He and Sharon looked at each other for a moment, then traded a little, level, intimate smile. “It’s okay with me,” she said.
Otto took Sharon to a coffee shop near her apartment and bought her two portions of macaroni and cheese.
“How was it?” she said. “How was everyone?”
“Thanksgiving? Oh. You didn’t miss much.”
She put down her fork. “Aren’t you going to have anything, Otto?”
“I’ll have something later with William,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. She sat very still. “Of course.”
He was a monster. Well, no one was perfect. But in any case, her attention returned to her macaroni. Not surprising that she was ravenous. How long had her adventures lasted? Her clothing was rumpled and filthy.
“I didn’t know you liked the library,” he said.
“Don’t think I’m not grateful for the computer,” she said. “It was down.”
He nodded, and didn’t press her.
—
There was a bottle of wine breathing on the table, and William had managed to maneuver dinner out of the mysterious little containers and the limp bits of organic matter from the fridge, which Otto had inspected earlier in a doleful search for lunch. “Bad?” William asked.
“Fairly,” Otto said.
“Want to tell me?” William said.
Otto gestured impatiently. “Oh, what’s the point.”
“Okay,” William said. “Mustard with that? It’s good.”
“I can’t stand it that she has to live like this!” Otto said.
William shook his head. “Everyone is so alone,” he said.
Otto yelped.
“What?” William said. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” Otto said. He stood, trying to control his trembling. “I’m going to my study. You go on upstairs when you get tired.”
“Otto?”
“Just — please.”
He sat downstairs in his study with a book in his hand, listening while William rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, and went, finally, upstairs. For some time, footsteps persisted oppressively in the bedroom overhead. When they ceased, Otto exhaled with relief.
—
A pale tincture spread into the study window; the pinched little winter sun was rising over the earth, above the neighbors’ buildings. Otto listened while William came down and made himself breakfast, then returned upstairs to practice once again.
The day loomed heavily in front of Otto, like an opponent judging the moment to strike. How awful everything was. How awful he was. How bestial he had been to William; William, who deserved only kindness, only gratitude.
And yet the very thought of glimpsing that innocent face was intolerable. It had been a vastly unpleasant night in the chair, and it would be hours, he knew, before he’d be able to manage an apology without more denunciations leaping from his treacherous mouth.
Hours seemed to be passing, in fact. Or maybe it was minutes. The clock said seven, said ten, said twelve, said twelve, said twelve, seemed to be delirious. Fortunately there were leftovers in the fridge.
Well, if time was the multiplicity Sharon and William seemed to believe it was, maybe it contained multiple Sharons, perhaps some existing in happier conditions, before the tracks diverged, one set leading up into the stars, the other down to the hospital. Otto’s mind wandered here and there amid the dimensions, catching glimpses of her skirt, her hair, her hand, as she slipped through the mirrors. Did things have to proceed for each of the Sharons in just exactly the same way?
Did each one grieve for the Olympian destiny that ought to have been hers? Did each grieve for an ordinary life — a life full of ordinary pleasures and troubles — children, jobs, lovers?
Everyone is so alone. For this, all the precious Sharons had to flounder through their loops and tucks of eternity; for this, the shutters were drawn on their aerial and light-filled minds. Each and every Sharon, thrashing through the razor-edged days only in order to be absorbed by this spongy platitude: everyone is so alone! Great God, how could it be endured? All the Sharons, forever and ever, discarded in a phrase.
And those Ottos, sprinkled through the zones of actuality — what were the others doing now? The goldfish gliding, gliding, within the severe perimeter of water; William pausing to introduce himself…
Yes, so of course one felt incomplete; of course one felt obstructed and blind. And perhaps every creature on earth, on all the earths, was straining at the obdurate membranes to reunite as its own original entity, the spark of unique consciousness allocated to each being, only then to be irreconcilably refracted through world after world by the prism of time. No wonder one tended to feel so fragile. It was infuriating enough just trying to have contact with a few other people, let alone with all of one’s selves!
To think there could be an infinitude of selves, and not an iota of latitude for any of them! An infinitude of Ottos, lugging around that personality, those circumstances, that appearance. Not only once dreary and pointless, but infinitely so.
Oh, was there no escape? Perhaps if one could only concentrate hard enough they could be collected, all those errant, enslaved selves. And in the triumphant instant of their reunification, purified to an unmarked essence, the suffocating Otto-costumes dissolving, a true freedom at last. Oh, how tired he was! But why not make the monumental effort?
Because Naomi and Margaret were arriving at nine to show off this baby of theirs, that was why not.
But anyhow, what on earth was he thinking?
Still, at least he could apologize to William. He was himself, but at least he could go fling that inadequate self at William’s feet!
No. At the very least he could let poor, deserving William practice undisturbed. He’d wait — patiently, patiently — and when William was finished, William would come downstairs. Then Otto could apologize abjectly, spread every bit of his worthless being at William’s feet, comfort him and be comforted, reassure him and be reassured…
At a few minutes before nine, William appeared, whistling.
Whistling! “Good practice session?” Otto said. His voice came out cracked, as if it had been hurled against the high prison walls of himself.
“Terrific,” William said, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
Otto opened his mouth. “You know—” he said.
“Oh, listen—” William said. “There really is a baby!” And faintly interspersed among Naomi and Margaret’s familiar creakings and bumpings in the hall Otto heard little chirps and gurgles.
“Hello, hello!” William cried, flinging open the door. “Look, isn’t she fabulous?”
“We think so,” Naomi said, her smile renewing and renewing itself. “Well, she is.”
“I can’t see if you do that,” Margaret said, disengaging the earpiece of her glasses and a clump of her red, crimpy hair from the baby’s fist as she attempted to transfer the baby over to William.
“Here.” Naomi held out a bottle of champagne. “Take this, too. Well, but you can’t keep the baby. Wow, look, she’s fascinated by Margaret’s hair. I mean, who isn’t?”
Otto wasn’t, despite his strong feelings about hair in general. “Should we open this up and drink it?” he said, his voice a mechanical voice, his hand a mechanical hand accepting the bottle.
“That was the idea,” Naomi said. She blinked up at Otto, smiling hopefully, and rocking slightly from heel to toe.
“Sit. Sit, everyone,” William said. “Oh, she’s sensational!”
Otto turned away to open the champagne and pour it into the lovely glasses somebody or another had given to them some time or another.
“Well, cheers,” William said. “Congratulations. And here’s to—”
“Molly,” Margaret said. “We decided to keep it simple.”