I’m sick in here, he thinks a sus, a murm.
He rocks himself, the baby of his pain, sets teeth, bites tongue and what…I’m sick, in bathroom or in body.
A moment of scrotal tingle, gastric fizz — his teeth tear lips, loosing proliferant perforations in his flesh…Felice, honey, his wife long dead unkaddished, I’ll be out, assurance, any moment now and then, another onslaught: gnash gulp hic and, finally — there’s a give, a slow slip, it’s first a rumbling, then a slick licking of insides clean, the bared mirror of the soul. Feigenbaum mouths a tongue of dreck, snakes himself a distended turd out from the tightwad of his pucker, passing whole as if — fear — it’s his own tongue he’d bitten without chewing, then swallowed down the throat, as the throat and out, digestion forsaken; this bullock’s tongue, bulrushed past reeds of pubic hair, in a stream hissing steam — his water turned to blood.
Can you keep it down in there?
A shout from the sofa.
Maybe I can’t — who wants to know?
Ben’s questioning voice, intercoming distant over the squeak of Feigenbaum’s shoes on tile, which won’t be shattered, no matter the footing. A lull, as flakes accumulate, a dusting of paper pills, dead skin, to go searching for coins under the cushions, worthless anymore. To make all our eyes into knees, then knuckle. Clasp and bow for prayer. Feigenbaum righting himself into a gag, then grubbing at the tank as his other hand armed with dignity — which are fingers kept with nails that’ve kept their neatness, despite attempts to fist himself to pure — gathers in the crumpled tissue desperate wisps of blood; stinging, lancinate…still seated, trembles, then with last honor unbends himself upright to gather his slacks to belt, cinches pinching — blood gushes down his chin, rushing out the hole, to gather thick amid the stubble. As if he’d cut himself from shaving, bum a wipe to wad it up. With a heave, he throws himself against the tank, flushes with his elbow, with his shoulder jiggles once the handle, twice; it’s locked…it’s clogged, he plunges with a shimmy of his sit, then with his fallen head; tosses his body entire into the bowl of waste, up and down again and up the suction, to flail again at flushing; it won’t, not yet; hurls himself full upon the mess, his face and mouths what word, what name, deep into that rising filth, the font fouled, a rabid stoup. He tries to say but can’t, his own mouth clogged, blood and gums and what teeth left are only dentures loosed: hardened hunks to texture stool, as if to solidify, to make material while around his head, what manner of watery dispersal; showered pissy and soglogged paper: fills his ears, his nose, and eyes, overflows his form, which is erected now with the force of plunge and suck — is finally stuffed up then straight down into the toilet’s hole, his feet kicking for the fixture, the sconce a step above his shoe; to dim discomfiture, the mothflown, heelsnapped glass. His mouth sucks blood, suckles bone…and then, an impossible mass floods up, erupts him from his shallow, to spit him out limp to the tile, grouted amid waves of putrescent wake rolling out and under the crack, to crash a floor beyond the threshold — the draft, its door, then out onto the parquet and down the hallway just polished by a sister, which…down all halls and all stairs leaky through their slots; out the doors and windows and the drains of the sinks onto, then, the scurryrattling rodents’ tail gutters, to foul the Island proper; to come, soon, to a calming tide, lapping gently at the sewered edge of the Hudson’s ice, which hardens it to death.
Feigenbaum lies small on the floor. Withered trees around His house shake, shiver, then still, their roots soaking in the rippled, dreckdappled reek…life renewing always; trunks wrapped a waste in leafy paper stained with fruit, moldy, spoiled. Feigenbaum, their shriveled fig, left sprawled for the avid plucking in an ocean of his juice, a dark milk without a wake: flooding past the closets for winter clothes and past the closets for spring clothes and the closets, the parquet to the rug, Hanna’s favorite, absorbent blue, colorfast and manufactured stainresistant, or so holds its hidden tag; flowing ambit to the frontdoor, then out it, engulfing the mat that says Shalom, down the stoop, down Nitz’s walk then, to pool around the slate islands of that path, past the dead grass and frozen sprinklerheads, the little stretch of sidewalk poured and its tiny curb of one block long if that, the limits of His recreation; up the halls to the familyroom, the halls to the livingroom, and the halls to rooms, for laundry, for guests, for company and brunch — up to lap His toes; Ben ensconced atop a couch, its cushions drenched to stuffing — to float the furnishings amid the room that would have been the den, at the height of the middle mullion of the windows. He reaches a worried hand over to the bobbing, wetly creaking endtable, to gather up the phone from its cradle; to rock to a reassuring tone; the sympathy of the directline…what to say, He dials nothing — the only call He can make, guess who pays the bills.
To report, what now…a disaster in progress, natural or not, a flood fatidic, another postdiluvial deluge: not the tenth plague, but the first before the first, Ur unnumbered because unknown as plague to now — ten generations after the Adam before His Adam, with the world begun already destroyed; no rainbow shall assuage. Then, days and nights to soften…the furniture soggy, sagging, broken: credenza floating tchotchkes, snoglobes and mugs, glasses and lamps of glass, coffeetable buoy sloshing with milk and sugar and coffee, books of photographs, albums, and books; oceanically unpaid bills, appliance warranties and instruction sheets, catalogs and magalogs; an operator’s His mother onduty, holds the unit from her ear, to save herself from the whispered fearsome kvetch — pitching into a scold’s geshray; then, informing Him with excessive patience, forced maternal reassurance, that assistance should be arriving momentarily, that grownups are on their way she means and, maybe, He should attempt to find a mop. Like it would be helpful. That, or perhaps you could bail yourself out with your mouth. But where would a mop be. If I were a mop. Ben flails across the room in thought. A broomcloset, or laundryroom, apparently. Who would’ve thought, which hall. Though such situation requires plumbing not a polish. His sisters arrive shortly thereafter — just here to cleanup, don’t mind us — which is discombobulatingly risky because all this’d been Wanda’s job. Her responsibility, this swabbing, and would’ve been this bailing with buckets out windows. Angels arrive a wing’s breath later, to remove the body; floating the corpse, in a wet procession, each to a steering limb and then, his head, guiding Feigenbaum out the opened door, and with them every sip of filth remaining, stopped, to tide: their fall down the stoop, to drain the house to dry.
And so it might be appropriate, with everything relative and all Einsteins now dead, to engage in what’s been called the pilpulistic: to pull on our beards, to tug at our locks, to split hairs as befitting us lesser creations, sundering God Himself, Who parted the Sea of Reeds only for us to cross over into the wilderness, still barren of our freedom. They’ve begun their dying, their relentless death, of all days on the Sabbath, the first day of this the first moon, which is known to us as Nisan, the moon of the night of the death of Abel Steinstein: a night different from all other nights, as it’s said, and yet, at least according to official Garden recommendations, to be kept distinct from Night, too, which is the capitalized end of Creation, dawning upon the destruction of the entire darkened world. Over the mornings ensuing, the issue of days as generations stillborn from the womb that is Shabbos, the toll rises to the rarified pitch of the sky, a hollow bell that is the sky, resounding its storm across the ice — crescent-tongued the moon, then convex, gibbous — as death echoes in the last words and loves of families, ingathers in sighs whole dynasties and denominations, hoards entire congregations and communities, Landsmannschaften, landsleit, kretchma, klaus and klatsch, neighborhood groups, benevolent societies and synagogue boards; their lives pile up, are piled, a copse of corpses, menschs with their kinder stacked a perch higher than the stripped remains of the Garden’s last orchards, its appletrees only bare boughs become so thoroughly diseased they’ve been rejected for use even as coffin stock, which frozen, freezing malady, as if Scriptural, too old to be known, hasn’t spared them from being uprooted anyway, sawed then snapped, suitable for kindling, firewood only, landscaped in neat rows at the westernmost perimeter of the Garden, in the Island’s backyard of His house atop the grave of the sandbox, amid the rusted remnants of the swingset, and the twisted knotted slide.