Chapter 27

'Berto

When he peeled away from the house all Roberto wanted was to get away. He didn't know why they were fighting, but he knew that if he stayed he was going to hit Toni. Yes, if he stayed in that house he was going to hit her, and if he hit her once he'd keep going until she was a bleeding wreck. That was the only bit of sanity in his mind at the moment – the thought that I don't dare stay.

And along with that thought came others: What on earth is the matter with that woman? I just made an observation, for God's sake! You'd think I'd killed her sister or something. He was certain that it was all her fault. If she wasn't so thin-skinned, he thought with an oath, we wouldn't be where we are right now.

And as he drove the thought that had blurted out without any intention during the argument came back to him: Is she seeing someone else? Is there someone she prefers to me? Am I too much of a boy for her after all? Maybe I am too young for her. Maybe she'd be better off without me. Maybe I'd be better off without her.

He realized he was on San Mateo, without any memory of how he got there. His anger had put him on automatic pilot. He made the turns to get him to his apartment, where he parked and locked the car, and then unlocked the door. The place smelled stale, and looked forlorn with nothing in it but bottles of booze – some in the living room, some in the kitchen, some in the bedroom. He picked up a bottle – a cheap brand of vodka. Might as well, he thought. At least booze doesn't bite my head off for no reason.

And he took a drink – straight from the bottle, for all his glasses were in Toni's cabinet.

There was a saying he'd heard or read somewhere: The man takes the first drink, the first drink takes the second drink, and the second drink takes the man. He'd never realized what it meant, but now he saw it in operation. He'd tilted the bottle to his mouth the first time deliberately, defiantly. The second time it was as though his hand moved by itself. And the third time he didn't care about anyone or anything but getting more booze into his system.

The vodka bottle had been nearly empty, and the third drink killed it. He slung it underhand toward a corner, where it bounced on the carpet and rolled against the wall with a faint clink. I know where I need to be, he thought. And he grabbed the nearest bottle, this one containing Canadian whisky, and had "one for the road."

Later that evening, the drink of whiskey was the last clear memory. He didn't black out, exactly, but he put himself in such a fog that things blurred together. He remembered getting in his car and driving. He remembered gong through the door of the Corner Bar, though not pulling into the parking lot. He remembered saying hello to 'Vangeline when she came in for her shift, and her look of surprise at seeing him. He remembered brushing off a woman who tried to pick him up – brushing her off rather rudely, too. A thought came with that memory: I guess I'm faithful. Beyond that, he wasn't sure what was memory and what was nightmare and what was pure imagination.

Toni

It was bedtime – past bedtime, if they were going to go to church in the morning – but 'Berto wasn't home. Toni had screamed and thrown things – the shards of a glass were in the kitchen trash can, and a pillow had come apart in the bedroom, scattering feathers all over – before graduating to wretched sobbing and desolate silence. By now worry was the consuming thing. Where is he? Is he okay? Is he hurt? Is he dead? Did I drive him into another woman's arms? She didn't know which of the possibilities was more dreadful – 'Berto in a hospital bed, 'Berto in the morgue, or 'Berto with someone else. All of them filled her with sick fear. She felt at times as though she might vomit, and at other times she couldn't sit still, restlessly roaming the house and looking out the windows and asking herself, Where is he?

Finally she got a shower, mechanically, and with her nightgown on and her still damp hair around her shoulders, she went out into the living room and tried to watch TV. She realized after 45 minutes that she had no idea what she had seen or heard, and shut the television off. She rose and pulled back the curtain, and looked out at the silent street. It was late enough now that all the houses she could see were dark; only the street lights illuminated the scene. Where is my 'Berto? It was a wail in her mind, now.

She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, and set it on a burner – and then decided she didn't want coffee, and left the burner off. She looked into the refrigerator, and almost pulled out a chocolate bar, but the nausea returned and she put it back on the door shelf. She want back to the living room window. It was still dark and silent; 'Berto's car still wasn't in front of the house in its usual spot. Where is he?

She realized that it was nearly one in the morning, and went to bed. She lay in the darkness, on her back, refusing to toss and turn as she wanted to. The red numerals of the alarm clock flicked off the minutes, and then an hour ... two hours. Finally she did sleep, and her last thought was: Where is 'Berto?

'Berto

Roberto woke with a furious headache. He tried to move, and his stomach rebelled. He barely got his head over the edge of the bed ... as he vomited he realized vaguely that someone was holding a plastic basin, so that he didn't soil the floor. He vomited twice, and heaved two or three times, and when it was over he flopped back over onto the bed and everything went dark.

He woke again, some minutes or years later, and this time made it to a sitting position before the bile poured out of his mouth. Again the plastic basin was there, and he noted somewhere in his fogged mind that it was pink. He tried to see who was holding it, but all he could find was the hands – small, slim, tanned hands, but he didn't recognize them. This time when the heaving was over he remained sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the carpet between his feet. It wasn't the carpet it should have been, but he couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. And then a voice said – from, apparently, a vast distance – that he ought to lie down and try to sleep. He tried, and somewhere or another he did fall asleep.