“How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 2
Afterward.
I am sitting hunched on the closet floor, rocking back and forth, hugging myself.
Every inch of me aches. My arms, my legs and especially the skin around my nose and cheek. I lift one finger to my cheekbone, but at the last second I pull my hand away. The skin is too tender to touch, and it’s so hot I can feel the heat even without touching it.
There’s a ringing in my skull that feels like it will never stop. Boom, boom, boom. Like an angry church bell.
Even though it’s over now and my heart isn’t thumping triple-time the way it was before, I can’t stop picturing his fingers. Long thin fingers balled into a tight fist, coming at me like a cannon. And the rage in his eyes. Why, I wonder for the first time, don’t I ever fight back? What is it about me that makes me feel so helpless, so paralyzed, when Mick loses it?
Cartoonists draw stars around someone who gets punched. The funny thing is, when you get punched in real life, you actually see stars. Silver and gold stars ricocheting off each other like fireworks. That’s what it’s like for me anyway. I wonder how the cartoonists figured it out. Did they all get punched in the head too?
I want to cry. I want to let everything out—my sorrow, my disappointment in myself, in Mick, in us, how lost and overwhelmed and small I feel—but I have no tears left. Not one. There’s a desert in my head.
I hear Mick moving around the apartment, making normal sounds. I strain my ears to hear better. He’s taking something out of a drawer, clearing his throat, closing the drawer, opening up his laptop, humming. How can he be humming? He knows where I am. Besides the bathroom, this closet is the only place to hide.
But I don’t expect him to come and talk to me now or say he’s sorry. He’s regrouping. The way I am doing in the closet. It’s what we do after a terrible fight—and there’s no question, this one was a terrible fight, not a squabble.
When I’m ready, I’ll come out. I’ll go to the bathroom and assess the damage the way a mechanic would after a car wreck. I’ll make another cold compress and hold it over the achy spots. If the skin is broken, I’ll put on Polysporin. In a strange way, I am getting good at this.
Then Mick and I will be able to start over fresh. I’ll say I’m sorry I got so upset, that I should never have accused him of robbing Mrs. Karpman, that the restraining order and the poem—the one he said he wrote for me but that he wrote for Millicent—don’t mean anything. They’re no big deal. Millicent is crazy. I know she is. And the poem— well, it was just a silly poem. I’ll explain to Mick how I’m PMSing big time and how I’ll try to be better. And not upset him so much. Especially now, when he is under so much pressure from the lawyer and the new play in Quebec City. No wonder he keeps losing it. Artists are sensitive people. They feel things for the rest of us. That’s why they’re so important to society. I need to find a way to support Mick better. If I’m better, he’ll be better. I know it.
How could I have ever even thought he’d rob Mrs. Karpman? The business at Forever 21 was different. Forever 21 is a huge corporation. We were being like Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. Robbing the rich. Even if we weren’t exactly helping the poor. No, Mick would never rob Mrs. Karpman. He knows what good friends she and I have become.
Thinking about later helps. Thinking about now… well…it hurts too much to think about. I’ve never felt so lonely. Even lonelier than when I’ve been completely, totally alone with no one to talk to and nothing to do. More lonely than when I was little and I’d let myself into the empty house before Mom got back from organizing other people’s lives.
There’s a meow outside the closet door. William Shakespeare is pushing his soft marmalade body against the folding door. I lean forward and open the door just a little so he can come inside. The cat nudges his head against my shin and meows again. He wants me to pet him. At first, I don’t. I can’t. But when he meows again, I do. The feel of his soft, warm fur makes me feel a little better. Creature comfort.
William Shakespeare has been a witness to almost every one of our arguments. He must have noticed I’m trembling, because now he’s trembling too. In sympathy, I’ll bet. Which makes me feel sorry for upsetting him. “It’s okay, don’t worry,” I whisper. “Everything’ll be okay. I promise.” I need to make things better. Not just for me, but for William Shakespeare too. The little cat depends on me.
It’s the feel of William Shakespeare’s fur brushing against me and the sound of his steady purring when I stroke the spot between his eyes that make me cry. But I cover my mouth with one hand to muffle the sound. Still hunched, I keep rocking my body back and forth. I’m so lost and so little. I don’t know how I will ever find my way again.
Shhh, I tell myself. If Mick hears you cry, he’ll only get angry all over again.
William Shakespeare and I are still in the closet when I hear Mick getting ready to leave. He pauses for a few seconds outside the closet door—he knows we’re in here— and I think maybe he’s going to say something. That he’s going to break the terrible, tense silence hanging in the air like a sour smell.
Maybe this time things will be different, and he’ll apologize. My heart lifts a little at the thought. “Joey,” he’ll say, and I imagine him getting down on his knees, his eyes welling up with tears, “I can’t believe what I just did—how I hurt you. I’m so sorry. So deeply, deeply sorry. Can you forgive me, Joey? I swear it will never ever happen again. I’ve been such a fool!” I’ll wipe his tears away. Comfort him. Tell him that yes, of course I forgive him. That I could forgive him anything. That’s what love is, isn’t it?
I know he can hear me breathing and William Shakespeare purring (stroking the cat is making me feel a little better), but Mick doesn’t say anything. Not a word. Nothing. The air smells even more sour.
When Mick leaves, he slams the door behind him. So hard the folding closet door rattles.
I could leave the closet now, but I’m still not ready. It feels safer to keep hugging myself and crying in here. Even though Mick has left—where has he gone, and who was he with last night?—I’m careful not to sob too loudly. What if Mrs. Karpman goes to drop her garbage down the chute and hears me from the hallway?
I don’t know how much later it is when I finally get up and go to the bathroom. It could be minutes, it could be an hour. Time has contracted or expanded. I don’t know which. I don’t care which.
I should have started icing my face right away. I look worse than god-awful. No makeup job will hide the damage this time. The skin around my right eye is so swollen, I can’t even open it all the way. I trudge to the freezer for ice, then wrap the cubes inside a washcloth and make an extra-strength, extra-cold compress. I press it to my cheek until I can’t bear the sting any longer.
I try lying down. Somehow, I don’t know how, I manage to fall asleep. I dream I’m back in that dark forest with the too-tall trees and no way out. The feeling of hopelessness is still with me when I hear knocking. At first, I think it’s part of my dream. A woodpecker pecking away high up in one of those too-tall trees. The bird is trying to tell me something.
But no, it’s someone knocking on the door to the loft. I get up, still groggy, clutching my face. It must be Mick. But why is he knocking? Maybe he’s brought me a bouquet of pale purple irises and his hands are so full, he can’t get to his key. He wants to make up with me, I know he does.
“Mick, is that you?” I ask from my side of the door.
“No, it isn’t,” an unfamiliar voice says. There’s a moment of silence. “My name’s Errol. I think you know my bubbie, Mrs. Karpman. She lives next door.”
Oh no. Errol. And because I’ve already said something, it’s too late to pretend there’s no one home. I need to make Errol go away.
“Uh,” I say, scrambling to come up with some excuse, “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“Look,” he says—I can’t help noticing that Errol has a kind voice, a steady reliable voice, and because I have seen his photo in his grandmother’s living room, I can picture his face too—“I’m sorry to bug you, Iris. But my bubbie says she doesn’t have your phone number. She says she thinks your, uh, boyfriend went out this afternoon… and that you’re all alone in there…and, well, she wants to know if you want to come for supper. She’s making roast chicken. With potatoes. Look, are you going to open the door or what? It feels a little weird standing out here having a conversation with a door, if you know what I mean.”
I smile when he says that. But only for a second. Smiling hurts.
“Errol, look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t open the door right now. It’s too complicated to explain. And I can’t come for dinner either. But tell your bubbie thanks from me, will you? Tell her I’ll see her in a few days. And maybe I’ll get to meet you next time, okay?”
I can almost hear Errol thinking outside the door. He’s quiet for a few seconds and then he says, “Okay, if you say so. I just hope you’re all right in there.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Okay then. Maybe next time. And if you change your mind about the chicken, just come by. Bubbie would like it.”
I hear Mrs. Karpman’s apartment door click open and shut. Thank goodness I got rid of Errol. Still, I think, as I go back to the freezer for some fresh ice, it would’ve been nice to meet him. If he’s anything like his bubbie, I’m sure I’d like him.
There’s more knocking a few hours later. This time, I don’t say anything. I know it isn’t Mick—and I just want Errol to go away. I can’t handle another awkward conversation. What I need to do is figure out how to drop out of my usual life for a few days—I can’t go anywhere looking like this. This time, no one would believe me even if I said I’d bumped into a Mack truck.
But it’s not Errol. It’s Mrs. Karpman. And I smell roast chicken. I must be feeling a little better, because I’m suddenly hungry. “Iris,” Mrs. Karpman says, and her voice sounds even more strained than usual. “I know you’re in there, dear. And I know you’re in trouble. I understand if you don’t want to come for supper. Maybe you’re just not up to it. Iris, can you hear me?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I didn’t mean to say anything; the uh-huh just slipped out.
“Okay, that’s good. Iris, I want you to know that I’m leaving you a plate out here with chicken and potatoes. I want you to eat it and I want you to feel better. You’re a sweet girl, Iris, and you deserve only good things. You’re going to eat the chicken, aren’t you, dear?”
“Uh-huh,” I say again. I’m getting kind of choked up. It’s not just the thought of Mrs. Karpman bringing me dinner; it’s also what she said about my deserving only good things. Part of me thinks she’s right. Part of me isn’t so sure. “Thanks,” I manage to say.
“You’re very welcome, dear. And keep the plate until you come to visit me again.”
I expect to hear Mrs. Karpman going back into her apartment, but I don’t. She is still standing outside Mick’s door.
“I need to go now,” I tell her.
“Iris,” she says, “I want to call the police.”
Everything inside me clenches up. “Don’t do that. Please, Mrs. Karpman. Don’t.”
“You’re putting me in a terrible position,” Mrs. Karpman says. “And I want the best for you, Iris, really I do.” It sounds like Mrs. Karpman is about to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I really am. But please, I’m begging you, don’t phone the police.”
“All right then,” Mrs. Karpman says. Her voice sounds tired, and I’m sorry I’ve made her worry, put her in a bad position. “But you let that man know I’m keeping an eye on both of you.”