Moondogs - Alexander Yates [137]
He feels oddly proud of this.
Howard sits up and tries to listen. His son is giving a news conference, but it’s hard to make out exactly what he’s saying. The damned set is so loud that it all comes out as a booming static ring. Fuckit, he thinks, reaching for the volume knob. He doesn’t care if they cut his other ear off. He’s going to listen to Benny.
Howard turns the volume way, way down. Down to a normal, human, living room level. Down to where he can concentrate on Benny answering questions. Yes, the local authorities have been incredibly helpful. Yes, of course, he’s very worried. Yes, he’s praying. His tone is forced, even unconvincing, and Howard doesn’t believe for a second that he’s really praying. But he doesn’t mind the lie. Benny could hardly know he’s watching.
Something moves in the other room and the tiles vibrate as the loveseat barricade is pushed across the floor. Howard braces himself. The door opens and he’s surprised to see not Ignacio or Littleboy, but the slender, fuzzy outline of Ignacio’s wife—the woman who gives him his meals and occasionally changes his bandages.
“I’m sorry,” Howard says, his muscles still tense in expectation of a beating. “But my son is on TV. I couldn’t hear with it so loud.”
The woman stares at him for a while and says: “What the heck? I could use a break, myself. Besides, it’s lunchtime. You can keep it down while you eat.”
She walks into the room, picks up the bucket with some of Howard’s pee in it and exits again. She leaves the door open behind her, and some rooms off, a toilet flushes. The open door distracts Howard, and by the time he turns back to the television his son has quit speaking. There’s someone else speaking now. Some policeman.
“So is your son an actor or something?” the woman asks. She’s returned with a dish of rice, garnished today with a little eggplant.
Howard gives her a look, and she gets it, and says: “Oh. Of course. Sorry. This is still new to me.”
She sets down the rice and then jerks her head a bit, as though casting her eyes about the room. To Howard’s sudden horror she steps toward his dirty shirt in the corner, which is hiding the bowl with his contact lens in it. She picks up the shirt, notices the bowl and picks that up also. She begins to walk away with both in hand.
“Water, please,” Howard says. “Can I please have that water?”
“This is gross. I’ll bring you some fresh,” she says.
“Give it to me, please,” he says, sitting up on his haunches. He’ll tackle her if he has to.
The woman shrugs a bit. “Suit yourself.” She squats and puts the bowl to Howard’s lips. She tips it up and he tries not to wince as the rancid, salty water slides into his mouth like dead jelly. His tongue probes the liquid, searching out the texture of his soft lens. He pins it against the inside of his cheek and swallows. He nods thanks, worried that if he says anything he might gulp down this last sliver of eyesight.
The moment she leaves he jams fingers in his mouth to scoop out the lens. He puts it delicately in his eye. It feels awful—at once a sting and an unbearable tickle—but for the moment his relief at being able to see again is the stronger feeling. Everything around him is sharp. Things have edges that begin and end. And he can see Benny on the TV, shifting his weight, staring at the floor. The policeman has finished his remarks and now a foxy, not-so-young blonde is behind the podium. She speaks into a cluster of microphones huddling beneath her chin, giving one-word answers to rambling questions. The policeman stares at her and, from time to time, so does Benny.
“This is better,” Ignacio’s wife says, returning with a bowl of clear, fresh water. She sets it down beside Howard’s food, and then sets herself down beside Howard.