Having popped out the window screen, the women were scooping ice cream from the roof and piling it in cones fashioned from old manila cardboard dividers taken from the archives boxes. Even the little boy was enjoying a taste, for his mouth was rimmed with cream and strawberry sauce.
A puppet’s grin split the old man’s face. “They’re having fun, aren’t they? Of course, they deserve it after all they’ve been through.”
“You mean the stories they’ve been telling of their past lives?”
“That goes without saying. Not just the stories, but the lives themselves, those count for something. And having to entertain you—”
“They were like a floor show, those flappers. One of them, the one we haven’t seen yet, played the ukulele and sang the ‘Hong Kong Blues’ and ‘Paper Moon,’ and they formed a conga line and sashayed from the bathroom to the bedroom.”
The old man peered out into the hallway. “That’s hardly long enough to fit seven people.”
“Eight. I was at the end of the conga and there was a lot of hip swinging but very slow forward progress. Just as I got to the door, the ukulele player slammed it shut in my face, and there I was again in the hall, waiting all by myself. Behind the closed bedroom door, there was a tremendous commotion, laughter and giggling, and heavy objects tossed about the room, like they were having a pillow fight—”
Clucking his tongue like a mother hen, the old man stopped me in midsentence. I was getting good at reading his moods, and he seemed displeased with where my story was heading. “Typical schoolboy dreams. Fantasy of the most infantile sort, the nubile maids in their nighties thrashing each other with overstuffed pillows, feathers floating in the air. Skin and taffeta and more skin.” As the images infiltrated his brain, his eyes widened. “By God, this is good stuff.”
“After a while, the commotion stopped, and dead silence from behind the door. I looked through the keyhole, which again I don’t recall being there before, but pitch darkness greeted my sight no matter how I positioned my eyeball. With one finger, I gingerly pushed the door, and it swung open slowly. The light from the hallway did not penetrate the blackness of the bedroom, but in fact, the usual order reversed and the darkness spilled into the light to the point where I could not see my feet below me and my hands disappeared when I stuck out my arms. Someone tittered in the heart of darkness and gave me the courage to go on. Not being able to see a thing, I tottered forward, following that fetching giggle.”
“A case,” the old man said, “of the blonde leading the blind.”
Once again he was pelted with small objects for his troubles. Pill bottles and stolen hotel shampoo bottles and an exfoliating sponge. Even the boy caught the spirit and overturned his ice cream cone on the old man’s bare toes. When he felt how cold it was, the old fellow let out a whoop and danced on one foot, to the child’s delight.
“The farther I went, the darker it became. As a general rule, I prefer a dark bedroom, especially for sleeping, with the blinds drawn to block out the light, which always seeks out any chinks or the slightest crackling so that even a dark room has gradations, shades of black if you will, and after the eyes have adjusted, one can make out bulky shapes and masses at the very least. But this was the darkest place I’ve ever been. Darker than a closet in a dark room. Darker than a trunk in the closet in the dark room. Darker than a sealed box in the trunk in the closet—”
“Yes, very dark, I get it,” the old man said. He was wiping his foot with a washcloth.