Paul Theroux - Mr. Bones - Twenty Stories

On this late-summer afternoon, crossing town, carrying my box of shoes, I walked slowly downhill, looking for her door. But I didn’t want to knock, nor was I sure which door was hers, because on that side of the hill the houses were so much alike. I walked down the opposite side of the street, glancing across, and saw that some of the basement doors were open. Encouraged by the open doors, I crossed the street, and when I passed her house I saw Paige inside, framed by the doorway, standing at an ironing board, shaking water onto a red cloth and then running her iron over it.

“Hi.”

With the bright daylight behind me as I peered down, my face must have been darkened, because she looked uncertain, even a bit worried. She lifted her iron, holding it like a weapon.

Instead of saying my name, I said, “Eddie’s friend. Al.”

Still holding the iron, she angled her body a bit to see me sideways, away from the light, and then said, “You! Come on in!” and laughed in a gasping sort of way, as if in relief.

I walked down the short flight of stairs to the basement room and sat in one of the upholstered chairs, exactly where I had sat on that winter day six months before when I’d come with Eddie.

“I hope it’s okay,” I said, because she had seemed worried when she’d first looked at me.

“It’s nice to see you,” she said, and returned to her ironing — and I could tell from the smoothness of her movements that she meant what she said. She pushed the iron without effort across the red cloth, and with her free hand she folded the cloth in half and ironed its fold, giving it a crease, then deftly folded it again.

“I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I said. This explanation gave me pleasure, because it wasn’t true, yet sounded plausible, even suave.

Paige smiled, clapping her iron down, and I suspected she didn’t believe me. She said, “There’s not much going on in this part of the world.”

“I was headed to North Station.”

She seemed to guess that it was a lame excuse — she was literal-minded and truthful in the way of a person with no small talk. She said, “How about a drink?”

“I’m all set.”

“There’s some lemonade in the fridge — help yourself,” she said, tossing her head, loosening her hair.

I felt it was beyond me to find the lemonade and a glass and pour myself a drink. Eddie would have known. It occurred to me that I was out of my depth and that, had she not been ironing in the open doorway, I might not have approached her. Without a word, she went to the refrigerator and poured me a glass of lemonade.

To fill the silence, I said, “I haven’t seen Eddie lately.”

She bowed her head and went on ironing.

“He changed schools. I guess he wasn’t too happy in Maine.” She still said nothing. “I’d like to go there sometime.” She nodded. “Like Eddie says, cold in the winter, and the summer’s only a few days in July.”

She worked the red cloth into a tighter square and pressed it with the heel of her hand before applying the iron.

“And I don’t belong there. My mother said once, ‘Just because a cat has kittens inside an oven doesn’t make them biscuits.’” She didn’t react. I now felt sure I’d raised the wrong subject. I said, “But my mother’s dead.”

This roused her. She looked pained. She said, “I’m really sorry. Please have some more lemonade?”

I showed her my glass was half full. I said, “How’s the dancing?”

“It’s okay,” she said, and in the tone I’d used, “The dancing.”

“Whereabouts do you do it?”

“You know the High Bar?”

“Not sure.”

“Combat Zone,” she said, frowning.

“Never been to the High Bar.”

“You’ve got to be twenty-one,” she said. She was about to say more, but folded the red cloth again instead. “It’s kind of a rough place.”

“I’d like to see you there.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You’re better off somewhere else. Like get a good education.”

That was friendly. It reassured me, because I felt that I was getting to know her better, and something more might happen, and it excited me because I didn’t know what.

She was a solid presence, standing with her legs apart in her loose shorts, one hand smoothing and folding the red piece of cloth that was growing smaller with each fold, the heavy iron in her other hand. Wisps of her hair framed her damp face. I was not used to seeing a woman dressed like this, almost undressed, in her own house, and that excited me too.

“So where did you learn to dance?” I asked.

She smiled again, shook her head. “It’s pretty easy,” she said. “The guys don’t come there for the dancing.”

As we talked, my eyes were drawn to her bed, which was neatly made, with plump pillows and a teddy bear propped up against them, and on the side table a book. I could easily read the gold lettering on the spine, because it was a title I knew, The New Testament. That confused me. It didn’t fit with the image that Eddie had given me, She’s action. I saw us in the bed, doing — what? I’d never been in bed with a woman before.

“Darn,” she said.

The spell broke briefly, but the way she put down her iron and fussed, hiking up her untucked blouse, looking uncertain, made her seem sexy again.

“I’m out of starch.”

As she spoke, a shadow moved across her face, filling the doorway.

“Just thought I’d stop in.” The slow way the man descended the stairs emphasized his bulk, as though he was climbing down a ladder, testing each step before taking another. But when he got to the bottom step — and I stood, my nervousness making me self-consciously polite — I saw that he was not much taller than I was, but twice as heavy.

“Vic.”

He went over and chucked Paige under the chin. She jerked her face away as if she expected to be slapped. “You behaving yourself?”

“Have a coffee.”

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Lemonade,” Paige said. “It’s in the fridge. In a pitcher. I have to get some starch. I’ll be right back.”

“I should go,” I said.

“I won’t be a minute.”

“Don’t go,” Vic said at the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of lemonade.

Then Paige was out the door and up the stairs.

I sat down. Vic sat in the chair next to me, but only breathed, sighed, didn’t say anything. A sound came from my throat — a nervous noise, a whicker of anxiety, Heh-heh.

“Heh-heh,” Vic said, the exact sound, and he stared at me. His face was mean and misshapen, with full lips. He was hunched forward in the chair, looking fatter, and I could hear his breathing, like gas escaping. He said, “I know who you are. You’re Eddie.”

“No. I’m not Eddie.” My voice was high and terrified, and the way I said it seemed to convince him that I was lying.

To calm myself, or maybe to show him I was calm, I raised my glass to my mouth, As I began to drink, he leaned over and punched me in the side of my face, cracking the edge of the glass against my teeth and jarring my head. I drunkenly set the glass on a side table and tasted blood and moved unsteadily to the stairs, just as Paige came down.

“I have to go.”

“What did you do?” she said angrily to Vic, but she knew.

“You heard him. He has to go.”

I hurried away, blind, stumbling downhill. I was so stunned by being hit in the face I could not think, and my head was ringing, my jaw hurt, and yet I felt glad to be away, and happy when I saw I was not being chased. My mouth was full of foul-tasting saliva but I did not spit until I got to the bottom of the hill, and then I bent over and spat blood. I had a tenderness on my tongue where my teeth, or the glass, had been forced against it by his punching me.