Percival Everett - Big Picture - Stories

At the door of the sizable, but modest house, Michael was met by Sumiko who was as small as Harley was large. Her smile was no less brutish or feral, in fact it was even more savage, coming like an ambush from this little creature.

“It’s great to see you,” Sumiko said, as her little feet somehow got her behind him. She pushed him into the house, into the vestibule floored with tiles that had been carved by hand, a fish here, a primitive bison there. Michael felt the unevenness of the floor through his shoes. He put down his suitcase.

“It’s good to see you, too, Sumiko.”

“Harley’s not back yet. He’s at the chiropractor. He’s got a bad back. You know, all that lifting.”

Michael nodded.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Sumiko said. “You can keep me company while I finish dinner. This is great.”

He followed Sumiko through the living room, walking past one of his early paintings. He realized that he had made it, but didn’t know how he could have.

“We move that piece around the house,” Sumiko said. “I liked it when you used more form.”

Michael smiled and hoped she heard.

In the kitchen, Michael found the light white and harsh, discharging from broad panels implanted in the ceiling and ricocheting mercilessly off stainless steel cabinets, stove, and refrigerator.

“What do you think of our new kitchen?” she asked.

“It’s very … metal,” Michael said.

“We like to think so.” Sumiko walked to the stove and looked into something she had simmering on a burner. “Sit down, sit down.”

Michael sat at the table and watched her tiny feet carry her from refrigerator to stove to cabinet to refrigerator as she tied on a little apron. “How about some wine?” she asked, suddenly.

“I don’t drink.”

“I remember not liking that about you.” She laughed. “May I get you anything to drink? Juice?”

“I’m okay right now,” Michael said.

Sumiko took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and poured a glass for herself. “A little wine never hurt anybody, Michael.”

Michael nodded.

“So, how’s Gail?”

“I think she’s well,” he said.

Sumiko looked at him over the rim of her wine glass. “You think?”

“We’re trying out a separation.”

“Here’s to a successful one,” Sumiko said, raising her glass, then taking a sip. “I never liked her anyway. She’s not strong enough for you.”

“What’s in the pot?” Michael asked.

“Oh, it’s cream of eggplant soup.” She rose to her toes to catch a glimpse of the activity in the pot. “It’s the first time I’ve made it. You’re a guinea pig, I guess.”

“I’m willing,” he said.

Then Sumiko’s face changed, she sighed, and her eyes, although not really softening, showed that they wanted to soften, and she walked to Michael and touched his face. “I’m so sorry. Poor, poor Michael,” she said, sitting at the table with him. “But isn’t this great? Sitting here, together and all.”

Michael nodded.

Harley came in through the front door, and said with his booming, smiling voice, “Some fool left a fortune of camping gear outside free for the taking.”

Michael stood up as Harley entered the kitchen. “Maybe that’s not a good idea,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Harley said. “This is Laramie, not Denver.”

Michael sat back down.

Sumiko handed a glass of wine to Harley. “What did he say about your back?”

“Well, he cracked it this way and he cracked it that way,” Harley said, twisting his body to indicate the treatment. “Then he stretched me and told me not to pick up anything heavy. I laughed in his face. I had half a mind to pick him up and laugh right into his face. Like this.” He grabbed Sumiko by her waist and she squealed and then he hoisted her to eye level and laughed right in her face and then they laughed together.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Michael asked.

“Down the hall,” Harley said, letting Sumiko’s feet down to the black and white tiles. “You’ll see it.”

Michael walked down the corridor and before he turned into the bath, he heard Sumiko whisper to Harley, “They’ve split up.” He closed the door behind him and switched on the light, nearly collapsing as he did so: everything was so bright. The room was white everywhere, white fixtures, white walls, white tile, white bidet, white towels, and even the soap in the white dish was white. He wanted to pee just to create some contrast, some relief not merely for his bladder but for his suffering eyes. He was dizzied by the brutal starkness of it all and the headache that had been at work in the back of his brain rose another notch in intensity. He imagined walking into this room and switching on the light in the middle of the night, having just come out of a sound sleep. He might have to do just that. He shuddered as he approximated the magnitude of the headache that might be caused by such a visual concussion. He flushed, washed his hands, reluctantly dried them on a stiff white towel, and went back to Harley and Sumiko in the kitchen.

“Do you have another bathroom?” Michael asked.

“There’s one in our bedroom,” Harley said, his big smile filled with concern. “Something wrong with the other one?”

“No, nothing,” Michael said. “Just wondering. Your house is done very nicely.”

“Thanks,” Harley said.

“Taste this,” Sumiko said, coming to Harley with a spoon, her free hand cupped under it. “Be careful, now, this is hot. Blow on it first.” She blew on it for him.

Harley blew on it too, then sucked in the soup. “That’s great.”

“Want a taste, Michael?” Sumiko asked.

Michael sat down at the table again. “Thanks, but I think I’ll wait.” He squinted against the pain in his head.

“Something wrong?” Sumiko asked. “You’re squinting. Is the light hurting your eyes?”

“Nope.”

“Hey, man, you want to lie down before dinner?” Harley asked, sitting across the table, crossing his legs, and playing with the laces of one of his enormous boots.

Michael shook his head.

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Eddie and Simon,” Harley said and left the room.

“You’ll love these people,” Sumiko said. “Eddie’s a writer and Simon, he’s a doctor and well, you’ll see.”

Harley came rolling into the kitchen with the guests who were laughing loudly with him. “Michael,” Harley said, “Edwina Johns and Simon Seys.”

Simon belched out an even louder laugh. “That’s really my name,” he said to Michael. “Can you believe my parents named me that? I’m just lucky they didn’t name me Yadont.”

Michael squeezed a smile into the chorus of guffaws. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said.

“I like your paintings,” Eddie said abruptly, sitting in the chair that had been Harley’s. She looked at Michael’s eyes, seeming to get too close, yet they were separated by the table. “Your paintings remind me of my work.”

“Sumiko tells me you’re a writer,” Michael said.

“Yes.” She was not laughing now, but looking at Michael with a serious expression.

Michael looked to Simon. “What do you do, Simon?”

“I’m a physician,” Simon said. “A dermatologist. I just thought I’d squeeze that in.” He laughed again and the rest laughed with him.

“Are you two from Laramie?” Michael asked.

“No, we’re from Denver,” Eddie said, serious once more.

Michael’s heart sank at hearing the word Denver and the word dermatologist together. He figured that all skin doctors in Denver must know one another. Simon must know Bob and therefore, these two people, if not all four of them, were probably all too familiar with the details of Michael’s private life.