Joy Williams: Breaking and Entering

An instant passed. Water hung suspended on the glass, there was a throbbing sound, draining.

“What’s the time, gotta know the time,” Charlie said. “I’m allergic to something in a watch, can’t wear one on my wrist, never know the time …” He turned the dial on the radio. I SEEN THE ROCKS AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE, someone screamed through static, I SEEN … Liberty turned it off. “There’s a clock in the dash,” she said. “It’s eleven-thirty.” She put her arms around him. She slipped one arm behind his back and pressed the other lightly around his waist. She tried to make a basket of her arms.

“The clock’s always said that,” Charlie said, “but maybe it’s close enough. What is this? It’s supposed to be an intense, intolerable effluence, but it just looks dark and wet out there … baby, I’m dead.” The clock did not move. For anyone but them, it could have been the day before yesterday or the day after tomorrow. “Baby,” Charlie said, “get me my bottle.”

She slid carefully away from him, knelt on the seat and looked behind her. A yellowish light filled the tunnel and the round black bristles of the scrubbing brushes slid back on gleaming joints against the wall. What had it been, with which she had shared her silence and which was now gone from her? Her task had once been to accomplish each day, but now there was no such task. She had been let go.

“We’ve been left, haven’t we,” Charlie said.

She picked up the bottle of gin, which was wedged between the cooler and the door, then slid over, onto the backs of things there. “Move over,” she said. “I’ll drive when we get out of here.”

“Oh, doll, you know, after we get out of here …” Charlie shrugged but shifted himself across the broad seat. He grasped the bottle she handed him by the neck. “Here’s to my love,” he said and drank. “All chance for reparations lost.” She held him as she had before, feeling now the dampness of his jacket. “You think there’s any justice in it?” he asked. “I was poking his girlfriend. I did want to daddy his boy.”

“No,” she said, “no justice in it.”

“He didn’t know any of that and stabbed me anyway. People like that have instincts. When we’re all gone, people like that will be starting all over, snug in caves, toasting roaches.” He took another swallow and shuddered. “Things come and go,” he said vaguely.

Funnels of dry air pushed against the car, and a long, black roller descended from the ceiling, touching the grille, pushing softly but firmly toward them. They would be out soon, the chocks would fall away. She was behind the wheel, but tipped toward him, holding. Sweat dripped from his face onto hers. The car grew dark again as the rolling tread passed over them, as some heavy, tattered material slid past fender and door.

“It’s going to say ThankYouThankYouThankYou soon,” Charlie said, “then, ExitExitExit. I’ve been here before. That kid and I had great plans for us, Liberty. You know that egg, the egg he’s been carrying around for a week, had to for a week, and the week’s going to be up, and I told him, ‘You’ve been great with that egg, God couldn’t have been nicer to that egg, but what are you going to do with it now? That egg doesn’t have a life of its own, it was meant for something else. It’s not going to end well for that egg,’ I said, but he just laughed. He laughs at what I say now, he’s a great kid. I told him the first time God carried an egg around for seven days he ended up dropping it.”

They were almost out. Charlie closed his eyes.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

“I don’t understand what’s going to happen next. I’m going to be dead.”

“You’re not. A scratch.”

“You won’t be a widow. That’s the only blessing. You know you’re never really conscious of it until it’s your turn and then you think, what do they do with all of us? The streets, why aren’t they clogged with hearses, why don’t we see what we’re seeing? If I come back, will you be frightened of me?”

“No.”

“You don’t come back. You can only stay longer, maybe. You could have stayed here longer yourself. You could have been a middle-aged lady, intense but friendly, like middle-aged ladies are, with a collection of glass balls that you shake and there’s snow. We could sit, you and I, of an evening, turning and watching. This could have been ours.”

“We’re here, still here.” She could not see the moon, but it had lit up everything.

“You think … this is splendid, this is mine, mine alone, mine … and all it is is death.”

His eyes were open.

“But who knows,” he said, “maybe I’ll be all right, after all. I see the kid out there. Everybody’s out there. Dog’s waiting … That’s one hopeless egg, but there’s a game in it still. Look at that kid, he’s playing catch with it.”

“By himself?”

“Himself alone.”

She looked, tried to see what he was seeing, drew away from him to touch the wheel, reach for the key.

JOY WILLIAMS

Joy Williams is the author of four novels, three short story collections, and a history of the Florida Keys. She has received the Rea Award for the short story and the Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her most recent novel, The Quick and the Dead , was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.