wheels turning in your head.”
Beauregard smiled and held her hand tightly. “You are impossible.”
“I suppose I am,” Lauren said. “It’s just that I am so lonely … you know it is
terribly lonely
at the top.” She batted her eyes like Bankhead.
“Give me a break,” Beauregard said.
Lauren smiled and snuggled up next to him.
“I hope you’ll come in, Doctor,” she said. “I’m beginning to feel faint again.”
Beauregard looked down at her, smelled her perfume. Silently he damned himself for being old-fashioned.
“Heather,” Lauren said.
“Well? I mean …”
“I feel so faint,” Lauren said, snuggling closer to him.
“You’ll be fine,” Beauregard said. “All you need is a good night’s sleep.”
The car pulled up to her home in Turtle Bay. Beauregard thought of her hanging gardens which would be bathed in moonlight … a glass of champagne …
But before he had a chance to weaken, she was up and out of the car.
“I’m not going to ask you again, Beau,” she said, this time in a sincere voice. “Because I know that you can’t deny me three times in one night. However, when you get that woman out of your head … do come and see me.”
Beauregard smiled and shook his head. She reached back down, and he kissed her fully on the lips. He knew that if he was going home at all, he better make his move now.
“My driver will take you home, you dear fool,” she said.
“If those headaches come back,” Beau said.
“I know who to call.”
She squeezed his hand, winked at him, and then shut the door, and Beauregard watched her recede as he sped away into the night.
7
He was cold, and his eyes were filled with crust. He got out of the damp bed, damp from the sweat which had dripped off his icy body, and grabbed his water glass. When he put it to his lips, he suddenly felt them burning, and he jerked it away in horror. Then got up and looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing on his lips and he wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind. “Nobody ever died from insomnia,” was what all the doctors said. But nobody ever talked about going mad from it. Nobody ever talked about waking up and feeling that one of your arms was gone, or feeling that the room was coming in on top of you to smother you like a big piece of dough.
He walked around the bed and slipped on a magazine, almost fell down. Jesus, let this night end … let it end … Why couldn’t he sleep. It had been fine for a couple of days there after Lorraine Bell … It had been fine … But now, now … It was back again. The feeling that the Space was calling to him again. The Space that he could never quite get full … He wandered into the living room, found his bathrobe lying in a heap on the floor. He picked it up, put it on, took out a cigarette from the pocket, and found his matches lying on the TV. He stared down at the TV … the huge eye which you watched all night, over and over, but which might be watching you … Ridiculous thought … calm down … but at four in the morning no thoughts were ridiculous. You were in the land of dreams, even though you weren’t asleep … He looked out the window, heard the wind howling … and saw someone hustling down the street, his raincoat flapping in his face. Yes, he thought, get home—get home fast, where it’s safe … Only he knew that it wasn’t safe anywhere. There was no place you could really get away from what was inside of you.
He turned on the TV, but the light blinded him, and after one minute of a Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman ad he turned it off. Next they would have on Vegematic … It slices and dices. He walked back through the hallway and went into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator which seemed to be humming abnormally. He stared into it at the butter, which looked like a huge yellow brick, the tomatoes, and the waxy, dead-looking green peppers. He poured himself some grapefruit juice and sat down at the kitchen table. His temples ached and
Beauregard smiled and held her hand tightly. “You are impossible.”
“I suppose I am,” Lauren said. “It’s just that I am so lonely … you know it is
terribly lonely
at the top.” She batted her eyes like Bankhead.
“Give me a break,” Beauregard said.
Lauren smiled and snuggled up next to him.
“I hope you’ll come in, Doctor,” she said. “I’m beginning to feel faint again.”
Beauregard looked down at her, smelled her perfume. Silently he damned himself for being old-fashioned.
“Heather,” Lauren said.
“Well? I mean …”
“I feel so faint,” Lauren said, snuggling closer to him.
“You’ll be fine,” Beauregard said. “All you need is a good night’s sleep.”
The car pulled up to her home in Turtle Bay. Beauregard thought of her hanging gardens which would be bathed in moonlight … a glass of champagne …
But before he had a chance to weaken, she was up and out of the car.
“I’m not going to ask you again, Beau,” she said, this time in a sincere voice. “Because I know that you can’t deny me three times in one night. However, when you get that woman out of your head … do come and see me.”
Beauregard smiled and shook his head. She reached back down, and he kissed her fully on the lips. He knew that if he was going home at all, he better make his move now.
“My driver will take you home, you dear fool,” she said.
“If those headaches come back,” Beau said.
“I know who to call.”
She squeezed his hand, winked at him, and then shut the door, and Beauregard watched her recede as he sped away into the night.
7
He was cold, and his eyes were filled with crust. He got out of the damp bed, damp from the sweat which had dripped off his icy body, and grabbed his water glass. When he put it to his lips, he suddenly felt them burning, and he jerked it away in horror. Then got up and looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing on his lips and he wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind. “Nobody ever died from insomnia,” was what all the doctors said. But nobody ever talked about going mad from it. Nobody ever talked about waking up and feeling that one of your arms was gone, or feeling that the room was coming in on top of you to smother you like a big piece of dough.
He walked around the bed and slipped on a magazine, almost fell down. Jesus, let this night end … let it end … Why couldn’t he sleep. It had been fine for a couple of days there after Lorraine Bell … It had been fine … But now, now … It was back again. The feeling that the Space was calling to him again. The Space that he could never quite get full … He wandered into the living room, found his bathrobe lying in a heap on the floor. He picked it up, put it on, took out a cigarette from the pocket, and found his matches lying on the TV. He stared down at the TV … the huge eye which you watched all night, over and over, but which might be watching you … Ridiculous thought … calm down … but at four in the morning no thoughts were ridiculous. You were in the land of dreams, even though you weren’t asleep … He looked out the window, heard the wind howling … and saw someone hustling down the street, his raincoat flapping in his face. Yes, he thought, get home—get home fast, where it’s safe … Only he knew that it wasn’t safe anywhere. There was no place you could really get away from what was inside of you.
He turned on the TV, but the light blinded him, and after one minute of a Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman ad he turned it off. Next they would have on Vegematic … It slices and dices. He walked back through the hallway and went into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator which seemed to be humming abnormally. He stared into it at the butter, which looked like a huge yellow brick, the tomatoes, and the waxy, dead-looking green peppers. He poured himself some grapefruit juice and sat down at the kitchen table. His temples ached and
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