Cardinal Numbers: Stories

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EVEN IN MID-DECEMBER, wearing two sweaters, window glass rattling in dead putty there at the back of the shop, Schenck drank only ice water. It rippled on his throat, against the wall of his stomach. It cleared his palate and cleansed his bladder. He drank down a gallon or more in a day, not from an excess of thirst — his appetites were diffident — but vigilantly, to maintain a pattern of comfort and good feeling. Always, Schenck had guarded his habits.

Opening the minifridge balanced on phone directories and accordion files, he took a refill from the pitcher. Pain in his knuckles was best relieved by heat, and yet Schenck had never held a teacup with familiar reassurance as he held this glass. He bent back his head, let ice cubes fall against his teeth, saw the uneven black tin ceiling, and indulged an image of it giving way. Everything would fall around him, but nothing on him. Schenck’s safety of place held its own in the impacted city, amid all its reprisals.

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