Free Errata by Michael Allen Zell Page B

crimson right hand which caressed the underside of my chin, caressed it like she meant it, and I bent to her touch, warming to it too easily, like I always do no matter who, while she softly purred, I’ll always remember the 4th of November.  Now, go bury him and pack.  Make sure to weight him down.  When you get back, we’ll head off to Havana together.  Do you have a shovel at home?
    I returned a couple hours later with a change of clothes, my dufflebag, and box of Vachal ex-libris in the back seat.  Oh Eve, I’ve reached you again at last.  I’m home.  I was sweaty and exhausted but with adrenaline pushing, and then stunned to find the front door wide open, all the lights on, and her apartment a tossed overtaken mess, as if she‘d made quick take-it-or-leave-it decisions.  I assumed she’d be waiting for me after I finished, but no Hannah, and the kitchen looked like a charnel house.  The November soil (off of Chef Menteur Highway, where you must have found the body by now if you’ve read this far) at the place was soft, so it‘d presented no difficulties, but the physical action itself as well as its ramifications kept me pumped and jittery, though it felt like I was dishonoring the moonlight.  I want to make it clear that before rolling him into the hole, I collected all of the 20 dollar bill halves since it was my money, but I did return the surprising letter also tucked in his pocket, one from the animal shelter thanking him for his donation.  I expected that Hannah would be in a hurry but was surprised she wasn’t at the little house on Dauphine Street, after what she’d said and all of the sufficient trouble I’d taken, surprised but with a sense of denial about what looked to be the case.  No Hannah, but she’d be back soon.  I slept there that night, tried to sleep I should say, on her couch in the parlor, so I didn’t have to see the kitchen again, waking hourly with the expectation that she’d return soon.  But she didn’t return, so after a sinking morning, sunken afternoon, and an evening of waiting with hope growing ragged, I checked at the club she danced at and was told she hadn’t been seen for days. 
    I’ll admit to expecting her to show up, and every night I’ve been looping the block, clinging to the honest intentions of her hypothetical heart.  Maybe there was a misunderstanding.  But it’s finally sinking into my fallow mind that this is what she does.  She bounces.  She’s a cunning operator who bounces around and then never has to prove her dear hasty deceits.  She’s only in communion with betrayal.  Or was she just scared?  I thought that by proving myself to her with this deed, I was finally lucidly seizing the future with a piercing focus, boldly asserting control, a man of action, but instead I was executing confusion.  I’m still confused.  She’s a wandering spirit, out there forming new constellations in a wider sky then I’ll ever know.  Did she go to Havana?  I thought she was my port, but instead I’m the ship that drifts aimlessly in disenchantment to the tides of another.  I’m always the cover, the beard, the idle pastime, the one they move on from. 
    This incident might be instructive at a future point were I not likely to repeat the identical course of action and expectation, again thinking it was a courage-headed step.  The weak don’t make avowals, though, but quietly follow those set by the strong.  That isn’t so much a maxim as it’s an expected acknowledgment that some are born to act and others to respond, all spinning through well-traveled labyrinths, with confidence only in the known course.

Day 20

    I know how poorly I’d handle a court hearing, walking up the steps of the imposing building at Tulane and Broad Streets, anxiety
rising, mired in the hallway, wondering if the judge bothered to show up that day, much less on time, anxiety rising, entering the indifferent courtroom after an indeterminate wait, anxiety