Jul 24, 2008 22:06
Phunk.
Evan glimpsed away from the blank laptop screen. The night through the window was like black ice. He thought he’d heard another noise amid the pattering of the rain on the glass.
Phunk.
Had he imagined it? No, no, he’d definitely heard something. What was it?
Phunk.
Again, that strange, muted thump. He took the laptop from his lap and sat poised, waiting to pinpoint the next sound. He became more keenly aware of the sound of the rain.
Phunk.
It was coming from below him. From the downstairs apartment? Aya was probably asleep by now. It couldn’t be someone breaking in, could it? Maybe she was awake. But what made
Phunk.
what made those sorts of steady…thumping noises? Maybe it was the pipes in the basement acting up.
Phunk.
That would be just what they needed, Evan thought. More repair work to pay for. He decided to wait and see if the noise went away of its own accord.
Phunk.
Not yet, evidently.
…
Phunk.
Still there.
…
Phunk.
Evan felt bad for letting himself be distracted from his work, but he had writer’s block. As usual, he had a handful of terrible ideas and didn’t know how to start any of them. He certainly wasn’t going to make any progress with whatever this noise was.
Phunk.
The sounds didn’t have a mechanical regularity to them, though. They came at what seemed like random intervals. Maybe someone was downstairs. Maybe Aya was moving furniture or something? Moving furniture…
Phunk.
Moving furniture by dropkicking it. He couldn’t place what made that sort of sound. It wasn’t something he’d heard before. The noise started with a slapping sound and ended with a sort of faint metallic ring.
Phunk.
If three mores times and I’m going downstairs.
Phunk.
That’s one-
Phunk.
Two.
…
…
…
No?
Phunk.
A rivulet of false hope died painfully in Evan’s chest as he rose from his favorite armchair and moved toward the door.
Phunk.
Phunk.
DRRNK.
trshlingklngting.
Evan, halfway down the winding stairway, froze. The noise after the loud thud had been the soft sound of glass breaking, that was for sure. Something must be wrong. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible he swept down the last few stairs, taking care to avoid the known creaky spots, and rounded the corner to Aya’s apartment.
The door to the apartment was open a crack, and from behind it the lights were on. Evan crept forward, stealthily as he could. As he came up to the door he thought he heard the sound of heavy breathing. And muttering. It sounded like Aya.
Gently, he pushed the door inward. It groaned obscenely. He stuck his head inside.
It was the first he’d ever actually seen of the downstairs apartment. He’d had little to do with the tenant before Aya and had never set foot on any of the rooms on the first floor. What met his eyes now was a kitchen, judging by the row of counters, cupboards, stove, and refrigerator along the far wall. The center of the oven door had a large indentation pounded into it. Pushed to one side was a small table and collection of chairs. In one of these chairs slumped a panting and disheveled Aya, in a dirty, smock-like t-shirt and trousers. An aluminum baseball bat was gripped limply in one hand. She sat facing the center of the room, from where the table and chairs had obviously been cleared away to make room for an altar of newspaper on which a man-sized column of red clay stood. It was warped and distorted by bat-shaped gouges.
She looked blearily at the head sticking through her front door.
“I’m not drunk,” she explained, carefully.
The shattered bottle of Guinness on the floor by the counter told a different story.
As the pieces came together and the fears dissolved in Evan’s mind, he stepped through the door and carefully shut it behind him.
“I, uh…heard something.”
“Oh? Oh. Sorry. I thought you’d be sleep. Asleep. Asleep by now.” Aya rose with some difficulty from the chair, still holding the bat.
“I don’t sleep. Not at night anyway,” replied Evan, scrutinizing the clay pillar. “So what is this?”
“Sculpture,” said Aya. “New sculpture. That. I’m working on.” She sighed with a tired exasperation. “My bottle broke.”
“Here, I’ll get it,” Evan said hastily, seeing how shakily Aya was standing. He stepped across the sheets of messy newspaper and began rifling through the cupboards for a dustpan.
Aya slumped back into the chair indecisively.
Evan found a dustpan with a little brush under the sink and shimmied over to the pile of broken glass. The odor of alcohol rose from the shards like a haze as he scraped them into the dustpan, leaving wet streaks and a row of tiny glass flecks on the floor. Carefully he set the dustpan on the counter and looked back at Aya. She was watching him with a goofy grin. Her cheeks were rosy. She looked back at her sculpture.
“I’m not- I don’t drink all the time, you know. I just. Do my best work when I’m. Drunk.”
“Really,” said Evan. What a strange girl. “Where on earth did you get this much clay?”
“Ordered it. Special order. To here. It was here when I got here.”
Evan felt like he would have noticed five-hundred pounds of clay being delivered to 999 October Street. Then again, he did seem to remember a large box with a Craftsman Supply receipt taped to it sitting in the hall about a week ago. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time.
“So what’s it going to look like?”
“Like. Clay. Someone hit. With a bat.”
“Well…right.” Evan smirked.
“It supposed - it’s supposed - to be a…representation. Of madness. So that’s why,” she shut her eyes exhaustedly and gestured vaguely toward her head, “I have to be not in my mind. Like out of my mind. I mean.”
“Oh, I see.” Evan nodded, crossing his arms. “Interesting.”
“But now,” she mumbled, “I feel sick. Sorry.”
Evan blinked at the inexplicable apology. “You need anything?”
“No, I’m good, I can…be fine. I just need to finish…” She rose again, taking the bat in both hands, stepped forward, and stopped.
“Or I guess I could just. Get drunk later.”
“Uh, yeah, that might be the…best thing,” said Evan, shifting to catch her in the half-expected event of her falling over. He carefully took the bat from her and set it on the table such that it wouldn’t roll away. He looked up to see Aya already staggering out of the kitchen, and hurried after her.
The living room had a small television and an expansive old couch. The lights were off.
Aya sat down on the couch and shook herself. “I’m tired,” she repeated. She lay down on the couch and slung an arm over her eyes.
Evan stood nearby awkwardly. He took the blanket on the arm of the couch and held it out to her. She took it, and after a few failed attempts to unfurl it over herself, he helped pull the corners past her feet.
Thirty seconds later she was asleep. She lay on her side, head resting on her hands, breathing heavily through her nose.
Evan stood there in the dark living room for a while longer, hesitant to leave too soon. She was a very pretty girl. In her own odd way. He could see why Terry liked her. Gradually he became aware of a faint achiness in his legs. Moving quietly, he decided to take a quick look around the downstairs apartment.
The bathroom was like his. The bedroom was like his, though the bed was smaller - almost a cot. Aya was probably better off on the couch anyway. Just then, a floorboard creaked with particular sharpness, and he decided it was time to go.
As he ascended the winding staircase he started laughing.