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"'Barren Woman,'" I tell him.
So what?
I repeat the title, and this time I grab him joyously by the snout because now I know the answer to the Ace of Spades. Or at least I'm on the way.
The poem "Barren Woman" was written by a woman who committed suicide, and I'm pretty sure of it--her name was Sylvia Plath.
I search the couch for the card and see her name again, third on the list. They're writers, I think. They're all writers. Graham Greene, Morris West, and Sylvia Plath. It surprises me that I've never heard of the first two, but then you can't know of everyone who ever wrote a book. But I know for sure about Sylvia. We're even on a first-name basis now. That's how proud of myself I am.
I rejoice in the moment for quite a while, feeling like I've unlocked some great mystery by accident. I'm incredibly stiff now and my ribs are killing me, but I'm still able to eat cereal with milk that's dubious, to say the least, and loads of sugar.
It's around seven-thirty when I discover that I've only solved part of the problem. I still have no idea where I have to go or what messages I need to deliver.
I'll start at the library, I think. It's a shame it's Sunday. It won't open till later.
Audrey comes over.
We watch a movie she highly recommends.
It's good.
I refrain from asking where she was last night.
I tell her about the spades, the names, and that I'm heading over to the library in the afternoon. I'm pretty sure it's open on Sunday between twelve and four.
When she drinks the coffee I made, I look at the redness of her lips and wish I could just stand up, walk over, and kiss them. I want to feel the flesh of them and the softness against my own. I want to breathe in her and with her. I want to be able to put my teeth to her neck and have my fingers touch her back and run them through the lovely, mild yellow color of her hair.
Honestly.
I don't know what it is this morning.
But soon I understand why I feel like this--I deserve something. I'm going around fixing people's lives, even just for a moment or two. I'm hurting people that need hurting, when inflicting pain goes against everything that comes naturally to me.
I at least deserve something, I reason. Audrey could love me just for a second, surely. But I know. Without doubt, I know nothing will happen. She won't kiss me. She'll barely touch me. I'm running all over town, getting trodden on, beaten up, abused, and for what? What do I get out of it? What's in it for Ed Kennedy?
I'll tell you what.
Nothing.
But I'm lying.
I'm lying, and I vow, right this instant, to stop. I've been through all this and thought I'd really turned a corner after the Ace of Clubs.
I stop.
Stop everything.
And I do something stupid.
I stand up completely on impulse and walk over to Audrey and kiss her on the mouth. I feel the red lips and the flesh and the air inside her, and with my eyes closed I feel her for just a second. I feel all of her and it rushes past me. Through me and past me and over me and I'm hot and cold and shivering and shot down.
I'm shot down by the sound of my mouth slipping away from hers till silence staggers between us.
I taste blood.
Then I see blood on Audrey's lips that are on Audrey's surprised face.
God, I couldn't even kiss her properly. I couldn't do it without opening up and bleeding on her.
