Ike is dreaming an awful vision of his mother and father in the kitchen of the old family house. He’s standing in the center of the room, ashamed of something unclear. And his parents are walking in circles around him, equidistant from each other. They’re furious with him, berating him for this unstated failure or transgression. He’s sobbing, begging forgiveness, promising repentance, but it’s useless. Whatever he’s done is so heinous, they won’t even listen to his sorrow. Ike’s body trembles in his bed, the dream is so clear and real.
Outside the green duplex, Eva looks at both entrances and finds Ike’s—91B. She moves first to his doormat, squats down, and lifts it, but there’s nothing underneath. She stands back up, steps to his mailbox, opens the lid, and looks inside to find it empty. Then she runs her hand along the underside of the box and pulls a key out of a small metal lip. She lets herself into the apartment and stands silent inside, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.
She moves through rooms, steering herself with her fingertips on the edge of furniture, walking in tiny, comical steps to avoid tripping. She finds her way to the back bedroom and stands in the doorway for a few minutes watching Ike’s body quake. It’s a horrible sight, like looking on a helpless child in the midst of a dangerous fever.
Before she can rethink her actions, Eva walks into the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and begins to stroke Ike’s forehead softly and whisper, “It’s okay, now, I’m here, it’s all right, Ike,” as if she were his dead mother come to life out of his nightmare, but bearing a radical change of heart.
Ike’s eyelids flutter, flip open, and his whole body bolts backward on the bed as he lets out a scream of Ma, Ma, Jesus, loud enough to be heard three houses away.
Eva jumps up into a crouched position on her feet, her hands and arms balanced on the mattress. She’s yelling back at him, “It’s Eva, it’s Eva, stop it, it’s me.”
Ike knocks a glass off the nightstand, then manages to turn on a lamp.
“For God sake,” he chokes, hand on his chest, then up over his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Eva says, backing up. “Are you all right? I’m sorry.”
Ike takes a second to breathe and look around the room. “How’d you get in here?”
“I looked until I found a key. There’s usually a key.”
“You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry, Ike. I thought it was a good idea at the time.”
“You always go breaking into people’s homes?”
“Really sorry. It was a stupid thing to do—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you, Ike.”
“I’ve got nothing to say. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Just dock me for today. Whole day.”
Eva comes forward again and sits back down on the edge of the bed.
“Why did you run out today, Ike? What happened?”
“I just wasn’t feeling well. I think I’m getting the flu. I’m probably contagious right now.”
“Did something happen while you were sorting, Ike?”
“My God, I’m having chest pains, I’m having actual chest pains.”
“Now, take it easy. Calm down.”
“Calm down. Calm down. This is it. I’m having chest pains.”
“What kind of pains? Should I call an ambulance?”
“I don’t believe this. I’m thirty years old. This is unbelievable.”
“Oh, Ike, what have I done? Should I get on the phone? Should I call?”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Hold on.”
Ike sits up in the bed, leans forward, tilts his head to the side. His cheeks balloon out a couple of times. He makes a fist with his right hand and very lightly thumps his mid-chest. It’s possible that he belches, though Eva hears nothing. Then he comes upright and takes a breath and says, a little sheepishly, “I think it’s okay now,” as if he were speaking about something other than himself, “I think it’s all right.”
Eva sighs her relief and shakes her head. “Please forgive me, Ike. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“It’s just, you wake up, someone’s standing in your room.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I just had no idea who it was. It could have been anyone. I had no idea.”
“It’s just that things feel like they’re on the verge of getting out of control.”
“Listen, Eva—”
“And I don’t feel like I can trust anyone else.”
“I’m not sure I want to talk about this anymore.”
“I know that something happened today.”
“I’m starting to think that maybe you should go home.”
“I think you should tell me what happened at the station, Ike. You were sorting and then something happened.”
“I don’t want any problems here, Eva.”
“At the bookstore you were all for going to the authorities. What happened, Ike? What changed your mind?”
“Forget the bookstore, Eva.”
“I thought we were going to talk to your sister.”
“Forget my sister. Forget everything.”
“What did you find in the mail, Ike?”
“Would you please get out?”
“Where did you put it, whatever it was?”
They stare at each other. The room fills up with the sound of the talk-show host lecturing:
HOST: All right now, I’ve had enough of the stupidity. I’ve had enough of the inarticulate talk. Very simply, I’m asking you to frame your questions before you dial the number. There is no need for this. But what it does display for me, in crystal clarity, is the depths that this once-great country has descended to. By allowing Marxism in our schoolrooms, by allowing unchecked immigration across our borders, by allowing a blatant, flagrant abuse of a welfare state designed to propagate lives of drug dependency and casual sexuality, by allowing, allowing, allowing would be the key word here, my friends. Where has discipline gone? Where has consistency escaped to? In what dark bowels does respect for law and order and our unique system of democracy now reside? Let me mention a phrase here, people, a phrase that blazed a fire in the minds of men like Washington, like Jefferson. That phrase is new world, my people. A world that once, long ago, was untouched by the decadence of the Continent, of a Europe so in love with itself that it fell, as long-told prophecy said it would. This very land, the soil, the physical earth that stretched in a rich and wild run from Atlantic to Pacific, was once the last bastion, the refuge, the last possible paradise on an orb gone sick. It was a pure and final chance to forget the past and try again, start anew, build a civilization based on a consensus of values and good family morals. And what did we do in this damnable century of blinding technological advancement? We spit on it. We balled it up and tossed it down like a piece of festering garbage. We said NO! We shall not be pure! We shall not fulfill the dream! We handed the promises of this green land over to a satanic horror with many names: Liberal Humanism. Moral Relativity. Leftist Ideology. Castrating Feminism. Darwinistic Thought. Socialistic Atheism. New Age Heathenism. I could go on. Believe me, I could continue all night and into tomorrow. But I need no further proof of the futility of my cries than your phone calls. The pathetic ramblings of my audience tell me to throw in the towel, abandon the good fight. How much further can our intelligence be eroded? Will we move back into the caves of our forebears, draw on the walls, live with the wild dogs, eat with our fingers? [There’s a small breath of dead air, and then: ] While you ponder the answer to those questions, I’ll take a short break for a word from tonight’s sponsor, the Loftus Funeral Home, specialists in your prepaid burial needs. Remember, there’s no need to burden those left with your final duty.