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Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Acknowledgments
  6. Cast of Characters
  7. Part One
  8. One
  9. Two
  10. Three
  11. Four
  12. Five
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. Thirteen
  21. Fourteen
  22. Fifteen
  23. Sixteen
  24. Seventeen
  25. Eighteen
  26. Nineteen
  27. Part Two
  28. Twenty
  29. Twenty-one
  30. Twenty-two
  31. Twenty-three
  32. Twenty-four
  33. Twenty-five
  34. Twenty-six
  35. Twenty-seven
  36. Twenty-eight
  37. Twenty-nine
  38. Thirty
  39. Thirty-one
  40. Thirty-two
  41. Thirty-three
  42. Thirty-four
  43. Thirty-five
  44. Thirty-six
  45. Thirty-seven
  46. Thirty-eight
  47. Thirty-nine
  48. Forty
  49. Forty-one
  50. Forty-two
  51. Forty-three
  52. Forty-four
  53. Forty-five
  54. Forty-six
  55. A note on the Author

I felt sorry for my blood. It is trapped inside me. No way out, no polite excuse to go, circling and circling laps on my body. Sometimes I felt it speeding up its circuit just to relieve the monotony of Ruby legs, Ruby arms, Ruby toes and fingers. That’s when I feel it, there in my extremities. It kicks at the circuit. But I feel nothing in my brain or my heart anymore. The extremes are well nourished but the vitals are dead.

Thirty-three

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The morning after

When I woke up the next morning, I knew exactly what I had done the night before and raced straight to my vantage point at the bathroom mirror to admire my handiwork. The cut was, as I had suspected it might be, graphically effective, although it stung somewhat more than any of the cuts I had ever made in my arms, tummy, or legs. This was new ground for me and I wanted everyone to see it. If I wanted someone to see the arm cuts, I had to pretend I really didn’t want them to and then casually, and to their loudly voiced horror, let a long sleeve slip just so. The cut on my neck was not disguisable, even pretend disguisable, since the only option was a turtleneck and it was sweltering outside.

Tiptoeing through the front room, I found Cyrinda passed out in a pile of her own clothes. I guess it wasn’t working out with whoever she had decided to move on to. She woke as I opened the door and I heard her call out, “Seeya later, honey!” in the cheery slang of those who know they have behaved badly, but I was gone.

Calmed by my excellent cut, I went to see Gladiator. The theater was almost empty save for a few blue-rinse pensioners who had no idea who Russell Crowe was (“He’s that British guy, right, Herb?” and “He’s Richard Burton’s son” were two inventions I heard loudly whispered during the film). Despite the talking, their lack of appreciation for Russell meant that I enjoyed myself tremendously.

Buoyed, I went to see Sebastian at work. He had been installed in an office while his new client tried to set up a production company. He was just leaving his desk for lunch when I made it to the top of his third-floor walk-up. “Jesus, Sebastian! I thought you were supposed to be a high-powered PR. It’s got to be ninety degrees outside. Do you think you could move to a building with an elevator? And proper air conditioning, maybe?”

“What the fuck have you done to your neck?” he screamed.

“When are you going to fix the air conditioner?” I asked again, softly, as though he had said something rude I was going to rise above by ignoring.