Doctor Tweiss, however, they paid, they whoever they ever are having arrived and too punctually too early that morning at the failing Tweiss Group off the Long Island Expressway at Utopia Parkway, their limousine out front parked across three handicapped spaces as if to make an impression — that luxury knows no boundaries, that wealth respects no borders; them whoever they are passing the arriving receptionist without nod, pass, grope, or even the most mere insinuation, two grim stooped giants and their wiry boss, smoothshaven, with those eruptive ears and the upturned eyebrows and plasticbags under his squinty eyes that held only contempt, who’d handed the doctors a suitcase packed full with money as if explosive (they were afraid to open it, their fear’d advised them to trust), then another of their party arriving professionally late in a livery of his own, apparently their new lawyer who had him and his brother Tweiss sign a disclaim of deutero forms before he let them go with the two and their employer, whom one called Das, another Der, and the lawyer Die, and whom the two of them Tweiss called nothing at all in their confusion, to the hospital to take possession of an ambulance that’d been gassed and reserved while the lawyer remained behind at their offices ostensibly to go through their files, he’d said, which meant they suspected riffling through the most secret drawer of their receptionist whose breasts the lawyer kept describing in the air with his hands in unreliable gestures as the brothers gathered their matching coats up and left. An ambulance being driven by the psychoanalyst Tweiss costumed in the disguise provided by his closet and the approval of that receptionist’s purse, snappy cap, aviator shades — a goy who despite any pretension to the contrary doesn’t know his way around stick, now pulling up on a ruined transmission to the house huge and hugely vacant, screeching at the intersection of Main & Apple to stop short at the address at the furthest nest of the looparound, the twins thrown to the dash, smoke from the ambulance’s tires imbuing the air with the notion of burning corpses they’ve had to swerve to avoid. An expedition that’s to prove unnecessary, however, as not a soul’s at home, at least the door isn’t answered to their ringing, then their knocking of a brass ring distended from the lip of a decapitated lion — though they realize, now, that a newborn solely surviving couldn’t be expected to open the door on His own and admit visitation, put out the coffee and cake, and so they open the door with the copied key they’d been provided, let themselves in to search a stoop for a baby up and down all the floors: here baby, here boy, but find none and so without thinking much about why or what next, they lay waste to the refrigerator for brunch, sating themselves upon any leftovers leftover, then fall asleep atop the furniture to wait as instructed for further command.
And like a visiting relative, an unwelcome guest, that Xmas just refused to leave: it never packedup its bags, bulging with snow to melt in the flee of the sun, never put on its cap and went out unafraid to greet the cold that was its own, its true home; it was endless, unbearable…what? It just sat around the house, turned to a puddle to profane the floor, having forgotten its own toothbrush and towel, it had to borrow, it clawed up the couch, stuck its snout into everything, became fattened on what was fed it, which was all we had then the furniture and lastly ourselves, and soon began to warm, to reek with putrefaction.
