.
    Nights were when the bad thoughts came,
and she knew she shouldn’t let them.
    In the past, she’d had those greasy-skinned
roommates to drown out thinking. They all
had rashes from cheap studio makeup and
the clap from cheap studio men and beautiful
figures like Penny’s own. And they never
stopped talking, twirling their hair in curlers
and licking their fingers to turn the magazine
pages. But their chatter-chatter-chatter muffled
all Penny’s thoughts. And the whole atmosphere—
the thick muzz of Woolworth’s
face powder and nylon nighties when they
even shared a bed—made everything seem
cheap and lively and dumb and easy and
light.
    Here, in the bungalow, after leaving Mr.
Flant and Benny to drift off into their applejack dreams, Penny had only herself. And the
books.
    Late into the night, waiting for the
lightspots to come, she found her eyes wouldn’t
shut. They started twitching all the time,
and maybe it was the night jasmine, or the
beachburr.
    But she had the books. All those books,
these beautiful, brittling books, books that
made her feel things, made her long to go
places and see things—the River Liffey and
Paris, France.
    And then there were those in the wrappers,
the brown paper soft at the creases, the white
baker string