Read Online Three Years with the Rat by Jay Hosking - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jay Hosking
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Told her I’m swallowing anxiolytics by the handful. Told her I wake up in the middle of the night thinking Grace is in the bed, beside me, whispering in my ear. Told her I’m doing a good job of alienating friends and isolating myself.”
I’d had my own conversation with Officer 2510 and could imagine her nonplussed reaction to all of this. Her thick monotone was more memorable to me than her appearance.
I asked, “Did you tell her whether you’re alienating friends on purpose or by accident?”
“I didn’t, no. Scotch?”
He stood and went to the kitchen. I heard the lovely uncorking sound of the bottle, rocks of ice rolling in glasses, a gentle pour. John returned to the living room and sat at the end of the couch, handing me a small, wide glass of golden liquor. We tapped glasses and drank. The scotch was fairly mellow and as long as I kept my mouth shut, I wasn’t revolted by the aftertaste.
“So which is it?” I asked.
John looked at me, unsure.
“Are you alienating us on purpose or by accident?”
“Ah.” He raised his chin a little. “Does it matter?”
“Jesus, would I be asking if it didn’t?”
“I suppose it’s a little of both,” he said.
I surveyed the living room. Grace’s things were still hanging on the walls, still poking out from under the couch, still taking up every bit of psychological space in the room. I felt closed in, trapped.
I asked, “Look, you want me to trust you, right?”
He nodded.
“Then I need you to trust me. At least a little.”
He was about to interrupt but I raised my hand and continued.
“You just told me you’re struggling. And O.K., I know that shows trust. And I appreciate it. But you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not doing this again. I’m not going to do nothing, this time, while somebody close to me falls apart.”
With my right hand I poured the scotch into my mouth, and with my left I waved in a circle, indicating the entire room.
“Look at all this,” I said. “You’re living in a museum. A shrine.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I bet that no matter where you turn, you’re reminded of her absence.”
“Exactly.”
“Of our failure to help her.”
“No. Of
my
failure.”
Each sip was more tolerable than the last. I finished the scotch, took an ice cube in my mouth and crunched it. My back teeth stung with the cold.
“Oh, fuck you,” I said. “We all failed her. You don’t get ownership on guilt.”
John straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant.”
I waved my hand again, more violently this time. I could feel my belly slosh with heat.
“So what are you going to do about it?” I asked. “About your shrine. Look. Choose to live or choose to remember. But it seems like you can’t do both right now.”
John didn’t respond. He finished his drink and held the empty glass in his hand, staring at the photos on the wall and Grace’s coat rack near the front door. Then he got up and poured us two more drinks, this time without ice. We stood and drank. By now I couldn’t taste anything.
We made a game plan. First we made piles of Grace’s old things according to vague categories. Next we stuffed them into garbage bags and old boxes John kept under the sink.
“What about in there?” I asked, pointing to the locked door.
He hesitated. Then he unlocked the second bedroom and slipped inside. A moment later he came out with a few small things. He’d entered and exited quickly, didn’t turn on a light, so I couldn’t see what was on the other side of the door. I stared at him and made it clear I was annoyed.
“I’ll show you what I’m working on,” he said, “when it’s finished.”
We moved on to the master bedroom. We pulled all her clothes from the closet and crammed all her shawls and scarves and shoes into a laundry basket. We carried the bags and boxes down the stairs into the chilly night air. We filled the trunk and backseat of my car with Grace’s possessions,
I’d had my own conversation with Officer 2510 and could imagine her nonplussed reaction to all of this. Her thick monotone was more memorable to me than her appearance.
I asked, “Did you tell her whether you’re alienating friends on purpose or by accident?”
“I didn’t, no. Scotch?”
He stood and went to the kitchen. I heard the lovely uncorking sound of the bottle, rocks of ice rolling in glasses, a gentle pour. John returned to the living room and sat at the end of the couch, handing me a small, wide glass of golden liquor. We tapped glasses and drank. The scotch was fairly mellow and as long as I kept my mouth shut, I wasn’t revolted by the aftertaste.
“So which is it?” I asked.
John looked at me, unsure.
“Are you alienating us on purpose or by accident?”
“Ah.” He raised his chin a little. “Does it matter?”
“Jesus, would I be asking if it didn’t?”
“I suppose it’s a little of both,” he said.
I surveyed the living room. Grace’s things were still hanging on the walls, still poking out from under the couch, still taking up every bit of psychological space in the room. I felt closed in, trapped.
I asked, “Look, you want me to trust you, right?”
He nodded.
“Then I need you to trust me. At least a little.”
He was about to interrupt but I raised my hand and continued.
“You just told me you’re struggling. And O.K., I know that shows trust. And I appreciate it. But you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not doing this again. I’m not going to do nothing, this time, while somebody close to me falls apart.”
With my right hand I poured the scotch into my mouth, and with my left I waved in a circle, indicating the entire room.
“Look at all this,” I said. “You’re living in a museum. A shrine.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I bet that no matter where you turn, you’re reminded of her absence.”
“Exactly.”
“Of our failure to help her.”
“No. Of
my
failure.”
Each sip was more tolerable than the last. I finished the scotch, took an ice cube in my mouth and crunched it. My back teeth stung with the cold.
“Oh, fuck you,” I said. “We all failed her. You don’t get ownership on guilt.”
John straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant.”
I waved my hand again, more violently this time. I could feel my belly slosh with heat.
“So what are you going to do about it?” I asked. “About your shrine. Look. Choose to live or choose to remember. But it seems like you can’t do both right now.”
John didn’t respond. He finished his drink and held the empty glass in his hand, staring at the photos on the wall and Grace’s coat rack near the front door. Then he got up and poured us two more drinks, this time without ice. We stood and drank. By now I couldn’t taste anything.
We made a game plan. First we made piles of Grace’s old things according to vague categories. Next we stuffed them into garbage bags and old boxes John kept under the sink.
“What about in there?” I asked, pointing to the locked door.
He hesitated. Then he unlocked the second bedroom and slipped inside. A moment later he came out with a few small things. He’d entered and exited quickly, didn’t turn on a light, so I couldn’t see what was on the other side of the door. I stared at him and made it clear I was annoyed.
“I’ll show you what I’m working on,” he said, “when it’s finished.”
We moved on to the master bedroom. We pulled all her clothes from the closet and crammed all her shawls and scarves and shoes into a laundry basket. We carried the bags and boxes down the stairs into the chilly night air. We filled the trunk and backseat of my car with Grace’s possessions,
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