Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

She slipped out of her underwear and clambered on top, then reached down and placed him with her hand. She was very wet. He sighed. She imagined that he was pretending to be asleep. But he wasn’t, really. She moved slowly, keeping him inside. The backs of her thighs were a little cold.

She brought herself to orgasm, bracing her other hand against his collarbone, not hurrying. She pitched forward. He grunted gently. Outside the dog was barking. She slid to the side and then, knees a bit tangled in her stockings and skirt, to the floor below him again.

She daubed at them both with her underwear, and buttoned him up. She stood and pulled her skirt up and it was as if nothing had happened, except her smeared underwear was on the floor and she felt a coolness and a trickling on the inside of her thighs. She ran a bath. Then she went out to him again and arranged his teeshirt so it covered his stomach, and fit his arms back at his sides.

Something was wrong. The more she restored him, the deader he looked, as if she were a mortician. She moved him with difficulty to the easy chair, which was an improvement. It seemed to put more of an end to the affair. Then, a little guiltily, as though it should have been the first thing she’d done on coming home, she gathered the houseplants. There were four of them, a fern, a spiderplant, a tall thing that was some kind of succulent, with fat, fleshy plumes, and a small fist-like cactus with white wisps of hair instead of spines. She arrayed them near his chair.

He slept on. She got into the bath.

When she got home from work the next day, the plants already seemed bigger, and the fern, the most flexible of the four, was definitely bent towards him, as if in the direction of sunlight. His position was changed too, his head tipped forward, chin on his chest, and his arms were folded. It gave him a decisive, even obstinate look. She put her things on the sofa and went into the kitchen.

After dinner she put on her coat again and went out onto the porch. The street was quiet. It was a cold night. It looked safe. She closed the door.

Perhaps the people in the bar would know something about the sleepy man.

Quick’s Little Alaska was a perfect cube, like a children’s block that had been disguised with scribbles of neon and daubs of graffiti and surrounded with Dumpsters and parked or abandoned cars so it could pass as a building. The cars on Schermerhorn Avenue raced by, oblivious. Judith herself didn’t know anyone with a car anymore. Eva and Tom walked all the way downtown to work, like she did. Judith suspected the people inside Quick’s, the militia, hadn’t driven their cars, if they had cars, for a long time. The cars around the bar didn’t look like they’d been started in a while. They all had cat footprints on the windshields and hoods.

It was chilly inside, as advertised. Everyone at the bar turned when she stepped through the door. Farther inside, at the cluster of tables, nobody seemed particularly interested. She recognized some of the faces, others were new. She took a deep breath and went to the bar.

The music playing was slurred and slow, a voice and a trumpet winding down like an uncranked engine.

The man working the bar was one she remembered from the last time she’d come in, years ago. He was the son of Quick, the owner. His hair was red, like his father’s. He moved over to where she stood and cleared away an empty bottle. He obviously remembered her too. “What can I do you for, Judith?” he said. “Looking for someone?”

“Not exactly,” she said. She knew that Quick’s son meant someone in particular: John, who had been Judith’s husband once. John was sitting in the back of the bar, at one of the tables. He was part of the militia now. He was a general. Judith tried not to look his way.

“Do you sell tee-shirts?” she said.

In answer Quick’s son reached underneath the bar and pulled out a shirt identical to the one the sleepy man wore.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said.

“You want one?”

“No. There’s a man — he had one. I was wondering if you knew him.”

Quick’s son didn’t answer, but the man beside her at the bar turned and said, “Where’d you see him?”

He had a beard and was wearing a sweater with leather patches and the kind of hat she imagined men wore on fishing boats.

“He was sleeping on my porch,” she said.

The bearded man raised his eyebrow and said, “Give the lady a drink, Red.”

“She didn’t order anything,” said Quick’s son.

“I don’t need anything,” Judith said. “Do you know the man, the one who was sleeping?”

The bearded man raised a finger and said, “Lieutenant?”

A woman a seat away from him rested her elbow on the bar and peered at him and Judith over the top of her half-glasses.

“Lady’s looking for Danny-boy,” said the bearded man.

“I’m not looking for him,” Judith said quickly. “I wanted to know if he came from here.” Danny-boy , she thought. If that was his name, if they meant the same person.

“Sure, sure,” said the older woman. “We understand what you mean. Danny-boy giving you trouble?”

“No,” said Judith. “So he was here? He lived in the bar?”

“He’s Absent without Leave,” said the bearded man. “It sounds like you have information concerning his whereabouts.” He took a large finishing swallow of his drink. “Another like that, Red,” he said to Quick’s son, who was leaning on his side of the bar. “And don’t listen in on privileged communication.”

“Okay, okay,” said Quick’s son.

“Danny-boy’s not in any trouble, is he?” said the older woman, removing her half-glasses. They were strung around her neck by a red cord and rested crookedly in her cleavage.

“No,” said Judith again, a little confused. If anything, she was getting him into trouble by coming here.

“Sounds like he’s found himself a woman,” said the bearded man.

“Sergeant, we don’t presume anything around here,” said the older woman, the lieutenant. “We operate on the basis of verifiable fact.”

Quick’s son was still leaning in from his side of the bar, listening. They’d attracted another listener, too, a man with a cane, but no limp. He had hawk-like eyes and a gigantic nose. He stepped over and hung his cane on the bar.

“One of our scouts has been contacted, Admiral,” said the woman, moving her eyebrows significantly.

The admiral turned and looked sharply at Judith, then reached out and pinched her chin. Judith jerked her head away. “Excellent disguise,” said the man.

“Not her,” said the lieutenant. “She’s a civilian volunteer.”

“Scout, that’s a good one,” said the sergeant. “Dannyboy couldn’t scout the inside of his eyelids.”

Judith didn’t like agreeing with the abrasive sergeant, but she did want them to understand. “He’s sleepy,” she said.

“Who isn’t?” said the admiral. “I’m interested in his findings, not his feelings.” He turned and scowled across the bar. “Scotch, Quick.”

Quick’s son hurried to his bottles. Two other members of the militia joined them from the tables at the back of the room. A young woman in overalls, with a crewcut, and John, who had long ago been Judith’s husband. “Hello, Judith,” John said.

“General Map,” said the admiral. “Hail.”

“You joining our merry band?” John said to Judith, ignoring the admiral.

“I was just — I just had a question,” said Judith.

“She’s playing Betsy Crocker to a Benedict Arnold,” said the sergeant sneeringly.

“Don’t you mean Betsy Ross? ” said the lieutenant.

Quick’s son put a whiskey on the bar in front of the admiral, then opened two bottles of beer and handed them to the woman in overalls, who passed one to John. Quick’s son still hadn’t refilled the sergeant’s glass, Judith noticed.