Free Outside the Dog Museum by Jonathan Carroll Page B

created him because he is convenient. And then sometimes when we really have no one else, we put the fault on God. But God is like this black man—He smiles at us when we eat His lunch, but doesn’t stop us from doing it.”
     
    HOW CLAIRE STANSFIELD COULD eat! Hard to believe looking at her in the hospital, barely able to take a straw in her swollen, ripped mouth.
    Since this is my story, I get to digress one last time and bring in this last major cast member. It won’t take long—I’ll just tell about the first time we met, six months before the earthquake.
    She was the friend of a friend who gave me her number and said we’d like each other. Over the phone she sounded strong and calm. She had a high reedy voice; sometimes she lisped a word. It was Sunday afternoon. When I asked what she was doing, she said, “Only watching the rain on the window.” Rainy days made her feel like a little girl again.
    “How come? Listen, Claire, what are you doing? I mean right now? Would you like to go out?”
    “Of course.”
    Of course! Not “Wellll, I don’t know” or “Let me check my Filofax” or some other coy syrup you’d have to stir and stir until it dissolved into “all right.” Of course. Superb.
    We met at Café Bunny because rain was still blitzing down and the place was halfway between our apartments. We’d recognize each
other because I’d been told she had a great head and looked like a Burne-Jones painting. As you can tell, I love women’s heads. Fanny has a great one, even in an earthquake. Claire too. But she said if I missed her head, she was wearing a sweatshirt that said “Big Stuff” on it—the name of her design store. Before hanging up, she also said she was nervous about meeting Harry Radcliffe. I said I was nervous about meeting a great head.
    “Hi, Harry? Will you think I’m awful if I order lunch right away? I haven’t eaten all day.” Hers was a great head but rather than being beautiful, what I liked most was she had a true face: square chin, long straight mouth, green eyes as direct and no-nonsense as a bridge.
    We started off talking about our mutual friend, Claire’s store, my buildings. She ordered Wiener schnitzel and a stein of beer. She cut giant golden pieces that looked like breaded continents. Despite chewing each one slowly, the whole thing was gone before I’d finished my coffee and cheesecake.
    “I’m still hungry. What else should I eat?”
    “Stay with the frieds—fried mushrooms?”
    She ordered a plate of mushrooms, a large radicchio salad, another beer, a slice of chocolate cake heavy enough to sink a ship.
    I wasn’t feeling particularly sexy in those days right after my divorce, but watching Claire Stansfield eat, the question wandered my mind, if she was this voracious about food, what was she like in bed?
    “What are you thinking about?” Her voice crept slowly out through the hive of bandages.
    Holding her hand, I squeezed it gently. “About the first time we met—how much food you ate. I wondered if you’d be as good in bed as you were at the table.”
    “But I wouldn’t let you touch me for a long time.”
    “That’s right.”
    The room held the silence only a hospital room knows; the silence
in waiting for things to return to normal, the silence of the body’s betrayal versus secret hope.
    “I was afraid you’d grow tired of me and my fears and leave.” She shifted slightly under the covers, groaning once when turning her head toward me. “But you only sort-of left, didn’t you, Harry? With Fanny.”
    “Let’s not talk about it now.”
    “All right. Tell me more about the first day we met. I want to hear your side of it. Keep holding my hand too, please.”
    “You were wearing those big clunky shoes and that black coat you bought in Budapest. You know how much I love women in clunky shoes.”
    Her hand was cool and dry in mine. Normally they were warm, often the slightest bit sweaty. She had only one hand now. What was left of the