“Why what?” I asked.
“I mean, what difference does it make which comic I’m reading?”
“I thought you might be reading something gory,” I said. I smiled, and she lowered the paper and looked at me curiously, and maybe she suspected I was on to her in that moment.
“Gory?”
“Yes, gory. Death and violence. Something with blood in it. Gory. Don’t you know what gory means, for God’s sake?”
“Of course I know what gory means.”
“Then why did you say it as if you didn’t know what it meant? Were you trying to test me? Were you trying to find out if I knew?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Everybody knows what gory means. I was just surprised that you asked.” She shrugged and lifted the paper again, but I could feel her eyes through the page, watching me, always watching me. I stared at the paper until she lowered it again.
“What’s the matter with you, Dave?” she asked.
I chuckled a little, and then I narrowed my eyes. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” I said.
“You’ve been behaving so... so strangely lately,” she said.
“Maybe I’m just beginning to wise up,” I said.
“I don’t understand you. That’s what I mean, the things you say. They don’t make sense.”
“Does soup make sense?” I asked her.
“What?” She was playing it innocent, as if she didn’t know about the soup, as if she had no idea what I was talking about.
“Soup,” I said. “Soup. What the hell’s wrong with you? Can’t you understand English?”
“Well, what about soup? I don’t understand.”
“The soup last night,” I said. I watched her carefully, my eyes slitted.
“Yes, we had soup last night.”
“No,” I corrected her. “We did not have soup last night. I had soup last night.”
“It was too hot last night,” she said, trying to appear tired, trying to pretend she didn’t know what I was driving at. “Much too hot to be having soup. I just didn’t feel like any, that’s all.”
“But I did, huh?”
“You said you wanted soup.”
“Yes, but that was before I knew you weren’t having any.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. I paused and waited to see what she’d say next. She didn’t say anything, so I prompted her. “Were you surprised I didn’t finish the soup?”
“Not particularly. It was a hot night.”
“Yes, but I only had two spoonfuls. Weren’t you surprised?”
“No,” she said.
She was being very cagey now, because we were getting closer to the heart of the matter, and she didn’t like that. I had to go on with what I was doing, but I felt sorry for her at the same time. It wasn’t her fault, her illness, and it was a shame they wouldn’t be able to do anything for her. I felt really sorry.
“But didn’t you wonder why I stopped after only two spoonfuls?”
“Are we back to that damned soup again?”
“Yes. Yes, we are back to that damned soup again. It’s a good thing I have excellent taste buds.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My reasons for not finishing the soup. After I tasted it. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Was there something wrong with the soup?”
That I liked. Oh, that I liked. That innocent look on her face, that little small voice, pretending ignorance, pretending the soup was all right.
“No, nothing,” I lied. “Nothing wrong with it at all. There was nothing wrong with the brake lining on the car, either. Nothing that sixty bucks couldn’t fix after I discovered it.”
“Here we go on the brake lining again,” she said.
“You don’t like me to talk about it, do you?”
“We’ve only talked about it for the past three weeks. What the hell is wrong with you anyway, Dave?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, honey,” I said. “No, nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Then why do you keep harping on things? How did I know the brake lining was shot? How could I possibly know that?”
“Oh no, you couldn’t know,” I said.
“You see? You’re implying that I did know.”
“I’m not implying anything. Stop trying to twist what I say.”
“You had the brakes fixed, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Because I discovered them in time. Like the soup. Just in time.”
“Dave...”
She stopped talking and shook her head, and I felt sorry for her again, but what could I do about it? How could I continue living with her, knowing what I did about her? And how could I turn her over to people I knew could not help her? I loved her too much for that, far too much. I could not bear seeing her waste away, unhelped, curling into a fetal ball, cutting herself off from reality, escaping the world we both knew. But at the same time, I recognized the danger of having her around, watching me, waiting for her chance.
“You watch me all the time, don’t you?” I asked.
“No, I do not watch you all the time. Christ knows I’ve got better things to do than watch you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked.
“That’s just what I’d like to know, believe me,” she said emphatically.
“I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it. You’re twisting again. You always twist. For Christ’s sake, Anne, can’t you see that you’re all mixed up? These attempts you made on my...”
“Me mixed up? Me?” she said, and sighed heavily.
I got out of my chair and walked toward her.
“Why’d you make those attempts on my life, Anne?” I asked.
“What? What!”
“The poisoned soup, and the...”
“Poisoned soup! Dave, what on earth are you...?”
“...and the brake lining, and that loose step on the basement stairs, and oh, all the other little things. Don’t you think I spotted them all? Don’t you think I’ve known for a long time now?”
She stared up at me, bewildered, and I felt immensely sorry for her again, but I could not see turning her over to people who could not help her, I could not see committing her.
I reached down for her throat and pulled her out of the chair, and her eyes opened wide in fright, and she tried to scream “Dave!” but my hands tightened on her windpipe.
She kept watching me all the while, watching me, her eyes bulging, watching, watching, always watching me while I squeezed all the twisted rottenness out of her head until she went limp at the end of my arms.
I dropped her to the floor and looked at her, and in death she did not look as crazy as a bedbug, but I knew she was, and now she would not be watching me anymore, but at the same time I couldn’t keep myself from crying.
The Merry Merry Christmas
Sitting at the bar, Pete Charpens looked at his own reflection in the mirror, grinned, and said, “Merry Christmas.”
It was not yet Christmas, true enough, but he said it anyway, and the words sounded good, and he grinned foolishly and lifted his drink and sipped a little of it and said again, “Merry Christmas,” feeling very good, feeling very warm, feeling in excellent high spirits.
Tonight, the city was his. Tonight, for the first time since he’d arrived from Whiting Center eight months ago, he felt like a part of the city. Tonight, the city enveloped him like a warm bath, and he lounged back and allowed the undulating waters to cover him. It was Christmas Eve, and all was right with the world, and Pete Charpens loved every mother’s son who roamed the face of the earth because he felt as if he’d finally come home, finally found the place, finally found himself.