He walked out of the bathroom. He began putting on his shirt, and then he looked at his watch. He still had a little time. It seemed like such a long morning all at once. He walked into the kitchen. Andy was standing near the stove watching the heating water. “Andy,” he said.
“Yes?”
“You... you should practice your horn a little. You... you haven’t picked it up since you got here.” That was not what he wanted to say. He didn’t know what he wanted to say.
“I don’t feel like practicing,” Andy said. “I feel... lazy. And my eyes burn. How can I read music if my eyes burn?”
“Well, you know, if you keep making excuses—”
“All right,” Andy said wearily, “I’m making excuses. I tell you my eyes burn. All right, that’s an excuse. This headache is an excuse, too. My whole life is an excuse. I’ll bet I have a fever. You want to bet I’ve got a fever? Have you got a thermometer?”
“In the bathroom,” Bud said gently.
“I’ll bet I’ve got a fever. Goddamnit, you think I’m clowning around, but you never tried dropping heroin, did you? Well, this is the worst it’ll ever get. Where’d you say that thermometer was?”
“In the bathroom.”
“How much do you want to bet I’ve got a fever?”
“I don’t want to bet.”
“You’re chickenhearted, you bastard. I’ll get the thermometer. I’ll show you.”
He went out into the bathroom and rummaged around in the medicine chest. When he came back into the kitchen, he was shaking down a thermometer.
“Don’t you ever have any steam in this dump?”
“Steam? In May?”
“I’m chilly.”
“I thought you had a fever.”
“I’ll bet I have, but I feel chilly, too. Maybe the coffee’ll warm me up.” He went over to the stove, still shaking down the thermometer. “Won’t it ever boil? Jesus.”
He put the thermometer into his mouth. He paced nervously, clenching and unclenching his hands.
“You’d better sit down,” Bud said. “If you haven’t got a fever, you’ll raise one that way.”
Andy ignored him. He continued to pace, and then he mumbled around the thermometer, “Y’iming this?”
“You’ve got about two minutes to go.”
“Eesus.”
“This quiet is wonderful,” Bud said, smiling. Andy didn’t answer him.
“’R mush longer?”
“You can take it out now,” Bud said.
Andy took the thermometer from his mouth and studied the numbers on it. “There, what’d I tell you?” he shouted triumphantly. “A hundred point five. Is that a fever, or is it?”
“Shall we get a doctor?”
“No, this is cold turkey, friend, that’s what this is. There ain’t a doctor in the world can help me. Dammit, why don’t they give you any steam?”
“Maybe the coffee’ll help you. I think we can pour it now.”
“My back hurts,” Andy said. “Listen, aren’t you chilly? Do we have to have that window open?”
“No, not if you don’t want it.”
Andy went to the window and closed it. Bud began shoveling coffee into the cups. “I’ve still got the chills,” Andy said. “They should give you steam when it’s cold outside.”
“It’s not cold outside. It’s a lovely day.”
“Then why the hell am I shaking all over?”
“Maybe you’ve got malaria,” Bud said, smiling.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Andy said. “Jesus, I’m itchy.” He scratched his arm violently, and then he studied the area and held his arm out to Bud. “Look at this, will you? A bump! Right under the skin. Jesus!” He opened the throat of his shirt and looked down at his chest. “I’ve got the damn things all over me! Goddamnit, I’ve itched before, but this is the worst yet.”
“Come on, take your coffee.” Bud sat at the table and looked at his watch again.
“Even my back aches from this headache, would you believe it? I can feel it right through here, and all through my body, pound, pound, pound. If I get through this, I’ll never look at another ounce of heroin as long as I live. This is murder, pure unadulterated murder. Why should I have it so bad, huh? It was only a sixteenth I shot up, and now it’s like I’m going cold turkey from scratch. Is that fair? I put in a week off the stuff, didn’t I? So I shoot a little, and now there’s hell to pay, my arms and legs aching as if I’ve got rheumatism, and my back, and my damn eyes burning me, and this rotten headache. Is that fair, should a guy have to suffer this much for a lousy sixteenth? I’d rather have syphilis, I swear to God.”
“Maybe you’ve got a little cold,” Bud said.
“I always have a cold. Addicts always have colds, didn’t you know that? But this isn’t a cold, man. This is cold turkey, that’s what this is, and a son-of-a-bitch it is, too. This shouldn’t happen to your worst enemy. This shouldn’t happen to me, that’s for sure.”
He sat at the table, picked up his cup, and took a sip.
“Oh, you lousy son—”
“What’s the matter?” Bud said.
“It’s too hot. I can’t swallow it. I can’t—”
“Maybe you’ve got a sore throat.”
“My throat does feel sore,” Andy said, “but, oh, Jesus, is this hot!”
“Then don’t drink it,” Bud said.
“I’ll vomit if I drink it, anyway,” Andy answered. “What’s happening to me? Why should I have this hell? Isn’t it enough that I’ve seen the light? What is this? My punishment? Can’t a man go off the junk without losing his mind? Oh, my head, my ever-loving head, it’s going to bust right in two. Do you think my fever has gone up?”
“I don’t know.”
“How will this day ever end? How will this goddamn day ever pass?”
“It’ll pass,” Bud said.
“I’m going out of my mind.” He scratched himself again, digging at his flesh. “Don’t sit there and watch me.”
“I wasn’t watching you.”
“I’m going to take another of those pills,” Andy said. He put down his cup and walked into the bathroom. Bud heard the cabinet door open, and then the water running, and then the water being turned off suddenly. He glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He went into the living room and took a jacket from the closet. Andy was coming out of the bathroom, his eyes wide.
“My... my skin,” he said. “Look at my skin.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“Can’t you see it?”
“It looks fine to me.” He shrugged into the jacket.
“It’s... it’s yellow,” Andy said. “Like... like I’ve been taking opium. Jesus, my skin is turning yellow!”
Bud looked at him carefully. “It is a little yellow.”
“Jesus, I haven’t taken opium in... Jesus, does H do it, too? I... I don’t feel so good, Bud. I... I’d better lay down. Jesus, my skin is turning yellow. Oh, my God, my skin is turning yellow.”
“Rest a while,” Bud said. “Come on.” He took Andy to the made-up sofa, waited until he was comfortable, and then started for the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said.