================================ Fall/Winter 1994, FUGUE # 10 by and it got very late. Soon there was the sound of Jamie punchwas only one plate in the oven, already fixed-a dried out potion of meat-loaf, a shriveled potato and a pile of soggy green-beans. On the counter, next to the sink, was another plate with the remnants of my dinner-food halfeaten, shifted from one area of the plate to another. The time went by, consciously. At nine o'clock, I was sitting on the couch, dressed in Jamie's pajamas-oversized flannel tops and bottoms. The volume was down on the television . There was no sound. With the clicker, I changed the picture every few seconds. MTV, CNN, television shopping, Hillary Rodham Clin-ton addressing a crowd of reporters from a Washington podium. A car pulled up. There were muffled voices coming from unrecognizable persons. I heard the door to the vestibule open. The door opened abruptly and loud. The door knocked against the plaster wall behind it. The slam echoed inside the concrete stairwell. Awkward footsteps shuffled against the ceramic tile in the vestibule. I heard the car speed away and the music from the car going loud. The thump, thump, thump, of a bass drum dissipated with the distance, until it disappeared completely, leaving only the reckless abandon of my husband. The front door slammed shut and a set of keys fell to the floor, inside the entrance-way. "Shit," I heard Jamie say. From two floors down, his voice passed through me like a razor blade through my spine. More footsteps and then there
ing the wall. He was punching the elevator recall button. The elevator was out again. My pulse was pounding inside of my head. Three sharp punches followed and with each punch Jamie's voice became more desperate"shit... shit... shit." I was paralyzed on the couch. I should have helped my husband make it to the door. Somehow, waiting was better. He made the stairs, slowly, one step at a time, his heels clicking against the concrete with each step. One at a time. One after the other. When Jamie came to the door, I got up from the couch. I went to the door. I opened it. Jamie's tie was loose, his shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. He was smiling. He was swaying. He did not have his briefcase. He did not have his keys. He had a strong, sour smell. I led my husband to the couch, sat him down. He sat down hard. Outside, the wind picked up against the window. It was not raining. Jamie and I said nothing. But then, we said everything. Then Jamie's head bobbed up and down again. Eventually, Jamie laid his chin on his chest. Jamie was sleeping. I started to cry, hard. Tears ran into my mouth. Jamie raised his head quickly. His eyes opened. He saw that I was crying. In the two weeks that baby was gone, I hadn't cried as hard as I was crying at that very moment. Jamie smiled. "Good," he said. "That's... good." And then he passed out.
------------------------------------------------ 17