Pudgy, with light-colored hair, he bent stroking my cat Magnificat, who had curled up happily against the front door of the house. I watched for a time, thinking: Is this a salesman or something? The young man wore trousers too large for him, and a brightly colored shirt. On his face, as he petted Magnificat, was the most gentle expression I had ever seen on a human face; this kid, who obviously had never encountered my cat before, radiated a kind of fondness, a kind of palpable love, that in fact was something new to me. Some of the very early statues of the god Apollo reveal that sweet smile. Totally absorbed in petting Magnificat, the kid remained oblivious to me, to my nearby presence; I watched, fascinated, because for one thing Magnificat was a rough-and-tumble old tomcat who normally did not allow strangers to get near him.
All at once the kid glanced up. He smiled shyly and rose awkwardly to his feet. "Hi."
"Hi." I walked toward him, carefully, very slowly.
"I found this cat." The kid blinked, still smiling; he had guileless blue eyes, absent of any cunning. "It's my cat," I said.
"What's her name?"
"It's a tomcat," I said, "and he's named Magnificat."
"He's very beautiful," the kid said.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I'm Kirsten's son. I'm Bill."
That explained the blue eyes and the blond hair. "I'm Angel Archer," I said.
"I know. We've met. But it was-" He hesitated. "I'm not sure how long ago. They gave me electroshock ... my memory isn't very good."
"Yes," I said. "I guess we did meet. I just came from the hospital visiting your mom."
"Can I use your bathroom?"
"Sure," I said. I got my keys from my purse and unlocked the front door. "Excuse the mess. I work; I'm not home enough to keep it neat. The bathroom is off the kitchen, in the back. Just keep on going."
Bill Lundborg did not close the bathroom door behind him; I could hear him urinating loudly. I filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner. Strange, I thought. This is the son she derides. As she derides us all.
Reappearing, Bill Lundborg stood self-consciously, smiling at me anxiously, quite obviously ill at ease. He had not flushed the toilet. I thought, then, very suddenly: He has just come out of the hospital, the mental hospital; I can tell.
"Would you like coffee?" I said.
"Sure."
Magnificat entered the kitchen.
"How old is she?" Bill asked.
"I have no idea how old he is. I rescued him from a dog. After he had grown, I mean, not as a kitten. He probably lived somewhere in the neighborhood."
"How is Kirsten?"
"Doing really well," I said. I pointed to a chair. "Sit down."
"Thanks." He seated himself; placing his arms on the kitchen table, he interlocked his fingers. His skin was so pale. Kept indoors, I thought. Caged up. "I like your cat."
"You can feed him," I said; I opened the refrigerator and got out the can of cat food.
As Bill fed Magnificat, I watched the two of them. The care he took in spooning out the food ... systematically, his attention deeply fixed, as if it were very important, what he had become involved in; he kept his gaze intent on Magnificat, and as he scrutinized the old cat he smiled again, that smile that so touched me, so made me start.
Batter me, oh God, I thought, remembering for some strange reason. Batter and kill me; they have injured this sweet kind baby until there is almost nothing left. Burned his circuits out as a pretense of healing him. The fucking sadists, I thought, in their sterile coats. What do they know about the human heart? I felt like crying.
And he will be back in, I thought, as Kirsten says. In and out of the hospital the rest of his life. The fucking sons of bitches.
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt town, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely' I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth 'd unto your enemie:
Divorce mee, untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take awe to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee.
My favorite poem of John Donne's; it came up into me, into my mind, as I watched Bill Lundborg feed my worn old cat.
And I laugh at God, I thought; I make no sense out of what Tim teaches and believes, and the torment he feels over these various issues. I am fooling myself; in my own labored way, I do understand. Look at him serve that ignorant cat. He-this child-would have been a veterinarian, if they hadn't maimed him, shredded up his mind. What had Kirsten told me? He is afraid to drive; he stops taking out the garbage; he will not bathe and then he cries. I cry, too, I thought, and sometimes I let the trash pile up, and one time I nearly got sideswiped on Hoffman and had to pull over. Lock me up, I thought; lock up us all. This, then, is Kirsten's affliction, having this boy for her son?
Bill said, "Is there anything else I can feed her? She's still hungry."
"Anything you see in the fridge," I said. "Would you like something to eat?"
"No thanks." Again he stroked the awful old cat-a cat who never gave the time of day to any person. He has made this animal tame, I thought, as he himself is: tame.
"Did you come here on the bus?" I said.
"Yes." He nodded. "I had to surrender my driver's license. I used to drive, but-" He became silent.
"I take the bus," I said.
"I had a real great car," Bill said "A '56 Chevy. A stick shift with an eight, the big eight they made; it was only the second year Chevrolet made an eight; the first year was '55."
"Those are very valuable cars," I said.
"Yes; Chevrolet had changed to that new body-style. After the old higher, shorter body- style they used so long. The difference between a '55 and a '56 Chevy is in the front grille; if the grille includes the turn-signal lights, you can tell it's a
"Where are you living?" I said. "In the City?"
"I'm not living anywhere. I got out of Napa last week. They let me out because Kirsten is sick. I hitched down here. A man gave me a ride in his Stingray." He smiled. "You have to take those 'Vettes out on the freeway every week or they build up carbon deposits in the mill.
He was blowing carbon out the whole way. What I don't like about a 'Vette is the fiberglass body; you can't really repair it." He added, "But they certainly are good-looking. His was white. I forget the year, although he told me. We got it up to a hundred, but the cops pace you a lot when you're in a 'Vette, hoping you'll exceed the limit. We had a Highway Patrol after us part of the way but he had to turn his siren on and take off; an emergency of some kind, somewhere. We flipped him off as he went by. He was real disgusted but he couldn't cite us; he was in too much of a hurry."
I asked him, then, as tactfully as I could, why he had come to see me.
"I wanted to ask you something," Bill said. "I met your husband one time. You weren't home; you were working or something. He was here alone. Was his name Jeff?"
"Yes," I said.
"What I wanted to know is-" Bill hesitated. "Could you tell me why he killed himself?"
"There are a lot of factors involved in something like that."
I seated myself at the kitchen table, facing him. "I know he was in love with my mother."
"Oh," I said. "You do know that."
"Yes, Kirsten told me. Was that the main reason?"
"Perhaps," I said.
"What were the other reasons?"
I was silent.
"Would you tell me one thing," Bill said, "one particular thing? Was he mentally disturbed?"
"He had been in therapy. But not intensive therapy."