Still angry. Hardly made it through class this morning. Chewed up a student when she commented on Keats. She said something about the heifer mentioned in “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and suggested it might be Indian in origin. Don’t East Indians worship cows? she said. I stared at her. Shook my head. Told her that the title is “Ode on a GRECIAN Urn.” Not “Indian Urn.” Oh, she said. I leaned forward in my chair. Asked her if she was illiterate. Her mouth fell open. God! I said, gripping my book and whipping my eyes up to the ceiling. If only old age would waste this generation right now! That drew tears from the student and frightened the others. None of them said anything after that. Expecting an email from McTavish any minute now.
Still haven’t talked to Maggie. She’s called, though. I’ve been dreading her pomposity. Her speeches. What did I say, Dexter? Didn’t I say you’d get in trouble? I asked Gertrude if there were other residences in Saskatoon and she said there were a few but either they had protracted waiting lists or they were in poor condition. She’s helping me to find an apartment. She seems guilty for some reason. Wondering if she said something to the board.
I sometimes browse the internet looking at apartment listings. Just skim them, though. I pay little attention. I focus on my work more than ever. An article due in December. The final exam for my survey course. I don’t want to deal with moving right now. Not like it’s urgent. I don’t have many possessions. And I have money.
Dante came to me at dinner two days ago. So I hear you’ve been shucked, he said with a cheery crescendo. Piss off, I said. I bit my lip; my voice has been meagre of late. And you don’t have any place to go? It’s not your business. A tremor in my hand. My fork rattled on the tabletop. I hunched forward. He chuckled. You’re a smartass, he said. All smartasses get their due. Makes me proud, gives me hope to know there’s some kind of justice in the world. If there’s any justice in the world, I said, you’ll have a vicious stroke tonight and be paralyzed down one side, so every time you try to push yourself in your chair you just go in circles. He chuckled again. Anything you say doesn’t mean nothing anymore, he said. You’re already gone. I’m not gone yet. You will be soon. I still have time to make your life miserable. Like you did with Calvin? You know you helped to kill im. What horseshit. The man died of lung failure. If you didn’t bug im all the time and make im yell and curse at you he might’ve lived a bit longer. Maybe it was you and your little posse that killed him. Always gabbing and watching after me like a bunch of idiot sheriffs. He liked being with us, boy. A bunch of old incontinent feebs. He said so himself, he liked it. Whatever. I glanced around the dining room. You’re still a miserable lot, I said. None of you are doing anything good with yourselves. Dante shook his head. We’re no more miserable than you are, boy. You’re probably even more so, now that you gotta leave. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t such a little bastard. Dante started to wheel away. I threw my fork at him thinking I’d miss. The fork hit him in the back of the head. He whirled around and grabbed me and started shaking me and hitting me. I hit him back and took my plate and whipped it sideways and smashed it over his head; beans and potatoes fouled his face. I slapped him and pushed my fingers into his eyes. He hollered, and Stefan and another male attendant came to separate us. Doctor Ripley! Shut up, Stefan. I’m already on my way out the goddamn door, so what does it matter? Dante picked beans out of his face and threw them at me. The other attendant steered him away, and Stefan took me away. On my way out of the cafeteria I saw Jeeves. Hey! I said. This is important. Remember where the body of Helen Samson is buried. The police are looking for it. Remember! He cringed and shook his head. I saw Esmeralda in the hallway. She stared at the floor; her wrists were still bandaged. You know, I said, cripple blood is considered a delicacy in some cultures. You might consider donating. Doctor Ripley! Stefan shook my chair. I laughed and wildly flailed my arms. I babbled and tossed insults up and down the hall. I rapped the arms of my chair; the beat drove my words throughout the Residence. Let us go then! You and I! When the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherised upon a table! Ha! I am an Eliotic idiot! I leaned back and looked up at Stefan; his face was upside down. I grinned. Look, I’m gibbering. Booga-malooga-booga. Doesn’t that count for something? My mouth slackened; I dribbled onto my beard and wiped it on my shirt. I laughed and rocked in my chair. Stefan put me in my room. His expression was flush with worry. I stared at him. Stefan. Yes, Doctor Ripley? Do you have a crush on me? What? Geh. What should I do now, Stefan? A tremor jolted and rolled through me. For fuck’s sakes. I touched my new baseball cards jammed in the spokes of my chair. I adjusted them so they were all right-side up. Stefan, I’m so goddamn screwed, aren’t I? I put my hands in my lap and bent over and began laughing, and soon the laughter slid into crying. Ah, Stefan. Yes? I wiped my eyes. You can go. You sure? Close the door behind you. Okay. He left the room. I sobbed and rocked in my chair, rocking against the tremors. Rocking into the tremors. Pinching my weakening mouth with both hands and slamming my curved feet into the floor. The pain spun up into my hips. I squeezed my hair and bit my lip. I heaved against everything. Cried against everything. Laughed against everything.