I'm Thinking Of Ending Things Part 8

"I remember lots of things," Jake's mom says. "Jake was here before. With his last girlfriend." She winks at me, or it's something in the wink genus. I just can't tell whether it's a tick or deliberate.

"Don't you remember, Jake? All that food we ate?"

"It's not memorable," Jake replies.

He is finished with his meal. His plate is fully cleaned. I'm not half done with my own. I turn my attention to my food, cutting a piece of rare meat. It's dark and crusty on the outside, rare, pink, and oozy on the inside. There are traces of juice and blood on my plate. There's some jellied salad I haven't touched. My hunger has diminished. I mash some potato and carrot onto a morsel of meat and put it into my mouth.

"It's so nice to have you here with us," says Jake's mom. "Jake never brings his girlfriends around. This is really great."

"Absolutely," says his father. "It's too quiet around here when we're alone, and-"

"I have an idea," says Jake's mother. "It'll be fun."

We all look at her.

"We used to play games a lot. To pa.s.s the time. There was one that was my favorite. And I think you'd be great at it. If you're up for it. Why don't you do Jake?" she says to me.

"Yes. Right," Jake's dad answers. "Good idea."

Jake looks at me and then back down. He's holding his fork over his empty plate.

"So, are we going to . . . do you mean, impersonate Jake?" I ask. "Is that the game?"

"Yes," says his mom. "Do his voice, talk like him, do whatever like him. Oh, that would be fun."

Jake's father puts down his cutlery. "This is such a good game."

"I'm not- It's just- I'm not very good at that kind of thing."

"Do his voice. Just for a laugh," his mother insists.

I look at Jake. He won't make eye contact. "Okay," I say, stalling. I don't feel comfortable trying to imitate him in front of his parents, but I don't want to disappoint them.

They are waiting. Staring at me.

I clear my throat. "h.e.l.lo, I'm Jake," I say, deepening my voice. "Biochemistry has many virtues; so, too, do literature and philosophy."

His father smiles and nods. His mother grins from ear to ear. I'm embarra.s.sed. I don't want to play this game.

"Not bad," says his dad. "Not bad at all."

"I knew she'd be good," says his mom. "She knows him. Inside and out."

Jake looks up. "I'll go," he says.

It's the first thing he's said in a while. Jake doesn't like games.

"That's the spirit," says his mother, clapping.

Jake starts talking in what is clearly meant to be my voice. It's slightly higher pitched than his own, but not comically high. He's not mocking me; he's mimicking me. He's using subtle but accurate hand and facial gestures, brushing invisible hair behind an ear. It's startling, precise, off-putting. Unpleasant. This isn't a gag impersonation. He's taking this seriously, too seriously. He's becoming me in front of everyone.

I look over at his mom and dad. They are wide-eyed, enjoying the performance. When Jake finishes, there's a pause before his dad bursts out laughing. His mom buckles over, too. Jake's not laughing.

And then a phone rings. For once it's not my phone, though. It's the farm's landline, ringing sharply from another room.

"I better get that," says his mother after the third ring, chuckling as she walks away.

His father picks up his fork and knife and starts eating again. I don't feel hungry anymore. Jake asks me to pa.s.s the salad. I do, and he doesn't say thank you.

His mom returns to the room. "Who was it?" Jake asks.

"No one," she says, sitting down. "Wrong number."

She shakes her head and stabs a carrot medallion with her fork.

"You should check your phone," she says. I feel a twinge of something as she eyes me. "Really, we don't mind."

I CAN'T EAT DESSERT. NOT only because I'm full. There was an awkward minute when the dessert was brought out, a sort of chocolate log cake with layers of whipped cream. I'd asked Jake to remind his parents that I'm lactose intolerant. He must have forgotten. I can't touch that cake.

While Jake and his parents were in the kitchen, I checked my phone. It's dead. Probably for the best. I'll deal with it in the morning.

When Jake's mom returns to the table, she's wearing a different dress. No one else seems to notice. Maybe she does this all the time? Changing outfits for dessert? It's a subtle change. It's the same style of dress but a different color. Like a computer glitch caused a small distortion to the dress. Maybe she spilled something on the other one? She's also put a Band-Aid on the big toe that has no nail.

"Can we get you something else?" Jake's father asks again. "Are you sure you won't have some cake?"

"No, no. I'm fine, really. Dinner was amazing, and I'm stuffed."

"It's too bad you don't like cream," says Jake's mom. "I know it's a little fattening. But it's tasty."

"It does look good," I say. I hold off correcting her about "not liking it." It has nothing to do with liking it.

Jake hasn't eaten his dessert. He hasn't touched his fork or his plate. He's resting back in his chair, playing with a strand of hair at the back of his head.

I feel a jolt, like I've been pinched, and realize, in shock, that I'm biting my nails. My index finger is in my mouth. I look at my hand. The nail on my thumb is almost half chewed off. When did I start this? I can't recall, yet I must have been doing this all through dinner. I pull my hand back down to my side.

Is that why Jake was looking at me? How could I not have realized I was chewing my nails like that? I can feel a piece of nail in my mouth, stuck between my molars. Gross.

"Can you take the compost out for me tonight, Jake?" his mother asks. "Your dad's back is still sore, and the bin is full."

"Sure," Jake replies.

Maybe it's just me, but it feels like this whole meal has been a little weird. The house, his parents, the whole trip isn't what I thought it would be. It hasn't been fun or interesting. I didn't think everything would be so old, outdated. It's been uncomfortable since we arrived. His parents are fine-his dad especially-but neither is a great conversationalist. They've talked a lot, mostly about themselves. There's also been some really long stretches of silence, cutlery sc.r.a.ping against plates, the music, the ticking clock, the fire popping.

Because Jake is such a good conversationalist, one of the best I've ever met, I thought his parents would be, too. I thought we'd talk about work and maybe even politics, philosophy, art, things like that. I thought the house would be bigger and in better shape. I thought there would be more live animals.

I remember Jake once telling me that the two most important things for quality intellectual interaction are: One: keep simple things simple and complex things complex.

Two: don't enter any conversation with a strategy or a solution.

"Excuse me," I say. "I'm just going to pop into the bathroom. Is it just through the door?" My tongue is flicking at the piece of nail in my teeth.

"That's right," says Jake's dad. "Like everything here, it's just that way, at the end of the long hall."

IT TAKES A SECOND OR two to find the light switch in the pitch black, running my hand along the wall. When I flick it on, a resonant buzz sings along with the bright white light. This isn't the normal yellow light I'm used to in bathrooms. It's white in an antiseptic, surgical way that forces me to squint. I'm not sure which is more jarring, the light or the buzz.

I'm much more aware of how dark the house is now that I'm in here with this light.

The first thing I do once I close the door is dislodge the chunk of nail from my teeth and spit it into my hand. It's big. Huge. Disgusting. I drop it into the toilet. I look at my hands. The nail on my ring finger, like the one on my thumb, has been bitten down significantly. There's blood around the edge where the skin and nail meet.

There's no mirror in the vanity above the sink. I wouldn't want to see myself anyway, not today. I feel like I have bags under my eyes. I'm sure I do. I don't feel like myself. Flushed, irritable. I'm feeling the lack of sleep over the last few days and the wine from dinner. The gla.s.ses were big. And Jake's dad filled them repeatedly. I've had to pee for half an hour. I sit down on the toilet and feel better. I don't want to go back out, not just yet. My head is still achy.

After dessert, Jake's parents jumped up, cleared the table, and headed to the kitchen, leaving Jake and me alone. We sat without talking much. I could hear his parents in the kitchen. Well, I didn't hear them, not precisely. I couldn't make out words, but I could hear their tone. They were arguing. It seemed something was boiling over from our dinner conversation. It was a heated argument. I'm glad it didn't happen in front of me. Or Jake, for that matter.

"What's going on in there?" I asked Jake, in a whisper.

"In where?"

I flush the toilet and stand. I'm still not quite ready to go back out there. I survey the details around me. There's a tub and a shower. The rings are on the shower pole, but there's no shower curtain. There's a small wastebasket. And a sink. That seems to be it. It's all very neat, very clean.

The white tiles on the walls are the same color as the white floor. I try the vanity mirror. Or where the mirror should be. It opens. Besides one empty prescription pill bottle, the shelves inside are bare. I close the vanity door. The light is so bright.

I wash my hands in the sink and notice a small, dazed housefly on the edge of the basin. Most flies fly away when your hand goes near them. I wave my hand. Nothing. I lightly brush the insect's wing with my finger. It moves slightly but doesn't attempt to fly.

If it can't fly anymore, there's no way it's getting out. It can't climb out. It's stuck in there. Does it understand? Of course not. I use my thumb and crush it against the side of the bowl. I'm not sure why. Not something I normally do. I guess I'm helping it. This way is fast. It seems better than the alternative, whirling the thing down the drain in a slow, spiraling death. Or just leaving it in the sink. It's just one of so many others.

I'm still looking at the squished fly when I get a feeling that someone has followed me to the bathroom. That I'm not alone. There's no noise outside the door. No knock. I didn't hear any footsteps. It's just a feeling. But it's strong. I think someone's right outside the door. Are they listening?

I don't move. I don't hear anything. I step closer to the door and slowly put my hand on the door handle. I wait another moment, the handle in my hand, and then I fling the door open. There's no one there. Only my slippers, which I left outside before entering. I'm not sure why.

I should say Jake's slippers. The ones he lent me. I thought I'd left them facing toward the bathroom. But now they're facing out, toward the hall. I can't be sure. I must have left them like that. It must have been me.

I leave the door open but step back toward the sink. I run the tap to wash the bits of dead fly away. A drop of red blood lands in the sink. And another. I catch sight of my nose upside down in the reflection of the faucet. It's bleeding. I grab a piece of tissue, ball it up, and press it to my face. Why is my nose bleeding?

I haven't had a nosebleed in years.

I LEAVE THE BATHROOM AND head down the hall. I pa.s.s a door that must be for the bas.e.m.e.nt. It's open. A narrow, steep staircase leads down. I stop and put my hand against the open door. The slightest movement, in either direction, causes it to creak. The hinges need grease. On the landing is a small frayed carpet leading to the wooden steps.

From the kitchen, I hear the sound of dishes being washed and conversation. Jake is in there with his parents. I don't feel the need to rush back. I'll give him some time alone with them.

I can't see much from the top of the stairs. It's dark down there. I can hear something coming from the bas.e.m.e.nt, though. I walk forward. I see a white string hanging to my right as I pa.s.s through the door. I pull it and a single bulb buzzes on. I hear the sound from below more clearly now. A dull creak, sharper, higher pitched than the hinges. A hushed, whiny, repet.i.tive grind.

I'm curious to see the bas.e.m.e.nt. Jake said his parents don't use it. So what's down there? What's making that sound? The water heater?

The stairs are uneven and precarious. There's no banister. I see a trapdoor made of floorboards is held open on the right side with a metal clip. The stairs would be hidden under the trapdoor when it's closed. There are scratches, like the scratches on the door in the living room, all over the trapdoor. I run my fingers over them. They aren't very deep. But they look frantic.

I start down. I feel like I'm entering a sailboat's lower deck. Without a banister, I use the wall as a guide.

At the bottom I step onto a large slab of concrete. It's atop the gravel floor. There isn't much room down here. The beamed ceiling is low. Ahead of me are several shelves holding brown cardboard boxes. Old, damp, stained, and fragile. Lots of dust, dirt. Rows and rows of boxes on shelves. There's so much locked away down here, under the trapdoor. Buried. "We don't use it" is what Jake said. "There's nothing down there." Not totally true. Not true at all.

I turn around. Behind me, past the stairs, I see the furnace, a hot water tank, and an electrical panel. There's something else, a piece of equipment. It's old, rusty, not operational. I'm not sure what it is or was.

This room really is little more than a hole in the ground. Probably normal for such an old farmhouse. I imagine it floods in spring. The walls are made of dirt and large hunks of bedrock. They aren't really walls the same way the floor isn't really a floor. No bar or pool table. No table tennis. A few seconds here alone would terrify any kid. There's a smell, too. I don't know what it is. Dank. Uncirculated air. Mold. Rot. What am I doing down here?

I'm about to head back up when, at the far end of the room, just beyond the water tank, I notice what is making the sound. A small white oscillating fan sitting on a shelf. It's so dark I can barely see it. I should really get back upstairs, back to the table.

I don't think Jake wants me to see this. The thought only makes me want to stay here longer, though. I won't take long. I carefully step off the slab and toward the fan. It turns back and forth. Why is there a fan running in winter? It's cold enough as it is.

Near the furnace is a painting on an easel. Is that why the fan is on? To dry the paint? I can't imagine being down here for long stretches, painting. I don't see any paint or brushes. No other art supplies. No chair. Does the painter stand? I'm a.s.suming it's Jake's mom. But she's taller than I am, and I almost have to bend over so as not to hit my head on the ceiling beams. And why paint all the way down here?

I get closer to the painting. The piece is full of wild, heavy brushstrokes and some very specific detail. It's a portrait of a s.p.a.ce, a room. It might be this room, this bas.e.m.e.nt. It is. It's dark, the painting, but I can see the stairs, the concrete slab, the shelves. The only thing that's missing is the furnace. In its place is a woman. Or maybe a man. It's an ent.i.ty, an individual with long hair. Standing, slightly bent over, with long arms. Long fingernails, really long, almost like claws. They aren't growing longer, sharper. But they look like they are. At the bottom corner of the painting, there's a second person, much smaller; a child?

Staring at this picture, I'm reminded of something Jake mentioned on the drive tonight. I'd been only half listening when he said it, so I'm surprised by how clearly I'm recalling his words now. He talked about why examples are used in philosophy, how most understanding and truth combines certainty and rational deduction, but also abstraction. "It's the integration of both," he said, "that matters." I was looking out my window at the pa.s.sing fields, watching the bare trees fly by.

"This integration reflects the way our minds work, the way we function and interact; our split between logic, reason, and something else," he said, "something closer to feeling, or spirit. There's a word that will probably make you bristle. But we can't, even the most practical-minded of us, understand the world through rationality, not entirely. We depend on symbols for meaning."

I glanced at him without saying anything.

"And I'm not just talking about the Greeks. This is a pretty common thread, West and East. It's universal."

"When you say symbols, you mean . . . ?"

"Allegory," he said, "elaborate metaphor. We don't just understand or recognize significance and validity through experience. We accept, reject, and discern through symbols. These are as important to our understanding of life, our understanding of existence and what has value, what's worthwhile, as math and science. And I'm saying this as a scientist. It's all part of how we work through things, how we make decisions. See, as I'm saying it I hear how it sounds, which is very obvious and trite, but it's interesting."

I look at the painting again. The plain face of the person. Nondescript. The long nails pointing down, wet, almost dripping. The fan creaks back and forth.

There is a small, dirty bookcase beside the painting. It's full of old papers. Pages and pages. Drawings. I pick one up. The paper is thick. And another. They're all of this room. They're all of the bas.e.m.e.nt. And in each drawing there's a different person in place of the furnace. Some with short hair, some with long. One has horns. Some have b.r.e.a.s.t.s, some p.e.n.i.ses, some both. All have the long nails and a similar knowing, paralyzed expression.

In each picture there's the child, too. Usually in the corner. Sometimes in other places-on the ground, looking up at the larger figure. In one, the child is in the stomach of the woman. In another, the woman has two heads, and one of the heads is the child's.

I hear footsteps upstairs. Delicate, soft. Jake's mother? Why did I a.s.sume she does the painting and drawing down here? I hear more footsteps upstairs, heavier.

I can hear someone. Talking. Two people. I can. From where? It's Jake's mom and dad, upstairs. They're arguing again.

Arguing might be too strong, but the conversation is not cordial. It's heated. Something's wrong. They're upset. I need to get closer to the vent. There's a rusty paint can by the far wall. I move it directly under the vent. I stand on it, balancing myself against the wall. They are talking in the kitchen.

"He can't keep doing this."

"It's not sustainable."

"He spent all that time to get there, just to quit? He threw it away. Of course I worry."

"He needs predictability, something steady. He's alone too much."

Are they talking about Jake? I put my hand higher on the wall and rise up on my tiptoes.

"You kept telling him he could do whatever he wanted."

"What was I supposed to say? You can't get by day after day being like that, shy, introverted . . . so . . ."