East is East

In the bathroom she found iodine, hydrogen peroxide, Vaseline, a box of flesh-colored Band-Aid strips, two bars of lilac-scented soap molded in the shape of gaping alligators, and a hand towel. She was bundling everything up in the towel, listening for footsteps, when she thought of Irving Thalamus. He’d be perfect—not that he was as paunchy as her Japanese, but he was about the same height and he did carry a comfortable little middle-aged spread. A flutter of laughter rose to her from the patio below. She’d have to hurry—no telling when one of them would be up to evacuate a bladderful of wine or gin or repair their makeup. She opened the door slowly, the towel tucked under her arm, and she looked both ways before stepping out into the hall.

She could feel her heart going. There were no locks on the doors—not even an inside latch for nighttime privacy. It was Septima’s belief that her artists were to be trusted implicitly with mere material things, and given the freedom to roam about and exercise their libidos with no more restraint than mutual consent. “There are no marriages at Thanatopsis,” she’d explained to Ruth on welcoming her to the colony, “we don’t recognize the institution. Here,” and she’d beamed at Saxby, who stood behind Ruth, rubbing the inside of her wrist, “here we believe in lettin’ the artist express him or herself, in whatever way he or she pleases.” Yes. And now Ruth was alone on the second floor, the appropriated toilet articles tucked under her arm, expressing herself in a stealthy and antisocial way.

Her own room was on her left, but she passed it, passed Clara Kleinschmidt’s room and Peter Anserine’s—if anyone asked her what she was doing, she was going to the bathroom, the little one at the end of the hall, to wash up, not wanting to monopolize the full bath in case anyone might want to shower before dinner. And then she passed Owen’s room and ducked round the corner. Ahead of her was the door to the back stairway; to her left, the bathroom. And to her right, the door to Irving Thalamus’s inner sanctum. She hesitated, heard the laughter and tinkle of glass again, and then she was in.

Hurry, she told herself,

hurry, and she fought down her resentment over the size and appointments of the room—her room was like a shoebox—and went directly to the cherrywood armoire. Hurry,

screamed a voice inside her and her hand trembled with nervous excitement—this was like the movies when the hero breaks into the killer’s apartment and the killer always, always comes back to surprise him—as she fumbled through the jackets and shirts and pants still wrapped in plastic from the dry cleaner. Nothing noticeable, she thought, nothing he’ll miss. In the drawer below she discovered his underwear—briefs, silk from the feel of them, in pink and red and royal blue. She thought about that for the fleet-ingest instant, about his hairy abdomen and the tight band those skimpy briefs would make, about his cock and balls swollen against the material, and then she had what she wanted—a pair of Bermudas she’d never seen him wear—so what if they featured flaming yellow parrots and chartreuse palm trees?—and a plain white V-necked T-shirt. She slid the drawer back in, closed up the armoire and reached under the bed for a pair of battered tennis shoes. He’d never miss them.

And then suddenly a roar went up from the patio below and her heart froze. There was a shriek and the sound of shattering glass and then a burst of laughter. She thought she heard a door slam. She had to get out. But what to do with the evidence? She couldn’t just … the pillowcase. But no, he’d be sure to miss that. And then her eyes fell on the wastebasket, a cheap straw thing lined with the generic black plastic bag. Breathlessly, she bent to lift out the bag and dump its contents back into the naked straw basket, hurry, hurry, starting at every sound, the seconds ticking off and what if he caught her and what would she say? Still, even under duress, she did manage to notice the discarded letter from his agent and the card, neatly torn in two, from—who was it from?—his son. She stuffed them into the black plastic bag along with the rest of her booty, and tentatively cracked the door.

It was a shock: someone was coming. A dark form, movement: someone was coming.