Falconer (2 page)

F
arragut’s first visitor was his wife. He was raking leaves in yard Y when the PA said that 734–508–32 had a visitor. He jogged up the road past the firehouse and into the tunnel. It was four flights up to cellblock F. “Visitor,” he said to Walton, who let him into his cell. He kept his white shirt prepared for visits. It was dusty. He washed his face and combed his hair with water. “Don’t take nuttin but a handkerchief,” said the guard. “I know, I know, I know….” Down he went to the door of the visitors’ room, where he was frisked. Through the glass he saw that his visitor was Marcia.

There were no bars in the visitors’ room, but the glass windows were chicken-wired and open only at the top. A skinny cat couldn’t get in or out, but the sounds of the prison moved in freely on the breeze. She would, he knew, have passed three sets of bars—clang, clang, clang—and waited in an anteroom where there were pews or benches, soft-drink engines and a display of the convicts’ art with prices stuck in the frames. None of the cons could paint, but you could always count on some wet-brain to buy a vase of roses or a marine sunset if he had been told that the artist was a lifer. There were no pictures on the walls of the visitors’ room but there were four signs that said:
NO SMOKING. NO WRITING. NO EXCHANGE OF OBJECTS. VISITORS ARE ALLOWED ONE KISS
. These were also in Spanish, no smoking had been scratched out. The visitors’ room in Falconer, he had been told, was the most lenient in the East. There were no obstructions—nothing but a three-foot counter between the free and the unfree. While he was being frisked he looked around at the other visitors—not so much out of curiosity as to see if there was anything here that might offend Marcia. A con was holding a baby. A weeping old woman talked to a young man. Nearest to Marcia was a Chicano couple. The woman was beautiful and the man was caressing her bare arms.

Farragut stepped into this no man’s land and came on hard, as if he had been catapulted into the visit by mere circumstance “Hello darling,” he exclaimed as he had exclaimed “Hello darling” at trains, boats, airports, the foot of the driveway, journey’s end; but in the past
he would have worked out a timetable, aimed at the soonest possible sexual consummation.

“Hello,” she said. “You look well.”

“Thank you. You look beautiful.”

“I didn’t tell you I was coming because it didn’t seem necessary. When I called to make an appointment they told me you weren’t going anywhere.”

“That’s true.”

“I haven’t been here sooner because I’ve been in Jamaica with Gussie.”

“That sounds great. How’s Gussie?”

“Fat. She’s gotten terribly fat.”

“Are you getting a divorce?”

“Not now. I don’t feel like talking with any more lawyers at this point.”

“Divorce is your prerogative.”

“I know.” She looked at the Chicano couple. The man had stroked his way up to the hair in the girl’s armpits. Both their eyes were shut.

“What,” she asked, “do you find to talk about with these people?”

“I don’t see much of them,” he said, “excepting at chow and we can’t talk then. You see, I’m in cellblock F. It’s sort of a forgotten place. Like Piranesi. Last Tuesday they forgot to spring us for supper.”

“What is your cell like?”

“Twelve by seven,” he said. “The only thing that belongs to me is the Miró print, the Descartes and a color photograph of you and Peter. It’s an old one. I took it when we had a house on the Vineyard. How is Peter?”

“Fine.”

“Will he ever come to see me?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know. He doesn’t ask for you. The social worker thinks that, for the general welfare, it’s best at the moment that he not see his father in jail for murder.”

“Could you bring me a photograph?”

“I could if I had one.”

“Couldn’t you take one?”

“You know I’m no good with a camera.”

“Anyway, thank you for sending me the new watch, dear.”

“You’re welcome.”

Someone on cellblock B struck a five-string banjo and began to sing: “I got those cellblock blues/I’m feeling blue all the time/I got those cellblock blues/Fenced in by walls I can’t climb….” He was good. The voice and the banjo were loud, clear and true, and brought into that border country the fact that it was a late summer afternoon all over that part of the world. Out the window he could see some underwear and fatigues hung out to dry. They moved in the breeze as if this movement—like the movements of ants, bees and geese—had some polar ordination. For a moment he felt himself to be a man of the world, a world to which his responsiveness was marvelous and absurd. She opened her bag and looked for something. “The army must have been a good preparation for this experience,” she said.

“Sort of,” he said.

“I never understood why you so liked the army.”

He heard, from the open space in front of the main
entrance, a guard shouting: “You’re going to be good boys, aren’t you? You’re going to be good boys. You’re going to be good, good, good boys.” He heard the dragging ring of metal and guessed they’d come from Auburn.

“Oh, dammit,” she said. Peevishness darkened her face. “Oh, Goddammit,” she said with pure indignation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I can’t find my Kleenex,” she said. She was foraging in the bag.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Everything seems to fight me today,” she said, “absolutely everything.” She dumped the contents of her bag onto the counter.

“Lady, lady,” said the turnkey, who sat above them on an elevated chair like a lifeguard. “Lady, you ain’t allowed to have nothing on the counter but soft drinks and butt cans.”

“I,” she said, “am a taxpayer. I help to support this place. It costs me more to keep my husband in here than it costs me to send my son to a good school.”

“Lady, lady, please,” he said. “Get that stuff off the counter or I’ll have to kick you out.”

She found the small box of paper and pushed the contents of her handbag back to where they belonged. Then he covered her hand with his, deeply thrilled at this recollection of his past. She pulled her hand away, but why? Had she let him touch her for a minute, the warmth, the respite, would have lasted for weeks. “Well,” she said, regaining her composure, her beauty, he thought.

The light in the room was unkind, but she was
equal to its harshness. She had been an authenticated beauty. Several photographers had asked her to model, although her breasts, marvelous for nursing and love, were a little too big for that line of work. “I’m much too shy, much too lazy,” she had said. She had accepted the compliment; her beauty had been documented. “You know,” his son had said, “I can’t talk to Mummy when there’s a mirror in the room. She’s really balmy about her looks.” Narcissus was a man and he couldn’t make the switch, but she had, maybe twelve or fourteen times, stood in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom and asked him, “Is there another woman of my age in this county who is as beautiful as I?” She had been naked, overwhelmingly so, and he had thought this an invitation, but when he touched her she said, “Stop fussing with my breasts. I’m beautiful.” She was, too. He knew that after she’d left, whoever had seen her—the turnkey, for instance—would say, “If that was your wife you’re lucky. Outside the movies I never seen anyone so beautiful.”

If she was Narcissa did the rest of the Freudian doctrine follow? He had never, within his limited judgment, taken this very seriously. She had spent three weeks in Rome with her old roommate Maria Lippincott Hastings Guglielmi. Three marriages, a fat settlement for each, and a very unsavory sexual reputation. They then had no maid and he and Peter had cleaned the house, laid and lighted fires, and bought flowers to celebrate her return from Italy. He met her at Kennedy. The plane was late. It was after midnight. When he bent to kiss her she averted her face and pulled down the floppy brim of her new Roman hat. He got
her bags, got the car and they started home. “You seem to have had a marvelous time,” he said. “I have never,” she said, “been so happy in my life.” He jumped to no conclusions. The fires would be burning, the flowers gleaming. In that part of the world the ground was covered with dirty snow. “Was there any snow in Rome?” he asked. “Not in the city,” she said. “There was a little snow on the Via Cassia. I didn’t see it. I read about it in the paper. Nothing so revolting as this.”

He carried the bags into the living room. Peter was there in his pajamas. She embraced him and cried a little. The fires and the flowers missed her by a mile. He could try to kiss her again, but he knew that he might get a right to the jaw. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, making the offer in a voice that rose. “I guess so,” she said, dropping an octave. “Campari,” she said. “
Limone?
” he asked. “Sì, sì,” she said, “un spritz.” He got the ice, the lemon peel, and handed her the drink. “Put it on the table,” she said. “Campari will remind me of my lost happiness.” She went into the kitchen, wet a sponge and began to wash the door of the refrigerator. “We cleaned the place,” he said with genuine sadness. “Peter and I cleaned the place. Peter mopped the kitchen floor.” “Well, you seem to have forgotten the refrigerator door,” she said. “If there are angels in heaven,” he said, “and if they are women, I expect they must put down their harps quite frequently to mop drainboards, refrigerator doors, any enameled surface. It seems to be a secondary female characteristic.” “Are you crazy?” she asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His cock, so recently ready for fun, retreated from Waterloo to Paris and from Paris to Elba.
“Almost everyone I love has called me crazy,” he said. “What I’d like to talk about is love.” “Oh, is that it,” she said. “Well, here you go.” She put her thumbs into her ears, wagged her fingers, crossed her eyes and made a loud farting sound with her tongue. “I wish you wouldn’t make faces,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t look like that,” she said. “Thank God you can’t see the way you look.” He said nothing more since he knew that Peter was listening.

It took her that time about ten days to come around. It was after a cocktail party and before a dinner. They took a nap, she in his arms. They were one, he thought. The fragrant skein of her hair lay across his face. Her breathing was heavy. When she woke she touched his face and asked: “Did I snore?” “Terribly,” he said, “you sounded like a chain saw.” “It was a lovely sleep,” she said, “I love to sleep in your arms.” Then they made love. His imagery for a big orgasm was winning the sailboat race, the Renaissance, high mountains. “Christ, that felt good,” she said. “What time is it?” “Seven,” he said. “When are we due?” “Eight.” “You’ve had your bath, I’ll take mine.” He dried her with a Kleenex and passed her a lighted cigarette. He followed her into the bathroom and sat on the shut toilet seat while she washed her back with a brush. “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Liza sent us a wheel of Brie.” “That’s nice,” she said, “but you know what? Brie gives me terribly loose bowels.” He hitched up his genitals and crossed his legs. “That’s funny,” he said. “It constipates me.” That was their marriage then—not the highest paving of the stair, the clatter of Italian fountains, the
wind in the alien olive trees, but this: a jay-naked male and female discussing their bowels.

One more time. It was when they still bred dogs. Hannah, the bitch, had whelped a litter of eight. Seven were in the kennel behind the house. One, a sickly runt who would die, had been let in. Farragut was waked from a light sleep at around three, by the noise of the puppy vomiting or defecating. He slept naked and naked he left the bed, trying not to disturb Marcia, and went down to the living room. There was a mess under the piano. The puppy was trembling. “That’s all right, Gordo,” he said. Peter had named the puppy Gordon Cooper. It was that long ago. He got a mop, a bucket and some paper towels and crawled bare-ass under the piano to clean up the shit. He had disturbed her and he heard her come down the stairs. She wore a transparent nightgown and everything was to be seen. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” he said. “Gordo had an accident.” “I’ll help,” she said. “You needn’t,” he said. “It’s almost done.” “But I want to,” she said. On her hands and knees, she joined him under the piano. When it was done she stood and struck her head on that part of the piano that overlaps the bulk of the instrument. “Oh,” she said. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked. “Not terribly,” she said. “I hope I won’t have a bump or a shiner.” “I’m sorry, my darling,” he said. He stood, embraced her, kissed her and they made love on the sofa. He lighted a cigarette for her and they returned to bed. But it wasn’t much after this that he stepped into the kitchen to get some ice and found her embracing and kissing Sally Midland, with whom she did crewelwork
twice a week. He thought the embrace was not platonic and he detested Sally. “Excuse me,” he said. “What for?” she asked. “I broke wind,” he said. That was nasty and he knew it. He carried the ice tray into the pantry. She was silent during dinner and for the rest of the evening. When they woke the next day—Saturday—he asked: “Good morning, darling?” “Shit,” she said. She put on her wrapper and went to the kitchen, where he heard her kick the refrigerator and then the dishwasher. “I hate you broken-down fucking second-rate appliances,” she shouted. “I hate, hate, hate this fucking dirty old-fashioned kitchen. I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls.” This was ominous, he knew, and the omens meant that he would get no breakfast. When she was distempered she regarded the breakfast eggs as if she had laid and hatched them. The egg, the egg for breakfast! The egg was like some sibyl in an Attic drama. “May I have eggs for breakfast?” he had once asked, years and years ago. “Do you expect me to prepare breakfast in this House of Usher?” she had asked. “Could I cook myself some eggs?” he asked. “You may not,” she said. “You will make such a mess in this ruin that it will take hours for me to clean it up.” On such a morning, he knew, he would be lucky to get a cup of coffee. When he dressed and went down, her face was still very dark and this made him feel much more grievous than hungry. How could he repair this? He saw out the window that there had been a frost, the first. The sun had risen, but the white hoarfrost stood in the shadow of the house and the trees with a Euclidian preciseness. It was after the first frost that you cut the fox grapes she liked for jelly, not much bigger than
raisins, black, gamy; he thought that perhaps a bag of fox grapes would do the trick. He was scrupulous about the sexual magic of tools. This could be anxiety or the fact that they had once summered in southwestern Ireland, where tools had been male and female. He would, carrying a basket and shears, have felt like a transvestite. He chose a burlap sack and a hunting knife. He went into the woods—half or three-quarters of a mile from the house—to where there was a stand of fox grapes against a stand of pines. The exposure was due east and they were ripe, blackish-purple and rimmed with frost in the shade. He cut them with his manly knife and slapped them into the crude sack. He cut them for her, but who was she? Sally Midland’s lover? Yes, yes, yes! Face the facts. What he faced was either the biggest of falsehoods or the biggest of truths, but in any case a sense of reasonableness enveloped and supported him. But if she loved Sally Midland, didn’t he love Chucky Drew? He liked to be with Chucky Drew, but when they stood side by side in the shower he thought that Chucky looked like a diseased chicken, with flabby arms like the arms of those women who used to play bridge with his mother. He had not loved a man, he thought, since he had left the Boy Scouts. So, with his bag of wild grapes, he returned to the house, burs on his trousers, his brow bitten by the last flies of that year. She had gone back to bed. She lay there with her face in the pillow. “I picked some grapes,” he said. “We had the first frost last night. I picked some fox grapes for jelly.” “Thank you,” she said, into the pillow. “I’ll leave them in the kitchen,” he said. He spent the rest of the day preparing the house
for winter. He took down the screens and put up the storm windows, banked the rhododendrons with raked and acid oak leaves, checked the oil level in the fuel tank and sharpened his skates. He worked along with numerous hornets who bumped against the eaves, looking, even as he, for some sanctuary for the coming ice age….