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Show Motherlunge a novel 226 Judith lived two streets over in a yellow house that glowed faintly under the streetlamp like a post-it note. Walter knocked once at the door and then opened it. He walked through the front room to the hall, then to her bedroom. The door was slightly open and he pushed it forward. The first thing he saw was Judith's hair on a Styrofoam head on the bedside table. The head's smooth, egg-like face was like something deleted. Judith, who was sitting in bed, raised her head from her bent knees and looked at him. And she was beautiful. Her grey eyes were large and clear. And with its dents and asymmetries covered in a fine grey down, her head was as singular and perfect as a drop of smoky glass. Walter moved toward Judith with an outstretched hand, and his yellow fingers reached for the phone. He began to call the ambulance. His eyes were burning as he looked at her. He knew she was going to die-that she was on her way, in fact-and he was going to watch. He wasn't surprised. He felt, instead, a sense of fullness, as if by sharing in a disappointment so" complete it was a kind of fullness. It was almost enough. Judith was breathing through her mouth and then she began to cough. He put the phone receiver down on the table and held her head as she coughed, and kissed her skull, feeling in his lips and hands how-like a book or the subject of a book-she exceeded herself. |