“Why?” he asked.
“Spit it out! Just do it! It’s bad, it’s not ice, it’s not water, it’s dangerous!”
“I can’t, I swallowed it already. What do you mean it’s dangerous?”
“Nothing.”
I was upset that my little cloud had been eaten alive, while it was in a paralyzed, helpless state.
My brother looked at me angrily, as if expecting an explanation.
So I gave one: “It’s just that it was my ice cube, which I brought from home, and I didn’t want you to eat it. It was my ice cube.”
I hung my head low and mourned my cloud melting in his stomach. I wondered if it would harm him. I was nervous about that, actually. More nervous about it than about the fate of my cloud. But maybe it wouldn’t harm him. Maybe it would become part of his person in a helpful way.
The following night I had dinner with my family again, still needing a break from Chriskate and even from Nathaniel, and feeling too lonely to have dinner alone. Suddenly, in the middle of dinner, my brother let out a big fart, and my little cloud came out intact and rose above his head. Not having yet seen the cloud, my brother looked at us sheepishly and said, “I’m sorry, it had a mind of its own.”
Seeing the direction of our gazes, he looked up and saw the cloud. I jumped to my feet, overjoyed, and grabbed the cloud and put it in my handbag.
“Hey, do you mind!” said my brother. “Give that back.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s my fart.”
“No, it’s mine.”
“Oh really? How do you figure that?”
“Someone gave it to me as a present.”
He looked at our parents. “Everyone at this table knows that this is my fart. They heard me make it and they saw it come out of my body.”
“That’s enough now. Calm down,” said our father.
“But she stole my fart!” My brother stomped his foot and looked as if he were on the verge of tears. “I produced something extraordinary for the first time in my life, so I should have a right to keep it. Or at least examine it, for God’s sake!”
I quickly left the apartment, apologizing to my parents and telling them I’d call them later. My brother didn’t try to wrestle his fart from me, which was a relief.
The following day I did agree to see Chriskate again. We had lunch, but this time our encounter was not pleasant. She asked too many questions. She looked at me too intently, studied me too studiously. She even took notes. And she asked the same questions again and again. She didn’t believe my answers.
“What is it about you that Nathaniel likes so much?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know. He must have told you.”
“No.”
“Why don’t you want to tell me? Because you think it’s pointless? Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind telling you if there was something, but I don’t think he said anything.”
“You don’t think? That means he might have. That means you’re not sure. Can you please think about it harder?”
“I have, I think. I swear, I can’t remember. I’m pretty sure he never told me what he liked about me.”
“Do you think it’s your looks or your personality? Is it mental? Does he think you’re smart?”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, Anna, think.”
I sighed and mumbled, “I am thinking. But why do you want to know this?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Oh, so you don’t want to tell me, is that it? Cause you don’t approve. You think it would do no good. But you said you would tell me. You assured me you would tell me if you knew.”
“Yes, I would tell you if I knew, even though I also think it would do no good. But I would tell you.”
“Well then guess. Why do you think he likes you?”
“I don’t know. I’m hideous compared to you. I’m not successful. I’m an aspiring actress who’s not even a waitress in her free time: I’m a Xeroxer and an ear piercer. I’m not strikingly witty or gentle or even fun. I may be a little strange, but he didn’t see that side of me. Take your pick.”
“I’m sure you have some assets you’re hiding.”
“I wish.”
“No, no, you must have. Either you’re not telling me on purpose, or you’re just not trying hard enough to think of them.” She then added musingly, “Or maybe you take them so much for granted that you don’t realize they’re there and remarkable.”
I couldn’t wait for the lunch to be over. She insisted that we go get a drink somewhere, to continue the search for my hidden assets, but I declined and said good-bye. She would not accept that. She would not say good-bye. So I started walking away, and she followed me, begging me to tell her my secret. Then some photographers recognized her and started taking her picture. She was loudly asking me, “Why are you special? How are you remarkable? What is it that you do?” Embarrassed, I started running away, and she ran after me, and the photographers ran after her.
“Just tell me, what is it that you do?” she repeated.
I shouted back: “I don’t do anything! Leave me alone! I just am.”
I finally ditched her and went home, panting.
I was not special and I was not remarkable. Anybody who thought so was deluded.
I took a hot bath when I got home and relished the silence. I had never relished silence as much as then.
All I cared about was for Damon to come back. I wanted to see him again. I wanted him to take me away from this insanity, into a world of fantasy.
As I was getting out of my bath, he called. A perfect ending to a perfect bath.
“I’m back,” he said.
“Great!”
“But I have to leave again.”
“When?”
“In an hour or two.”
“For where?”
“The same place.”
“Why?”
“Same reason. Work.”
“Oh. When will you be back?”
“Not for a while. Two or three weeks, perhaps.”
“Oh.” I was crushed and disillusioned. I said nothing.
“But would you like to join me for dinner this evening in the country?” he said. “We could drive out together. Although I realize it’s short notice.”
I accepted without hesitation. He asked me if two hours was enough time to get ready. He added that I might want to bring an overnight bag in case I felt like extending my stay a little.
While I was packing, I could not help thinking about my plan to take the initiative romantically next time I saw him. I decided that the plan would remain in effect. After our dinner, I would try to kiss him, and if he responded by either (a) slapping me, like he did to the woman in the nightclub, or even just (b) gently rejecting me, I would leave. I would take the train home. Or a taxi, if I had to. But — clouds or no clouds — it would be over.
I called the train station to find out at what time the last train left for the city, from the station near his house: 12:40 A.M., they said. This meant a move would have to be made by midnight. If not by Damon, then by me.
Chapter Five
The drive out was pleasant and uneventful. Damon asked about my social life, my friends. I didn’t tell him about Chriskate Turschicraw, or about my lunch with her. I only said I had had a miserable day, and that I didn’t want to think about it. In a little over an hour we arrived at his driveway, a long dirt road winding into the woods. The house was large and slightly elevated. A dozen steps led to the front door.