Day 15

Chapter 21

Hugo walked home. He had a trick for crossing streets when he was drunk like this: he would stop, wait for a second, then look up and down the street to make sure that no cars were coming. Usually he made it across fine, but every now and then he would make a slight misjudgment and then there would be a close call. Luckily, most of his walk traversed the South Side Addition, ninety nine percent residential, and so close calls happened infrequently.
When he neared the Third Street Market, he thought about not going in, but thought that he might buy some food. He felt hungry.
He dreaded the conversation that he would have to have with the checker. Hopefully it would not be the same woman with whom he had spoken earlier: that hadn’t gone well, and being this far gone would not make things better. He opened the door and walked in. The bells jingled. He glanced at the counter and felt relief. The woman had been replaced by a young man, and he spoke with a pair of teen-agers. Hugo hurried to the back and found the half case of beer. Then he shopped for some food. A box of crackers, some bread, a hunk of cheese. He brought it all to the counter.
The man looked at him, then began checking out his groceries. “Did you hear about what happened to that horse?” The man asked in a casual tone.
“Mm, no,” replied Hugo.
“It was on TV,” the man said indicating the TV behind Hugo. It had returned sometime during the day, apparently.
“What happened?” Hugo felt his tongue thicken with so many syllables.
“Something killed this horse out on one of those farms. Tore the heck out of it. I never seen anything like it. That’ll be fifteen thirty five.”
“Is it in the paper?” Hugo asked, pointing outside.
The checker shrugged as he handed back the change. “I don’t know.”
Hugo pocketed the change, not bothering to put the bills in his wallet. He picked up his beer and food and headed out the door.
Outside, he fished through his pocket and found change for the paper-box. He tucked the paper under his arm, and gazed at the sky. The stars shone brightly, and more so when he left the light of the store. A breeze had come up. It blew from the north. Usually the wind only blew from the west. Hugo didn’t really think about it. He made his way toward home.
As he neared his house, he noticed that Mrs. McGregor’s blinds were drawn, and that all the lights seemed to be on. In front of his a strange car sat. He wondered about it, but stranger things had happened in his neighborhood on a Saturday night.
As he neared it, however, a person stepped out of the driver’s side. He slowed and tried to see who might be coming toward him. Actually, he realized, the person had merely walked to the back bumper and seemed to be waiting for him. Hugo though that it might be a woman, but still he could not be sure. Suddenly he wished that he had a weapon, and had not drank so much, though he felt much more sober right now.
As he neared the person, she said, “Hello, Sailor.”
“Hello,” he said, still unsure who it might be.
“I brought some beer,” she said, holding up a six pack of bottles.
Slowly, he came up to her. Maya smiled at him. He felt a wave of relief. A familiar face. “Maya,” he said. “You scared me. I didn’t expect anyone to be parked outside of my house.”
“I thought that you might like some company. You were hurried out of the bar quite quickly by that little man, Bonanza.”
“Come on in.” Hugo found his keys and opened the front door. Through all this conversation, he never questioned how she knew where he lived, or that he had only met her and talked for five minutes just that night. Neither did he see the curtains at Mrs. McGregor’s house flick as he let the two of them in.
***
Hugo led Maya into the kitchen and unpacked his bags on the table. “I bought some sandwich makings, if you’re hungry” he said to her. He looked at the beer. Well, Bonanza will enjoy it anyway, he thought. He opened one of the I.P.A.s for her, then opened a lager for himself. He started to pull out a chair for himself, when he stopped. “Why don’t we go sit in the front room. I can start a fire.”
“That would be nice,” she said.
Hugo led the way to the front room. He placed his beer and the paper on his reading table, and turned on the reading light. He indicated that Maya should sit on the sofa, and busied himself with preparing the fire. He pulled out the classifieds, scanning them quickly, looking for anything of interest. He crumpled the whole section up and stuffed it in the fireplace.
Instead of sitting down Maya looked at the books lining the wall. “You sure have a lot of books,” she said. “Didn’t you write a book, Hugo?”
Hugo smiled inwardly. It seemed that everyone knew about his book. “I need to go get the wood,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
He walked to the back porch. As he put his hand on the doorknob to go outside, he looked at the beer sitting on the table. He stopped and stared at it. The slowly he looked back down the hall toward the front room. What the hell is going on? He thought. How does she know so much about me?
“Can I give you a hand,” Maya called.
“No…no, I can get it fine,” Hugo replied. It’s alright. He told himself. She’s probably some stalker, occult freak. We can talk for a little while, then I will tell her that I need to go to bed so that I can get up early. He pulled open the door, and glanced over his shoulder again. Maya appeared to still be in the front room. He stepped out and picked up an armload of wood. He looked to the backyard neighbor’s house, but they had already gone to bed: the house was dark. He kicked the door carefully shut, after he stepped through, then slowly walked back to the front room.
“Here we go,” he said, feeling completely sober now. Maya sat on the couch, a book in her hands. She faced the fire, so all that Hugo only saw the back of her head and her shoulders. She looked beautiful. Hugo felt frightened.
He busied himself with the fire, stood and found a book of matches on the mantle. He squatted down and lit the fire. As it caught, shadows danced around the room. He turned, picked up his beer, and looked at Maya. She seemed to be enthralled with the book that she read. He couldn’t see the title; she held it so that the light from the lamp shone over her shoulder. Hugo repressed the urge to bash her over the head with the lamp and call the police. Instead he walked around the coffee table and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. She had taken off her shoes, placing one leg up on the couch and the other underneath her. He shrugged and took off his own boots. He noticed that the book happened to be Beowulf.
After a few moments when Maya didn’t say anything, he stood up and put another log on the fire. He picked up the paper and took it back to the couch. Maya still read the book, while Hugo scanned the paper. He opened the front section: war, crime, politics. He opened up the sports and read about the local teams. He read a profile of Hedlund’s women’s basketball star center. He looked for the local news and found the section missing. He looked under the ads, then back through the front section to see if they had stuck there. Gone. “I didn’t get a local news section in my paper,” he said out loud.
“Were you looking for something in particular?” asked Maya.
Hugo felt guarded and lied, “No.”
“Have you read this?” she asked, holding up the book.
“It’s one of my favorites,” he said. “I did a translation from a Middle English text in college.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Impressive.’
Hugo shrugged, “Not impressive enough to get it published.”
“Have you read the [author’s name] translation?”
“I have it, if you want to look at it.” He stood up and searched the shelves, coming back after a moment. He handed her the book. Their hands touched and he tried not to be attracted to her, but couldn’t help it. She’s beautiful, and she knows about Beowulf. How many other women will I meet in McLoughlin who have even heard about Beowulf?
As he sat down, she put her feet on the floor and moved closer to him so that they could both look at the copy together. She brought the first copy with her so that they could compare the two, if they wanted. “I’ve always felt a terrible sorrow for Grendl’s mother.”
Hugo nodded, “That is part of the tragedy that makes the poem personal, if not epic. Everyone can sympathize with a lost family member.”
“It really is horrible, though, isn’t it? I mean all the blood and muck and violence.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “It has been awhile since I have read it. I think the last time was just after college. Actually, then, I liked all the violence.” He thumbed through the book and found a particularly bloody part:
[insert bloody part here]
“Oo, that’s too horrible,” she said, leaning into him as he read.
He felt the blood come to his face; he felt warm all over.
As he finished, she looked up at him. He so desperately wanted to kiss her, and he felt that she wanted to be kissed. It’s all a trick, somehow, he thought. She is a horrible stalker and I will wake up with my arm ripped off. He kissed her anyway.


Chapter 22

The next morning, Maya was gone. Hugo didn’t remember much, but what he did remember made him feel warm again. She hadn’t ripped his arm off in the night and hung it from the rafters. He thought, she’s still probably a stalker. He brushed aside the thought as pure paranoia and busied himself with his morning business. While in the kitchen, when he looked out to check on the back yard neighbors, the cat that Mrs. McGregor had asked him about on the previous day, stood on the wood pile cleaning itself. Hugo looked at it for a second, then shrugged. The cat looked back as if it had been expecting Hugo. When it saw the he had gotten up, it jumped down and walked to the back door, as though it expected to be let in.
Hugo shrugged again, opened the door and let the cat in. It jumped up on the table, and looked at him to see what he would do next. When he did nothing, the cat resumed cleaning itself.
The cat had gray fur, with black stripes. Hugo noticed that its feet were particularly large and attractive, if cat feet can be so. The top of one ear had a notch. Torn out in some back alley brawl, no doubt, Hugo thought. As he looked at it, the cat began to purr.
“Are you hungry?” he asked it. “I don’t have much.” He looked in the refrigerator. He pulled out a carton of milk dubiously. As if by magic, when he opened the top and smelled it, it was still fresh. He poured a bit in a small plate and put it in front of the cat, still on the table. The cat smelled it and then lapped up the milk. Hugo reached out a hand to give the cat a scratch. The cat leaned into his outstretched fingers and purred appreciatively.
“What shall we call you?” he said aloud. Funny how people will talk to animals as though they were little, mute humans.
He had been thinking of the cat as an it, but suddenly assumed that “it” was a female. Why not? He thought. “How about Josie. I’ve always like the name Josie for a cat.” Josie looked up at him, then went back to drinking the milk. He wandered into the front room and was about to relight the fire when there came a knocking at the door. He thought about not answering it, but resented when he thought that someone else did the same to him, so he strode to the door and opened it.
Mrs. McGregor stood on his front porch, hands on hips. She wore a scowl and looked at Hugo disapprovingly.
“Hello, Mrs. McGregor. What can I do for you?”