Read Online A Blessing on the Moon by Joseph Skibell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Skibell
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to another drink. Loud music blares from the phonograph. I pant, breathlessly, holding my belly, blood filling my clothes, soaking through, stranding me in a large and growing puddle.
The old father continues dancing, to the general delight, across the tabletop. His hat has flown off and his face is puffy and red. Perspiration flies from each of his black and grey hairs. His voice is growing hoarse. “Look at me! Look at me!” he calls. “I’m the dead yid! Careful or I’ll seduce you in the night!”
18
I barely stumble up the staircase, clinging to the walls, my sight dimming. Using my hands to steady myself, I find my way to the bathroom and lie there in the rounded tub, tears mingling with the blood dripping from my eye. They trail across my face, stinging my raw and wounded cheek. My legs are splayed and my shoes stick out over the rims. The blood drips back through my socks and runs inside my pant legs and up my thighs.
I am losing consciousness. My arms grapple the sides of the tub, my fingers numbing to their task. I will not be able to hold myself up much longer. For a moment I am terrified I will fall asleep and drown in my own blood. But that is ridiculous. I am already dead. The thought is absurd: a dead man drowning. I laugh quietly and, perhaps because of the awkward position of my body in the tub, some air may have gotten trapped inside my lungs. A small splash of blood explodes from my nose, staining my collar, my shirtfront and my tie.
WHEN I AWAKEN , my head is pounding, my throat is parched, my eyes burn against a harsh and yellow light.
A candle stands near the sink in a small monument of its own melted wax.
Everything is familiar. The red wallpaper, the unbolted door, the brass faucets. Am I really still
here
? A dull throb pounds behind my forehead. My eye traces a line of pain, following an enormous shadow as it skates across the corners of the wall. The Angel of Death! At last, at last. I attempt to rise, to greet him, to offer my neck for his sword.
WHEN I AWAKEN again, I notice that I am naked.
“Rebbe,” my eyes focusing. “Is that really you? Are you really back?”
“I’m back,” he screeches. “Of course I’m back. What did you think?” He hops about on the edges of the tub, swooping down to plug the stopper into the drain, the brass chain dangling from his beak.
“Rebbe,” I roar out my heart’s lament. “Why am I not dead!” I can’t help speaking so freely. The sight of him, walking on the lip of the tub, has broken a dam within my heart. I lie back, too weak to move or stand or even sit up for very long.
The Rebbe fills the tub with tepid water, turning the faucets with his beak.
His feathers bristle and he scolds me. “What do you even know about it that you think it should be different? From where do you get such expectations!”
“But how could you just leave me?”
“Chaim, you didn’t get my note?”
“Your note!” I say. “Yes, I got your note. Only how could I read it, scrawled in that pigeon scratch, you shouldn’t be offended.”
“Chaimka,” the jaw of his beak slackens. “That was Yiddish.”
“Yiddish?” I say. Impossible!
The water rises in the tub, seeping through my bullet holes, filling the hollows of my body with its creeping warmth. The Rebbe flaps his wings and remains stationary, for a moment, in the air.
I close my eyes and wait for the water to reach my ears.
19
The pinkish water drains, in a small swirl, from the tub. The Rebbe carries over a cloth in his beak, one of the towels Ola and I used. I suffer a moment of confusing embarrassment.
He eyes me sharply.
“Rebbe,” I stammer in explanation.
“Wash your face now, Chaimka,” he says. “There’s blood all over it.”
How much does he know? Everything, I suspect.
I douse the cloth in the water and bring it to my face, rubbing the cakes of clotted blood from my chin and the crevices of my cheeks.
I stand and the water plashes from the holes in my body
The old father continues dancing, to the general delight, across the tabletop. His hat has flown off and his face is puffy and red. Perspiration flies from each of his black and grey hairs. His voice is growing hoarse. “Look at me! Look at me!” he calls. “I’m the dead yid! Careful or I’ll seduce you in the night!”
18
I barely stumble up the staircase, clinging to the walls, my sight dimming. Using my hands to steady myself, I find my way to the bathroom and lie there in the rounded tub, tears mingling with the blood dripping from my eye. They trail across my face, stinging my raw and wounded cheek. My legs are splayed and my shoes stick out over the rims. The blood drips back through my socks and runs inside my pant legs and up my thighs.
I am losing consciousness. My arms grapple the sides of the tub, my fingers numbing to their task. I will not be able to hold myself up much longer. For a moment I am terrified I will fall asleep and drown in my own blood. But that is ridiculous. I am already dead. The thought is absurd: a dead man drowning. I laugh quietly and, perhaps because of the awkward position of my body in the tub, some air may have gotten trapped inside my lungs. A small splash of blood explodes from my nose, staining my collar, my shirtfront and my tie.
WHEN I AWAKEN , my head is pounding, my throat is parched, my eyes burn against a harsh and yellow light.
A candle stands near the sink in a small monument of its own melted wax.
Everything is familiar. The red wallpaper, the unbolted door, the brass faucets. Am I really still
here
? A dull throb pounds behind my forehead. My eye traces a line of pain, following an enormous shadow as it skates across the corners of the wall. The Angel of Death! At last, at last. I attempt to rise, to greet him, to offer my neck for his sword.
WHEN I AWAKEN again, I notice that I am naked.
“Rebbe,” my eyes focusing. “Is that really you? Are you really back?”
“I’m back,” he screeches. “Of course I’m back. What did you think?” He hops about on the edges of the tub, swooping down to plug the stopper into the drain, the brass chain dangling from his beak.
“Rebbe,” I roar out my heart’s lament. “Why am I not dead!” I can’t help speaking so freely. The sight of him, walking on the lip of the tub, has broken a dam within my heart. I lie back, too weak to move or stand or even sit up for very long.
The Rebbe fills the tub with tepid water, turning the faucets with his beak.
His feathers bristle and he scolds me. “What do you even know about it that you think it should be different? From where do you get such expectations!”
“But how could you just leave me?”
“Chaim, you didn’t get my note?”
“Your note!” I say. “Yes, I got your note. Only how could I read it, scrawled in that pigeon scratch, you shouldn’t be offended.”
“Chaimka,” the jaw of his beak slackens. “That was Yiddish.”
“Yiddish?” I say. Impossible!
The water rises in the tub, seeping through my bullet holes, filling the hollows of my body with its creeping warmth. The Rebbe flaps his wings and remains stationary, for a moment, in the air.
I close my eyes and wait for the water to reach my ears.
19
The pinkish water drains, in a small swirl, from the tub. The Rebbe carries over a cloth in his beak, one of the towels Ola and I used. I suffer a moment of confusing embarrassment.
He eyes me sharply.
“Rebbe,” I stammer in explanation.
“Wash your face now, Chaimka,” he says. “There’s blood all over it.”
How much does he know? Everything, I suspect.
I douse the cloth in the water and bring it to my face, rubbing the cakes of clotted blood from my chin and the crevices of my cheeks.
I stand and the water plashes from the holes in my body
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