A Blow to the Head

Since Carlos began ignoring my existence, I’ve been eating almost nothing. But tonight something happened.  One minute I stood downstairs, staring at an Amaretto cheesecake. And the next, quivering from head to toe, I was allowing myself a little sliver .  .  .  which, as it dissolved in my mouth, awakened an overwhelming need to go on allowing myself little slivers until the whole sweet rich thing was gone.

Dazed, almost drugged, I tromped upstairs, demanding he tell me what’s wrong.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“Wrong?”  Carlos shifted in his chair—my chair.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“Well, let’s see.”  Staring at the ceiling, he tapped his temple.  Then he made a frame with his fingers and squinted at me.  “When you ask, what’s wrong?” Carlos said, “are you inquiring about my health?”

About to walk away, I turned back. “You know what I mean.”

“Or why I’m sitting here unable to read because the light’s burned out?”

I retreated to the kitchen, but Carlos followed me.  I put water on for tea. Carlos flashed me a loathsome smirk.  Before long I gave in to the unremitting fury and said, “Okay, Carlos.  Why, once you become my lover, do you hate me?”

And then his face went blank. A shadow passed and he stood silent. I turned off the stove, about to walk away, when he jumped in front and shoved me against the wall. In a grotesque  voice, he parroted me: “How come? But why? What’s the reason?”

I ducked past him but he grabbed my arm, which he twisted behind my back.  When I struggled, he butted my head against the wall. The blow sounded a dull thud and produced an awful squish. The pain was shocking. Carlos let go; there was a string of stars; the hall light bulb swung from the ceiling. He was shaking his finger at me. “You—you deserved that!  Nothing but whining and sniveling.  When I’ve always done all the work, and you’ve socked away all the profits.” Then he whirled back at me. “But the thing I really can’t stand is that wheezy, sniffly sound you make when you breathe.” Tendons throbbed from his neck. A vein pulsed on his forehead. “The sound of you chewing and glugging.  The way you mewl around, with your fat fucking tongue hanging out of your fat fucking face.” 

This last had been punctuated by steps on the stairwell, which I hadn’t noticed until Carlos shut up. We heard the knock-knock. Instantly in control, he raised his eyebrows to indicate, Was I going to answer that or what?

Woozy with pain, I opened the door to Maggie, who tapped me brightly on the chest with the fliers she had rolled up in her hand. Wrinkling her forehead, she said, “Oh, did I come at a bad time?”

The three of us shifted to the front room.  Maggie said everywhere she went people were talking about Religion Without Rules.  On campus, in town, everywhere.  But the big news was, she’d found the perfect space for us, a defunct bowling alley, about ten miles west.  At which point, I nodded and claimed I was going to bed.

Night Descends on the Baffled Prophet.  Forsaken in his Room, He Awaits Another Dawn. The Walls Close In.

I could, it just occurred to me, take the money and run.  With my three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in savings, I could go to California and join one of those Revelation/Apocalypse groups.  I could travel the world, start a new business, whatever.

(Click here to read the next episode.)