eddie baron
Her flesh became thin as parchment. Tremors ran through her body. Her form flickered between the various selves she had been in that previous place (too debauched and impoverished and shameful to mention) and then between the various future-forms she had, alas, never succeeded in attaining: attentive mother; mindful baker of bread and cakes; sober church-attender; respected soft-spoken grandmother surrounded by her adoring, clean brood.
roger bevins iii
Then came the familiar, yet always bone-chilling, firesound associated with the matterlightblooming phenomenon.
hans vollman
And she was gone.
roger bevins iii
Her threadbare and malodorous clothing raining down all around.
hans vollman
Mr. Baron let loose a prodigious howl of obscenities and succumbed, albeit reluctantly, compelled by his inordinate affection for that lady, the color of his matterlightblooming phenomenon not the usual luminous white, but, rather, a dingy gray.
roger bevins iii
Smelling of tobacco, sweat, and whiskey, his clothes came raining down.
hans vollman
And a racing form, and an obscene cartoon.
roger bevins iii
CII.
Suddenly Mr. Bevins did not look well.
His flesh was thin as parchment. Tremors ran through his body.
hans vollman So many memories were flooding back.
I recalled a certain morning. The morning of my— The morning that I— I had seen Gilbert. At the baker’s.
Yes. Yes I had.
My God.
He was—ah, most painful! He was with someone. A man. Dark-haired, tall. Broad-chested. Gilbert whispered something to him and they shared a laugh. At my expense, it seemed. The world went flat. It seemed a stage-set built for the telling of a specific joke, to be told on me: having been born with my propensity, I would find Gilbert, come to love him, but would not be able to be with him (for he wished to “live correctly”), and then the punch line: me, crestfallen in that baker’s doorway, loaf in hand, the two of them approaching, pausing—the whisper, the laugh—and they broke around on either side of me, this new fellow (he was so beautiful) raising an eyebrow, as if to say: That? That is him?
Then another killing laugh-burst.
I rushed home and—
Proceeded.
roger bevins iii Mr. Bevins dropped to his knees.
His form flickered between the various selves he had been in that previous place: An effeminate but affectionate young boy, much fussed over by a family of sisters; A diligent student, crouched over multiplication tables; A naked young man in a carriage house, reaching over to tenderly kiss that Gilbert; A good son, posed between his parents for a daguerreotype on the occasion of his birthday; A red-faced distraught disaster, tears rolling down his face, butcher knife in hand, porcelain tub in his lap.
Do you remember, he said. When I first came here? You were so kind to me. Calmed me down. Convinced me to stay. Do you remember?
I was happy to be of service, I said.
I just remembered something else, he said, in a tone of wonder. Your wife once came to visit.
hans vollman I do not recall any such occurrence, Mr. Vollman replied stiffly. My wife, believing my recovery best aided by a period of solitude, prefers not to visit.
Friend, I said. Enough. Let us speak honestly. I am remembering many things. And I suspect that you are, too.
Not at all, Mr. Vollman said.
A plump, beaming woman came here, I said. A year or so ago. And recounted many things, happy things concerning her life (her numerous children, her excellent husband), and thanked you—thanked you, imagine—for your early kindness to her, which had, as she put it, “allowed me to deliver myself, unsullied, to he who would prove to be the great love of my life.” She thanked you for placing her “on the path to love,” and for never (never once) being unkind to her, but always gentle, and dear, and considerate. “A true friend,” she called you.
Tears were rolling down Mr. Vollman’s face.
She did you the honor, sir, of coming to say goodbye and, standing at your grave, explained that she would not, in future, be able to join you there, as she must, instead, eventually, lie beside this new fellow, her husband, who was— Please, Mr. Vollman said.
Who was much younger, I said. Than you. Closer, that is, to her own age.
You, Mr. Vollman said abruptly. You cut your wrists and bled to death on your kitchen floor.
Yes, I said. Yes I did.
Many years ago, he said.