Sherman Alexie - Ten Little Indians

While he was gone, she stood and looked around the apartment. What a strange time for a self-guided tour! The front room was large, with exposed brick walls. Tasteful and anonymous two-sided prints hung suspended from the ceiling. Forming a sort of art curtain, they cut the room in half. Odd and beautiful, she thought. The bedroom was large enough for only an unmade bed and an end table stacked high with books. The bathroom was small as well, with a clean white sink, a toilet, and a shower. She’d never be able to live without a tub. But there were no guitars, no musical instruments of any kind. So maybe this chubby guy wasn’t a bass player. She walked into the small kitchen where he stood quietly and stared out the window.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I can see the smoke,” he said.

She heard the sirens and the helicopters and the other human and machine noise. If anything, it was louder than it had been before. Nobody would sleep tonight.

“Here’s your water,” he said and handed her a full glass.

She drank it all in one swallow.

“You drink water like a man,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said and laughed. She laughed with him. They were flirting. How could they flirt at a time like this? She’s beautiful, he thought, and then he was ashamed of himself for noticing.

“I’m married,” she said.

“Do you want to call him?” he asked, relieved that she’d established her barriers.

“No,” she said. “I hate him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I have children, too,” she said. “Two sons.”

Oh, man, he thought, maybe she was covered with her children’s blood.

“They weren’t in the restaurant with you, were they?” he asked.

“No, they’re in school. And I told you, I wasn’t in the restaurant when it happened.”

“You’re lying. I don’t know why you’re lying. But you are lying.”

“If you think I’m a liar, then why did you bring me home?”

“I don’t know. I thought you needed help.”

“You thought you might help by getting me in bed, right?”

“No.”

“Now who’s lying?” she asked and walked back into the living room.

He followed her. “Listen,” he said. “I think you might have hit your head or something. You’re not talking right. I think you need to see a doctor.”

“Maybe I talked like this before the bomb,” she said. “Maybe I’ve always talked like this.”

“But what about your husband and kids? Won’t they be worried about you?”

“I told you, I hate my husband.”

“But you can’t hate him.”

“A wife can’t hate her husband? You can’t be that naive, can you?”

“No, I was married.”

She laughed. “You’re funny,” she said.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” he said.

“Funny people don’t have to try.”

“Listen, forget all that. What about your kids?”

“They hate me more than I hate them.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t think a mother can hate her kids?”

“No, it’s not that. Mothers aren’t supposed to hate their kids.”

“What kind of jerk are you?”

She threw her empty glass against the brick wall, and this second explosion was stronger for him than the first one. He was afraid of this woman and her possibilities.

“I don’t want you to be here anymore,” he said.

“I don’t want to be anywhere,” she said.

“No, really, I want you to leave now. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure they’ll be here right away. I’m sure you’ll be really high on their priority list.”

“All right, I’ll throw you out myself.”

“Oh, aren’t you the tough guy? Just like my husband. All you want to do is fight. All right, I fight him, I’ll fight you.”

She balled her hands into fists, but she stuck her thumbs inside. If she landed a punch, she’d break a thumb. He knew she’d never thrown a real punch in her life. She looked pathetic.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

“You’re scared,” he said. “I’m scared, too. I haven’t been in a fight since third grade. And she beat me up. Her name was Susan. She broke my nose with her Snoopy lunch box.”

Yes, she thought, this man is funny and smiles like a fragile little boy, as if he’s slightly ashamed of his crooked teeth and crooked sense of humor. She dropped her fists and paced around the room. She felt an ineffable anxiety. She knew she needed to make plans, but she couldn’t figure out what to do first.

“Listen,” she said, “I’m sorry about being such a bitch.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Considering the circumstances, I think we’re probably doing all right.”

“Okay, okay, you’re a good man. We need more good men in the world. How about we start over? How about we introduce ourselves and pretend like we just met?”

How could she say something so banal? What was wrong with her?

“Look at yourself,” he said. “I don’t think it’s possible to start over.”

She was covered with blood and dirt. She was surprised. How had she forgotten that? And why was she worried about this stranger’s feelings? Again she wondered if she was crazy, if she was dreaming this whole day, if this man and his apartment were illusions.

“Hey,” he said, “I’ve got a clean robe in the bathroom and clean towels. Why don’t you take a shower, wash all that stuff away. How does that sound?”

Now he sounded trivial: Hey, the city is burning, but you’ll feel so much better if you floss your teeth.

“You just want to get me naked,” she said.

“You’re very pretty, and I will admit I thought briefly about sex. But mass murder and suicide bombs sort of shrink the wonder wand, you know?”

She laughed again. She sat on the couch and laughed. She covered her face with a pillow and laughed. She threw the pillow at him and laughed. “You’re so funny,” she said.

“Come on,” he said. “I was not trying to be funny. I was trying to tell you how I feel.”

“Maybe everything you feel is funny,” she said and wiped tears from her eyes.

“Maybe everything is funny to you,” he said. “But you’re crazy pussy, and I was married to crazy pussy before, and I have no real interest in getting near it again.”

“Crazy pussy!” she shouted and laughed. She rolled off the couch onto the floor and laughed. “Nobody has ever called me crazy pussy!”

She lay facedown on the floor and laughed into the carpet. She cried and wailed and kicked and punched. She convulsed. He rolled her onto her side and held her head while she seized. When it was over, she inhaled deeply and fell asleep. He knew about seizures. When she woke, she’d feel like a buffalo had kicked her in the skull. He sat on the couch and stared down at her. God, he thought, I hope she doesn’t die on my carpet. How would I explain that? He picked up the telephone and dialed 911, but all he heard was a busy signal. He tried again and again, ten, eleven, twelve times, but heard only that same awful busy signal each time. After looking up the general numbers for the police and fire departments in the Yellow Pages, he dialed them and heard more busy signals. He called individual precincts and firehouses, but nobody answered. He called hospitals and clinics and churches but couldn’t get past the computerized answering machines. God, he thought, what a fragile world I live in. One building explodes, and the whole system falls apart. He was more afraid than he’d been before, but then he dialed another number he knew by rote.

“Domino’s Pizza, how can I help you?”

How many times had this young man answered the telephone that way? Did he know how the tone of his voice completely changed the meaning of the words?