Death Kit by Susan Sontag Read Free Book Online Page B

glasses?” Diddy sets her glasses on her face, sighing.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” whispers the girl.
    â€œIt’s no good!” (Now) Diddy’s going to botch everything.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s not you.” He puts one arm around her. “It’s me. I was lying to you before.”
    â€œAbout the train?”
    â€œNo, about what happened. While I was out on the tracks.” Touch had not burned away the need to confess with words. Diddy didn’t feel absolved.
    â€œIt isn’t true that you wanted to kill yourself?”
    â€œYes. That’s true. But four weeks ago.” He paused, dreading the next sentence. It was speeding along, right behind the one before. Crash. “That isn’t what happened now. In the tunnel.”
    â€œTell me. I like the truth.” Brave words, upholding a standard that Diddy wanted to honor. But did she really want his confession? As she had really wanted him physically? Flesh doesn’t lie. Still clasping the girl, he stepped backward, sat down on the cover of the toilet, drawing her onto his lap. Her soft body was trusting. Diddy took a deep breath, effortful with the weight of the girl leaning on his chest.
    â€œI had a fight with someone outside, on the tracks. I was just trying to find out what was going on.… No, I shouldn’t try to excuse myself.” He struggles to find a straight line of words. “And I think I killed him.”
    The girl gasps, a kind of interruption, but Diddy pretends not to notice. The truth was falling like bricks.
    â€œIf I didn’t actually kill him, he’s dead anyway, and I’m responsible. I hit him with a crowbar and he fell in front of the train, so that when the train started up again—”
    â€œBut,” the girl, interrupting, “you never left the train.” She loosens herself from his embrace. “I was trying to tell you that before. You were never out of the compartment, believe me. I have excellent hearing.” Is the counsel of the senses to be trusted? No.
    â€œListen, you must understand.…” Diddy doesn’t explain anything (now), of course. He just repeats himself. She shakes her head. Interrupts him again and again.
    How far apart they are (now), even in the tiny space of the lavatory. The gluey touch is forgotten, the damp hair, and the sweet rubbing and melting. Diddy has let that go, as a common thing, and stands behind his tray of words.
    â€œWe should go back,” the girl says gently. “My aunt might worry.”
    Diddy sighs. Of course. Unlocks the door. Hand in hand, they turn right, then right again into the corridor. A few steps. Diddy waits while Hester smooths down her hair once more. And without telling her, scans her clothing for any telltale disarray or stains; his clothing, also. Pressing his face against the girl’s cheek once more, feeling the hard frame of her glasses between them. Then Diddy slides open the compartment door. Her aunt is still asleep, snoring slightly, mouth askew; the priest and the stamp dealer still reading.
    Seated in the compartment, Diddy gazes at Hester, who seems different (now) than she did either in the corridor or in the lavatory. She’s leaning her head against the back of the seat; he can’t tell if her eyes are shut.
    Diddy shuts his own eyes. Why is the girl so obstinate? She must remember! Suppose she doesn’t? Does Diddy dare ask the priest or the stamp dealer if he had left the compartment before? Could the girl be right? Perhaps he conjured up the coarse workman; dreamed the broken male body hugging the track. Maybe he’s transposing back into the vast, humid, uterine, dusky world of the tunnel the adventure that’s just occurred in the cramped space of the washroom. An adventure hardly less expected than what he thinks took place earlier in the tunnel. Is Diddy capable of such a bizarre error? Confusing the transaction of desire with