even soap up; I just let the stream of water beat down on me while I gazed absently at the tiles. Some flickering movement passed over the wall before my eyes, and was gone. The shadow of something I could neither touch nor bring back.
I stepped from the bathroom right into the bedroom and toweled myself dry before tumbling into bed. The sheets were freshly washed, coral blue, not a wrinkle on them. As I lay there looking up at the ceiling, the events of the day played back in my head. The whole while the twins were busy slicing vegetables, sauteing meat, and cooking rice.
“How about a beer?” one of them asked me.
“Guh.”
And the twin wearing the 208 sweatshirt brought a beer and a glass.
“Some music?”
“Would be nice.”
She pulled Handel’s Recorder Sonatas out of the record rack, put it on the player, and lowered the needle. A Valentine’s Day present from a girlfriend a good many years before. The sound of sauteing meat came through the recorder, violin, and cello like a continuous undertone. My girlfriend and I had often had sex to this record. Even after the record ended, what did we care that the needle was scratching on and on, revolution after revolution? We would still be going at it.
Outside the window, rain was falling noiselessly over the dark golf course. I finished my beer, and by the time Hans-Martin Linde played the last note of the Sonata in F Major, dinner was ready. The three of us were unusually quiet over the meal that night. By then the record had ended, so other than the patter of rain on the eaves, and the sound of three sets of jaws chewing meat, the room was silent. When we were through, the twins cleared the table, and the two of them stood around in the kitchen brewing coffee. Then the three of us drank our hot coffee. Brimming with the aroma of life, that coffee was. One of them got up to put on a record. It was the Beatles’ “Rubber Soul.”
“Hey, I don’t remember buying that record,” I blurted out in surprise.
“We bought it.”
“Little by little we saved up the money you gave us.
I just shook my head.
“You don’t like the Beatles?”
Silence.
“What a shame. And we thought you’d be pleased.”
“Sorry.”
One of them got up, took the record off, and lovingly brushed off the least speck of dust
before slipping it back into its jacket. All the while, none of us spoke a word. Then I let out a sigh.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I explained. “I’m just a little tired and irritable. Let’s give it another listen.”
The two of them looked at each other and broke into a chuckle. “Don’t put yourself out now. It’s your house after all.” “No, really, you don’t have to put up with it on our account.”
“Let’s give it another listen.”
So we ended up listening to both sides of “Rubber Soul” over coffee. And I managed to loosen up a bit. The twins seemed in particularly good spirits.
After we finished our coffee, the twins took my temperature. Back and forth, the two of them grimaced at the thermometer. One hundred one degrees. Up a degree since morning. I felt
light-headed.
“Taking showers like that, worst thing for you.”
“You ought to get some sleep.”
They were perfectly right, of course. I got undressed and climbed into bed with the Critique of Pure Reason and a pack of cigarettes. The blanket somehow smelled of the sunny outdoors. Kant was as brilliant as ever, but the cigarettes tasted like damp newspaper lit from a gas burner. I closed the book, and was half-listening to the twins’ voices, with eyes closed, when the darkness dragged me under.
Chapter 8
The cemetery occupied a good spread near the top of the hill. Narrow gravel walkways crisscrossed between the graves, and close-cropped azalea bushes stood about here and there like grazing sheep. A row or two of mercury-vapor lamps, peering down over the expanse, arched up like overgrown fiddleheads, casting an unnatural white light into every corner
I stepped from the bathroom right into the bedroom and toweled myself dry before tumbling into bed. The sheets were freshly washed, coral blue, not a wrinkle on them. As I lay there looking up at the ceiling, the events of the day played back in my head. The whole while the twins were busy slicing vegetables, sauteing meat, and cooking rice.
“How about a beer?” one of them asked me.
“Guh.”
And the twin wearing the 208 sweatshirt brought a beer and a glass.
“Some music?”
“Would be nice.”
She pulled Handel’s Recorder Sonatas out of the record rack, put it on the player, and lowered the needle. A Valentine’s Day present from a girlfriend a good many years before. The sound of sauteing meat came through the recorder, violin, and cello like a continuous undertone. My girlfriend and I had often had sex to this record. Even after the record ended, what did we care that the needle was scratching on and on, revolution after revolution? We would still be going at it.
Outside the window, rain was falling noiselessly over the dark golf course. I finished my beer, and by the time Hans-Martin Linde played the last note of the Sonata in F Major, dinner was ready. The three of us were unusually quiet over the meal that night. By then the record had ended, so other than the patter of rain on the eaves, and the sound of three sets of jaws chewing meat, the room was silent. When we were through, the twins cleared the table, and the two of them stood around in the kitchen brewing coffee. Then the three of us drank our hot coffee. Brimming with the aroma of life, that coffee was. One of them got up to put on a record. It was the Beatles’ “Rubber Soul.”
“Hey, I don’t remember buying that record,” I blurted out in surprise.
“We bought it.”
“Little by little we saved up the money you gave us.
I just shook my head.
“You don’t like the Beatles?”
Silence.
“What a shame. And we thought you’d be pleased.”
“Sorry.”
One of them got up, took the record off, and lovingly brushed off the least speck of dust
before slipping it back into its jacket. All the while, none of us spoke a word. Then I let out a sigh.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I explained. “I’m just a little tired and irritable. Let’s give it another listen.”
The two of them looked at each other and broke into a chuckle. “Don’t put yourself out now. It’s your house after all.” “No, really, you don’t have to put up with it on our account.”
“Let’s give it another listen.”
So we ended up listening to both sides of “Rubber Soul” over coffee. And I managed to loosen up a bit. The twins seemed in particularly good spirits.
After we finished our coffee, the twins took my temperature. Back and forth, the two of them grimaced at the thermometer. One hundred one degrees. Up a degree since morning. I felt
light-headed.
“Taking showers like that, worst thing for you.”
“You ought to get some sleep.”
They were perfectly right, of course. I got undressed and climbed into bed with the Critique of Pure Reason and a pack of cigarettes. The blanket somehow smelled of the sunny outdoors. Kant was as brilliant as ever, but the cigarettes tasted like damp newspaper lit from a gas burner. I closed the book, and was half-listening to the twins’ voices, with eyes closed, when the darkness dragged me under.
Chapter 8
The cemetery occupied a good spread near the top of the hill. Narrow gravel walkways crisscrossed between the graves, and close-cropped azalea bushes stood about here and there like grazing sheep. A row or two of mercury-vapor lamps, peering down over the expanse, arched up like overgrown fiddleheads, casting an unnatural white light into every corner
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