Read Online Tigers in Red Weather by Liza Klaussmann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Liza Klaussmann
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LARIDGE’S R OOM 201.
The key was heavy and the plate so smooth. Nick rubbed her thumb over the shiny brass, leaving a greasy smudge. She looked at her thumb and it suddenly seemed fat and dull and dirty. Common hands , as her mother had told her as she massaged butter into her fingers at night, that’s what every lady must avoid .
Nick picked up the card and read it again, deciphering every line, measuring it, trying to decide which word meant something, and which had just been pressed into service to connect those that carried weight.
There were few that weren’t significant, she decided. “That” and “to be” were the only spares, and even they couldn’t be done without. Besides, everyone deserves to be happy .
“Oh god,” she said, as the full weight of the words, the stationery, the heavy silver key, hit her. “Oh god.”
She put her head down on the counter and tried to cry, but nothingcame out. She watched her breath as it steamed up the Formica before vanishing again.
After a while, she sat up and straightened her back. She passed her hand over the Letter again. Leaving the key on the counter, she picked up the thick, creamy card and walked into the bar in the garden room, where she mixed herself a martini and upended it into her mouth.
Then she mixed another. After she had drunk the second one, she looked at the card again. The world’s not on fire anymore. But I still love you . She mixed herself a third, this time letting three olives drop into the glass. Then, with the Letter in one hand and the martini in the other, Nick walked into the living room, where the fire she had lit earlier that afternoon was now smoldering and spitting.
She sat down on the embroidered low bench in front of the fireplace and took one last look.
I know I said I wouldn’t write .
Then she threw the Letter on top of the sagging logs, where she watched it curl and slowly, slowly turn to ash.
She stayed there, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers, feeling hypnotized by the fire. Then she rose and wandered into the library. Taking out her address book, Nick placed a long-distance telephone call to Helena.
As she waited for the operator to connect her, she pulled a cigarette out of the box on the telephone table. Lighting it, she stared out the small bay window that made the library her favorite room in the house. The low branches of the ash tree outside the warm room scratched at the windowpane. The operator told her to hold for her connection.
Nick sipped what was left of her martini.
“Pot roast,” she said to herself drunkenly.
By the time Helena’s voice came down the line, Nick felt numb.
“Nick?” Helena’s voice sounded scratchy.
“Oh,” she said, suddenly surprised to be talking to her cousin.
“Is that you?”
“Yes, yes, it’s me.” Nick found words difficult. But I still love you .
“How are you? Is everything all right?”
“No, it’s not all right,” Nick said. “I … I was just suddenly missing everything. Do you remember our little house on Elm Street? And how hot it was the first summer?”
“Yes.” Helena sounded hesitant. “Nick, what’s wrong? Is Hughes all right?”
“Hughes is Hughes,” Nick said. “No, I just was sad for our life before. That’s all. I would give anything to be back in that house right now, washing out our stockings in that horrible little bathroom. Do you remember when my last pair just disintegrated, on the hanger over the tub? And we came back and found only a tiny pile of brown dust? And we had a little funeral in the yard?”
“Yes, I remember. And we played the Moonlight Sonata for them.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” Nick said, running her hand through her hair. “I’d forgotten what we’d played.”
“That was it,” Helena said. “And then I drew a line on your leg with your eyebrow pencil, but it came out pretty wobbly.”
“Yes, and I had a terrible time getting it off.” Nick lit another
The key was heavy and the plate so smooth. Nick rubbed her thumb over the shiny brass, leaving a greasy smudge. She looked at her thumb and it suddenly seemed fat and dull and dirty. Common hands , as her mother had told her as she massaged butter into her fingers at night, that’s what every lady must avoid .
Nick picked up the card and read it again, deciphering every line, measuring it, trying to decide which word meant something, and which had just been pressed into service to connect those that carried weight.
There were few that weren’t significant, she decided. “That” and “to be” were the only spares, and even they couldn’t be done without. Besides, everyone deserves to be happy .
“Oh god,” she said, as the full weight of the words, the stationery, the heavy silver key, hit her. “Oh god.”
She put her head down on the counter and tried to cry, but nothingcame out. She watched her breath as it steamed up the Formica before vanishing again.
After a while, she sat up and straightened her back. She passed her hand over the Letter again. Leaving the key on the counter, she picked up the thick, creamy card and walked into the bar in the garden room, where she mixed herself a martini and upended it into her mouth.
Then she mixed another. After she had drunk the second one, she looked at the card again. The world’s not on fire anymore. But I still love you . She mixed herself a third, this time letting three olives drop into the glass. Then, with the Letter in one hand and the martini in the other, Nick walked into the living room, where the fire she had lit earlier that afternoon was now smoldering and spitting.
She sat down on the embroidered low bench in front of the fireplace and took one last look.
I know I said I wouldn’t write .
Then she threw the Letter on top of the sagging logs, where she watched it curl and slowly, slowly turn to ash.
She stayed there, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers, feeling hypnotized by the fire. Then she rose and wandered into the library. Taking out her address book, Nick placed a long-distance telephone call to Helena.
As she waited for the operator to connect her, she pulled a cigarette out of the box on the telephone table. Lighting it, she stared out the small bay window that made the library her favorite room in the house. The low branches of the ash tree outside the warm room scratched at the windowpane. The operator told her to hold for her connection.
Nick sipped what was left of her martini.
“Pot roast,” she said to herself drunkenly.
By the time Helena’s voice came down the line, Nick felt numb.
“Nick?” Helena’s voice sounded scratchy.
“Oh,” she said, suddenly surprised to be talking to her cousin.
“Is that you?”
“Yes, yes, it’s me.” Nick found words difficult. But I still love you .
“How are you? Is everything all right?”
“No, it’s not all right,” Nick said. “I … I was just suddenly missing everything. Do you remember our little house on Elm Street? And how hot it was the first summer?”
“Yes.” Helena sounded hesitant. “Nick, what’s wrong? Is Hughes all right?”
“Hughes is Hughes,” Nick said. “No, I just was sad for our life before. That’s all. I would give anything to be back in that house right now, washing out our stockings in that horrible little bathroom. Do you remember when my last pair just disintegrated, on the hanger over the tub? And we came back and found only a tiny pile of brown dust? And we had a little funeral in the yard?”
“Yes, I remember. And we played the Moonlight Sonata for them.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” Nick said, running her hand through her hair. “I’d forgotten what we’d played.”
“That was it,” Helena said. “And then I drew a line on your leg with your eyebrow pencil, but it came out pretty wobbly.”
“Yes, and I had a terrible time getting it off.” Nick lit another
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