In the last ten years, no one aside from Russell or Caroline have seen my home. I watch as Rosita looks over the pergola in need of paint, the wraparound porch with rocking chairs nobody but me ever sits in. The windows haven’t been washed in years. A thick coat of green mildew has taken up residence in the corners of each pane. I can’t find any judgment in her eyes, but I feel ashamed.
“Where are those pills?” she asks.
“In the music room,” I say. There are things inside I don’t want her to see. “I can make it.”
Rosita puts a hand on my shoulder to keep me from trying.
“You rest,” she says and takes my keys.
When Rosita comes outside with the bottle, it’s nearly empty. I drop two of the last seven pills into my palm, chew one and dry-swallow the other. Instant relief surges through me, but it’s just false comfort at the familiar taste on my tongue.
“You need help up?” Rosita asks.
“Just let me sit a minute.”
She rests on the stoop next to me. The wind blows hard, pulling a few leaves off the nearby trees. They sail by, a few stragglers floating down from higher branches to rest at our feet.
“It’s beautiful here,” Rosita says, “but kind of lonely.”
Caroline used to say the same thing. Both must imagine men like me are better off in a city, walking busy streets, standing in line at a coffee shop and sitting in a corner café. Most of Rosita’s interviewees probably make that sort of life work. Some might manage to be happy. No different than the average person with more conventional hardships. Would that life be easier? Her voice seems to suggest yes, but I’m not so sure. I think I’d be denied anonymity anywhere.
I stand with a grunt. My knees are still weak, so I grip the handrail of the steps. I barely feel the weathered wood through the calluses on my fingertips. So much damage done to skin with only steel strings and time. I’m not sure what to do now. It could be days before the creek is safe to cross. Even longer before someone comes to look in on us. Perhaps no one will come at all.
“I think you could use some rest,” Rosita says. “Help you to bed?”
The offer sounds like exactly what I need. Rest awhile, let the pills do their work and examine the situation with fresh eyes. Only I worry about sleeping while a stranger shares my house. I don’t trust her not to examine my music room. The things inside would offer her an unbelievable story.
“What about the police?” I ask.
“I’ll handle it,” she says.
We go to the bedroom where I collapse atop the comforter. Rosita stands at the foot of the bed, her back turned as she looks at the picture of Angela Carver. It’s a subject she’ll broach eventually, but I’m not about to offer anything. The first time Caroline shared my bed, the picture seemed to watch us as she rode atop my lap. Afterward, she lay wrapped up in the sheets, observing the photo while we shared one of her joints.
“Old girlfriend?” she’d asked with just a hint of surprise. As if a man like me could ever have someone in his past. It was an old picture, but I was shocked she didn’t recognize Angela.
I remember Caroline just days before, nude except for her socks, stroking the concaved recess of my chest. If I truly cared for her, I wouldn’t have abandoned her to murderers. If I ever really loved Angela, I wouldn’t have considered selling her recordings.
“I left her,” I say, but it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.
“There was nothing else we could do,” Rosita offers.
It’s a poor comfort. I roll over, wait until Rosita departs before closing my eyes.
THE REQUEST
Day Two of the Contamination
When I wake, the pills are percolating through my extremities, spreading a euphoric emptiness I both love and fear. I’m thankful for the absence of pain, but the numbness pricking my fingertips will keep me from playing for at least an hour. I use it as an excuse to stay in bed, wrapped up in the familiar comfort of my narcotic blanket. The truth is, this is the best I ever feel. I’d probably trade the rest of my life for a few years of its permanence. When I consider this, I think of Caroline. It’s the last thing I want my mind to linger on, so I climb out of bed.
The lights are on in the hallway and voices drift down the corridor. I follow the sound and find Rosita sitting at my breakfast table. The television on the counter cycles through footage from outside Shaheen’s grocery store, shots of the polluted river and interviews with protesters.
“You see this?” Rosita asks. Her eyes are shielded by square glasses with tortoiseshell frames. The cheap plastic has a certain geek appeal, but the lenses are too thick to be a fashion statement. They magnify her eyes, allow me to see specks of black inside the hazel rings of her irises.
“You have to respect their resolve,” she says, pointing to the protesters who march on-screen.
When I join her in the booth, our knees brush underneath the table. I can smell the greasy, fried-chicken odor of fear sweat still clinging to me. Feel the dried saliva collected in the corner of my mouth. The drugs always make me drool when I pass out. My appearance is always a concern, but it’s especially embarrassing looking so disheveled in front of a woman like Rosita. I worry that my breath will be rank when I speak.
“How long was I out? Where are the police?”
“Not too long,” she says. “The phones are acting weird, but I think I got through. Someone will be on the way.”
Her laptop rests on the table between us. On-screen, a young man with no arms sits on the sort of dingy beige carpet that can only be found in a rented apartment. He’s shirtless, allowing the camera to see his hairless chest, dime-sized nipples and the half-formed flesh orbs of his shoulders. A calligrapher’s pen is clutched between his toes, writing what I assume are Chinese characters on a sheaf of paper. I don’t want to seem like I’m prying but can’t pretend not to notice the image.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“Things you wouldn’t want to see.”
I know my shortcomings, so I can admit I’ve never been the best at articulating my thoughts. Years alone have left me too brusque and with so little interaction, the raw anger inside bubbles up sometimes. I was hurting for the pills last night when I sent her away and worried over Caroline, but it isn’t an excuse. The truth is I felt objectified in the same old way as always. Studied, not desired. That’s not Rosita’s fault. Feelings and insecurities will always be an unwelcomed presence I’ll have to contend with. We don’t get to choose our emotions, but I should be able to control my actions despite them.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say. “I was too harsh.”