Читать книгу The Tiny Wife - Andrew Kaufman, Serafima Gettys - Страница 10

Chapter 5

n the morning we measured her again. She put her heels against the door jamb and straightened her posture. I pushed down her hair and made sure the pencil was flat. A second black line was made on the white paint. She stepped forward and I measured.

I decided to be as precise as I could be. I measured to the millimeter. What I found was not good. Yesterday she stood 1,591 millimeters tall; now she was 1,581 millimeters, a loss of 10 millimeters overnight and 19 millimeters in total.

We sat on the edge of the bed. Her feet didn’t touch the floor. I couldn’t remember if they ever had. I turned the tape measure in my hand. Stacey watched the floor and I watched her.

The rest of the day was spent measuring things. Stacey and I became obsessed with it. We measured the length of our bed, and the distance between the bedspread and the floor, and how far apart the curtains were when open. We measured our incisor teeth and the circumferences of our necks. We went outside and calculated the combined length of the cracks in the sidewalk in front of our house, and the average amount left unsmoked on discarded cigarette butts. We measured all that. We measured the next day too, and then we picked up Jasper from daycare and drove straight to St Matthew’s United Church. I parked across the street. Jasper started crying.

‘I guess I’d better go,’ Stacey said. I measured the concern in her voice and agreed.

Stacey leaned between the seats and kissed Jasper. This made him stop crying momentarily, but he started again when she got out. She shuffled over the curb and up the stairs of the church. The arms of her sweater and the cuffs of her pants were turned up several times. She looked back twice, both times at Jasper.

The account of what followed is what Stacey told me happened. I have no reason to doubt that she told me anything but the truth, but I admit that I did not witness any of these events. Stacey told me that her initial impression was that the basement of St Matthew’s United Church had been chosen because the dingy linoleum floor, low ceiling, and florescent lighting made it the perfect place for a support group to meet. Folding chairs had been unfolded and placed in a circle. A stack of upturned Styrofoam cups sat beside a giant silver pot of drip-brewed coffee. The only thing missing was everybody else: Stacey had arrived exactly on time, but even Detective Phillips was nowhere to be seen.

Stacey filled a white Styrofoam cup and stirred in sugar with a brown plastic stick. To the right of the coffee pot were a fan of name tags and several Sharpie magic markers. Stacey uncapped a marker, but as the tip touched the paper she paused. An inkblot formed on the top left corner of the name tag. When she started writing again, she did not write Stacey; she wrote Calculator. As she placed the sticker on her chest, she heard someone coming down the stairs.

The steps were heavy and quick and belonged to a woman. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she did not stop to introduce herself. She took the folding chair from the top of the circle and dragged it across the floor to the west wall, where a small window near the top looked onto the street. She stood on the chair and stared out the window. Several other sets of footsteps went by, and then she breathed. She jumped off the chair and joined Stacey by the coffee.