Flying to America (40 page)
The telephone rang and Alison answered.
Then she said: It’s some girl, for you.
RETURNING TO THE LIVINGROOM, ALISON HESITATED
As I had thought it might be, it was Amelia. I told her about Dan’s illness. She was very concerned and asked if I thought it would be appropriate if she went to the hospital.
You don’t think it would be appropriate Amelia said.
A MOMENT OF INDECISION FOLLOWED By A PAINFUL SILENCE
No Amelia I said truthfully, I don’t.
Then Amelia said that this indication of her tiny status in all our lives left her with nothing to say.
To cheer her up I said I would visit her again in the near future. This pleased her and the exchange ended on a note of warmth. I knew however that Alison would ask questions and I returned to the living room with some anxiety.
THE CONVERSATION LAPSED
But now the pilots George and Sam rushed in with good news instead. They had gotten word of Dan’s illness over the radio they said, and filled with concern had flown straight to the hospital, where
they learned that Dan’s stomach had been pumped and all was well. Dan was resting easily George and Sam said, and could come home in about a week.
A HIATUS FILLED WITH DOUBT AND SUSPICION
Oh Peter! Alison exclaimed in a pleased way, our ordeal is over. She kissed me with abandon and George and Sam shook hands with each other and with Andrew and Buster and Slim, who had just come in from the hospital. To celebrate we decided that we would all fly to London and Rome on a Viscount jet which I bought for an undisclosed sum and which Sam declared he knew how to fly very well.
S
itting on the floor by the window with only part of my face in the window. He’ll never come back.
— Of course he will. He’ll return, open the gate with one hand, look up and see your face in the window.
— He’ll never come back. Not now.
— He’ll come back. New lines on his meager visage. Yet with head held high.
— I was unforgivable.
— I would not argue otherwise.
— The black iron gate, difficult to open. Takes two hands. I can see it. It’s closed.
— I’ve had hell with the gate. In winter, without gloves, yanking, late at night, turning my pretty head to see who might be behind me . . .
— That time that guy was after you . . .
— The creep —
— With the chain.
— Naw he wasn’t the one with the chain he was the other one. With the cudgel.
— Yes they do seem to be carrying cudgels now, I’ve noticed that. Big knobby cudgels.
— It’s a style, makes a statement, something to do with their sexual . . . I imagine.
— Sitting on the floor by the window with only part of my face in the window, the upper part, face truncated under the eyes by the what do you call it, sill.
— But bathed nevertheless by the heat of the fire, which spreads a pleasing warm tickle across your bare back —
— I was unforgivable.
— I don’t disagree.
— He’ll never come back.
— Say you’re sorry.
— I’m not sorry.
— Genuine sorrow is gold. If you can’t do it, fake it.
— I’m not sorry.
— Well screw it. It’s six of one and half dozen of the other to me. I don’t care.
— What?
— Forgive me I didn’t mean that.
— What?
— I just meant you could throw him a bone is all I meant. A note written on pale-blue notepaper, in an unsteady hand. “Dear William, it is one of the greatest regrets of my poor life that —”
— Never.
— He may. He might. It’s possible. Your position, there in the window, strongly suggests that the affair has yet some energy unexpended. That the magnetic north of your brain may attract his wavering needle still.
— That’s kind of you. Kind.
— Your wan, white back. Your green, bifurcated French jeans. Red lines on your back. Cat hair on your jeans.
— Wait. What is it that makes you spring up so, my heart?
— The gate.
— The sound of the gate. The gate opening.
— Is it he?
— It is not. It is someone.
— Let me look.
— He’s standing there.
— I know him. Andy deGroot. Looking up at our window.
— Who’s Andy deGroot?
— Guy I know. Melville Fisher Kirkland Leland & deGroot.
— What’s he want?
— My devotion. I’ve disabused him a hundred times, to little avail. If he rings, don’t answer. Of course he’s more into standing outside and gazing up.
— He looks all right.
— Yes he is all right. That’s Andy.
— Powerful forehead on him.
— Yes it is impressive. Stuffed with banana paste.
— Good arms.
— Yes, quite good.
— Looks like he might fly into a rage if crossed.
— He rages constantly.
— We could go out in the street and hit on him, drive him away with blows and imprecations.
— Probably have little or no effect.
— Stick him with the spines of sea urchins.
— Doubt you could penetrate.
— But he’s a friend of yours so you say.
— I got no friends babe, no friends, no friends. When you get down to the nut-cutting.
— Go take a poke.
— I don’t want to be the first you do it.
— Ah the hell with it. Sitting here with my head hanging in the window, what a way for a grown woman to spend her time.
— Many ways a grown woman can spend her time. Many ways. Lace-making. Feeding the golden carp. Fibonacci numbers.
— Perhaps a new gown, in fawn or taupe. That might be a giggle. Meanwhile, I am planted on this floor. Sitting on the floor by the window with only my great dark eyes visible. My great dark eyes and, in moments of agitation, my great dark nose. Ogled by myriads of citizens bopping down these Chuck’s Pizza–plated streets.
— How pale the brow! How pallid the cheek! How chalk the neck! How floury the shoulders! And so on. Say you’re sorry.
— I cannot. What’s next? Can’t sit here all night. I’m nervous. Look on the bright side, maybe he’ll go away. He’s got a gun stuck in his belt, a belly gun, I saw it. I scraped the oatmeal out of the pot you’ll be glad to know. Used the mitt, the black mitt. Throw something at him, a spear or a rock. Open the window first. Spear’s in the closet. I can lend you a rock if you don’t have a rock. Hurt him. Make him go away. Make the other return. Stir up the fire. Put on some music. Have you no magic? Why do I know you? What are you good for? Why are you here? Fetch me some chocolate? Massage?
— He’ll never come back. Until you say it.
— Be damned if I will. Damned a thousand times.
— Then you’ll forfeit the sunshine of his poor blasted face forever. You are dumb, if I may say so, dumb, dumb. It’s easy. It’s like saying thank you. Myself, I shower thanks everywhere. Thank people for their kindness, thank them for their courtesy. Thank them for their thoughtfulness. Thank them for little things they do if they do little things that are kind, courteous, or thoughtful. Thank them for coming to my house and thank them for leaving. Thank them for what they are about to do as well as thank them for what they have already done, thank them in public and then take them aside privately and thank them again. Thank the thankless and thank the already adequately thanked. In fine, let no occasion pass to slip the chill blade of my thanks between the ribs of every human ear.
— Well. I see what you mean.
— Act.
— Andy has bestirred himself.
— What’s he doing?
— Sitting. On a garbage can.
— I knew him long ago, and far away.
— Cincinnati.
— Yes. Engaged then in the manufacture of gearshafts. Had quite a nice wife at that period, name of Caledonia. She split. Then another wife, Cecile as I recall, ran away with a gibbon. Then another wife whose name taxes my memory as it cannot be brought to
consciousness, think I spilled something on her once, something that stained. She too evaporated. He came here and joined Melville Fisher etc. Fell in love with a secretary. Polly. She had a beaded curtain in front of her office door and burnt incense. Quite exotic, for Melville Fisher. She ended up in the harem of one of those mystics, a mahrooni. Met the old boy once, he grasped my nose and pulled, I felt a great surge of something. Like I was having my nose pulled.
— So that’s Andy.
— Yes. What’s that sucker doing now?
— He’s combing his head. Got him a steel comb, maybe aluminum.
— What’s to comb? What’s he doing now?
— Adjusting his pants. He’s zipping.
— You are aware dear colleague are you not that I cannot abide, cannot abide, even the least wrinkle of vulgarity in social discourse? And that this “zipping” as you call it —
— You are censorious, madame.
— A mere scant shallow preludium, madame, to the remarks I shall bend in your direction should you persist.
— Shall we call the cops?
— And say what?
— Someone’s sitting on our garbage can?
— Maybe that’s not illegal?
— Oh my God he’s got it out in his hands. Oh my god he’s pointing his gun at it.
— Oh my God. Shall we call the cops?
— Open the window.
— Open the window?
— Yes open the window.
— O.K. the window’s open.
—
William! William, wherever you are!
— You’re going to say you’re sorry!
—
William! I’m sorry!
— Andy’s put everything away!
—
William I’m sorry I let my brother hoist you up the mast in that crappy jury-rigged bosun’s chair while everybody laughed!
William I’m sorry I could build better fires than you could! I’m sorry my stack of Christmas cards was always bigger than yours!
— Andy quails. That’s good.
—
William I’m sorry you don’t ski and I’m sorry about your back and I’m sorry I invented bop jogging which you couldn’t do! I’m sorry I loved Antigua! I’m sorry my mind wandered when you talked about the army! I’m sorry I was superior in argument! I’m sorry you slit open my bicycle tires looking for incriminating letters that you didn’t find! You’ll never find them!
— Wow babe that’s terrific babe. Very terrific.
—
William! I’m sorry I looked at Sam but he was so handsome, so handsome, who could not! I’m sorry I slept with Sam! I’m sorry about the library books! I’m sorry about Pete! I’m sorry I never played the guitar you gave me! William! I’m sorry I married you and I’ll never do it again!
— Wow.
— Was I sorry enough?
— Well Andy’s run away howling.
— Was I sorry enough?
— Terrific. Very terrific.
— Yes I feel much better.
— Didn’t I tell you?
— You told me.
— Are you O.K.?
— Yes I’m fine. Just a little out of breath.
— Well. What’s next? Do a little honky-tonking maybe, hit a few bars?
— We could. If you feel like it. Was I sorry enough?
— No.
D
inner with Florence Green. The old babe is on a kick tonight:
I want to go to some other country,
she announces. Everyone wonders what this can mean. But Florence says nothing more: no explanation, no elaboration, after a satisfied look around the table bang! she is asleep again. The girl at Florence’s right is new here and does not understand. I give her an ingratiating look (a look that says, “There is nothing to worry about, I will explain everything later in the privacy of my quarters Kathleen”). Lentils vegetate in the depths of the fourth principal river of the world, the Ob, in Siberia, 3200 miles. We are talking about Quemoy and Matsu. “It’s a matter of leading from strength. What is the strongest possible move on our part? To deny them the islands even though the islands are worthless in themselves.” Baskerville, a sophomore at the Famous Writers School in Westport, Connecticut, which he attends with the object of becoming a famous writer, is making his excited notes. The new girl’s boobies are like my secretary’s knees, very prominent and irritating. Florence began the evening by saying, grandly, “The upstairs bathroom leaks you know.” What does Herman Kahn think about Quemoy and Matsu? I can’t remember, I can’t remember . . .
Oh Baskerville! you silly son of a bitch, how can you become a famous writer without first having worried about your life, is it
the
right kind
of life, does it have the right people in it, is it
going well?
Instead you are beglamoured by J. D. Ratcliff. The smallest city in the United States with a population over 100,000 is Santa Ana, California, where 100,350 citizens nestle together in the Balboa blue Pacific evenings worrying about their lives. I am a young man but very brilliant, very ingratiating, I adopt this ingratiating tone because I can’t help myself (for fear of boring you). I edit with my left hand a small magazine, very scholarly, very brilliant, called
The Journal of Tension Reduction
(social-psychological studies, learned disputation, letters-to-the-editor, anxiety in rats). Isn’t that distasteful? Certainly it is distasteful but if Florence Green takes her money to another country who will pay the printer? answer me that. From an article in
The Journal of Tension Reduction: “One source of concern in the classic encounter between patient and psychoanalyst is the patient’s fear of boring the doctor.”
The doctor no doubt is also worrying about his life, unfolding with ten minutes between hours to smoke a cigarette in and wash his hands in. Reader, you who have already been told more than you want to know about the river Ob, 3200 miles long, in Siberia, we have roles to play, thou and I: you are the doctor (washing your hands between hours), and I, I am, I think, the nervous dreary patient. I am free associating, brilliantly, brilliantly, to put you into the problem. Or for fear of boring you: which?
The Journal of Tension Reduction
is concerned with everything from global tensions (drums along the Ob) to interpersonal relations (Baskerville and the new girl). There is, we feel, too much tension in the world, I myself am a perfect example, my stomach is like a clenched fist. Notice the ingratiating tone here? the only way I can relax it, I refer to the stomach, is by introducing quarts of Fleischmann’s Gin. Fleischmann’s I have found is a magnificent source of tension reduction, I favor the establishment of comfort stations providing free Fleischmann’s on every street corner of the city Santa Ana, California, and all other cities. Be serious, can’t you?
