In her relations with the dream rats Leona occupied the position of a conductor or circus master. She waved her arms and the rodents scattered, rolling backward in a single giant wave. She folded her arms and they scurried toward her, assembling eagerly at her feet. More remarkably still, they were able to speak. This verbal capacity seemed quite natural to Leona but what did not seem natural was that the rats spoke in unison, forming a single collective voice. It seemed wrong that the rats, sometimes two or three hundred of them, all spoke at once — simultaneously hinging and unhinging their rodent jaws.
“Love, love, love,” they whispered, exposing their cracked, brown-yellow teeth.
“We agree with you Leona; we know what you mean.”
It was in the hallway outside her apartment, six weeks after the stain first appeared, that Leona realized what was happening. This was no anonymous visitor, no mysterious apparition. It was all too familiar, all too familiar and all too repulsive; it was Annunciation George.
“Fuck me,” she said. “It’s Annunciation George. How could I have missed it? He was right before my eyes, not ten feet away from me this whole time. Fucking Annunciation George. I can’t believe it.”
Leona nearly collapsed. She tried to move, to open the door, but her limbs stiffened and locked into place. Blood collected in her feet, ankles, unbending knees; it resumed an insidious gravitational agreement. She made a second attempt to press forward, a third attempt. It was not this but some other, involuntary action that carried her into her apartment. It is easy to see what you want, Leona. Easy. She opened her door and stumbled into her apartment, resolving not to leave until she had dealt with the rodents, with the rodents themselves and the rodent agenda, which had revealed its ugly face.
Annunciation George lived across the hall from Leona. He had moved into the building about three months ago. He was a Christian fundamentalist who, still fresh from his conversion, restlessly advertised his spiritual rebirth. She had first met him in the elevator, where, discovering that they lived on the same floor, he had thrust forth an alarmingly damp hand and sputtered, “I’m George Howard and I’ve been reborn.”
Leona gazed warily at their interlocked hands. “I see,” she said. “Well, better luck next time.” George swung his arms in an exaggerated circle and clasped his hands to his hips, projecting his elbows. “Next time,” he barked. “I like that, I really do!” Then, shifting his hips slightly, as if preparing for a fitness demonstration, he produced the most menacing smile Leona had ever seen. The lips of punchdrunk astronauts, locked into rocket simulators, circling at unearthly speeds in egg-shaped capsules. When the elevator door opened, Leona walked rapidly toward her apartment, glancing backward repeatedly to ensure that she wasn’t being followed.
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