Read Online The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards by Robert Boswell - Free Book Online Page A

life, then imagining her own—a woman with a husband who stuttered, a woman who cleaned condominiums as a way to get close to the mysterious Mr. Chub. She could write an article on him or even a book, either exposé or biography, depending. When Brian finally reappeared in her life, she would reveal that she had begun a biography, but she would refuse to divulge her subject’s name.
He insists on anonymity,
she would say.
    She vacuumed the big closets first, noting the shirts, identical except for color, all facing the same way and evenly spaced, like men marching in a parade. They would fit her, she thought, and wished she could try one on. There were only two sweaters, crew necks, folded and stacked on a shelf, but many belts—twenty-six—wide ones with enormous buckles, thin ones with elegant latches, belts made of metal, belts ringed with turquoise, a crude leather belt with little silver figures on it—
milagros
. She had a cross at home covered with milagros, silver shapes that healed whatever was broken—damaged arm, chronic headaches, bad marriage, loneliness. In the center of Monica’s cross was a silver heart milagro. She would rub her finger over it daily and ask that her heart be healed. On Mr. Chub’s belt were silver legs in a pair, one leg longer than the other. Monica touched the silver image to her lips. She would put a photo of this belt on the cover of her book. Maybe an actual milagro could be pounded into the cover of the hardback.
    She knelt to inspect his footwear: six pairs of identical black shoes, polished, mounted on sloping wooden blocks. The soles of the left shoes were an inch thicker than the soles of the right. Custom-made, she thought, imagining a man kneeling and measuring her bare feet, then stretching the cloth tape to calibrate her legs, her thighs, to make shoes that would balance her perfectly, even her keel, flatten the world.
    She would not sleep with Mr. Chub. No matter his grave pleading, his crooked legs bent beneath him. She inhaled sharply as she pictured it. On his knees, he would only reach her thighs. He’d have to stand, his natty hair blending with her pubis, his enchanted voice humming through her torso.
    Monica cleaned houses most thoroughly when they were not dirty to begin with. Mr. Chub’s spare condominium looked as if it had been cleaned the day before. She concentrated on grout in the tile lining the shower stall, grime on the chrome legs of the sink, dust at the base of the porcelain toilet.
    He entered the bathroom while she knelt before the toilet, which made her gasp.
    “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
    She clutched her heart, panting convincingly. “I’ll be all right.” She offered him a smile, which he returned.
    “You work very intently,” he said, that rhythmic singsong—but smooth. How would she ever find words to describe it?
    The Man with the Magical Voice
, a working title.
    “I just thought I’d look in on you,” he said.
    “I’m fine,” she assured him.
    On her knees, she was only an inch or two shorter than he. She was on the Chub plane, the world around her instantly altered.
    “You know how to reach me,” he said.
    He might have looked down her blouse. He turned too quickly for her to be certain.
    Dear Chub
, the letter began.
Have you forgotten the way to ElPaso?
Monica found the letter in the trash, slipped it into her basket of cleansers, touched it several times to be sure it was still there. Even while he commended her work and promised he would ask for her again, she had slid a finger past the plastic bottle of Lysol to feel the crinkled texture of the paper. An unauthorized biography, and here was the first clue. Each week she would add to her store of knowledge about him.
    She drove directly to her next customer—her next john, she used to say, as if she were a hooker, but no one had found the term provocative or funny. She parked in front of the Stalker’s house, a redbrick bungalow inhabited by a