Part 10 (2/2)

”Emily,” he said, and laid his right hand flat against her belly. There was nothing sly about her anymore. He was old enough now and she knew it. Both of them did. It seemed incredible that she'd helped him cross the street.

”What is it,” she mumbled. It wasn't a question. Her stomach was s.h.i.+vering under her clothes. She had on a red s.h.i.+rt and a purple thriftstore sweater. His little finger traced her bottom rib.

”I know you didn't mean to push me, h.e.l.ler.” She was leaning into his hand and her hair was in his eyes and he could feel her heavy breath against his face. ”I know you didn't mean to. But I want to hear you say it.”

”I told you I was sorry.”

”I don't care about that. Sorry only matters if you meant meant to.” to.”

He forced his eyes shut but her outline persisted, the afterimage bright against his brain. A green girlshaped pillar rose through the veins of his retina like ivy twining through a chainlink fence. As soon as his eyes were closed her beautiful face began to disa.s.semble. He'd suspected it would. Her features came apart like knitting.

”I drew pictures of you, Emily. I drew one every day. In the end there was just a house: a house with a hairy roof. I didn't know that you were still inside it.”

”That's not an answer, h.e.l.ler. Answer me.”

Her stomach pulled itself back from his fingers. He was old enough to know that her question was a sign of love or at least of pa.s.sing interest and he struggled to find an answer that would please her. What he wanted most was to not answer at all, to bring his second hand against her ribs, to hold her there until the next thing happened. To not have to remember the flat time or anything like it. There was nothing there that he cared to recall.

”I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't touched me,” he told her.

She nodded and let her shoulders slump toward his. Her hair hung dark against his face but her eyes shone on him like stagelights through an old motheaten curtain. That was why her stomach had pulled back: she was bending down to meet him, folding over. All at once her face was under his. ”You were frightened of me,” she whispered. ”You thought that I'd become another person. You told me so.”

”I didn't know what you wanted to touch me for.”

”I was frightened too. That's why. To keep you quiet.”

”It was hot in the station. Hot and wet, like in a greenhouse. A policeman was coming up the platform to catch us. A highpressure system. You'd gone flat, playing tricks, not like Emily at all. I wanted to cool down. I wanted to take my clothes off. Then you came and wrapped around me like a blanket.”

”I touched you,” she said. ”You didn't recognize me. You thought I was some other person. Not Emily anymore.”

He felt her cautious breath against his neck. Her breath smelled of licorice and cigarettes and fetid greenhouse air. Her ribs were suddenly back against his knuckles. Everything's happening suddenly lately, he thought. Emily bit her lower lip and started walking. Not taller than he was anymore. After three short steps she stopped and waited for him.

”You're Emily now,” he said, taking her compliant hand in his.

Some time later they pa.s.sed the window of a bakery and stopped in front of it and looked inside. She appraised the shelves of bright potbellied jars and he s.h.i.+fted and blinked and sidestepped his reflection. With his head behind hers they looked like a twoheaded baby. He liked the idea of that. ”What's in there?” he said to Emily, but he'd already seen for himself. The wall behind the counter was graced by a menagerie of pastel forms. Green and pink clots cupped in pleated waxpaper. Green for her afterimage, pink for his skin. He could tell by her expression that she was inspecting them closely.

”This place only makes cupcakes,” she murmured. ”Sometimes there's a line around the block.”

He leaned back on his heels. ”Cupcakes?”

”Not worth waiting in line for,” she said. ”Too much frosting.” But her forehead was pushed flush against the gla.s.s.

”You want one,” he said.

She stuck out her tongue. ”To be honest with you, h.e.l.ler, I couldn't-”

”Wait here.”

Before she could answer the powderblue shopdoor was closing behind him. People were standing alone and in cl.u.s.ters, sighing and whispering, running their fingertips along the gla.s.s. Across the top of the case sat the row that he'd seen from the street. That part of it was easy. A girl behind the counter smiled and asked him what he wanted.

The rest of them are thinking, he said to himself. Thinking it over. They're having a hard time making up their minds.

”What can I get you?” the girl said again. She was taller than he was by at least half a foot. There was some kind of construction underneath her: some sort of a platform. To lend stature or the illusion thereof. He decided to keep the conversation brief.

”Cupcakes,” he said, pointing at the display.

The girl sighed and propped her elbows on the counter. ”What can I get you?” she said a third time, as though he hadn't spoken. He felt like the stranger in the first scene of a Western. The encounter at the saloon. When he repeated his order her head rolled lackadaisically to one side.

”Cupcakes is the only thing we sell.”

”Those,” said Lowboy. He tapped the case with his knuckles. ”The pink ones and the green.”

Her head clicked woodenly into place. ”Angelfood cake and red velvet.”

Lowboy blinked at her and nodded.

”Which do you want?” said the girl. ”What kind?” A second girl slid into view behind her. Not a girl at all but a woman with a wrinkled mouselike face.

”Give me the cupcakes,” he said under his breath.

The girl's eyes dug into him. Her pink mouth hung open. ”Red velvet's the favorite.”

”Give me those. The red velvets.”

”How many would you like, sir?” the woman cut in. The girl moved the least possible distance away from the gla.s.s. Gawking at him pigeon-eyed and leering.

”How many?” said the woman. ”The red velvets are $2.75.”

Lowboy considered her question. The sun through the window made the two of them look spotlit. ”I don't know the answer to that,” he said finally.

The girl started laughing. The woman turned toward her and she stopped, staring slyly at the other customers. Everybody held their breath at once. The woman licked her lips and frowned at him. ”Why don't you tell me how much you want to spend,” she said. Leaving off the ”sir.”

Lowboy put his hands into his pockets. He squinted at her and looked around the room. He was careful not to look over his shoulder. ”I have $640,” he said.

Someone behind him laughed next. A grown woman or a little girl. The laugh was m.u.f.fled and lilting, not necessarily unkind. At first he thought of Emily but he knew her laugh too well. Maybe she has two laughs now, he thought. Maybe she has dozens. He was afraid to look behind him then: afraid that she was watching him, afraid that she was gone. But he was afraid of the woman's question even more. A man to his left took a few paces backward. Women and children whispered as they will. He touched each of his fingers to the gla.s.s.

”I'll take five.”

”Five red velvets,” the woman said. She seemed to approve. The girl hovered at her elbow with an open paper bag. Her face looked bloodless and surprised. Because I gave the right answer, Lowboy thought.

”$13.75,” the woman said.

Lowboy bit his lip and counted out the money. The bills were moist and rumpled in his hands. The girl slipped the cupcakes into the bag with inexplicable delicacy and care. As though they were hazardous objects. He caught the girl's eye and she looked away at once.

”What's she doing with that bag,” said Lowboy.

”What do you mean?” said the woman.

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