He opened his eye into pain and moonlight and the breath of the animal licking his hair. Will it bite my face? He closed his eye, felt in the dirt and found a small glass bottle at his fingertips. He dug it out and knew from its shape it once held paregoric. The planet Neptune was discovered by mathematical analysis of the movement of another planet. Such has happened. The tongue is a dog, not a deer, licking my pain. He licked his own lips and realized the dog was licking his blood. He tasted a sweetness that was not blood. The chloroform. He raised his hand and swiped the dog’s jaw with the bottle. The animal yelped and Edward opened an eye to see it standing off, waiting. It barked once. Edward growled and the dog ran, a whelp.
He could see tall weeds, but the earth was bare and moist beneath his face, and smelled of ashes. The pain was an ax blade. He did not recognize the weeds or the buildings beyond them. He knew only the moon, and the heat of the dark, early morning, and the burned earth where his cheek touched it. He raised his head into new pain that might kill him. If it did not, he would raise himself. Do not go too fast. Up, and roll. Now sit. He saw light in an upper room of a house, another light at street level. By the light of the moon he saw that the weeds around him had grown over, and through, charred remnants of trash. He closed his eyes to see how to get down the precipice to where Katrina was.
The light at street level came from a window whose painted lettering announced “Saloon.” Edward saw two men talking with the barkeep. He pushed open the half door, went to the bar.
“A double whiskey.”
“Christ, what happened to you?”
“Somebody hit me with a pipe.”
“You know who did it?”
“A woman I knew a long time ago.”
“They don’t forget, do they?” the barman said.
He wet a towel and handed it to Edward.
“Wipe your face, pal.”
Edward took the towel while the barman poured whiskey. The blood on the towel was abundant, streaked white with ashes. He wiped his eyes, his mouth. He drank the whiskey, returned the glass for a refill.
“What street is this?” he asked.
“Dallius.”
“How far are we from Division?”
“Three blocks.”
“They didn’t carry me far.”
“Who didn’t?”
“You know a place called the Good Life?”
“Dorgan’s. They closed early tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m gettin’ their regulars.”
Edward drank the second whiskey. The barman gave him another wet towel. He wiped his ear, blotted his head, blood still oozing. How much had he lost?
“You wanna go the hospital? I’ll get a cop’ll take ya,” the barman said.
“I’ll go later. What do I owe you?” He reached into his pocket, wallet gone. “I can’t pay you. They robbed me.”
“You had a big night.”
“I’ll come back and pay.”
“If you ever get home. You want another shot?”
“The pain is terrific.”
“Have another.”
Edward drank his third double.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Grady.”
“You’re a man worth knowing, Grady. If I don’t die I’ll be back. Can I keep this towel?”
“Take a new one.”
He wet a third towel for Edward.
“I’ll pay your laundry bill, too,” Edward said.
He walked up Dallius toward where Division crossed. The pain was awful but easing. Why did he want to go back to the whorehouse? Explain the riddle of the goat. He turned on Division and walked until he came to Dorgan’s. It was dark. He broke a panel of the glass door with a high kick and entered. By the light of the streetlamp he saw the back bar empty of bottles. He walked across the dance floor toward Maginn’s, opened the whorehouse door, and stepped into darkness. He found a window and raised a shade, letting in light from the street. The rugs, lamps, chairs, and drapes were all gone. One sofa and small bar, without bottles, remained. He moved the bar and found nothing on its one shelf. They took the lead pipe and the chloroform. On the floor he found a large envelope.
He went outside and left the front door wide open. Let the rats out. On the street he lightly touched his wound. The blood seemed to be coagulating. He stood under the streetlight and opened the envelope, to find two dozen identical postcard photos of a woman in a flat, flowered hat, black stockings, shoes, and a white blouse she was holding partly open. She wore no skirt and was facing front, taking the viewer’s picture with her fluffy black camera. Nellie. He would recognize those thighs anywhere. He pocketed one postcard, tossed the rest.
He walked toward the all-night cabstand on State Street, evaluating his latest creation: Cully’s lost confession. Not until he’d finished his monologue to Maginn had he thought of resurrecting it. He’d often imagined an investigator would discover it just that way; and it also made perfect sense for Maginn to hire Cully’s hangman.
His mood improved as he thought of Maginn, with fewer teeth, and fettered with whores, forced into midnight exile by the power of fiction.
Edward Concludes a Dialogue with Katrina on his Front Porch
EDWARD REACHED FOR his watch when the intern at St. Peter’s Hospital finished with his bandage. The watch was gone. What else could he lose tonight? The pain in his head was horrible, the whiskey wearing off, the powders they gave him not yet working. They wanted him to stay overnight in the hospital but he would not. He wanted to walk to Main Street but he lacked the stamina. They rang for a cab and the intern gave him a chair. He sat by the door and waited for the cab.
He looked for Giles in the hospital hallway but did not find him. He’s here someplace. He saw a wall clock that said four-twenty. It’s early. Late. It was not likely that his play would be resurrected. His playwriting days were over. Everything was over. It won’t get no better, Cappy said. Nothin’ worth doin’, it’s finished. The only thing that isn’t over is the pain. He regretted not having time enough to do the play properly, and to use the real names. Who would care? The play would never be done again. But if it was done, some scenes would be different.
(KATRINA is seated on sofa in the Daugherty drawing room, looking at photo album. EDWARD stands with his arms folded, watching her. They are dressed for the evening. She wears a corsage of violets.)
EDWARD: You could never admit your behavior was unacceptable.
KATRINA: Of course I could. I just said you had to accept it. I understood your behavior perfectly. You were correct in moving to New York. I was impossible.
EDWARD: You’re very understanding of your own contradictions.
KATRINA: I would’ve gone mad otherwise.
EDWARD: You can seem as mad as the Queen of Bedlam. The soul obsessed by primal passions, trying to carry out the divine will. That’s Peer Gynt but it’s you.