Percival Everett - Big Picture - Stories

“Where do you live?” Eddie asked, accepting the glass of wine Harley handed her, but keeping her eyes on Michael.

“I’m kind of floating these days,” he said.

“Floating,” Simon said and he lifted his arms like a ballerina and pretended to float about the kitchen. “I’m floating. I’m a feather on the wind.”

Sumiko danced with him.

“I’m too big to float,” Harley said.

Eddie still studied Michael, sipped her wine. “That’s what I try to express in my writing. That floating.” She put down her glass and gestured, making circles with her limp hands.

Michael nodded to her as if he understood and that made her smile at him. He watched her trace the rim of her glass with her finger.

“You should have seen the rain we drove through on the way up here,” Eddie said, breaking away from Michael.

“Not just rain,” Simon said, starting to break into a chuckle again. “It was hail getting here.”

“Hail?” Sumiko said.

“Not bad,” Eddie said.

“The hail you say,” said Simon.

Harley’s and Sumiko’s laughter had wound down into smiles and Michael could sense that Eddie was irritated.

“Why is it,” Simon asked, “that hail is always the size of grapefruit or baseballs and never the size of hail?” He laughed more softly, his sounds twisting into the rather sad silence that had come over the room.

“Let’s eat,” Sumiko said.

“By all means,” Eddie said.

Harley and Sumiko expertly herded their guests into the dining room. A glass-topped table stood on an expanse of tan carpet, the wrought-iron legs curved down and back under, and pressed into the nap of the wool. Harley sat Michael beside Eddie with their backs to the wall farthest from the door to the kitchen. Simon sat opposite them. Harley and Sumiko sat at each end of the oval.

The soup was good, Michael thought, but then he was terribly hungry and the taste of anything would have served as a distraction from his headache. He could still see and feel the white light of the bathroom.

“So, how’s the skin trade?” Harley asked Simon.

“Very good,” Eddie said.

“Oh, he’s been waiting to use that all week,” Sumiko said. “So, it’s not as spontaneous as he would have you believe.”

“Put in my place again,” Harley said, sounding a little irritated.

Michael felt his mouth opening. He was talking only because, as a guest, he was supposed to say something at some point and he said, “I’d call that Dylan off the bottom.”

Eddie, Simon, Harley, and Sumiko looked at him without speaking. They seemed puzzled.

Michael felt compelled to explain. “Dylan Thomas wrote Adventures in the Skin Trade. ”

“Oh, yes,” Eddie said.

Everyone laughed.

Eddie looked at Michael with her serious face again and held his eyes just a second too long.

“So how is business?” Harley put the question to Simon once more.

“Breaking out all over,” Simon said and laughed.

Harley chuckled politely. Eddie shifted in her chair. Sumiko sipped her wine.

“Business is good,” Simon said.

“How’s the writing?” Harley asked Eddie.

“I have a story coming out next month. A little journal out of Seattle.”

“Great.” Harley or Sumiko.

“What kind of things do you write?” Michael asked. “Or is that a stupid question to ask a writer?”

“I’m more interested in tonal columns and color than story,” Eddie said. “I’m into texture and contexture. I’m interested in the way opposites fit together, the way they interlock.” She took a sip of wine and licked the corners of her lips.

Michael nodded and looked at the others.

“I love your work,” Sumiko said to Eddie.

“How do you think of your art?” Eddie asked Michael. “What are you exploring these days?”

“Same as always,” Michael said. “I like colors. Sometimes I like yellows. Sometimes blues.”

They ate without speaking for a while. The only sounds were the soft dipping of spoons into puddles of cream of eggplant soup, the parting of soup-moistened lips, the clinking of spoon handles against the rims of bowls. The sounds grew louder and louder in Michael’s head, especially the smacking of Eddie’s lips as she sneaked glances at him.

“You know,” Michael said, “I’ve got a long drive tomorrow and I’ve got to leave early. So, as good as this is, I’ve got to get to bed.”

“That’s okay, Michael,” Harley stood, put his napkin on the table. “I’ll show you where you’re bedding down.”

“If you’ll all excuse me,” Michael said. “Thanks for dinner, Sumiko. It was really good.”

“Good night, Michael,” Sumiko said.

“It was a pleasure meeting you two,” he said to the other guests.

“Same here,” Simon said, standing and shaking Michael’s hand.

“Maybe I’ll see you all in the morning,” Michael said.

Eddie gave him one last ogle before he followed Harley, who was saying, “I already grabbed your bag.” They walked down the hallway, past the bathroom of monochrome torture and into a small den.

“I forgot Eddie and Simon were staying over, so we’ve got to put you on this sofa,” Harley said.

“Fine with me.” Michael looked around the room, at the short couch on which he would be sleeping, at the blond wood paneling, at the green carpet.

“This is the room we haven’t done yet,” Harley said, apologetically. “The television works if you want to use it.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, we’re at the end of the hall if you need anything.”

“Okay.”

Harley left Michael and closed the door. Michael sat on the sofa, ran his hand across the scratchy fabric, and leaned his head back.

The far-off chatter and laughter interspersed with an occasional booming “great” was gone. Michael assumed that they had all gone to bed. He uncoiled himself from the sofa and went to the door to listen. Nothing. He had to relieve himself, but he refused to go back to that white bathroom. Although he believed that even without knowing the layout well enough he might do all right in the dark, the room just flat out scared him; his head hurt simply considering it; his stomach tightened into a knot, which, given his present condition, was an unfortunate circumstance. He felt irrational, but hell, being irrational was the least of his worries. Being irrational didn’t hurt and didn’t poke like pins into the backs of his eyeballs. No, he couldn’t go in there. At the front door, however, he was shocked to find that, even though this was “Laramie, not Denver,” there was an alarm system. A green light flashed, but Michael didn’t know what it meant, whether it was armed or off. He dared not open the door for fear of waking the whole house and maybe summoning every deputy in the territory — cowboys bored shitless at coffee shops just waiting to speed over and point their hair-trigger pistols at him while he squatted next to the holly bush.

He went back and stood in the hallway outside the bathroom. He felt the already piercing pain in his head and was truly afraid of what the light in that room would do to him. He would open the door, flip the switch, and his brain would rupture. If only the room had a window, then at least there might be a small amount of moonlight from outside. He couldn’t bring himself to use the room with the door open, because of the obvious potential for interruption and embarrassment. He hadn’t liked the feeling he’d gotten from Eddie at dinner, the way she licked her lips even when she wasn’t licking her lips, so he was particularly sensitive to the possibility of her finding him in a compromising position. Down at the end of the corridor was the door to Harley and Sumiko’s room and in there was another bathroom. It occurred to him that there might be a flashlight in the kitchen. He believed that everyone had one of those messy drawers with rubber bands, pliers, empty matchbooks, and maybe, just maybe a flashlight. He went into the kitchen and prowled about using the moon through the windows, finding the flatware and a drawer full of corkscrews, and finally their equivalent to his junk drawer, but it seemed frighteningly neat and was, after all, without a flashlight. As sometimes happens when one is engaged to the point of distraction, the urge to go suddenly disappeared. Michael decided to return to his room, close his eyes, and consider his predicament. He went back and put himself on the sofa only to find a leg already stretched across it. He jumped up and hit the switch for the overhead fixture. It was Eddie.