Abstract

She was lying in the bed: had been lying there for some time, had indeed lost track of time, just lying there observing the progress of shadows across the wall, up the wall actually and then across the ceiling; watching the way the sheer white curtain, lifted every now and then by a sneaking finger of breeze, exposed brief glimpses of outside. Since she, narcotized, lacked the will to look at the clock (though she could hear it, very close by: its relentless accusatory ticking), the room for her with its very white walls and very sharp corners, its terrain of familiar landmarks—the mirror; the walnut bureau, on which lay scattered the hairbrush in which a dark twist of hair was caught, the little yellow jewelry box with its peculiar surface like granulated sugar, decorated with small seashells, the book lying spread-eagled, open to page 119, the small lamp, its stiff, frilly shade with the plastic wrap still on; then too the wooden chair upon which she had thrown, possibly carelessly, expecting but then unable to hang up the following day, as was her usual habit, the blue shirt, the black slacks, and the taupe brassiere she had worn the last time she went out; the closet door, slightly ajar, with its glass knob glittering gemlike at certain times, when the beam struck it—this museum as it were of her last day before the pain began—had become for her a sundial upon which, as the shadows crept across, she read or rather inferred the passing of the day. Though she was not sure how long she had been lying there—how many days, in the bed. She had tried to count the days on the nubbles of the white bedspread or else tried to read the nubbles with her fingertips like braille or feel them like a sort of impasto forming pictures or patterns, fields forests mountain ranges, a long tapestry unwinding, but she was always losing her place, starting over without realizing she had started over. On the table beside the bed was the importuning clock, the glass of water, the empty bowl slick with the remains of the soup, another frilly lamp preserved in plastic, the bottle of pills, the framed black-and-white photo of a smiling white poodle in whose obsidian eyes the image of the photographer was reflected... and another, of a young woman in tennis shorts and a sweater, perched on the top rung of a wooden fence or gate, smiling, chest thrust preeningly forward: it may have been herself, in a past life, or it may not have been... the resemblance between the woman in the bed and the woman in the photo was uncertain... and at any rate she in the bed seldom looked at these objects, or, if she did, forgot them immediately and had to learn of them again. She was propped up on pillows, her long dark hair spread around in loops and glissandos: these she felt or rather intuited but had not seen in several days. Nor had she seen the neatly stitched incision or the disconcertingly stained bandage covering it: preferred not to: but nonetheless could not un-know that her chest had become a cage in which pain lived, if unseen. If she lay very still she might not feel it, or only in a small way: and she did lie still. Possibly she had just awakened: she had a sense of emerging from something, of rising up as if from underwater, her awareness enlarging beyond the ticking of the clock to the frisking curtain, the window with its square of light, the room her sundial, then to the house sensed but unseen around and beneath her, its uneasy inanimate creaks and shiftings, an echo suggesting size, distance, emptiness, but then too certain other, volitional sounds coming up from downstairs—footsteps, a cabinet opening and closing, a drawer pulled out on its runners, as if from a great, echoing distance. Who, she wondered, who...? But could not know. Outside the window a bird was singing, a car was passing in the street... And now certainly she was indeed awake, but all the same the decision was not volitional, possibly there was no decision at all, instead rather suddenly and unaccountably she found herself trying to rise, trying to get out of the bed despite the insistent pain and despite the great weight of her limbs, of each limb individually and of all four limbs collectively; she could not, she found, sit up in the bed where she had lain for who knew how many days now, but rather could only, like a turtle on its round hard back, attempt to roll, to swing herself, leveraging the great unaccountable weight of her legs, up onto the edge of the bed and off it. In her chest there was something like the grip of a hand or of a clamp that somebody had left inside her. Nonetheless, her robe. And now entering the long hallway, doors opening off either side, she could hear, from very far away, a small tinny buzzing that she recognized as music though without discerning, for she could not discern, either the voice or the tune: it was rather a small thread that she followed along the hall, where nobody was, to the staircase of dark wood which she began to descend, slowly and bent over from the pain and the weight and the great effort involved in moving these limbs which had at one time surely belonged to her but which seemed now to be somebody else's, so awkward were they, so unwilling. Though surely she too, once upon a time, had danced... Down and down she went, around the several turnings of the staircase (certainly it was farther than she remembered), passing, on one landing, a large framed photographic close-up of a golden cock-of-the-rock, with its resplendent crest like a half-wedge of orange, and a dark, bellicose eye... on the next landing, the photo of a girl in a little sealskin cap and tippet, hands hidden in a matching muff... on the next landing, in a recessed niche, a plaster bust of Queen Victoria with a chip out of the nose and several curls missing off the back of the head. Though the cock-of-the-rock reminded her of something (she wasn't sure what), she was sure she had seen none of these objects before... Nor had the staircase ever seemed so wide, so deep, so dark. Is this, she wondered, descending, really Ma's house? She clung to the fraying thread of music that was leading her down, emerging at last like a ghost into what was certainly Ma's capacious kitchen. A dark-haired woman uncannily like herself sat at the table barefoot, swinging her leg rhythmically to the music issuing from the transistor radio on the counter while sipping a glass of something yellow on ice and paging absorbedly through a Life magazine. At her elbow sat a bottle of golden liqueur in which a mysterious object—a bit of flowering branch, an antler of coral, possibly the efflorescent finger of a saint—was floating; on the cover of the magazine a model in a crescent hat gazed provocatively, while holding out her hands to display, on the right hand, a white glove with black polka dots, and on the left hand, a black glove with white stripes. Above the model's shoulder a caption read: News In Gloves.The sick woman hovered on the threshold; her doppelganger at the table did not look up, but, fully absorbed, continued obliviously paging and sipping.Maybe, thought the other, amazed, I really am invisible—The tableau persisted, until at last somebody (it was unclear who) said, I don't know how you can drink that stuff—Now the woman at the table did look up, jumped up in fact, dropping the magazine and crying, Rose! What are you doing down here? You shouldn't be out of bed, you silly!She flung herself at her sister, waving her hands and making small, solicitous noises and appearances of kissing.Ma'll never forgive you, the other said calmy, for breaking into her special bottle—Rose regarded the vessel, along with its enigmatic contents: then suddenly felt that the mysterious branch or wand or finger in the bottle had gotten lodged inside her, somewhere beneath her right breast; it was rotating, playing her ribcage like a harp.Oh Rose! cried the sister in a tone of anguish, who cares what Ma says! You need to go back to bed—let me help you—I'm all right Lucy! I'm all right! Though blanching slightly.Here, let me—Lucy took Rose around the waist and began to lead, or rather pilot, but instead of taking her up the stairs, was ushering her down.Lucy, what are you doing? It's so dark down here I can't see a thing—clinging tight, however, as they descended into what must have been the basement: though it could not be seen, but only smelled and heard. The mildew was characteristic, as was the aroma of fermenting apples. There was as well a soft, subtle scurrying, suggestive of unseen, inhabited corners.Subtly Lucy withdrew: Rose felt herself hovering, blind, above an abyss.The patient thrashed, panicking.I can't see! I can't see!Oh Rose! said Lucy, somewhat fed up. Just open your eyes then!The woman in the bed did: and found herself propped on pillows, her sister Lucy leaning over her with a spoonful of broth. The room was very bright; somewhere a bird was singing, or shouting, loudly.Oh Micheletto! Shut up Micheletto! You're bothering Rose! said Lucy crossly: but the canary, undaunted, continued its racket, leaping from perch to perch, hanging upside down from a bell, committing wild acrobatics on the swing, and regarding the patient, from behind the bars of its prison, with a darkly defiant jujube eye.I don't know how you can stand having him in here, Rose. He's so noisy.I like him.But not the soup evidently, from which the patient shrank with a scowl. Sister and spoon therefore subsided, one into a chair, the other into a bowl.I could take him out of here, if he's bothering you.No.The woman in the bed shut her eyes, easing back, if not disappearing, into the trailing vinelike thicket of her hair: turning inward, perhaps, to attend to the branch or wand or finger that was still plucking at her ribcage, playing a music more compelling even than that of Micheletto the canary. This, though, the sister could not allow.Joey called, Rose. Did you hear me? Joey called. He's so worried about you.Joey? A green glimmer between dark lashes.Don't tell me you've forgotten Joey!Lucy gestured to the photo on the bedside table, which was no longer that of a poodle but was, rather, of a curly-haired young man with a long, somewhat sanctimonious nose. If she was disappointed by the transformation, Rose was careful to conceal it.Course not. Don't be silly. How could I forget Joey?The patient spoke softly, slurring: that was the narcotic.He's awfully worried about you, Rose.Suddenly Lucy began to giggle. Rose, peering out from behind her thicket, saw her sister perched forward in her chair.D'you remember, Rose? You were so sick you threw up in the back seat of the convertible. Snickering now.I did not.You did.I didn't.Though in fact that night, with its wild ride of pain, was a blur to Rose: she recalled, vaguely, parking on the bluffs, seeing the lights of the town below, a smeared fistful of rhinestones flung at random along the silvery-black thread of the river: Joey, easing his arm around her shoulders: and the first mild, then abruptly definitive jabs just below and to the right of the breastbone... But then too, she thought she remembered gazing into the dark, empathetic eyes of a poodle... This, though comforting, was difficult to understand.Joey's been wonderful about it. He's not mad at all. Apparently the upholstery cleaned up great. He had the entire car detailed too. He said he's going to visit later. Isn't that nice? Isn't it? Rose, did you hear me?But the patient, lowering pale lids, had disappeared again.Rose? Rose?Yes Lucy, resurfacing, I heard you. ’S nice. But wondered whether her sister had always been so annoying. It was difficult to give this question the attention it deserved because of the ragged strumming, rising almost to the level of a pain, from somewhere deep inside, just beneath her right breast. So absorbing was this internal music that Rose found she could not resist the urge to sing along... which she did do, for an unknowable, perhaps immeasurable, period of time.Rose, the sister was saying, Rose. I think it's time for your pill.Lucy was leaning over her again, brow creased, this time with the pill in her hand, and the glass of water in which, somehow, certain stars had been contained: Rose consumed these along with the medicine.Now, Lucy said, I'll let you sleep. Hush! Micheletto! Hush! Rose is sleeping!But the canary, rocketing crazily, continued.Later, when Rose woke (or so it seemed), the sun had shifted considerably, the shadows moving around the sundial, or room, in such a manner that certain things loomed larger than they had before: the crucifix on the wall for example, and the little box on the bureau, the hairbrush with the curls of hair caught in it, the lampshade, the wooden chair in which Lucy was no longer sitting all cast monstrous elongated shadows, as if implying some significance they did not have. The white curtains, on the other hand, hung quite still now on the open window. Rose emerged slowly from a dream in which she and her sister were acting in a play Joey had written: they were seated side by side on stage, on a green velour couch, and Lucy, turning toward her, had very sincerely said, What's the pup, Rose? What's the pup? which made no sense at all: maybe Rose had misheard: in the dream she replied, over and over, What's the what? What's the what?, growing more and more annoyed, to which Lucy answered, every time, What's the pup? until at last Rose awakened very cross. And now she lay, propped on pillows, becoming aware once more of the pain she had forgotten while dreaming, and of Micheletto's song. What's the what? thought Rose, what's the what? Until suddenly she realized she was saying it out loud. And then at last the dream truly fell away, and she realized her pain felt very near, but that Micheletto's singing had grown very distant: no matter how she squinted she could not see the canary in his cage, though she could hear the distant singing: until at last she realized that the cage was empty, and that Micheletto was singing from somewhere else. Lucy must have taken Micheletto away, Rose thought, bitterly. She wanted to do something about it, get Micheletto back, he was her friend, her only friend, but she didn't do anything; she lay perfectly still, listening to the familiar fugues and arias, which were emanating, it seemed, from some other room, or other dimension: as if Micheletto had become a ghost, or phantasm. I can hear you, Micheletto, she thought, or said, but I can't see you... In response (if it was a response), the song, with its characteristic trills and arabesques, seemed to draw nearer, though a barrier remained, the voice sounded muffled, as if Micheletto were smothered under a bolster, or stuffed in a sack. Rose's eyes probed the room, rummaged the corners, explored the elongated and vaguely palpitating shadows, searching for Micheletto, though her body remained motionless, paralyzed, as if still dreaming. Micheletto, where are you? Rose sang, or said, to herself, or to the room: this was unclear, though the reply when it came was startlingly distinct, a spirited coloratura pronounced right at her elbow, or so it seemed: though Micheletto himself, as a small, yellow, feathered entity, continued imperceptible. Rose lay rigid like a mummy, wrapped in sheets, propped on pillows, anointed with juniper, sealed with beeswax... I too am an artifact, she thought, of my former self... Micheletto however spoke back, with asperity, demanding some solution, some action on her part—I can't, Micheletto, she said, it's not possible—taking in with desperate eyes the room around her, lingering especially over the crucifix with its gargantuan shadow, the glass of water on the bedside table whose stars she had consumed (she could feel them now, sparking inside her, the sharp edges lodged beneath her sternum), the photo of the white poodle, with its gentle dark eyes and sympathetic smile: none of these however offering any help, or advice... I'm sorry, Micheletto, I can't—The bird, however, was inexorable.Therefore Rose as she had done earlier rolled herself to the edge of the bed, using the weight of her legs to lever herself up until she sat, curled wormlike but facing the window: through which she could see the canary perched outside, on the slope of the roof.Oh Micheletto!, said Rose, dismayed, how did you get out there?Certainly the canary did reply, but his words, conveyed in a series of runes, were eclipsed by a delivery truck passing in the street below.What, Micheletto? What the—what?She couldn't hear him, and maybe it didn't matter: out was out, after all: though the closed door of the cage and the firmly lowered window screen rendered the mode of escape enigmatic... possibly even supernatural... Unless Lucy, Rose thought, conjuring an image, masticating upon it in her mind with the satisfaction that comes of blaming, till at last she struck the gristle: which was, why would Lucy? Since Lucy also loved Micheletto... And anyway what mattered now was not the escape, but the rescue... Micheletto, outside the window, made further cryptic remarks conveying urgency, possibly even gruff impatience.All right, all right—Sinking down slowly tentatively painstakingly from the edge of the bed to the floor Rose inched on her buttocks to the window and with some effort and tugging of incision managed to raise the screen, allowing into the bedroom a greater blueness, along with several mosquitoes. Inside her chest the wand of coral was cryptically turning, though what she felt was not exactly pain: and as for the disconcertingly stained bandage, of this she continued willfully unaware.Micheletto! Micheletto!The canary, bright on black shingles, cocked its head. There was a throb of a sort, Rose thought, in the bright black eye. But Micheletto did not come toward. She leaned out, to gesture.Here, Micheletto! Here!The small blond figure hopped along the ridgeline of the roof.Micheletto! Micheletto!Though the canary did not come, Rose suddenly found herself, or the upper half of herself at least, partially extended through the open window. If only I had a thistle to offer him, she thought, or some suet... But she had only herself, dangling, and, either in eagerness or desperation (this was unclear), extending further out and then down, palms first, onto the surprising rough warmth of the shingles.Micheletto! Micheletto!She could no longer see him, but took hope from a small, eager scrabbling in the gutter.Oh, Micheletto... Suddenly she found she was curled up right beside the dormer, on the black shingled slope of the roof. Looking down she could see the cracked concrete walk, and, in the sullen green shadow of the house, Ma's small garden, the tomatoes and zucchini quivering on their stakes, the brown pendulous faces of the sunflowers as they contrived, unsuccessfully, to look the other way. In the upstairs bathroom in the house next door, the neighbor Mrs. Benedetti, squatting in her housecoat of dusty rose pattern, gave a quick, scandalized look, and abruptly drew down the shade... Well, thought Rose, refusing to feel bad about it, you can't please everyone... Lulled by the warmth of the shingles, she had stretched out tentatively upon the somewhat tacky surface. It was impossible to lie comfortably on her right side—she had been wounded on the right side, damaged, something in her had been breached, she'd been ripped up, she couldn't remember how—or on her left either for that matter, because of the stars gyrating relentlessly inside her; nonetheless she did lie somehow, along the slope of the roof, with her head turned toward the gutter. Above her was a blue dome upon which a pink line of cloud languorously reclined: it was beautiful: but looking made her feel dizzy. Micheletto! Micheletto! she called. The response was not immediate, giving her time to notice, in the lee of the dormer, an abandoned hammer and a roll of tape evidently left behind by some workman, who knew when... Nobody cleans up anymore, thought Rose. Ma, she thought, wouldn't like it at all, if she knew. But Ma would never know, because she, Rose, would never tell her. Now resumed the scrabbling in the gutter. Micheletto! Is that you, Micheletto? Though there was no reply, the scrabbling went on, until, suddenly, a bright yellow head with a mischievous, berry-bright eye popped up out of the drainpipe. Micheletto looked in her direction and spoke with some severity... Well, it's not my fault, is it, Rose said, bitterly. Just look at all I've done for you already, all this for your sake—The bright eye bulged. There was a volley of expostulation.But I can't! Yes of course I love you, I just can't! It's... physically impossible! Her voice dropped to a whisper. I think there's something wrong with me, Micheletto... Then Rose fell silent. She had become confused, trying to remember what was wrong. Micheletto, while not unsympathetic, did not cease his complaining: the yellow head turned furiously round and round in the drainpipe, there was a sound of scrabbling feet as he espoused various arguments, interspersed with moments of fugue and passages of overripe bel canto. Rose lay back on the slope of the roof so that her long dark hair fell in rivulets over the gutter... If she stretched out her arm from there, she could almost, but not quite, reach the drainpipe.All right, she said somewhat feebly, I'll try—Meanwhile something was going on down below. There was a clamor of car doors and tires; somebody was speaking. Rose, Rose! What are you doing up there! Oh Rose! Joey, come quick—Rose is up on the roof!It was very silly of Lucy, Rose thought dreamily as she reached: certainly I'll wake up in bed in a minute. Leaning back, she saw the line of pink recumbent upon the cerulean dome of the sky: and heard, from somewhere in the distance, the sound of a poodle barking.