I didn't begin to watch the white house until some weeks after we moved in, when the complications of my own interiors became too much for me, but I had wondered about it from the first. I was hoping for friendly neighbors, and in this upscale suburb it was the only home nearby. But the white house was not inviting.
Most houses here tried to blend into nature, but this one was blatantly architected. It stood pristine and detached, a pure white box. No shrubs or trees softened it, and instead of a lawn, it had cleared around itself fields of colored pebbles set in concrete. Its starkness was unbroken even by windows: the side wall facing us was blank, and the single strip of glass next to the front door was shielded inside by wide white vertical slats that never moved. We had never seen the people who lived there, but they stayed in the back of my mind as I grew absorbed in interior design, because their house echoed a model I wanted to avoid.
My parents' house, in a less upscale suburb, was white inside—walls, floors, ceilings, large furniture. Rugs, curtains, small chairs and tables, wall hangings, pillows, and decorative objects, in every color, were strewn throughout in a permanent, brilliant jumble. New items appeared after each trip my parents took: a wave of German beer mugs might displace a collection of authentically reproduced Cretan pottery. A black wooden African head wearing a blue velvet beaded yarmulke (my father called him Julius) stood before an Amish patchwork quilt, in the spot occupied the year before by a shiny abstract sculpture. "This house looks like a museum," Jason whispered to me on his first visit.
My father loved it when visitors marveled at his exotic objects and the eccentricity of their display. But to me they were just a confusing, unpleasant muddle in which each thing lost its identity amid the indeterminate whiteness. And he got annoyed when I asked questions like why an African would wear a yarmulke. Then my mother would tell me not to upset him.
When I was sixteen they decided to repaint—that is, renew the whiteness—and on an impulse that surprised even me I asked that my bedroom walls be pale apricot instead. "That's ridiculous!" my father said angrily. My mother warned me that orange walls would look awful, and I'd have to live with them. So I remained in my white room until I married Jason and escaped.
Now, after seven years in a rented city apartment, I was exhilarated to have my own house to transform as I pleased. I envisioned glowing walls, velvety upholstery, and soft-piled carpets in dark greens, deep blues, reds and golds. Everything would be coherent, anchored in place. It was all perfectly vivid as long as I sat still. But when I walked through the large empty rooms trying to visualize specifics, my mind went blank. I could not imagine one actual sofa, one chair, table or rug to begin with. Jason was no help—although he said he'd be perfectly happy with what I described, if left to himself he'd have bought anything he thought looked comfortable, whether it went with the rest of the house or not. If I wanted to realize my vision, the burden lay on me.
I went off to tour shops and showrooms, but fixtures, fabrics, mock-ups swam before me. Carpet samples, in endless combinations of color and weave, dizzied me, especially when I remembered all the other possible floor treatments, each with its own infinity of alternatives. I gave up and crept home, exhausted. Weeks went by, and we still lived a skeleton existence, our mismatched furniture looking bleak and lonely in the bare stretches of the house, while my panic grew.
"You always look so great when you get dressed up," Jason said. "Why's it so hard to dress the house up? Just choose things you like." He suggested hiring a decorator. But I knew that once a professional took over, the house would not be me. Instead, I longed for disinterested advice and support from a capable, experienced friend—someone like the woman next door, whose house was so all of a piece. I stared out the window at it until I was absolutely sure no one ever went in or out of the front door.
I didn't drop over, though. I just hoped she would notice our presence and come to say hello. Jason said it made no sense to sit and wait for a person who might not even exist. He pressed me to do something—anything, he said, pay her a visit or fix the house up or find a job—whatever I wanted. He pointed out that more and more women were going out to work these days. But the kind of job a French major with no skills could get wasn't appealing. Jason had been recruited to a top firm from law school, and when I married him right after college he was already earning enough that I could enjoy being a housewife, going to museums and lectures, having lunch with friends. And he enjoyed having a pretty wife who charmed his associates.
At length he stopped asking each evening what my day was like, but his silence was pointed. The weight of his disapproval so distressed me that one morning, when I found a scrumptious recipe in the paper for an elaborate chocolate fudge cake, I decided to make it and prove that for once I had done something with my time. I had what I needed, except not enough sugar, and I was putting on my shoes to drive to the supermarket when it occurred to me that this was an excuse to go next door. She might not like the intrusion, she might snub me, but she could hardly think I was out of line.
My first impulse was to fly right out the door, but I forced myself to set out the eggs to warm to room temperature, to line up everything else on the kitchen counter. I felt I had to be authentic. Then, taking a measuring cup, I marched across our two wide yards and with shaking finger rang the bell set unobtrusively next to the front door.
A long silence followed the chime, during which my violent certainty drained away. I stood there haplessly for several minutes, then as I turned to step off the little slab of porch, I saw the slats inside the glass next to the door twitch. Half a woman's face appeared, from which a large blue eye stared at me suspiciously. I waved the cup. The slats moved back into place and the peephole slid open.
"Do you have—a cat?"
"I was just wondering if I could borrow some sugar," I called. "I'm making a cake—"
"Do—you—have—a cat?" came her voice again.
"No, cake," I shouted. "CAKE." But she only repeated her question, so I yelled, "No!"
The door whisked open; she motioned me inside hurriedly and banged it shut. We stood in a bare little white foyer, she inspecting me narrowly, I staring at her dumbly. She was tall and blonde and quite thin, but with a floating grace enhanced by the flowing white nylon robe she wore. Her hair was long and pulled back tightly, stretching the skin around enormous wide-open blue eyes, which now relaxed slightly. I felt I had passed inspection.
"You must forgive my abruptness," she said. "I could not let you in if you had a cat because I am allergic, and I cannot keep the peephole open for more than a few moments." She still kept her distance from me, as though my person might be carrying something equally noxious.
"Actually," I said, "I'm allergic to cats myself."
Her face changed. "Then you understand," she exclaimed, almost warmly, and sighed. "It can be so difficult, when people don't." She waved a long arm whose drapery fluttered softly. "You wanted—?"
"About half a cup of sugar," I answered. "I'm making a cake—"
"A cake?" Her nose wrinkled. "I have no refined sugar. It's fuel for allergies, you know. I have coconut sugar."
"Would it work in a cake?"
"I have no idea," she said. "But you can take some and try it."
She turned and led me around the foyer wall into a large square space that consisted entirely of dazzling whiteness. It was nearly noon, and sunlight poured through the skylight in the center of the ceiling, over the gleaming floor and the spotless white furniture which stood out against its own dark shadows. For a moment I wanted to turn and run, then I saw that this white was entirely unlike the one I'd grown up with. It was not a blankness but a palpable presence, reinforced by the size of the room, which seemed to take up nearly the entire house.
"Open planning," she said, and moved toward a long wide counter set about four feet from the left wall. "One living area serves many uses."
She took a small packet from one of the floor-to-ceiling cabinets along the wall. Coming closer, I saw an electric range with a sliding cover and shining stainless twin sinks that had been hidden by a raised edge along the countertop. The cabinets presumably hid a refrigerator, so from the center of the room you couldn't tell that a kitchen was there at all.
I thanked her, took the packet, and felt comfortable enough to admire her unusual house and ask if she had any other allergies.
"Many," she answered, and invited me to sit down, gliding across the bare terrazzo floor, whose thousands of tiny stone fragments danced and glittered under its hard polished surface.
I sat in a deep-cushioned white leather chair, and she sank gracefully into another. Sitting very straight, she folded her hands in her lap and announced, "I am Angelica Markowitz."
"I'm Alice Morgan," I said.
"I must apologize," Angelica began, "for my suspicious nature. I almost did not believe you when you said you had no cat, and almost didn't let you in. The allergic person must always be suspicious, since allergens lurk everywhere. I try—" She broke off and went rigid, her eyes fixed on what looked like nothing more substantial than the shaft of sun that fell on the floor between our chairs.
"Dust in the sun!" she hissed, and looked wildly at me, as if it were my dust, half-jumping to her feet, as though she were about to attack the motes in the sunbeam. Then she caught hold of herself and sat down again.
"Forgive me once more," she said, breathing deeply. "I've been trying to learn not to be a complete perfectionist, and I know that a few specks of dust aren't enough to set off an attack. But inevitably one sees them as the enemy—"
"Is that why you have no rugs?" I interrupted.
"Certainly; they're repositories for dust. And this is a dust-free house. It has central air conditioning with special filters; there are no windows, and nothing on the walls. We use lint-free towels. Electric lights burn in the closets to inhibit mold. Our pillows are synthetic; our mattress is new foam rubber. I have rigorous vacuuming procedures. And it's all worth it. I have had no attack since we moved in—as long as I stay inside most of the time and, of course, eat properly."
The amplitude of this response startled me. Besides being allergic to cats, I had hay fever in the fall, but I just took antihistamines. And I had never reacted to food.
"Are you allergic to many foods, too?" I asked, feeling impertinently inquisitive. Angelica's eyes brightened.
"Food," she began, "is a primary source of danger, since it may aggravate other allergies by increasing the assault on the immune mechanism. For example, I can eat oranges except during the ragweed season, when they make my hay fever worse. Of course, in processed, prepackaged foods there are endless hidden ingredients, as well as poisonous chemicals and preservatives. And fruits with seeds are more potent than those without, since the seeds harbor the allergens. So I must discriminate. But as a rule my food allergies represent only a minor annoyance—except of course, for peanuts." Her tone assumed that I understood, so my evident blankness irritated her.
"Shock," she explained. "Severe anaphylactic shock. Peanuts, for those who are allergic to them, are one of the most potent allergens known. An egg would cause gastrointestinal discomfort. But one peanut would literally be deadly."
The peculiar rhythm of her speech was drawing me into unfamiliar territory, where ordinary shapes concealed unexpected terrors. "How do you bear it?" I asked.
"Oh, it isn't difficult to avoid peanuts once you know where they hide. And I'm very careful. Now if I were allergic to soy, which is found so widely in common foodstuffs, I would have to live on a truly stringent regime. Naturally I am also allergic to strawberries—to Brazil nuts—licorice—cinnamon—cherries—chocolate— mustard—spinach—"
"My god!" I exclaimed.
"But these are nothing," she said. "They're easy to avoid, and there are many foods left to eat. My greatest problems are my allergies to dust, mold, and pollen. Once in a while I may try a new shampoo and develop a rash, but that too is easy to control. Before we had this house I was in agony almost continuously, and worse in the ragweed season when I simply wanted to die. Now I can go out with no difficulty as long as I don't stay too long, though during that season I stay shut up here, and Martin does the grocery shopping."
"Martin?"
"My husband," she said, and it startled me; a husband seemed a banal accessory for so exotic a creature. I seethed with questions, but Angelica rose to see me out, so I had to follow her to the door. I couldn't leave without one more piece of information, though, and on the threshold I turned and blurted: "What does your husband do?"
"Why, he's an allergist," she replied, and whisked the door shut.
I went home feeling that my head had been turned inside out. The blazing whiteness of Angelica's house was the image of coherence and clarity. I admired her single-minded control of her environment—with her husband's cooperation, of course. Was she already allergic when she met him? I wondered. Did she marry him because he was an allergist? Did he marry her because she was allergic?
The makings of my cake were waiting for me, and everything in my kitchen looked so normal—though I did hesitate over the eggs sitting innocently on the counter—that by the time I slid the pan into the oven I had reduced my neighbor to an oddity, fascinating but too crazy to take seriously, especially since I suspected that most of her "allergies" were psychosomatic. So did Jason, when I told him about her that evening. The coconut sugar worked well enough in the cake, but provoked Jason into a series of witticisms about Angelica, her house, and the details of her life (real and invented). In the light of his amused skepticism I myself appeared so normal, so capable and fearless, that I declared myself well able to tackle the decorating—and with no white, I added, laughing.
We both assumed that now I would forget about Angelica and get on with the house, but after only three days of renewed expeditions I was almost ready to give up. Salespeople tried to help, but since I couldn't match the formless images in my head with any of their suggestions, I could only say no. Too much color, too many shapes and textures—it all felt unintelligible and oppressive. I kept thinking how simple it must have been to furnish the white house.
Besides, I was increasingly preoccupied with another question: How was it that I—breathing unfiltered air, eating rich cake and any other stray delicacy that tempted me, not to mention peanuts—wasn't poisoned myself? So I returned nervously to Angelica's pristine doorstep. Again the slats were drawn back and the blue eye peered out; but when she saw me this time she smiled and opened the door at once—then grabbed my arm and pulled me in, slamming it violently.
"I saw a fly right behind you," she explained as she led me to the living room. Again she wore white, an elegant pair of lounging pajamas with an enormous cowl collar. I envied the length of her neck.
"You realize," she continued as we sat down, "that insect inhalation can cause the same symptoms as pollen. I take great precautions to prevent insects from entering the house because when they die their bodies fragment, and scales or bits of wings float in the air and become part of house dust. Isn't it horrible," she asked, leaning forward, "to think of ingesting a little segment of some insect's leg—and never knowing what it alighted on before it became part of you?" Her eyes glowed, and I shivered. "Houseflies, moths, aphids, even butterflies," she added almost sadly. "A great disadvantage of living out here. But we could never have built this house in the city."
"Is that where you lived before?" I asked. I was beginning to see that my questions seemed not impertinent to her, but quite natural.
"Yes," she answered, "but it was dreadful. Martin tried everything medical science could do. I had all the tests—we isolated many allergens—and he carried out an extensive program of desensitization, using a custom extract of our house dust. For months I kept a complete food diary. For years he gave me injections—for pollen in spring and fall, for dust in winter—and there were, especially at the beginning, many allergy-free periods—but then I began to lose ground. So we decided to build this house for me, to rigorous hypoallergenic specifications. By then we could afford it; Martin has a very successful practice. In fact, I am the only patient with whom he's failed."
She said this almost smugly, as if it were a distinction she was proud of. I learned later that she had in fact contributed considerably to Martin's career by providing him with material for a series of papers that placed him at the forefront of allergy research. Given the time span of these publications, I realized she must be considerably older than she appeared—well into her forties.
"This house is designed to eliminate allergens almost entirely," she went on, gesturing over her shoulder toward the wall opposite the kitchen where a hall led, I assumed, to the bedrooms. "Closets, you know, are the most culpable areas for collecting dust. So my own closet contains only clothing in current use. The storage closets are in an area I never enter. Martin takes out the winter blankets, launders them, and sprays them with dust-mite killer before I ever go near them. He uses the side door to the garage when he comes home from the office and changes his clothes before entering this part of the house so that whatever he brings in with him is contained."
Staring at the wall that hid the contaminated area, I noticed a small dark stone bowl inverted on a sleek marble tabletop. "Your bowl is upside down," I said, pointing, but Angelica cringed.
"Oh," she wailed, "I try to think of all Martin has done for me, how he has made my life bearable... But still I cannot forgive him!"
"What," I exclaimed, "for what?"
"Under that bowl," Angelica declaimed, pointing with a trembling finger, "is a can of peanuts."
Her tone carried such depths of horror that I jumped and cried, "Oh no!"
"I can't understand it," she continued, her voice breaking. "Someone left them at his office, and instead of keeping them there as any decent person would, he brought them home and put them on that table to eat while he watches television. And he refused to take them away. He just kept saying, ‘I have to have something in this house.' He put that bowl over them so I didn't have to look at them directly or"—her whole body rippled in repugnance—"smell them. And of course, I can't take them away—I can't even go near them. The mere sight of that bowl gives me hives."
"I'd be happy to move them, if you like," I said, starting to get up.
"Thank you," she said, "but it's no use. There would only be an argument, and tomorrow they'd be back there. It will be easier just to wait until they're gone."
It was an awful mystery—not only the husband's insistence that his wife suffer the presence of this deadly substance (in my imagination the black bowl radiated lethal waves), but also what seemed, despite her protests, to be the wife's peculiar acceptance of it.
Again I went home in a fit of curiosity, but this time I said little to Jason, who was surprised that I had gone there at all. I pointed out the advantages of being on good terms with our only close neighbors, and suggested that we ask them to dinner. Angelica might be neurotic but she was certainly interesting, I said, and I wanted to see what Martin was like. Privately I thought that having Jason meet them would be a good way of introducing him to certain changes in our lifestyle that I was contemplating. Some of our comfortable but thoughtless habits were making me uneasy. I looked at my brightly colored clothing, the faint white dust accumulating on the bookshelves, the eclectic contents of my refrigerator, with a new distrust.
We wound up going out to eat. Apologetically, Angelica had declined to have dinner at our house. Previous experience had convinced her that good will was not always enough and that her very particular requirements could put a strain on friendship. She suggested a restaurant she felt comfortable at, where the need for vigilance wouldn't mar the social aspect of the evening.
Dr. Martin Markowitz, dark and strong-featured, had a reassuring solidity that would give any patient confidence. He was also dull—interesting only for his worship of Angelica. She cross-questioned the waiter rigorously about each dish, then sent her salad back to the kitchen because he had forgotten it contained walnuts, and Martin adoringly supported her. They had been married nearly twenty years but clearly she was still his shining princess; he gazed at her while she talked about the antigen-antibody reaction with unspoiled wonder and delight. Other people watched her too. She had on a plain white dress made of some kind of jersey knit (synthetic) and for the occasion had let her golden hair hang loose and applied eye makeup (hypoallergenic) that made her huge eyes look twice their size. Returning from the ladies' room, I saw that she glowed out of our corner like a tall pale candle. In my mind a new puzzle was hatching: how to reconcile this slavish Martin with the vicious eater of peanuts. But I couldn't discuss this—or anything else—with Jason as I'd hoped; as soon as we got home he began to shout at me.
"That woman is sick! Not allergic, just sick in the head! And that guy is crazy to put up with it—doctor or no doctor." Why, he wanted to know, was I wasting time with her instead of going out and getting the house done? I had to admit we had been living a makeshift life far too long. But after such an outburst I couldn't tell Jason that my original vision now seemed distastefully promiscuous. The idea of stripping down to basics was growing on me.
Besides, aware now what dangers lurked outside, I felt less and less inclined to go anywhere except Angelica's, where I felt safe. I promised Jason to start working on the house again, and for two weeks I conscientiously forced myself to go into the city, despite Angelica's dire warnings. I knew I was doing real damage to my body, but I kept it up, until one day I awoke to find myself covered with hives.
After the initial shock came relief. I knew what it was: the physical strain in bad city air on top of quick coffee shop lunches had triggered this reaction, but the fundamental cause was years of ignorance and bad habits. I would have to learn to monitor myself. After being in such a muddle for so long, it was good to have clarity.
The first real fight Jason and I had over Angelica happened that evening when he came home and found a spartan, unseasoned dinner on the table and a large new chart on the kitchen wall. "That's my food diary," I told him. "I'm going on an elimination diet to isolate the allergen that's causing my hives." But Jason had no sympathy. He actually cursed at me and insisted that my hives—huge red blotches that all the world could see—were no more than a figment of my imagination.
"The only thing wrong with you is you've been infected with that crazy woman's ideas!" he shouted.
After a tense, chilly night, he went off to work without a goodbye kiss, leaving me numb, stunned, frightened. Jason had always been so loving and accepting. I made him happy just as I was, he told me. There was never anything I couldn't say to him. And now there was.
My only support came from Angelica, who was full of encouragement and good advice. My hives came and went in a pattern that only seemed mysterious, she explained, because we did not understand the cause. Our search for it drew us closer, and I was grateful to have such a friend just when a gulf had opened between me and my husband.
A few days later I went to see her in dire need of support. The previous evening's attempt at what Jason called a "reasonable discussion" had degenerated into the most vicious argument we had ever had, and we had spent the night holding ourselves rigidly apart in the small double bed that I had never gotten around to replacing with a queen size. But I saw right away that nothing would be forthcoming from Angelica, who handed me my cup of tea (she was allergic to coffee) with a particularly intense expression in her eyes.
"I must confess something," she said in a low voice. "It happened some time ago but I could not bring myself to tell you. I have discovered a new allergy."
"Oh no," I said, certain from her look that this was something drastic and fearing instantly that I would lose her.
"I don't have to tell you how it hurts to admit this," she went on. "I thought for so long that I had everything under control, that there was nothing left in my environment to which I could become sensitized."
"What is it?" I was shaking.
"I am allergic to Martin," she announced gravely. "I get hives whenever he touches me." My mind flashed fearfully to Jason. "Of course, Martin is totally understanding," Angelica went on. "He knows I'm not in control, and he was so selflessly undemanding in the face of the limitation which this naturally puts on our relationship that I agreed to suffer the hives occasionally—even once a month, if his need should be great. And to tell you the truth, this lifts a load from my mind. Martin has always been quite demanding sexually, you know," she confessed, flushing faintly—we had never talked about anything so intimate—"so that contraception is a great concern. And since I can't use pills, the horrors I've been through with diaphragms, condoms and the like—the needless alarms—I'm sure you know—are indescribable. Now, even if it has to be once a month, at least I can choose when." She sounded rather satisfied, but her face remained troubled, and I hastened to sympathize.
"Still," I said, "it's awful—to be allergic to your own husband—the person you're closest to—"
"Not at all," she interrupted calmly. "The person one is closest to is oneself—and the newest frontier of medical research, you must know, is autoimmune disease."
I was contemplating the unsettling concept of unilaterally regulating one's sex life and had trouble shifting my attention to this new menace, which annoyed her.
"This is something you should know about, Alice," she said sharply. "It involves an allergic response to the tissues of one's own body, which fails to recognize itself and produces auto-antibodies. It's groundbreaking work that represents a new concept of allergy."
I fixed with frightened fascination on the idea of the body failing to recognize itself. Angelica rattled off medical details that I didn't hear, being frozen by the thought that I could literally become my own worst enemy—one step further than my alienation from Jason. Husband and wife were supposed figuratively to be one flesh. But what if your literal flesh became foreign, and a devastating civil war ensued, with your own body as the field of battle? Over the past weeks I'd come to understand that the outside world might be deadly, but how could I protect myself from this enemy within?
I wrenched myself out of a whirling panic and was astonished to see Angelica reclining as calmly as ever across her white chair, still discoursing on inflammatory bowel disease, I think it was.
"How can you be so calm!" I screamed. "When every moment—"
"Knowledge sets us free," she said. I had never seen her so serene. "You have the wrong attitude, Alice. I am never upset by understanding something—only when I don't. And now, much is coming clear. I'll tell you as soon as I have it more firmly in mind."
She got up to see me out, but just before opening the door, she turned. "By the way—the ragweed season is about to begin. It's my worst. It always makes me a little—crazy. Partly it's the effect of the pollen itself, and partly of the stringent precautions I need to take. I won't be able to go out at all, and I must even ask you not to visit—you'll bring pollen in on your clothes. But we will talk on the phone," she added, and smiled as I left.
I went home and sat in my kitchen shivering. I dared not talk to Jason about autoimmune disease. I had no one but Angelica, and she became, in the following weeks, almost unavailable. It was true that the pollen made her crazy; at first she wouldn't talk about anything else, and I wished often I could grab her and shake her to make her listen to me. But she was only an impossibly remote voice on the phone. Once I summoned my nerve and asked what more she had found out about autoimmune disease. I had been sitting in the kitchen all morning gripped by a fear, which attacked me as I tried to make out my shopping list: that all the foods on it were poisons, any of which might trigger that final consuming interior eruption. Finally, I called her.
"Yes, Alice," she said triumphantly, "it is not the environment, it is the autotoxins! We are all, if we but knew it, in a state of autointoxication."
"Intoxication?" I asked.
"Autointoxication—autotoxemia. The basis of all disease, allergy included, is toxins. The true menace is not the allergens without but the autotoxins within—anomalies of the immune system that throw open the door for the end stage of all disease, which is cancer: the ultimate breakdown of immunity, the forbidden cells that elude our defenses, the principle of growth uncontrolled."
"But then what do we do?" I cried.
"We eliminate the toxins, Alice—especially the autotoxins."
"But how?" I pleaded.
"I'm working on it," she said solemnly. "I'll figure it out."
She hung up. I had hardly understood her, but in the silence after the phone clicked I began to imagine a weakness in my immune system, the growth of a hidden cancer, and broke out in such a fury of hives that I had to spend the entire afternoon applying cold compresses. When Jason came home there was not only no dinner but no food in the house. In my concentration on the intense itching, I had forgotten to shop. Seeing him before me all I could think about was whether the hives might mean I was becoming allergic to my husband.
I don't know what I said, but this time he didn't get angry. He only looked at me narrowly and said, "You've been seeing her again."
Unable to wait to hear back from Angelica, I called her the next day but there was no answer. Driven by anxiety, I went over and rang her bell, but she didn't even come to the door. Finally, I reached Martin at his office.
"Oh," he said, "you mustn't worry. She's always like this in the ragweed season. Poor thing looks pretty bad, but it's almost over."
Reassured, I resigned myself to wait. So I was unprepared to see, about a week later, an ambulance parked in their driveway. I rushed across, but just as I reached the door it opened, and two men emerged carrying a stretcher holding a sheet-covered body. Running into the house I found Martin sitting incongruously in Angelica's white chair with his black head bowed, weeping. He looked up at me and nodded mournfully. I felt as if the top of my head had come off and my brains were streaming out into the air. Then, seeing how forlorn Martin looked, I sat on the chair arm and put my arms around him. As he held on to me, weeping harder, my head cleared, and when his sobbing lessened, I asked, "Martin, how did it happen?"
"Shock," he said. "Severe anaphylactic shock." His voice steadied as it pronounced the medical term and even regained some of its doctor's tone. "I only discovered her a few minutes ago. I don't know… she must have eaten something with peanuts in it—that's the only thing that could do it."
"But how? How?" I asked, unbelieving. If there was one thing Angelica never took chances on, it was peanuts.
"We'll find out," said Martin, releasing me and sitting up straight with determination. "It's these food manufacturers who don't label their hidden ingredients. There was a case of a little girl in Portland who died from a dish of ice cream that contained peanut butter, unlabeled… Of course, Angelica wouldn't eat ice cream. But it was something. We'll find it!"
One of the ambulance men poked his head in and gestured.
"Go on, Martin," I said. "I'll close the house up."
He looked at me gratefully and gave me the key. "Don't go in the bedroom," he said, and left.
I got up and walked around the living room dazedly, then came to a dead stop. On the marble table across from the television set was a large open can of peanuts; and next to it was the black bowl, standing upright. I shied away from the can and fell into Martin's television chair. A chill snaked up my spine.
She had done it. She had eliminated the ultimate toxin—herself. She had walked up to the table, lifted the bowl, and deliberately eaten probably only one peanut. But she had forgotten—or had she?—to put the bowl back in place before she went into the bedroom to—. I jumped up and replaced the bowl over the can, looking over my shoulder like a thief. In a sense, I was a thief. Martin would go through the entire kitchen without finding any hidden peanuts and I knew he would never suspect what she had done. Perhaps she had wanted to punish him. She had complained bitterly to me when he finished the first can of peanuts, then went out and bought another, so she had to live with that black bowl perpetually.
Suddenly queasy, I dashed out, headed home, and not knowing what to do with myself, fell into bed and, to erase the images in my mind, slept. I roused when Jason joined me, but rolled over and fell asleep again, or rather into a series of florid dream images of Angelica's house, which turned out to be my parents' house, except that a sheet of glowing blue was creeping over one wall. Other colors spread over other walls, a chaotic mélange of livid writhing purples and magentas. I looked around for Martin, whose shots could quell eruptions. But only Jason was there, and before I could stop him he sank into a squirming lavender loveseat, caught my hand, and pulled me toward him. I lost my balance and toppled forward, then woke up and turned to where he should be. But the other side of the bed was empty. It was after ten, and he had gone to work.
I closed my eyes and the dream house came back, its walls now pale orange. But the image faded and I opened my eyes to the same dirty beige I was used to. Still I could picture that visionary orange, along with golden brown furniture, touches of other colors here and there, a few black accents, and a deep green carpet.
It took another few minutes to realize that I had actually put together a room. Of course a bedroom was easy—but a room is a room, I decided. And it gave me something to do. If that orange matched a standard blend, I could go right out and buy the paint.
Jumping out of bed, I ran into the kitchen and was making coffee before sitting down to go through my color samples, when I noticed that my hives were gone.
Only then did the shock of Angelica's death hit me—a belated terror as from nearly driving off the road because you had become completely lost in the inside of your mind. I closed my eyes, letting waves of relief wash through me, and finally opened them on a bright sunbeam slanting through the skylight over our foyer, so full of dust it looked solid enough to reach out and grasp—much grungier than the one that panicked Angelica the day I met her.
I leapt up, tore my food chart off the wall, ripped it up and, panting, threw the pieces into the garbage. The pants turned into tearing sobs, and I dropped into my chair, heaving. Violent contractions wrenched me, invisible toxins spewed out in thick choking surges, and I sobbed still harder—now from real grief, mixed with nostalgia—which suddenly seemed absurd, and that thought calmed me.
Then I realized I was starving. Home-made gluten-free cereal? No, I wanted something luscious, self-indulgent. It was weeks since I'd had even a cookie, and the interior of the refrigerator was austere. Poking around in the freezer, I came upon the remains of my fudge cake, which I'd stashed there to keep fresh, then forgotten. It was so buttery that I easily sliced off a frozen wedge, which I devoured. The taste was beyond ambrosial—it was exalting. I cut another piece and took it with my coffee and color chips to the table. I found my orange—or one close enough—and was browsing for shades for the living room and kitchen, when the front door opened and Jason appeared.
"I heard about Angelica on the train this morning," he said. "So I came home to see how you're doing."
As he turned to close the door, the sunbeam in the foyer made his hair glow, and for a moment he looked practically angelic. Then he became himself again and walked straight into my kitchen.
