The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Leave that, okay? That book is hard to find.” And stolen.

She drops it on the couch and it falls open to a picture of a man leaning against a tree by a river. I remember the story. The man is seduced by a water spirit, Rusalka, I think. Half-souled spirits of children and virgin women who died unbaptized. Every culture has water spirits, mermaids, selkies, nixies. In America we don’t name them.

“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” she says.

“Okay.”

“I know you were trying.”

“Thanks.”

She puts her arms around me, her head on my shoulder. We stay this way, looking at the walls, looking anywhere but at each other. She nudges in the direction of a book. “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Read me that. I used to like it when you read to me. Nobody does it once you grow up.”

It’s from the Bolokhovskis. She wants me to read Egl?. I do. Slowly, the way Mom used to, unraveling the story of the farmer’s daughter who would become Queen of the Serpents, and her children who were turned into trembling trees. All folktales have a price. Enola listens silently, pressing her forehead to my shoulder, letting me remember her.

Later, when the sun has set, I shift to work the blood back into a pins and needles foot. She says, “It was a long drive and my head is killing me. I need sleep.”

I muss her hair with my knuckles. It mats up in soft, spiky black chunks. I want to ask why she cut it, but don’t. “Your bedroom’s the same. Haven’t touched it.”

She shuffles down the hallway. The door squeaks open. “Couldn’t you at least get a new quilt?” No good nights for us.

*

I’m squinting at a bad photocopy when headlights make the room suddenly bright. I look at the clock. Nine-thirty. I was supposed to be at Alice’s at eight. Yes, that’s her car, and yes, that’s her walking up the driveway. Jeans and a T-shirt, hair down. I look around. My things are everywhere, clothing, papers, books, noodle wrappers. Shit.

I head her off at the front step, leaning against the house, my back on the shingles. It would be good to ask her inside, but her apartment is clean, adult, and has a pillow-mountain bed.

“I completely forgot. I’m so sorry.”

She twirls her keys in her hand, then smacks them against her hip. “You say that a lot.”

“I mean it. Five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Whose car is that?” She nods at the Olds.

“Enola’s. She came home today. We were talking and the time got away from me.”

“She’s here?” She crosses her arms over her waist, rocking back and forth on her toes. I don’t know what Alice thinks of Enola, not really. Whatever she knows of her is from a long time ago, or from what I’ve said. Obnoxious, selfish, immature, insane, waste. I probably said that, probably to Alice. “I should say hi,” she says. A look toward the window. I tell her Enola’s asleep. She raises an eyebrow. “Do you not want me to come in?”

“No. Yes. She really is asleep. I want you to come in, but I’m embarrassed because the place is a wreck, my stuff is everywhere, and I already fucked up tonight.”

She smiles. For a second I do too.

“Okay.” Then she’s past me, barging in before I can stop her.

In the middle of the living room Alice turns a slow circle, like she’s surveying a gallery. Her flip-flops grind sand into the floor. We take it in, the papers, the clothing, the cracks and loose floorboards. I chew my fingers.

“Wow,” she says.

“I know. I’d offer you somewhere to sit, but it’ll have to be the kitchen.”

“No, no. That’s okay.” She looks down the hallway. There are three doors, one has my sister, one isn’t fit for me or a guest, and the other belongs to the dead. We would have to curl up on the couch with my books and clothing. “At work you were always so neat.”

“Escapism?”

She laughs a little. Thank God. I suggest going back to her place. “I only need five minutes.”

She says not to worry about it. “Enola’s here. You guys should spend time together.”

And then she’s on the front step and there’s a perfunctory kiss. Because she’s seen the house or because her parents are across the street? Their porch light is still on. I say I’m sorry again, and this time she takes my hand, giving my fingers a squeeze. There’s a perfect spot between her finger and thumb that’s been made smooth and tough by a fishing rod. A spark runs between us and we hold on for an extra minute.

“Just call next time, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

I stay outside long after her car is gone.

I email a résumé for a video archive position. Out of my range, but worth a shot. Blue Point sent a message back. Position filled, of course. I listen to the water against the cliff, and let my mind run with thoughts of Alice, of the house falling in the water, of all those drowned women. I try for a while, but sleep won’t come. I give up trying and read.