Death Kit (41 page)

Still, something has definitely gone wrong. The two of them becoming closed in. Which was not at all Diddy's intention, his original scheme. Planned for himself and Hester to inhabit a bigger space. And one that's fresh for Diddy; not encrusted with the immortal dirt of the past and the habits of faltering vitality. But they haven't moved; Diddy hasn't even looked at the
Times
ads or phoned a real-estate broker. Remaining where they are, where Diddy has lived for three years. This apartment was compact; which means comfort and security to a blind person. But Diddy has needs of his own to satisfy. However suitable for Hester, the apartment is too small for him. Too familiar. The space divided into three rooms, that Hester (now) knows as well as he, seems to be shrinking. Becoming almost as cramped and overcharged with use as their compartment on the Privateer.

In still another way, as far as cleanliness and order go, the apartment increasingly resembles the ill-maintained train. The condition of the floors, strewn with cigarette butts and dirty plates and LP's not put back in their sleeves and clothing discarded in the haste of making love. Hester's no longer doing the cleaning each day. Look at the windows. In such a filthy city, windows are the first to show the results of inattention. A thin layer of soot forms on the outside of the windowpanes. Perspiration on the inside of the windowpanes of the overheated apartment mixes with the subtler grime that collects on indoor glass in New York. Together, weakening the already faint winter light that enters the apartment during the day; imparting to the light inside a deader quality. Filtering out the clarity and detail in Diddy's view of the street and neighboring buildings. Less and less view. Not so much organized looking. Instead, organized screening out.

Of course, unlike the view from a train window, the one from an apartment scarcely changes. Except in particulars.

Who is on the stoop across the street? The grocer's boy.

There's a red Volkswagen parked by the fire hydrant.

That man has been standing in front of the Mexican restaurant for hours.

The woman across the street on the third floor is walking around naked. No, there she goes. She's pulling down the shade.

And so forth. Despite particulars, still remaining essentially the same.

After the fourth week, less tempting to move about. It's approaching full winter (now). These are the shortest days of the year, supplying the least light. It seems natural for Hester and Diddy, like the animals, to spend more time in bed.

Usually they fall asleep at the same time, but Hester habitually sleeps several hours longer than Diddy. From the beginning Diddy chose to remain by her side until she opened her eyes, around noon, smiled, reached for her dark glasses on the night-table, and rose up naked, putting her bare feet on the floor. At first, it was from the desire to keep her company that Diddy stayed in bed, awake, through the long morning. As well as from the delight of remaining close to her warm, soft body. Lately, he's found it hard to get up even when Hester does. Often staying in bed while she takes a shower, brushes her hair, dresses, and then moves into the living room to play records or into the kitchen to prepare some food. By this time, it's usually about one o'clock. Hester brings the food into the bedroom; they eat. If he succeeds in dissuading her from then returning to do the dishes, she will often get back in bed. If she insisted on returning to the kitchen, within fifteen minutes Diddy is calling from the bed; telling her to come back.

When she does return, they make love. Which is, more and more, the unifying theme of their relationship. At first somewhat inhibited and, since Joan's tirades, holding a modest opinion of his talents in bed, Diddy amazed to find himself graceful and almost tireless with Hester. A miracle. And, another miracle, this lust does not feed on deprivation and rejection. Seems to be fully returned. She, no less enthusiastic, inventive, and eager than he. After a month, they're making love even more frequently than they did at first. Three, four times a day. Diddy suspects he's inspired by more than sheer erotic need. Could the same be true of Hester, who seems equally hungry for their sexual union and takes the initiative as often as he does?

The vertigo of sex. The miniature frontal lobotomy that follows orgasm. Diddy drifting off, but not exactly into sleep. And sometimes wishing he dared to propose to Hester, Let's die together. Let's kill ourselves (now). While we're united and really happy.

Sometimes Diddy thinks they must have a long talk. Not to quarrel. Not to propose a suicide pact. To clear the air, drag whatever it is that neither of them understands out in the open. Right. Start (now). But just at these moments his mind grinds to a halt, goes blank and hums faintly and senselessly like a television screen when all the channels are off. Diddy possessing no idea, not even the vestige of an idea, of what he thought he wanted to say. Tries to summon the fugitive idea. But he feels so heavy in his flesh. Is it the effort of trying to think, and not succeeding? An overwhelming lassitude. If he's not already in bed, wants to rush beneath the covers. If he is in bed but Hester's not beside him, wants to summon her immediately. To linger there together. To sleep with every part of his body embracing Hester's, his chest against her mobile back, his arm folded around her supple, full waist and tucked in under her side. To wake, to kiss, to rub, to make love. To dream, not to wake fully, to make love.

Perhaps what he wishes to say concerns Incardona. Since Diddy doesn't doubt the reality of his crime, it seems a painful blemish on the unity and openness of his connection with Hester that she won't believe, or ignores, what he knows he's done. That Hester shouldn't be allowed to remain in ignorance of what her lover is capable. Yet he's reluctant to recite the story. To close the fissure of truth. Positively fearful. Truth's all very well, but what one does with it or how one responds to it can't be guaranteed in advance. With the truth, Diddy would just have to take his chances. Hester might become afraid of him. As, during their quarrel, she'd suggested she already was. And, whether because she's frightened of him or not, might think he ought to do something. Hester is very persuasive; but Diddy doesn't want to be persuaded. Might urge him to go to the police. But no burden of guilt or remorse, Diddy felt, could justify his doing that (now), thereby separating Hester and himself. Not if he'd slain a thousand Incardonas. Diddy has no intention of doing anything about Incardona's murder. He can't expiate it. He's not willing to be punished for it. And he can't excuse it, either.

Telling Hester would seem to be mere self-indulgence. Its only result: to make her sad; perhaps a worse feeling. A selfish move on Diddy's part. What good is a confession of guilt which, apart from burdening the hearer, carries no consequences?

Diddy stands alone, then. Waits for Incardona to shrink some more. Prepared to bear the vertigo and nausea associated with that receding knowledge. But Diddy has braced himself in vain. The painful consciousness of Diddy's secret doesn't diminish any further than it already has. (Now) it congeals. Establishing an unbridgeable distance between him and Hester. For Diddy knows that, whatever genuine love flourishes between them, their being together is founded upon his concealment of the truth and her willingness to be deceived. The very energy of their initial meeting on the train was surplus energy, left over from his encounter with Incardona.

Perhaps that's why Diddy finds it hard (now) ever to leave the apartment. With the best of intentions, and the best possible will to work on the world and transform it in the light of his alliance with Hester, Diddy has discovered the world to be made of more intractable stuff than he'd envisaged. Thinking to dissolve its recalcitrant ugliness with the acids of his regeneration; at least, to make of the world a palimpsest, to etch his benign fantasy upon it. (Now) finds the world closing in on him, untransformed and unequivocally menacing. Hard and heartless as a stainless-steel mirror. Quite simply, every person he knows—from Paul to the merest acquaintance—speaks to him of Incardona. All people, by virtue of their human estate, however slight and token the form in which they manifest their humanity, address him on Incardona's behalf. Without knowing it, every person seems to be Incardona's deputy; howling mutely for Diddy's blood. Hester alone stands outside this magic world of infinite duplication. Hester, Incardona's foil, reminds Diddy only of herself.

There's finally a point when Diddy can't get out of bed at all. Diddy in despair. He was to be the strong partner, nourishing and protecting Hester. To be her eyes, as she was to become his soul. He's doing nothing for her (now). She navigates entirely by herself about the apartment. Occasionally mopping, sweeping, dusting, darning socks. Playing records. Typing a letter to her aunt. Cooking, of course. She washes Diddy, shaves him, serves him meals in bed, and every few hours joins him under the covers.

Diddy waking up drowsy from a nap one early afternoon in mid-January. Neuralgic pains in his forehead. Short of breath. Sweating heavily. But all these are familiar sensations (now). How did it happen? By imperceptible stages? Anyway, without being aware that it was happening, it has. He's become entirely bedridden and debilitated, and Hester is his nurse. His body is failing. Except to use the toilet, he doesn't get up at all. And always dizzy when he did. Sometimes has to lean on Hester.

How dark it is outdoors. What day is it? Diddy presses his hands first to his face, and then to his chest. Obvious that he's continued to lose weight. His cheekbones, ribs, elbows, knees, pelvic bones protrude painfully. Somehow, so confident of life and hopeful for the renewal of feeling, has made a wrong turning. Realizes, with frozen baffled clarity, that he's on the road to his death.

Quick! Something must be done, if it's not already too late. Hester's not in bed beside him; naked, against him. Oh God, she couldn't have gone out, could she? Diddy has made her swear she wouldn't go anywhere without him. But he was sleeping just (now). For how long? He calls anxiously, and she's at the door almost instantly. Wearing an old blue shirt of Diddy's, a velour skirt, and sneakers. Holding a broom in her hand, which she props against the doorway. Entering the bedroom with a firm step, her right hand slightly extended to warn her if she's about to bump into anything. Of course, she doesn't.

Scarcely any likelihood of that happening (now).

Every inch of this space is as familiar to her as her own body. And all the objects in it: the dishes in the cupboard, the towels in the linen closet, the records in the cabinet which Diddy relabeled for Hester in relief letters.

Just as Diddy, for weeks, has been walking from bed to bathroom at night in total darkness without ever miscalculating a step, knowing exactly by touch and the memory of locations where everything is. Able to reach out without faltering for the aspirin bottle in the medicine cabinet, the roll of paper next to the toilet, the faucets, the doorknobs. The light switch it's no longer necessary to turn on.

Hester at the side of their bed. By this time Diddy is wracked with dizziness. Takes her hand, tugging her into a sitting position beside him.

“Want me to lie down?”

“Darling, we have to talk.”

“Why?”

Why! Diddy's shouting inside his head. Doesn't she know? “Because there's something wrong. I'm not well. I'm not taking care of you; you're taking care of me.”

“I enjoy caring for you. What else have I got to do?”

“But I shouldn't need to be taken care of! And there are many, many other things you could do. That we could do together … Darling, remember how strong I was a month ago? Now, no matter how much I eat and sleep, I get thinner and weaker every day.”

“Let's call a doctor.”

“Hester, I'm not sick physically!”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. I know what's wrong, why I'm sick.”

“Why?”

Did he want to say it? Yes. “I think I'm sick because I'm afraid.”

An abrupt movement. Diddy's hand released. “Wait a minute, I hear the coffee boiling over.” Hester left the bedroom. Seeing her from behind, Diddy thought, no one would ever suspect she was blind. How proud of her sureness of movement he was. At the same time, how envious.

Hester returning with two mugs of coffee. “Here, Dalton. Tell me if it needs more sugar. I put in just one lump.” Sat down again on the bed.

Diddy took the mug from her hand, sipped it tentatively. “Too hot,” he says morosely.

“Silly! Of course it's hot. Wait a minute till it cools.”

Suddenly Diddy felt tears coating his eyes. “Hester, I can't stand this any more!”

“The coffee?”

“Oh for God's sake, listen to me! Look at me.” Diddy beyond himself (now). “Look at me!” Yes, wanted Hester to look at him; even if she didn't see. To stare at him until his face hurt, until he was forced to lower his own eyes. But all Hester does is turn her head to him. When, after a brief moment, she lowered it to drink from her mug of coffee, Diddy gripped by a convulsion of rage so unexpected that, without being aware of first-thinking-then-doing, he flung his own mug against the far wall. A loud crash.

“What did you break beside the mug?” Hester asks calmly. “Was it the photograph of Garbo?”

“Yes, God damn you. As you know perfectly well. You can tell from the sound of it, can't you?” He began to weep and laugh at the same time. “Even though … even though you haven't the faintest idea what Garbo looks like.”

“Dalton, please calm down. Tell me what's the matter.” Setting her mug down on the floor, Hester grasped his shoulders, and pushed him back on the pillow. Put her hand under the sheet, and begins stroking his chest. Diddy shoved her hand away, sat up violently.

“For God's sake, Hester! Stop treating me like a child having a tantrum.”