Dagger Key and Other Stories

You understand that you should put some distance between yourself and Abi, that the relationship has become entirely too unrealistic—in your head, anyway—and you should tell her that you need some time apart; but the thing is, aside from the fact that you love her, this has all come to seem normal, this world of mystic possibility, of dreams and portents, of secrets and Tantric orgasm. You’re dizzy with it, yet you don’t mind being dizzy, you’ve come to enjoy the spins, the drama, the meta-fictional weirdness. As is the case with Abi’s food, you’ve adapted to her ways and you don’t believe you can function without them. It could be simply that you’ve gone too far—or are too far gone—to jump ship. You’re in a canoe going over a falls, right at the edge, and it makes no sense to start swimming now.

The day after Christmas, 2004. You wake early, before first light and, leaving a note for Abi, who’s still asleep, you go for a walk. You intend it to be a short walk, but the day dawns clear and crisp, a rare sun break in the gloom of winter, and you keep on walking until you reach the U District. Around 8:30, you’re idling along the Ave, browsing store windows, and there’s hardly any traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, but suddenly there’s Reiner, recognizable by his cane, his crookedness, standing on the opposite side of the street about a half block away. In reflex, you start down a side street, but decide that this would be a good time to deal with him, with nobody about. As you draw abreast of him, he stares at you grimly, but doesn’t speak or try to approach. Though easier to live with than his curses, his silent regard is disconcerting, and you suspect that he sees some new crookedness in you that has made you not worth hassling.

You call Abi, but she’s not up or not answering; you step into a chapati place, recently opened, and order the Mandalay Combo, watch patches of ice melting on the asphalt outside. Once you’ve eaten, you call Abi again—she’s still not answering—and head home, keeping to the sunny side of the street. By the time you reach the house, it’s gotten cloudy and colder. You hear the TV muttering in the bedroom as you enter. Abi’s sitting in the chair by the window, still wearing her robe, watching CNN. “I tried to call,” you say, and fling yourself down onto the bed. On the screen, in a tropical setting, people are weeping, being consoled, digging into a wreckage of palm litter and concrete. You ask what happened and Abi says it was a tsunami.

“A tidal wave?”

“Yes.”

She makes it clear that she’s in no mood to talk. The screen shows a replay of the wave, caught on tourist video, striking a Thai resort; then a pulsing red dot in the Indian Ocean with little cartoon waves radiating away from it to strike the coasts of Sri Lanka, India, Thailand, Indonesia. The death toll, it’s estimated, may rise into the hundreds of thousands. A commercial for L’Oreal intercuts the news and you try once again to talk with Abi, but she flounces out of the room, goes to stand by the kitchen sink, staring out the window into the back yard. Her shields are up, maximum power, and she’s sealed inside her envelope of intimacy-rejecting force. Though you follow her, you don’t say a word. You sit at the kitchen table and wait for her to speak.

“I knew this would happen,” she says without turning from the window.

With anyone else, you would offer comforting platitudes, but she takes these natural disasters personally; platitudes would only provoke her.

“I didn’t know it would be today.” Her voice catches. “Over the holidays…yeah. But I didn’t expect it today.”

You stretch out your legs, enlace your hands behind your head.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” She whirls on you, her face full of strain, spoiling for a fight, needing to vent the frustration and pain she feels. You no longer doubt that she feels it. She has this general empathy, this overweening concern for the species, though she seems to lack empathy in the specific; you remain dubious as to its authenticity, thinking that she may be like a Method actress, submerged in her role.

“What can I say? This is so huge, you can’t feel it. Maybe you can, but it’s tough for me. I walk in and see a little red dot on the TV and cartoony wave symbols striking map countries. It might as well be a hundred thousand cartoon people are dead.” You shake your head, as if sadly bewildered. “I think there’s something that protects most people from feeling so much death. A basic indifference that kicks in when it’s needed. You don’t seem to have that protection.”

Practice makes perfect. Whether or not it’s bullshit, you’ve said exactly the right thing; perhaps you even halfway believe it. Mollified, she sits beside you and caresses your arm. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You know how I get.”

You shrug. “It’s okay.”

She draws circles on your arm with a finger. “I have to start making things ready.”

“Things?”

“Me, mostly. I have to prepare myself.”