The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) - Plot & Excerpts
on the outside, but I knew that it would be my tomb. It was one of those marginal refuges where the desperate and hopeless go—crazy ones for the most part, with a smattering of old people abandoned by their families to die of loneliness so they won’t screw up life for the winners. “You’ll be fine here,” my aunt says, seated at the wheel of her straight-off-the-assembly-line Chevrolet. “You’ll understand that nothing more can be done.” I understand. I’m almost grateful that she found me this hovel to live in so that I don’t need to sleep on benches and in parks, covered in grime and dragging sacks of clothes around. “Nothing more can be done.” I understand her. I’ve been admitted to more than three psychiatric wards since I’ve been here, in the city of Miami, where I arrived six months ago, fleeing the culture, music, literature, television, sporting events, history and philosophy of the island of Cuba.
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