Free The Juror by George Dawes Green Page A

tomorrow. See you after school. OK?” She hangs up.
    After a moment he tells her, “By the way, I
am
going to buy your boxes. The three at the gallery, of course. And these also—if we can work out a fair price.”
    “Forget it,” she says. “I don’t, I’d rather—”
    “I insist. I want to do something for you. I realize that placed beside the fear you’re feeling now, this can’t amount to
     much, but still.”
    He rises. “Annie, I’m sorry about the fear. If I had any choice, any choice… I know this is going to be a scary time for you.
     And lonely. But please don’t breathe a word of this. To
anyone
. Because anyone you tell, you’re putting their lives at risk. Do you follow that?”
    She gazes at nothing. Finally she sniffs, and he takes it for assent.
    “When I need to see you I’ll send for you. Someone will say to you, ‘I met you at the bakery.’ Do what he tells you. Now what
     will he say to you?”
    “I met you at the bakery.”
    “Annie, this will all be over before you know it. And after that our paths will never cross.”
    He goes to the door. When he opens it, the air that eddies in is sharp, cold. The three candle flames dip and then crane their
     necks and dip again.
    He shuts the door behind him.
    The candles steady themselves and she hears his car start. She hears the Vivaldi start up midstrain, instantly exultant. Proud,
     willful, dominant by virtue of its design. Not a note that hasn’t been called for, prepared for, not a note out of place,
     those towering scales of discipline, and then the music and the engine-purr fade and leave her to this room full of silence,
     to her own raw crude weak and shadowy sculptures, the beating of her heart, and not a single thought in her head that’s of
     any use to her.

    S LAVKO CZERNYK hunkers down tonight in this old clawfoot bathtub because his tightass landlord still hasn’t turned on the heat and this
     is the only way to get warm. He lifts his foot out of the water and gets a toe-grip on the H knob. Twists it.
    Treats the tub to a nice scalding pick-me-up.
    He’s chewing a Nicorette and smoking a Lucky Strike at the same time. A cupful of Jim Beam (with a drop of honey) rests on
     the tub sill. He’s holding a book above the waterline. The book is called
The Essential Derek Walcott
. He owns this book because once a woman told him that Derek Walcott was the
greatest poet ever, oh my god
. He was in love with this woman. He still is. So he keeps the book at all times in this bathroom across from his office,
     and whenever he takes a crap or a bath he opens
The Essential Derek Walcott
and makes a stab at civilizing himself.
    He glares at a poem.
    The poem taunts him.
    The poem says things like
    … and read until the lamplit page revolves
    to a white stasis whose detachment shines
    like a propeller’s rainbowed radiance.
    Circling like us, no comfort for their loves!…
    He squints. He tries that part again. He still doesn’t get it. He turns the book upside down and reads:
    … and read until the lamplit page revolves
    to a white stasis whose detachment shines
    like a propeller’s rainbowed radiance.
    Circling like us, no comfort for their loves!…
    This is never going to work. He takes a long pull from the Jim Beam, a long pull from the Lucky, and turns the page.
    In his office across the hall, the phone rings.
    Who have we got here? he wonders. Who’d be calling the Czernyk Detective Agency at this hour?
    Probably Grassman Security. They’re on a stakeout and no relief, and Slavko, could you please hustle your ass down here? So
     you can make eight bucks an hour sitting with Bill Farmer in a colder-than-shit Mercury Zephyr and keep tabs on a murky motel
     door across a murky street and listen all night to Bill Farmer’s two-part snore-and-fart harmony, OK, Slavko?
    All the god damn livelong night, how about
that
, Slavko?
    No thanks.
    Thanks but I’d rather stay here and read, read until the lamplit page revolves to a