He crumples up the letter, shuts the light, puts his hands over his eyes, would like a complete — whatever it is — total cry. Pulls at the hair on his arms. Stamps the floor with his feet till it sounds as if he’s running fast. Raps his temples with his knuckles. Digs into his temples with them. Pounds his thighs with his fists. Presses a fist into his palm and squeezes, squeezes hard as he can till he’s out of breath. Scratches his face with his hands and wants to cut through the skin, can’t get himself to do it. Grabs his penis and shakes and pulls it hard, imagines it coming off in his hand and shudders, stops. Goes to the kitchen, gets cheese from the refrigerator and stuffs it into his mouth, swallows it. Opens a bottle of beer and drinks it down in several gulps. Opens another beer and pours himself a tall brandy and drinks the two alternately till he’s finished them. Pulls the cork out of the half-filled bottle of wine, empties the bottle into a water glass and drinks it down. Stuffs bread and more cheese into his mouth, swallows them. Opens a new bottle of wine and fills up the water glass with it. Gets a plate out of the refrigerator, cuts up meat left from a few nights ago, smells it, it smells OK and stuffs it into his mouth and washes it down with the wine. Bites off most of the baked potato from that same dinner a few nights ago, shoves in his mouth a handful of lima beans and dressed leftover salad from that plate, swallows everything. Goes to the bathroom and pees, shits. Wipes himself. Is pulling up his pants when he has to shit again. He just sits there till he shits a third time, gets a bunch of tissues out of a tissue box and soaks them in warm water and pats himself.
He goes into the bedroom with another glass of wine, reads while he drinks. He gets through paragraph after paragraph, several pages. The book isn’t interesting but he is reading. He feels sick, tired, turns off the light and shuts his eyes, sees pictures, flashing. Watch out, and he runs to the toilet and throws up into it. Drinks some more wine and throws up some more. He rinses his mouth, throws water on his face, pats his face, slaps it, pulls his head hair till a couple of patches come out, scratches his arms till blood comes, grabs his cheeks and squeezes hard as he can, but they don’t hurt. Bangs the dresser top till his hands hurt. Kicks the door till his foot hurts. Screams “Screw it, hell with it, all of it, damnit, rage, goddamn rage, goddamn crazy rage, page, inexplicable, indespicable, indesquickable, immicterial, bloody, ruddy, fuddy doo-dah income, nincom splage. Something else, schmelse, belsh.” He feels dizzy, just makes it to bed, falls on it, reaches for the phone on the night table, doesn’t know whom he’ll call if anyone or what he’ll say if anything, passes out.
8. Frog Going Downstairs
He’s walking down the stairs in his apartment building when he hears voices on the first floor. He sees two policemen and a priest. “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” one of the policemen says and turns back to the priest.
“I thought it might be one of the people living here. Is it Carl?”
“Carl?”
“The superintendent. He’s been ill, hasn’t looked well for months. Emphysema, for one thing, besides working too hard for a guy his age and smoking, to make it even worse.”
“I don’t know about your Carl, but nothing’s wrong here. We’re just talking to the father.”
“Only because — I mean I know I’m probably overdramatizing this — but suddenly seeing a priest and two policemen in your building—”
“I’m having dinner here,” the priest says. “And these officers, who are my friends, happened to see me enter the building and stopped to speak to me.”
“Oh. Sorry for interrupting you then. Have a good dinner,” and nods to the policemen as he passes them, and leaves the building.
He’s walking downstairs when he hears voices coming from the ground floor. Men. Laborers? Something wrong? It’s the tone. Burglars? A mugging going on? He goes down slowly. Two policemen and a priest, talking low to one another. “I say no,” the priest says. “And we, with all due respect, but we make no apologies for asking this, think you should go along with it,” one of the policemen says. “Well, that’s what we’re here to discuss then, right? That we can be frank and civil about it is even better,” and he slaps both policemen on the arm.
“Excuse me,” Howard says.
“Yeah, what is it?” the other policeman says and they all look at him as if they only just noticed him, though he’s been on the bottom step for almost a minute, five feet from them.
“Is anything the matter?”
“What? Between us? Nothing. Thank you,” and looks at the other two.
“I meant, two policemen and a priest in the building. I thought it could be one of the tenants.”
“One of the tenants what?”
“Sick, in trouble — dead, even; I didn’t know. Just, it was very startling to see you.”
“I’m sure all the tenants are fine,” the priest says. “I’m looking in on someone here, and the two policemen wanted to speak to me.”
“We saw him walking in here and had something to say to him,” the first policeman says. “Nothing about any of your tenants, so don’t worry none.”
“It’s just that, well… one can’t help thinking that…Mrs. Harlan on the top floor is very old and never gets out—”
“It’s Mrs. Harlan whom I’m looking in on,” the priest says. “But she’s OK, I spoke to her a short while ago, so my visit is only routine, all right?” and he looks at the police and takes an envelope out of his jacket pocket.