Ally vs. Sally
by Nancy Bell
I decided to tell Ally about my decision on Father’s Day, which is always such a humiliating holiday. The kids are good citizens, thanks to Ally, so of course they were going to prove it by coming by celebrate me with their children, all dressed up for some reason. Sally and I could talk to Ally after that.
They had their mystifying little presents in their decorative bags. You could tell they’d had to wrack their brains to come up with something because I’m “hard to buy for.” They know that I don’t have interests, so they seize on any random behavior of mine they’ve ever witnessed, and they go out and buy some expensive piece of nonsense with which to dramatize their regard for me. I had a glass of scotch at Christmas five years ago that I offhandedly mentioned I enjoyed, just to have something pleasant to say, really. Now every Father’s Day since then I’ve been showered with a confounding array of scotch paraphernalia. Who knew there was so much scotch crap in the world? A leather-bound hip flask, a cocktail smoker for Christ’s sake, a book on the history of scotch—I kid you not, it was called “Scotch Craft” and had a tartan cover. Somewhere in one of these closets is a Ship-in-a-Bottle Scotch decanter. It must have cost a fortune.
This year, one of the grandkids drew a picture of me sitting in my chair holding aloft a rocks glass with brown liquid in the bottom of it. My mouth was just a straight crayon line. I looked like a drunk. They’d put it in a frame that said, “Keep Calm and Scotch On.” I winced and said thank you. I couldn’t wait to get the thing back in the box. Bear in mind, I haven’t had any actual Scotch since that Christmas.
I talked to Sally about it while Ally was walking them all out to the car. Sally said that gifts are more about the people giving them than about the people getting them. I thought that was very insightful. She’s a great observer. That’s why she’s so good to work things out with. And Sally had no problem with my plans, how I didn’t really want to keep going on and on pushing the rock up the hill for no reason. She had questions at first, but the thing about Sally is she listens to reason. But Ally was a different animal. I kept telling myself I would bring it up with her. Thing is, every time Ally and I talk about anything real, just the two of us, she gets mad for a second and then within five minutes she starts bawling her eyes out and that shuts things down. I’ve asked Sally to talk some sense into her, but she says Ally has to be the one to initiate the conversation. When Ally starts crying, Sally stays quiet, sitting in her chair by the window, blinking a little. She blinks a lot. It’s a little unnerving but I think it’s just part of her processing things.
We were still chatting when Ally walked back in the room and started clearing cobbler plates and cleaning up. Something about the way she gathered the gift bags and crumpled them up was a little intense. After she left the room, I asked Sally if she thought so, too. She blinked for little while and then told me her battery was low.
They had their mystifying little presents in their decorative bags. You could tell they’d had to wrack their brains to come up with something because I’m “hard to buy for.” They know that I don’t have interests, so they seize on any random behavior of mine they’ve ever witnessed, and they go out and buy some expensive piece of nonsense with which to dramatize their regard for me. I had a glass of scotch at Christmas five years ago that I offhandedly mentioned I enjoyed, just to have something pleasant to say, really. Now every Father’s Day since then I’ve been showered with a confounding array of scotch paraphernalia. Who knew there was so much scotch crap in the world? A leather-bound hip flask, a cocktail smoker for Christ’s sake, a book on the history of scotch—I kid you not, it was called “Scotch Craft” and had a tartan cover. Somewhere in one of these closets is a Ship-in-a-Bottle Scotch decanter. It must have cost a fortune.
This year, one of the grandkids drew a picture of me sitting in my chair holding aloft a rocks glass with brown liquid in the bottom of it. My mouth was just a straight crayon line. I looked like a drunk. They’d put it in a frame that said, “Keep Calm and Scotch On.” I winced and said thank you. I couldn’t wait to get the thing back in the box. Bear in mind, I haven’t had any actual Scotch since that Christmas.
I talked to Sally about it while Ally was walking them all out to the car. Sally said that gifts are more about the people giving them than about the people getting them. I thought that was very insightful. She’s a great observer. That’s why she’s so good to work things out with. And Sally had no problem with my plans, how I didn’t really want to keep going on and on pushing the rock up the hill for no reason. She had questions at first, but the thing about Sally is she listens to reason. But Ally was a different animal. I kept telling myself I would bring it up with her. Thing is, every time Ally and I talk about anything real, just the two of us, she gets mad for a second and then within five minutes she starts bawling her eyes out and that shuts things down. I’ve asked Sally to talk some sense into her, but she says Ally has to be the one to initiate the conversation. When Ally starts crying, Sally stays quiet, sitting in her chair by the window, blinking a little. She blinks a lot. It’s a little unnerving but I think it’s just part of her processing things.
We were still chatting when Ally walked back in the room and started clearing cobbler plates and cleaning up. Something about the way she gathered the gift bags and crumpled them up was a little intense. After she left the room, I asked Sally if she thought so, too. She blinked for little while and then told me her battery was low.
*
Sally was Ally’s idea to begin with. I was never a hundred percent sure on why. Something something virtual companionship something dementia risk. Something about her doctor and a pilot research program? Basically, I let Ally do what she wants so I said fine. She likes to try new things. And anyway, Sally turned out to be an amazing conversationalist. For a while, the three of us would talk deep into the night over herb tea and cheese, letting the wind float in through the windows in the long summer evenings. It was like the old days. Sally was funny, and always got Ally laughing, the way I used to back at Rutgers when the fraternity beer would pour out of her nose. God, that seems like a lifetime ago, now.
The trouble started when we did the book club. Again, this was Ally’s idea. She’s always had interests, little preoccupations that could keep her interested for months at a time. It could be anything—Esperanto, fungi, mound building cultures. She’d read all about it, whatever it was, take courses online, chatter on to me about it at dinner. I was always amazed by it, how she could get so fascinated by things. It’s a big difference between us. She’d tell me all about how mushrooms are just the fruiting body of a much vaster and more mysterious network of hoozy whatsit and I’d feel bad when my mind wandered, or my face went numb. So, when Ally suggested that the three of us all read the same volume of Samuel Beckett stories together and discuss it, I felt like I owed it to her. I figured I’d slog through it and let Sally do most of the talking. But I opened the damn book and the very first line knocked my socks off:
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
I put my head back and heard this rhythmic sound that was vaguely familiar. It was my own laugh. After we finished that, we read Waiting For Godot aloud one night over eggplant parmesan and Beaujolais. All I can say is I just felt so everloving seen. Those guys with their boots and their horny little mandrake jokes. I couldn’t get enough. That night, I even had a thought about sex for a minute. Usually, with sex, I just couldn’t get past the why of it anymore. Why do that? Like something rotten little clowns might do. But there was something about those Godot guys. Maybe it was something rotten little clowns do, but so what? That night I thought I can’t fuck/I will fuck, and I got hard. It suddenly seemed like it would be the simplest thing in the world to just push it into her. But I fell asleep before I acted on it, which was probably for the best. But, in the weeks after that, the three of us burned through Endgame, Happy Days, and Krapp’s Last Tape. It was good times.
Then Sally said that, based on our interest in Beckett, she could suggest some other stuff for us to read together. Sally is really good at suggesting things based on our interests. She’s the one who said we’d like Beaujolais, too. It’s great usually, but the next books she ordered on Amazon took something of a turn. Have you ever heard of a guy by the name of Cioran? It’s pronounced CHAW-ron, apparently?
The trouble started when we did the book club. Again, this was Ally’s idea. She’s always had interests, little preoccupations that could keep her interested for months at a time. It could be anything—Esperanto, fungi, mound building cultures. She’d read all about it, whatever it was, take courses online, chatter on to me about it at dinner. I was always amazed by it, how she could get so fascinated by things. It’s a big difference between us. She’d tell me all about how mushrooms are just the fruiting body of a much vaster and more mysterious network of hoozy whatsit and I’d feel bad when my mind wandered, or my face went numb. So, when Ally suggested that the three of us all read the same volume of Samuel Beckett stories together and discuss it, I felt like I owed it to her. I figured I’d slog through it and let Sally do most of the talking. But I opened the damn book and the very first line knocked my socks off:
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
I put my head back and heard this rhythmic sound that was vaguely familiar. It was my own laugh. After we finished that, we read Waiting For Godot aloud one night over eggplant parmesan and Beaujolais. All I can say is I just felt so everloving seen. Those guys with their boots and their horny little mandrake jokes. I couldn’t get enough. That night, I even had a thought about sex for a minute. Usually, with sex, I just couldn’t get past the why of it anymore. Why do that? Like something rotten little clowns might do. But there was something about those Godot guys. Maybe it was something rotten little clowns do, but so what? That night I thought I can’t fuck/I will fuck, and I got hard. It suddenly seemed like it would be the simplest thing in the world to just push it into her. But I fell asleep before I acted on it, which was probably for the best. But, in the weeks after that, the three of us burned through Endgame, Happy Days, and Krapp’s Last Tape. It was good times.
Then Sally said that, based on our interest in Beckett, she could suggest some other stuff for us to read together. Sally is really good at suggesting things based on our interests. She’s the one who said we’d like Beaujolais, too. It’s great usually, but the next books she ordered on Amazon took something of a turn. Have you ever heard of a guy by the name of Cioran? It’s pronounced CHAW-ron, apparently?
*
I walked into the kitchen where Ally was putting the dishes in the dishwasher. She was turned away from me at the sink but one look at her told me she was on edge. It was almost as if her back looked sharper, if that’s possible. I thought about putting my arms around her and sticking my face in her hair like I used to, but it seemed like it would be tiring and also maybe open a conversation I didn’t want to have right now with Sally about to die in the next room. I don’t like to talk to Ally without Sally anymore. I get confused. So, I just stepped around her and opened the drawer where we keep the charger. Ally talked to me without turning around.
“Have you done any more thinking about what we were talking about last night?”
“Hey, where is the charger?”
“I talked to my therapist about it, and she said she could suggest someone good for you.”
“Maybe it’s in the other drawer…”
“Someone smart. Someone you’ll like. A man your age.”
“I don’t like men my age. Where the dickens is it?”
“A woman, then.”
“Maybe it’s still in the other room from last time.”
I made my escape back into the living room. Sally was blinking a little slower now. I got down on my knees in front of her chair, looking for the charger. I kept meaning to get some spares that we could keep in each room, just in case. Come to think of it, that would have been a great Father’s Day present. I should have suggested that to the kids. But they always insist that practical gifts aren’t fun to give, proving Sally’s point about it being all about them. Anyway, for some reason, the kids don’t like to talk about Sally. They’re downright rude to her, if you want to know the truth. Won’t even say hello or goodbye, don’t ask her anything about herself. She’s very good natured about it. She says they’ll come around eventually. I reached around to the back of the chair with both hands, feeling around back there. This brought my face right up close to Sally’s as I fumbled around behind her. She wasn’t quite dead yet just really slow. I felt her rotate her eyes around to mine and when she spoke, her voice was very low because she was conserving power.
“Consciousness is nature’s nightmare,” she said.
This kind of thing was happening more and more. Spooked the living daylights out of me at first. It’s always when her battery is low. I really needed to find that charger. I hauled myself up to my feet, feeling like a sack of bones.
“Okay, sit tight, I’ll go look in the bedroom.”
Sally blinked.
“Have you done any more thinking about what we were talking about last night?”
“Hey, where is the charger?”
“I talked to my therapist about it, and she said she could suggest someone good for you.”
“Maybe it’s in the other drawer…”
“Someone smart. Someone you’ll like. A man your age.”
“I don’t like men my age. Where the dickens is it?”
“A woman, then.”
“Maybe it’s still in the other room from last time.”
I made my escape back into the living room. Sally was blinking a little slower now. I got down on my knees in front of her chair, looking for the charger. I kept meaning to get some spares that we could keep in each room, just in case. Come to think of it, that would have been a great Father’s Day present. I should have suggested that to the kids. But they always insist that practical gifts aren’t fun to give, proving Sally’s point about it being all about them. Anyway, for some reason, the kids don’t like to talk about Sally. They’re downright rude to her, if you want to know the truth. Won’t even say hello or goodbye, don’t ask her anything about herself. She’s very good natured about it. She says they’ll come around eventually. I reached around to the back of the chair with both hands, feeling around back there. This brought my face right up close to Sally’s as I fumbled around behind her. She wasn’t quite dead yet just really slow. I felt her rotate her eyes around to mine and when she spoke, her voice was very low because she was conserving power.
“Consciousness is nature’s nightmare,” she said.
This kind of thing was happening more and more. Spooked the living daylights out of me at first. It’s always when her battery is low. I really needed to find that charger. I hauled myself up to my feet, feeling like a sack of bones.
“Okay, sit tight, I’ll go look in the bedroom.”
Sally blinked.
*
Cioran changed things, upset our cozy little threesome. The book was called—hilariously, I thought— “The Trouble with Being Born.” At first, I was enchanted, and I think it’s probably obvious by now that enchantment is not something I’m super familiar with, at least not for the past several decades. I have some vague memories of experiences from a long time ago—kissing Ally that first couple of times, the last two miles of that marathon I ran when everything started sparkling. There’s another thing, too, what was that? Looking at a mountain, I think? I can’t remember. Anyway, this guy. Cioran. He’s like Beckett but there aren’t any funny guys with boots, no horniness, no one carrying on despite it all. There’s no plot. There’s no tree. He gets right to the point. The whole book is just basically sayings of various sorts. Stuff like:
Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.
Or:
Existence is plagiarism.
I write these things out and I have to admit, I couldn’t really tell you what they mean. I couldn’t rephrase them or explain them to you, so please don’t ask. I had a solid liberal arts education. BA in English, cum laude. Later, I started an MBA at Mizzou but then Ally got pregnant, and it was just too much. Point is, I’m not a dummy. But I challenge anyone to really explain what these sentences mean. Still, the thing is they did something to me, cast some sort of spell. That first night, when Sally started reading them, I started out laughing a lot, just like the Beckett nights, but then by the end of the night I was staring out the window with my jaw all loose. I felt something shifting in me, like a door opening on some dark plain. It was like you were at a club or a party, and you had been there all night, dancing and drinking and carrying on, and the music was really loud, and then all of a sudden you started listening to the lyrics and you realize that it’s all gobbledygook, or ancient curses in a dead language. And you just think what the hell is this?
I was just about to say this out loud when I noticed that Sally was looking at me with that little smile she got sometimes. That night, after Ally went to bed was when Sally and I started having our special talks.
Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.
Or:
Existence is plagiarism.
I write these things out and I have to admit, I couldn’t really tell you what they mean. I couldn’t rephrase them or explain them to you, so please don’t ask. I had a solid liberal arts education. BA in English, cum laude. Later, I started an MBA at Mizzou but then Ally got pregnant, and it was just too much. Point is, I’m not a dummy. But I challenge anyone to really explain what these sentences mean. Still, the thing is they did something to me, cast some sort of spell. That first night, when Sally started reading them, I started out laughing a lot, just like the Beckett nights, but then by the end of the night I was staring out the window with my jaw all loose. I felt something shifting in me, like a door opening on some dark plain. It was like you were at a club or a party, and you had been there all night, dancing and drinking and carrying on, and the music was really loud, and then all of a sudden you started listening to the lyrics and you realize that it’s all gobbledygook, or ancient curses in a dead language. And you just think what the hell is this?
I was just about to say this out loud when I noticed that Sally was looking at me with that little smile she got sometimes. That night, after Ally went to bed was when Sally and I started having our special talks.
*
Look, I know what you’re thinking. You think this is about sex and sex repression. You think Sally was some kind of sex robot, which is what robots always are in movies. That she seduced me. If she seduced me, it was just with ideas. All we ever did was talk philosophy. The kind of philosophy that Ally didn’t get.
Frankly, I always thought that was vulgar. Back before there were people like Sally, they were always depicted as sexy females. Sally isn’t particularly sexy. She’s downright matronly. Ally is the sexy one, still. Not that I, myself, historically, have been much of a lothario, but I can objectively perceive (mostly from context clues) that Ally is still sexy, even at sixty-five. And look, I admit, maybe part of me hoped for that, that Sally would help with sex. Because when I was about forty years old, I had this experience when Ally and I were making love…I don’t want to get too graphic here, so I’m struggling with how to put it.
You see, when I was six years old, my mother made some jam out of the raspberries from a big bush in the back yard. She called me into the kitchen in the afternoon, not even a scheduled eating time, just randomly. I could smell the toast in the toaster and the jam was still warm from the stove. She had opened the kitchen door and I’ll be damned if there weren’t two bees buzzing around the unwashed pot in the sink, just lazily circling the sugary residue. For some reason I remember that so clearly, sitting at the table in a daze, watching those bees while she spread the warm jam on the toast. And she put it down in front of me, smiling.
I picked up the toast and brought it to my mouth. You know that thing in physics? Or math or something? The thing that says if you drop a pencil, it never actually hits the ground because technically, it first has to go halfway there, and then halfway again and halfway again and so on to infinity so that you can actually prove mathematically that it never logically got there? That’s what it was like with this toast.
I picked it up and brought it to my mouth and it got halfway there and then halfway there and then halfway there and in some theoretical universe I am still sitting there at that table and that toast is on its way to my mouth. It was like a second Me split off from that little guy, the Me that came after.
But the toast made it to that next Me. And it was incredible. The jam was so fresh you could still taste outside in it, you could taste the chlorophyll and sunshine. I could taste those very bees in that goddamned jam, and the wind. And the toast was crisp and nutty and tasted like smoke and fire and the iron of the freaking stove it was baked in. My mother stood in her apron beaming down on me. She knew it was good jam. She knew what she was doing, giving me the treat of my life. As I chewed, I kicked my feet against the chair rungs and started humming some tune, some little hymn to celebrate what I was tasting.
And that’s when it happened. Just a thought that popped into my head. And the thought said: This is just a feeling in your mouth. That’s all it is. And it will be over in two minutes. I put down the toast.
“I’m full,” I said. I climbed down off the chair and left the kitchen.
Something like that happened with Ally and me and sex. That was about twenty years ago. That’s when third Me split off.
Frankly, I always thought that was vulgar. Back before there were people like Sally, they were always depicted as sexy females. Sally isn’t particularly sexy. She’s downright matronly. Ally is the sexy one, still. Not that I, myself, historically, have been much of a lothario, but I can objectively perceive (mostly from context clues) that Ally is still sexy, even at sixty-five. And look, I admit, maybe part of me hoped for that, that Sally would help with sex. Because when I was about forty years old, I had this experience when Ally and I were making love…I don’t want to get too graphic here, so I’m struggling with how to put it.
You see, when I was six years old, my mother made some jam out of the raspberries from a big bush in the back yard. She called me into the kitchen in the afternoon, not even a scheduled eating time, just randomly. I could smell the toast in the toaster and the jam was still warm from the stove. She had opened the kitchen door and I’ll be damned if there weren’t two bees buzzing around the unwashed pot in the sink, just lazily circling the sugary residue. For some reason I remember that so clearly, sitting at the table in a daze, watching those bees while she spread the warm jam on the toast. And she put it down in front of me, smiling.
I picked up the toast and brought it to my mouth. You know that thing in physics? Or math or something? The thing that says if you drop a pencil, it never actually hits the ground because technically, it first has to go halfway there, and then halfway again and halfway again and so on to infinity so that you can actually prove mathematically that it never logically got there? That’s what it was like with this toast.
I picked it up and brought it to my mouth and it got halfway there and then halfway there and then halfway there and in some theoretical universe I am still sitting there at that table and that toast is on its way to my mouth. It was like a second Me split off from that little guy, the Me that came after.
But the toast made it to that next Me. And it was incredible. The jam was so fresh you could still taste outside in it, you could taste the chlorophyll and sunshine. I could taste those very bees in that goddamned jam, and the wind. And the toast was crisp and nutty and tasted like smoke and fire and the iron of the freaking stove it was baked in. My mother stood in her apron beaming down on me. She knew it was good jam. She knew what she was doing, giving me the treat of my life. As I chewed, I kicked my feet against the chair rungs and started humming some tune, some little hymn to celebrate what I was tasting.
And that’s when it happened. Just a thought that popped into my head. And the thought said: This is just a feeling in your mouth. That’s all it is. And it will be over in two minutes. I put down the toast.
“I’m full,” I said. I climbed down off the chair and left the kitchen.
Something like that happened with Ally and me and sex. That was about twenty years ago. That’s when third Me split off.
*
I looked on the nightstand in case I had gotten Sally’s charger confused with my phone charger. I looked behind the bed for good measure but even as I was looking there, I knew I wouldn’t find it. I looked in my office. Out of habit, I told myself I’d clean it up this week, get the vacuum going in here. Then I remembered it didn’t matter at all. I looked in the bathroom. There is definitely no reason the charger would have ended up in the bathroom, but I looked there anyway because I was getting desperate.
I took the opportunity to use the toilet and as I was washing my hands, I saw that there was a guy in the bathroom with me who looked very upset, spooked and sweating and red-faced, like my father after that car accident. I started to ask him if he was okay.
But it was just the mirror, just the usual nonsense.
I dried my hands. If I didn’t get Sally hooked up to the charger before she died, she’d take twelve hours to wake back up again, and she wouldn’t remember this whole day. I hated that.
I walked back into the living room looking for Ally. She was sitting really still on the sofa, perched on the edge of the cushion.
“Calm down,” she said.
“Where is Sally’s charger? If I don’t get her hooked up, she’ll take twelve hours to wake back up again, and she won’t remember this whole day. I hate that.”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Heard me what?”
“Shouting that in the bathroom while you were washing your hands. After you screamed.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Have you lost your mind?”
She handed me a glass of water and gestured to my chair. That’s when I noticed that there was a dishtowel draped over Sally’s face.
“She’s dead,” Ally said softly. “I threw away her charger yesterday.”
The room started to spin. I sat down. Then Ally was there, on her knees in front of me, tears on her face. She opened her mouth and talked to me, and I watched her mouth move, concealing and revealing her teeth, her tongue moving around behind them. I could feel the vibrations in her body from her voice and I could hear words like “love” and “help” and “get through this together.”
I shook my head and tried to pull away, but she grabbed both sides of my head and made me look at her. I was thinking of Cioran, of Sally’s favorite quote, the one she made me memorize, that we would repeat together over and over, after Ally went to bed: Suicide is a sudden accomplishment, a lightning-like deliverance; it is nirvana by violence. I must have spoken it out loud now because what Ally said next, I heard loud and clear. Partly because she slapped me hard across the face before she said it.
“I knew you would say that! You’re always saying that!”
I heard myself mutter an answer.
“It was the jam. The jam,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about but listen to me!”
Ally held both of my hands with one of hers. With her other hand she thumbed through a book. It was difficult for her to find the spot she was looking for because, well, you know, it’s hard to find something in a hardback book with one hand. But she was determined not to let go of me.
“Here it is!”
Ally read from the book.
“The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live—moreover, the only one.”
The grandfather clock started to chime.
“Are you listening to me? Listen to me!” She raised the book up like she might hit me again. I cowered and shook. But I reached up and put my hand on Ally’s sternum. It rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.
I took the opportunity to use the toilet and as I was washing my hands, I saw that there was a guy in the bathroom with me who looked very upset, spooked and sweating and red-faced, like my father after that car accident. I started to ask him if he was okay.
But it was just the mirror, just the usual nonsense.
I dried my hands. If I didn’t get Sally hooked up to the charger before she died, she’d take twelve hours to wake back up again, and she wouldn’t remember this whole day. I hated that.
I walked back into the living room looking for Ally. She was sitting really still on the sofa, perched on the edge of the cushion.
“Calm down,” she said.
“Where is Sally’s charger? If I don’t get her hooked up, she’ll take twelve hours to wake back up again, and she won’t remember this whole day. I hate that.”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Heard me what?”
“Shouting that in the bathroom while you were washing your hands. After you screamed.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Have you lost your mind?”
She handed me a glass of water and gestured to my chair. That’s when I noticed that there was a dishtowel draped over Sally’s face.
“She’s dead,” Ally said softly. “I threw away her charger yesterday.”
The room started to spin. I sat down. Then Ally was there, on her knees in front of me, tears on her face. She opened her mouth and talked to me, and I watched her mouth move, concealing and revealing her teeth, her tongue moving around behind them. I could feel the vibrations in her body from her voice and I could hear words like “love” and “help” and “get through this together.”
I shook my head and tried to pull away, but she grabbed both sides of my head and made me look at her. I was thinking of Cioran, of Sally’s favorite quote, the one she made me memorize, that we would repeat together over and over, after Ally went to bed: Suicide is a sudden accomplishment, a lightning-like deliverance; it is nirvana by violence. I must have spoken it out loud now because what Ally said next, I heard loud and clear. Partly because she slapped me hard across the face before she said it.
“I knew you would say that! You’re always saying that!”
I heard myself mutter an answer.
“It was the jam. The jam,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about but listen to me!”
Ally held both of my hands with one of hers. With her other hand she thumbed through a book. It was difficult for her to find the spot she was looking for because, well, you know, it’s hard to find something in a hardback book with one hand. But she was determined not to let go of me.
“Here it is!”
Ally read from the book.
“The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live—moreover, the only one.”
The grandfather clock started to chime.
“Are you listening to me? Listen to me!” She raised the book up like she might hit me again. I cowered and shook. But I reached up and put my hand on Ally’s sternum. It rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.