James Tate, p.2


     Angela was sleeping all the time now, except
for some quick meals and the odd bath. When we
ate together she could barely talk. Finally I
felt I had to say something. “Angela,” I said,
“I don’t think this is good for you. You need
exercise. And your mind…” “I’m looking for
something,” she said, “something that will change
our lives. And I’m getting closer. I think I may
find it within a week. Please, trust me, be
patient with me,” she said. “What is it, Angela?
What is it you are looking for?” I said. “I can’t
tell you. It would bring bad luck. You’ll just
have to trust me,” she said, and went back to bed.
During the following week we barely spoke. Then
the next day she jumped out of bed, showered,
dressed and declared she was starving. She made
herself an enormous meal and gulped it all down
breathlessly. “Well, did you find it?” I asked. “I thought
it was a finger of Saint John the Dwarf buried
beneath the tulip tree out back, put there by
marauding Berbers fifteen-hundred years ago.
But it turns out it’s just a plastic spoon,” she
said. I paused to let it all sink in. “Just
think,” I said, “a little piece of John the Dwarf
in our backyard. And those marauding Berbers.
I can see why you were excited.”