“Jesus, Melody.” I straightened her up again. She’d stopped thrashing so much. Her whole body was twitching, shivering. She seemed dazed, stunned. “Why the fuck—?”
But why was obvious. That, too, I saw now with crystal clarity. She’d been planning it right from the start. All our nostalgic visits. She’d been saying goodbye. I’d been the transport on her farewell tour.
I’d helped her commit suicide.
“Throw up, can’t you?”
“Chris . . . topher . . .”
Her voice was wrung out, squeezed dry. It was barely audible.
I hit her again. Her upper body shot forward, then she sagged against me. Christ, I thought, I’m beating up an old lady.
I felt her spittle in my face. But still she wouldn’t puke.
“Will you drink something? If I get it for you?”
She wheezed, a sound like a broken bellows.
I lowered her into the chair, as careful now as I’d been brutal earlier. I was thinking: salt and water, mustard powder. That was what you gave someone to make them throw up.
But not with corrosives.
Acid, bleach, stuff like that: you make them drink water, or milk, lots and lots of it, dilute the poison. If they bring it up, it’ll do as much harm coming back as going down . . .
What was this? Not corrosive, anyway. I headed for the kitchen, phone in hand. I called the Registry in Jersey City. Their phone rang on and on. I found a cup. I found . . . garlic powder. Turmeric. Dried parsley. Sea salt. Chili powder . . .
“Registry.”
The voice was slow and half-asleep.
I identified myself. I gave him codes. I told him it was an emergency. I said, “I need a flask here, right away. I mean now, got that? If you have anybody with a flask, Manhattan, Upper West Side, get them to this address, now, OK? This is urgent. This is life and death—”
“Checking your codes, sir.”
“Never mind the fucking codes! I’ve got someone dying here!”
“Sir, unless you cease the profanity, I will terminate this conversation.”
“For fuck sake! What are you, ten years old? Jesus—”
“Sir, I am preparing to terminate—”
“No! Don’t do that! For fuck—look, sorry, OK? Sorry! Do not hang up. Do not! Are you still there?”
He seemed to take an age to answer. It was probably just seconds, but I heard something else crash in the living room and Melody groan and I stepped from foot to foot, and tried to get the little spice jars open with one hand, the phone held with my shoulder, my other hand turning the tap— “Your codes check out, sir.” The awful, interminable pause of an indrawn breath. “How may I help you?”
So I went through it again. I poured salt and chili powder and God knows what else into the cup and filled it with water, looked round for a spoon to stir it with. I pulled open a drawer and it came loose from its runners, smashing to the floor. Napkins, napkin rings, teas towels . . .
The man said, “There’s nobody on duty now, sir. I can forward to Emergency and they—”
“Stop. Stop. You’re not hearing me. You know what we’re dealing with? Do you?”
“Well, I can probably check—”
Melody let out a wail. I said, “Do you want to be the man who let Manhattan be destroyed? Do you? You want that on your résumé, then?”
He told me that he’d call me back. I dropped my phone somewhere and ran to the main room.
She had slipped or fallen off the chair. She was on the floor, thin, brittle fingers clasping at the air.
I bent down, cradled her head.
“Melody?”
Her eyes moved. She looked at me, puzzled for a moment. Then recognition came. Her lower lip quaked.
“Christopher.”
“I’m here.”
“I’m scared . . .”
“It’s going to be OK. I promise. Can you drink something for me? Can you do that?”
“I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think . . . that it was like this . . .”
I grabbed a couple of cushions from the chair and tried to prop her up on them. I put the cup to her lips.
She said, “That’s filthy.”
“I know. Just drink it anyway, will you?”
She took a sip. Her face pruned up. She pushed the cup away.
“Melody. I need you to drink this. Quick now. Do me a favor, eh?”
“It’s eating me up. I didn’t . . . didn’t think it would be like this.”
“Drink, please.”
I put the cup to her lips again. She took some of the liquid in her mouth. I think she swallowed some of it. Not much.
“Drink fast and you won’t taste it. Come on.”
Her hand clutched at my shirtfront.
“I can feel him . . . moving in me.”
“Melody . . .”
“My legs are gone. I suppose they’re his now. I have a god’s legs. I have . . .” She tried to laugh and coughed instead. Her body rattled in my arms, like a box full of loose puzzle pieces. “Left arm. He’s spreading out, the god. Taking over, inch by inch. Soon I won’t be here at all. He’ll have every part of me.” She gave a strained little smile. “Won’t that be grand, huh? Won’t it . . . ?” Her grip upon my shirtfront tightened, and she tried to pull me closer. “Chris,” she said. It was hardly more than a breath. “Chris . . .”
“I’m here, I’m here.”
“What’s going to happen to me then?”