I had lots of room in my bag. The only things I had packed were half of the gold coins we kept under my bed, and four pairs of underwear, and Grandfather’s ring, as well as the three photographs of him. David had said not to bring clothes, or food, or even water—all those would be provided to me. As I was packing, I had suddenly thought I might pack the notes my husband had kept, but then I had changed my mind, just as I had changed my mind about taking all of the gold coins. I told myself that, when my husband decided to come with me, he would carry the other half. Once packed, the bag was still so small and light that I could roll it into a tube and stuff it into the pocket of my cooling suit, which was now hanging in the closet.
I knew that I would need to talk to my husband tonight, and so, rather than changing into my sleep clothes, I lay down on my bed fully dressed, thinking that if I was less comfortable I’d not fall asleep. But I fell asleep anyway, and when I woke, I could tell that it was very late, and when I checked the clock, it was 23:20.
Immediately, I was frightened. Where was he? He had never stayed out so late, not ever.
I didn’t know what to do. I paced the main room, clapping my hands together and asking myself aloud where he was again and again. Then I realized that I knew where he was: He was at the house on Bethune Street.
Before I could get scared again, I put my papers in my pocket, in case I was stopped. I got the flashlight from under my pillow. I put on my shoes. And then I left the apartment and walked downstairs.
Outside, everything was very quiet and, without the light from the fire in the Square, very dark. There was only the occasional spotlight, swooping in slow circles, illuminating the side of a building, a tree, a parked wagon, for a moment, before they were again left in darkness.
I had never been out so late before, and although it wasn’t illegal to be out at this hour, it also wasn’t typical. You just had to look like you knew where you were going, and I did know where I was going. I walked west, through Little Eight, looking up at the apartments and wondering which one was David’s, and then crossed Seventh Avenue, and then Hudson. As I was crossing Hudson, a troop of soldiers walked by, and turned to look at me, but when they saw who I was, just a short, plain, dark-skinned Asian woman, they continued on without even stopping me. On Greenwich Street, I turned right and began walking north, and soon I was turning left on Bethune and walking to number 27.
As I was about to climb the stairs, I stopped, overtaken by fear, and for a while I rocked myself, and I could hear myself whimpering. But then I walked up, stumbling on the missing stone in the second step, and knocked out the rhythm I had memorized from months ago: tap-ta-taptap-tap-tap-tap-ta-tap-taptap.
At first, there was silence. And then I heard someone coming down a flight of stairs, and the little window slid open, and a sliver of a man’s face, a reddish face with blue eyes, was looking out at me. He looked at me, and I at him. There was a brief silence. Then he said, “There was never any more inception than there is now; nor any more youth or age than there is now,” and, when I didn’t answer him, he repeated it.
“I don’t know what to say in response,” I said, and before he could slide the window shut, I added, “Wait—wait. My name is Charlie Griffith. My husband hasn’t come home, and I believe he’s in your house. His name’s Edward Bishop.”
At this, the man’s eyes widened. “You’re Edward’s wife?” he asked. “What did you say your name was, again?”
“Charlie,” I said. “Charlie Griffith.”
The little window slammed closed then, and the door opened, just a few inches, and the man on the other side, a tall, white, middle-aged man with thin, pale-blond hair, beckoned me inside and locked the door behind us. “Upstairs,” he said, and as I followed him, I looked to my left and saw a door that was ajar a few inches, through which I could see the glow of a lamp.
The staircase had been laid with a carpet in a dark red-and-blue pattern of swirling shapes and lines, and creaked as we moved up it. On the second landing, there was another door, and I realized that the house had been converted into a series of apartments, one per floor, and yet it was still being used as a single house, the way it had originally been built: The staircase wall had been painted with roses, and the painting extended past the second story, all the way up. Drying laundry—socks and shirts and men’s underwear—had been draped over the banister.
The man knocked on the door and turned its handle at the same time, and I followed him inside.
The first thing I thought was that I had somehow returned to Grandfather’s study, or at least the version of it I could remember from just before I got sick. Every wall was covered with bookcases, and in them were what looked like thousands of books. There was a rug on the floor, a bigger, more intricately patterned version of the one that covered the staircase, and there were soft chairs and an easel in one corner with a half-completed painting of a man’s face. The large windows were hidden with dark-gray curtains, and there was a low table on which were stacked more books, as well as a radio and a chessboard. And, in the far corner, opposite the easel, was a television, which I hadn’t seen since I was a child.
Just in front of me was a sofa, not the kind we had at home but something deep and comfortable-looking, and on that sofa was a man, and that man was my husband.
I ran over to him and knelt by his head. His eyes were shut, and he was sweating, and his mouth was partly open because he was gasping for breath. “Mongoose,” I whispered to him, and I took one of his hands, which were crossed over his chest, and which was sticky and cold. “It’s me,” I said. “Cobra.” He made a faint moaning noise, but nothing else.
Then I heard someone say my name, and I looked up. It was a man I’d not noticed before, with dark-blond hair and green eyes, about my age, who was also kneeling by my husband, and who I then saw was cupping my husband’s head in one hand and stroking his hair with the other. “Charlie,” the man repeated, and I was surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes. “Charlie, it’s good to finally meet you.”
“You have to get him out of here,” someone else said, and I turned and saw it was the man who had let me in.
“Jesus, Harry,” said another voice, and I looked up and saw that there were three other men in the room, all of whom were standing a few feet away from the sofa and looking at my husband. “Don’t be so heartless.”
“Don’t you lecture me,” said the man from the door. “This is my house. He’s putting us all at risk by being here. He has to get out.”
Another of the men started to protest, but the man who had been stroking my husband’s hair stopped them. “It’s okay,” he said. “Harry’s right; it’s too risky.”
“But where will you go?” asked one of the men, and the blond man looked back at me.
“Home,” he said. “Charlie, will you help me?” and I nodded that I would.
Harry left the room, and two of the other men helped the blond man stand my husband up, even though he groaned as he did. “It’s all right, Edward,” said the blond man, who had his arm around my husband’s waist. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.” Together, they began to move him slowly down the stairs, my husband groaning and panting with each step, the blond man soothing him and stroking his face. At the base of the staircase, the door to the ground-floor apartment was now fully ajar, and the blond man said he had to get his and my husband’s bags, and entered.