Gene Wolfe: Free Live Free

Stubb had fallen asleep, but the noise woke him. He flipped the wall switch and opened the door to illuminate the dark hall. Candy lay halfway up the stair, trying to rise.

He found her purse, hung it over his wrist, and bracing his feet on the worn wood, got his hands beneath her arms. “Hold the rail,” he told her.

She nearly fell backward, taking him with her.

“Jesus!”

“’S all right,” she said. “I’m swell.” Her tongue was thickened almost to unintelligibility.

After a moment, he realized she no longer knew whether she was going up or down. “You want to go to the john?” he asked. “Up here.”

She shook her head. “Go bed.”

“Swell. Your room’s up here too. Jesus, what have you been drinking?”

“Had li’l party.”

“I bet.” He put a hand under her knee and lifted until her foot was on the step where he stood. “Come on, you can make it. Hold on to the rail.” He tugged at her, and she lurched upward.

Once he got her to the top, it was easier. Half steering, half carrying her, he brought her to her door. Her key, chained to a rabbit’s foot, was near the top of her purse.

He pulled her coat from her shoulders and maneuvered her to the bed, then closed the door and locked it. Candy staggered up at once, nearly falling, fumbling at the side of her skirt.

“That’s fine,” he told her. “Go to sleep. I haven’t got the bread anyway.”

The fat girl’s hands fell helplessly. “Undress.”

“Hell, it won’t hurt you to sleep with your clothes on.”

She began to fumble with the closure of her skirt again.

“All right, I don’t want you stumbling around getting hurt. What happened to your shoes, anyhow? God damn it, this thing’s tighter than you are.”

The zipper at the side of her skirt was open already, or perhaps had never been closed. When Stubb released the straining catch, a gap as wide as his hand appeared between the ends of the waistband.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Her blouse buttoned up the front. He ran nimble fingers down the buttons, pulled the blouse away, and threw it over the headboard. Her belly, white, soft as gelatin, and balloonlike in its distension, overhung the elastic of her panties and propped the swollen breasts in her sagging brassiere. Swaying, she embraced it, lifting and fondling it as if to compensate it for the discomfort it had endured.

“Candy, if you’d just charge ’em by the pound, you’d make a fortune.”

She belched. “Pizza. Lots of pizza. Went up to his place. Marty.”

“I thought they were all named John.”

She belched again. “Pizza and boilermakers.”

Stubb shook his head. “He give you anything, or did you just take it out in food and booze?”

Quite suddenly the fat girl took two tottering steps backward and fell across the bed. Stubb lifted her feet onto the mattress and rolled her on her side. A tin wastebasket half full of crumpled Kleenex stood beside the dresser; he put it on the floor near her head.

Her eyes fluttered open, closed again.

“If you get sick, use that,” he told her. “Stay off your back. You could choke.”

He bunched the pillow behind her shoulders and pulled blankets over her. “Well, you won’t freeze tonight when they turn off the gas. You might be the only one who won’t.”

At the sound of his voice, her lips twitched in a smile, then she began to snore. He squatted on the floor and dumped her purse onto the rug. The pack of Viceroys still held four cigarettes; he took one, lit it, and inhaled deeply. If she had ever had a billfold, it was gone, but there were loose bills among the soiled tissues, chewing-gum wrappers, and exhausted lipsticks. Twelve dollars in singles, two twenties, and several dollars in change. He took five singles and one of the twenties, making a roll he tucked into the crotch of his shorts.

“I earned it tonight, Candy,” he told the sleeping girl softly. “For a minute there, I thought we were both going down those steps.”

The rest he swept back into her purse.

On the roof, old Ben Free was speaking to the witch. “It’s coming closer,” he said. “I feel like I can hear it.”

“I cannot hear it,” she told him. “But you are correct. It draws so near. Soon it will be in Virgo.”

The snow had stopped again, but not before it had covered the rooftop with a fluffy layer. The old man’s booted feet left shambling tracks that might have been a bear’s; the witch’s footprints were so tiny and sharp they might have been a doe’s, and in places they did not appear at all. The sky had cleared. In the moonlight, the shadows were deep blue.

“I’m talking about the wreckin’ ball,” the old man grumbled.

“I speak of Saturn. It is the same.”

“Horseshit.”

“You say that, who can hear it swung already?”

He seemed not to hear her. “Anyway, they’ll find me like I always knew they would. It was a long chase I give them.”

“The years, you mean.”

“You know better, Ma’am, or you wouldn’t be up here on the roof with me.”

“Whom do you mean, then?”

“It ain’t your affair.”

“I tried to give you a gentlemanly escape, but you would have none of it. Do you prefer rudeness, Mr. Free? I do not.” The witch put one foot on the parapet, and holding up her black skirt in the parody of a curtsy, stepped onto the coping and began to walk along it.

“You’ll fall,” the old man said. “You’ll bust your fool neck.”

“I do not much care, Mr. Free, and because I do not, I will not fall. Anyway, we are said to fall more slowly than others. We float when ducked, and given the least crust of ice, we can run over the snow like wolves.”

“You tell lies, too.”

“Not I.” The witch laughed; her laughter was clear and yet unpleasant. “I used to as a child, I confess. But I soon found the truth more disconcerting.”

“Next thing you’ll tell me you knew I was here, and that was why you come.”

“Not at all. I am as destitute as the rest, or nearly. Like them, I attempt to live by my wits; and though I wish to think I have more, I live as badly as they.”

Free looked at her and shook his head. “You’re proud of it, though, girl. Proud you’re whatever you are.”

“Whatever I am is the best thing to be. I am the only person I have ever met who is not a fool.”

“Present company excepted, I s’pose.”

“You tell me you are awaiting destruction and your death. If I were you, I would welcome them; but you do not, and neither do you flee.”

“Where I just come from, men don’t die easy. Women neither.”

“I am properly rebuked. Why don’t you run? Even if you have no money, there are places that will accept a homeless old man.”

“I can’t. I won’t. You think you can see thirty foot into the hill, don’t you, girl? You can’t see a thing.”

“What can I not see, Mr. Free?”

“You think this here me that’s talking to you is all there is. Don’t you know there ain’t a man to either side of the Muddy that’s all held in his skin?”

“There is something in what you say.”

“You think these walls are mine. I’m telling you these walls are me. Here’s where I started out from. Here’s where I’ve come to lick my wounds for—well, a sight of years. More than my whole life. Here’s where I’ll live as long as they stand, and here’s where I’ll die when they come down. See my chimney there? That’s as much me as what you’re talking to.”

“We live inside you then, we four. I find that amusing. Like worms in a corpse. Very well, Mr. Free, will you speak to me out of your chimney? Or is your flue hoarse from smoking?”