New Hope For Small Men: Chapter 27

by Grant Bailie

She would not let him leave. He was in no condition to walk the streets at night and could sleep on her couch. It was no problem at all. Really, it was OK.

He had spent some time vomiting in her bathroom, and the heaves of his stomach had been violent and he had not been quiet about it. It had seemed endless, and for a moment he thought he was spewing blood — a dark and essential blood; the deep colored blood that stays in the center, circulating among major organs, doing important work. Then he remembered that the wine was red. It was red like that.

She knocked on the door. She asked him if he was all right and between bouts he told her he was fine, and flushed, and threw up some more. While he was in the bathroom she made the couch up for him to sleep on and when he finally emerged, his face damp and his eyes red, she told him again that he was in no condition to leave and that she insisted on him staying the night.

“OK,” he said, because he was also in no condition to argue.

She went to sleep not long after that, making sure he had enough pillows and blankets.

“I’m glad you came tonight, Robert,” she said. “Really.”

“Me too,” he said, but he said it in a way that did not convince either one of them.

Later on, after she was asleep in her room, he sat on her front step and had a cigarette. He looked out at the dark city around him and thought how improbable it was that the house should have been left here, forgotten, overlooked. He pictured the small girl drawing on the sidewalk or selling lemonade to men carrying briefcases. He could not picture the snowman — the night was too warm for that.

Then he thought: little boys’ room, and did he fall in. Out loud he said quietly: “Little brother,” then put out his cigarette and went inside.

He slept on the couch, and found that he could lie there without touching the arm rests at either end.

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