“Like a glass of wine, some beer?” he asks. “I don’t want to get too sleepy,” she says. “Maybe I can read a couple of more papers than I thought I could, so I won’t have to do too many tomorrow.” “Dad?” his son shouts from upstairs. “We’re all out of toilet paper up here.” “You checked the bathroom closet, the cabinet under the sink?” “Everyplace.” “To the rescue.” And he gets a roll out of the downstairs bathroom, runs upstairs, puts the roll in. He goes into his son’s room. The boy’s drawing at his desk, and he says “Don’t you have to use the toilet?” “I did, but I was thinking of you and Mom.” “That’s very thoughtful, very. Come on now, though, you have to go to bed.” The boy gets into bed. “Teeth all combed?” “Everything,” the boy says. “You don’t want the night light on?” “I don’t need it anymore.” “Good, that’s fine, but if you change your mind, okay too. Good night, my sweet wonderful kid,” and he bends down and kisses him on the lips, turns the light off.
He undresses, brushes his teeth, flosses, washes his face, washes his penis and behind with a washrag, washes the washrag with soap and hangs it on the shower rod, walks a few steps downstairs and says softly “Sweetheart, I’m going to bed now, to read — you coming up soon?” “No. And don’t wait up for me. I’m thinking now I’ll just do the whole bunch of them, no matter how long it takes. Good night.” “Good night.” He gets into bed, opens a book, reads, feels sleepy, puts the book down, looks at her side of the bed and thinks “Remember what you promised to think about before? What was it? Bet you forgot.” Thinks. “Ah,” he says when he remembers what it was. “It’s true,” he thinks, “I really love her.” “You hear that, dear,” he says low, “do you hear that? I can’t wait till you get into bed so I can hold ya.” He puts the book and glasses on the night table, shuts off the light, lies on his back to see if anything else comes into his head, shuts his eyes, turns over on his side, falls asleep.
CROWS
She went outside, came back in, pounded her head with her knuckles several times, went outside again, looked and looked, nowhere to be seen, couldn’t imagine what had happened, yelled “Henry,” and he appeared, his voice did, from the cellar. “Yes, what’s up? I’m down here.” “Thank God,” she said and held onto the doors folded over and then the walls as she went down the stone steps. “Don’t leave me like that anymore, please.” “Leave you how?” he said. “Like that, like that,” pointing upstairs. “Like what, like what?” he said, painting a lawn chair, looking up at her for a second. “Like leaving me. Tell me next time. You know how I am.” “No, I really don’t, or not exactly. How are you? You’re fine, I can see. But you were worried. Don’t be.” “I was worried. When I call for you, look for you, go up and downstairs and outside and down the road and around the house for you? Well, I only called that one time and I didn’t go down the road looking for you, but I almost did.” “Did you by chance ever think to call for me earlier or to look down here? When you see the cellar doors open, assume I’m down it.” “You could have been elsewhere while airing the cellar out.” “That’s true,” he said, painting, “you’re right. I forgot that’s what I do and it’s just the kind of day for that.”
She looked around. “I think we should build a staircase inside the house to the cellar. Then you could go up and down with ease, even evenings if you’d like, for there’d be a railing and light. And also not get wet in the rain if it’s raining when you want to come here, or have to put boots on if it’s snowing. And I wouldn’t be searching franticly for you. I’d open the door to the cellar in the kitchen, let’s say, and know by the sounds or the light on that you’re down there.” “Then we’d call the cellar a basement. I never want to have a basement in this house. Then we’d fix it up, put in a convertible couch and lamps and fixtures on the walls for more lamps and insulate it so guests would come, or for when they came, and a place to dump the grandkids when they were being too restless or loud. And fancy windows and then bars on the windows to protect our valuable lamps and grandkids from vandals and thieves. And the walls would have to be plastered smooth and then painted bright to cheer up the room, and the furnace would have to be concealed because it’s an eyesore. And a drop ceiling to make believe we have no overhead pipes, and pictures in frames and so on. A mirror. A dehumidifier. A wine rack instead of the boxes the wine comes in I now use. Never. My parents had that, right down to the bar with two stools and a carbonated water tap, and it was disgusting. They had to clean it every other week. The floor — I forgot the floor — was linoleum, and when we left scuff marks on it we got reprimanded for it. I like the way it is. I open the cellar doors — clement or inclement weather, who cares? Climb down, do my work, single bulb dangling over the table, furnace like a furnace, no electrical outlets but the extension socket the light bulb’s in, my sweater or vest or both if it’s damp or cold, and once a year I use the old broom to brush away the spiders and spiderwebs and cobwebs.” “But I get worried for you.” “Then I’ll tell you what, ask yourself why you do.” “Because if I can’t see or hear you I sometimes think something awful’s happened to you.” “Ask yourself this then: What could happen to me? I’m healthy. A heart attack? Hell, I could have got one when I was forty or fifty, and statistics say there was a better chance then, or is that just with a stroke? And I know my way around and don’t risk injuries and accidents. If I got pains someplace that might seem unusual, and I know where those places are, I’d recognize the signs. So from now on, if you want me, look for me further. Upstairs, downstairs, outside, in. That’s not much looking. Down the cellar — now that’s looking, or down the road.” “But you weren’t down the road.” “I was, this morning, for the mail.” “Was there any?” she said. “Nothing useful. Ton of junk mail as usual. And a letter from Nina. I read it and tore it up.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t,” and pulled it from his back pocket and gave it to her. “That was unfair, holding it from me this long.” “I got disoriented. Distracted, I mean, or involved in something — that’s it. Came back, had read it on the way back — there’s absolutely nothing new in it, by the way. Jeremy Junior’s fine, hiccuping more often, that’s all. Jeremy’s busy at work and thought he was getting the flu. Sunny weather, stormy weather, a film dealing with values and serious moral questions that we also might want to see on VCR, and her book’s going well. But then I saw the cellar doors, opened them because I thought of painting the chair. Now I’m finished,” and put the brush down. “One thing we can use down here is running water so I can clean my brushes and hands, though not at the expense of converting this dungeon into a shaped-up basement. Bringing down a pail of water and leaving the liquid soap here does the trick just as well.” He cleaned the brush, then his hands, dried everything on his pants. “Maybe a paper-towel roll would help too, but not a rack for it please. The pail was from a few days ago, if you’re wondering.” “I’m not,” she said, reading the letter. “Is what she says in it any different than what I said? I tend to miss things, and not read between lines. Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s go upstairs.” “What’s getting us nowhere?” she said. “I don’t know. I just said it to get us out of here,” and he shut the light.