— A lot of them.
— What?
She kept her eyes down where the pen tip flicked, fluttered blue on the newspaper, widening the vacancy, — Madame Socrate said there were a lot of calls this morning.
— But the, who? Who the…
— Madame Socrate is the woman who came in to clean Paul, the woman you wanted me to get to come in and clean. She said there were a lot of calls this morning but she's Haitian and doesn't speak any English and didn't answer them.
— But she, but why didn't you answer them! What…
— Because I was in New York, Paul… the pen quivered at the paper, — I drove into New York with you this morning do you remember? to see Doctor Kissinger? When I got there he hadn't received my records from Doctor Schak so I went over to Doctor Schak's office, and Doctor Schak was still on vacation, and his nurse his bitchy nurse screamed at me and said they'd sent the records over and she called Doctor Kissinger's office and then she said she hadn't sent them and she would and she couldn't give them to me without Doctor Schak's permission and I went back to…
— Look Liz this has nothing to do with…
— It has to do with me! I went back to see Doctor Kissinger but they said he was leaving for Europe and I could hardly breathe and I made a new appointment and I, I came home I, I got the subway up to the bus and, and came home on the bus.
— Now well look Liz I didn't mean…
— You don't you never do, the whole hideous trip for nothing that subway I could hardly breathe you never do you, Cettie lying there half burned to death you don't even, even…
— Oh Liz, Liz…
She dropped the pen, getting breath, gazing blank at the newspaper picture there, suddenly her chair scraped back, banged the wall. — Where's that bird book, that's where it is yes where is it, here… on the sugar canister where she'd thrust it when she served his plate, she thumbed it through — here… she splayed the pages on red breasted merganser, — here's the number, your Reverend Ude here, I knew I'd written it somewhere.
— Wait… he was already dialing, — Liz?
— I'm going up.
Rounding the newel, — Hey Elton? this you old buddy…? pursued her up the stairs, and down the hall — mysterious ways, now that's for sure… She swept the door behind her with a thrust of her hip, her only light the livid aura of the television screen come to life at her touch with a mantled figure descending into swirls of mist. On the hilltop above sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momently, and she unfastened her skirt, opened her blouse, and was back on the edge of the bed with a damp washcloth. A horse was coming. It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to its tramp, tramp, there came a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. The horse followed, a tall steed, and on its back a rider, and as she slipped off her blouse man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which had glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude.
— That's telling them, Elton, came down the hall to her from below, — Jew liberal press… and she was up to get the door closed, back to shy an uncovered breast from the abrupt gaze of Orson Welles enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared, and steel clasped, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted now demanding to know where she'd come from, just below? do you mean that house with the battlements? pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods, that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow, demanding Whose house is it? Mister Rochester's. Do you know Mister Rochester? No, I have never seen him. Can you tell me where he is? I cannot…
— Liz? She'd pulled up the sheet, working a fingertip along the ridge of her cheekbone from the jar of cream opened on the table as the music swelled lifting him to his saddle, where he reached down demanding his whip. The door slammed open — Liz! Now what in the hell! A touch of a spurred heel made the horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces: all three vanished. He'd turned down the sound, waving the newspaper there in the grey light, — look at it! How could… he came down on the bed, — you just did this? while we were sitting there?
She looked, no more help than the sound she made.
— It's it's, don't need a kid in the house it's like having a kid in the house! Like having a, sitting right there you were sitting right there in front of me with that God damn blue pen look what you did!
— Oh Paul, I didn't mean…
— How the hell could you do it! I've got to file these things Liz I've got to send a copy to Ude! How the hell can I send him a, look at it, shaggy blue feathers these little dots on his shirt make him look like a God damn bird?
— I was only trying to…
— To what, make him look like a, just because he's about four feet tall you had to put these shaggy feathers sticking out off the back of his bald head make him look like some squat little God damn duck?
— Paul I was only, I mean that's how I remembered where I wrote down that phone number because he looked like the, because he reminded me of that picture of a…
— What, of what, a duck? God damn good picture of him Liz I gave it to them myself, gave it to the newspapers myself look at it, turned it into a cartoon look at it. Give him some dignity whole God damn point of getting it in the paper this is serious Liz! Thirty forty million of them out there with a dollar in their pocket this is serious, can't you get that? Try to get him in the paper give him a little dignity? People drowning out there good honest believing people and you turn it into a cartoon?
She drew the sheet closer. He'd turned away, sitting hunched on the foot of the bed there, shoulders fallen, absorbed in the pantomime of a brand-wise woman ministering to a groggy victim of lower back pain through its smug conclusion before he was up again, crumpling Reverend Ude's sullied profile into a wad, — God damn it Liz. Try to get something going here I don't even know who's trying to call me, one call I get one call and you write it down in a bird book, can't find it can't find the mail at least you're bringing the mail in, you got over that didn't you? Told yourself you could open the mailbox and you finally did it, can't you do that with the rest of this? Tell yourself we're not up here running a cartoon show? He flung the paper wad at the shadow of the wastebasket, — I went to file this before I looked at it I can't even find the God damn file. Liz?
— Oh…?
— Last time I had it… he was down untying a shoe, — last thing I put in it was that McCandless clipping when was that, Sunday's paper? Can't find a God damn wait, I'll get it, might be… he reached the phone, — Who…? Never heard of her no, wrong number… He straightened up thrusting off his shoes, caught a hand on the dresser's corner tripping out of his trousers, finally bared feet planted wide fighting a shirt button, a hand down to scratch, dangling there silhouetted in tumid portent against the moon ascending in solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the hill tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight dark, in its fathomless depth and measureless distance: and for those trembling stars that followed her course.
— Paul?
He got the phone again. — What…? Look I just told you, there's no Irene here you've got the wrong God damn number! He came down heavily beside her.