The World According To Garp (38 page)

“Ralph?” Duncan said.

One policeman knelt beside the boy and pointed the flashlight up at Garp. “Is this your father?” the cop asked Duncan. The boy was rather wild-eyed; he darted his eyes from his father to the cops to the blue light flashing on the squad car.

The other policeman went over to the person in the back seat of the car. It was the boy in the purple caftan. The police had picked him up while they were cruising the neighborhood for the exhibitionist. The boy hadn’t been able to tell them where he lived—because he didn’t really live anywhere. “Do you know that man with the child there?” the policeman asked the boy.

“Yeah, he’s a real tough guy,” the kid said.

“It’s all right, Duncan,” Garp said. “Don’t be scared. I’m just taking you home.”

“Son?” the policeman asked Duncan. “Is this your father?”

“You’re scaring him,” Garp told the cop.

“I’m not scared,” Duncan said. “Why are you taking me home?” he asked his father. It seemed that everyone wanted to hear this.

“Ralph’s mother was upset,” Garp said; he hoped that would be enough, but the rejected lover in the police car started to laugh. The policeman with the flashlight shone his light on the lover boy and asked Garp if he knew him. Garp thought: There is no end to this in sight.

“My name is Garp,” Garp said, irritably. “T. S. Garp. I am married. I have two children. One of them—this one, named Duncan, the older—was spending the night with a friend. I was convinced that this friend’s mother was unfit to look after my son. I went to the house and took my son home. Or, I’m still trying to
get
home.

“
That
boy,” Garp said, pointing to the police car, “was visiting the mother of the friend of my son when I arrived. The mother wanted the boy to leave—
that
boy,” Garp said, again pointing at the kid in the police car, “and he left.”

“What is this mother’s name?” a policeman asked; he was trying to write everything down in a giant pad. After a polite silence, the policeman looked up at Garp.

“Duncan?” Garp asked his son. “What is Ralph’s name?”

“Well, it’s being changed,” Duncan said. “He used to have his father’s name, but his mother’s trying to get it changed.”

“Yes, but what
is
his father’s name?” Garp asked. “Ralph,” Duncan said. Garp shut his eyes.

“Ralph Ralph?” the policeman with the pad said.

“No, Duncan, please think,” Garp said. “Ralph’s
last
name is what?”

“Well, I think that’s the name being changed,” Duncan said.

“Duncan, what is it being changed
from
?” Garp asked.

“You could ask Ralph,” Duncan suggested. Garp wanted to scream.

“Did you say
your
name was Garp?” one of the policemen asked.

“Yes,” Garp admitted.

“And the initials are T. S.?” the policeman asked. Garp knew what would happen next; he felt very tired.

“Yes, T. S.,” he said. “Just T. S.”

“Hey, Tough Shit!” howled the kid in the car, falling back in the seat, swooning with laughter.

“What does the first initial stand for, Mr. Garp?” the policeman asked. “Nothing,” Garp said.

“Nothing?” the policeman said.

“They’re just initials,” Garp said. “They’re all my mother gave me.”

“Your first name is
T
?” the policeman asked.

“People call me Garp,” Garp said.

“What a story, man!” cried the boy in the caftan, but the policeman nearest the squad car rapped on the roof at him.

“You put your dirty feet on that seat again, sonny,” he said, “and I’ll have you licking the crud off.”

“Garp?” said the policeman interviewing Garp. “I know who you are!” he cried suddenly. Garp felt very anxious. “You’re the one who got that molester in that park!”

“Yes!” said Garp. “That was me. But it wasn’t here, and it was years ago.”

“I remember it as if it were yesterday,” the policeman said.

“What’s this?” the other policeman asked.

“You’re too young,” the cop told him. “This is man named Garp who grabbed that molester in that park—where was it? That
child
molester, that’s who it was. And what was it you did?” he asked Garp, curiously. “I mean, there was something funny, wasn’t there?”

“Funny?” said Garp.

“For a
living
,” the policeman said. “What did you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer,” Garp said.

“Oh, yeah,” the policeman remembered. “Are you still a writer?”

“Yes,” Garp confessed. He knew, at least, that he wasn’t a marriage counselor.

“Well, I’ll be,” the policeman said, but something was still bothering him; Garp could tell something was wrong.

“I had a beard then,” Garp offered.

“That’s it!” the policeman cried. “And you’ve shaved it or”

“Right,” said Garp.

The policemen had a conference in the red glow of the taillights of the squad car. They decided to give Garp and Duncan a ride home, but they said Garp would still have to show them some information regarding his identity.

“I just don’t recognize you—from the pictures—without the beard,” the older policeman said.

“Well, it
was
years ago,” Garp said, sadly, “and in another town.”

Garp felt uneasy that the young man in the caftan would get to see the house the Garps lived in. Garp imagined the young man would show up one day, asking for something.

“You remember me?” the kid asked Duncan.

“I don’t think so,” Duncan said, politely.

“Well, you were almost asleep,” the boy admitted. To Garp he said, “You’re too uptight about children, man. Children make it just fine. This your only child?”

“No, I have another one,” Garp said.

“Man, you ought to have a
dozen
other ones,” the boy said. “Then maybe you wouldn’t get so uptight about just one, you know?” This sounded to Garp like what his mother called the Percy Theory of Children.

“Take your next left,” Garp told the policeman who was driving, “then a right, and it’s on the corner.” The other policeman handed Duncan a lollipop.

“Thank you,” Duncan said.

“What about me?” the kid in the caftan asked. “
I
like lollipops.” The policeman glared; when he turned his back, Duncan gave the kid his lollipop. Duncan was no fan of lollipops, he never had been.

“Thank you,” the boy whispered. “You see, man?” he said to Garp. “Kids are just beautiful.”

So is Helen, Garp tbought—in the doorway with the light behind her. Her blue, floor-length robe had a high, roll-up collar; Helen had the collar turned up as if she were cold. She also had her glasses on, so that Garp knew she’d been watching for them.

“Man,” whispered the kid in the caftan, elbowing Garp as he got out of the car. “What’s that lovely lady like when she gets her glasses off?”

“Mom! We got arrested,” Duncan called to Helen. The squad car waited at the curb for Garp to get his identification.

“We did
not
get arrested,” Garp said. “We got a
ride
, Duncan. Everything’s
fine
,” he said angrily, to Helen. He ran upstairs to find his wallet among his clothes.

“Is that how you went out?” Helen called after him. “Dressed like that?”

“The police thought he was kidnapping me,” Duncan said.

“Did they come to the house?” Helen asked him.

“No, Dad was carrying me home,” Duncan said. “Boy, is Dad weird.”

Garp thundered down the stairs and ran out the door. “A case of mistaken identity,” Garp muttered to Helen. “They must have been looking for someone else. For God’s sake, don’t get upset.”

“I’m
not
upset,” Helen said, sharply.

Garp showed the police his identification.

“Well, I’ll be,” the older policeman said. “It
is
just T. S., isn’t it? I suppose it’s easier that way.”

“Sometimes it isn’t,” Garp said.

As the police car was leaving, the kid called out to Garp. “You’re not a bad guy, man, if you’d just learn to
relax
!”

Garp’s impression of Helen’s body, lean and tense and shivering in the blue robe, did not relax him. Duncan was wide-awake and jabbering: he was hungry, too. So was Garp. In the pre-dawn kitchen, Helen coolly watched them eat. Duncan told the plot of a long TV movie: Garp suspected that it was actually two movies, and Duncan had fallen asleep before one was over and woken up after the other one had begun. He tried to imagine where and when Mrs. Ralph’s activities fitted into Duncan’s movies.

Helen didn’t ask any questions. In part, Garp knew, this was because there was nothing she could say in front of Duncan. But in part, like Garp, she was severely editing what she wanted to say. They were both grateful for Duncan’s presence; by the time they got to speak freely to each other, the long wait might make them kinder, and more careful.

At dawn they couldn’t wait any longer and they began to talk to each other through Duncan.

“Tell Mommy what the kitchen looked like,” Garp said. “And tell her about the dog.”

“Bill?”

“Right,” Garp said. “Tell her about old Bill.”

“What was Ralph’s mother wearing while you were there?” Helen asked Duncan. She smiled at Garp. “I hope she wore more clothes than Daddy.”

“What did you have for supper?” Garp asked Duncan.

“Are the bedrooms upstairs or downstairs?” Helen asked. “Or both?” Garp tried to give her a look that said: Please don’t get started. He could feel her edging the old, worn weapons into easy reach. She had a baby-sitter or two she could recall for him, and he felt her moving the baby-sitters into place. If she brought up one of the old, wounding names, Garp had no names ready for retaliation. Helen had no baby-sitters against her; not yet. In Garp’s mind, Harrison Fletcher didn’t count.

“How many telephones are there?” Helen asked Duncan. “Is there a phone in the kitchen and one in the bedroom? Or is the only phone in the bedroom?”

When Duncan finally went to his room, Helen and Garp were left with less than half an hour before Walt would wake up. But Helen had the names of her enemies ready. There is plenty of time to do damage when you know where the war wounds are.

“I love you so much, and I know you so well,” Helen began.

LATE-NIGHT
phone calls—those burglar alarms in the heart—would frighten Garp all his life. Who is it that I love? Garp’s heart would cry, at the first ring—who’s been blasted by a truck, who’s drowned in the beer or lies side-swiped by an elephant in the terrible darkness?

Garp feared the receiving of such after-midnight calls, but he once made one—unknowingly—himself. It had been one evening when Jenny was visiting them; his mother had let it slip how Cushie Percy had ruptured in childbirth. Garp had not heard of it, and although he occasionally joked with Helen about his old passion for Cushie—and Helen teased him about her—the news of Cushie
dead
was nearly crippling to Garp. Cushman Percy had been so active—there had been such a hot juiciness about her—it seemed impossible. News of an accident to Alice Fletcher could not have upset him more; he felt more prepared for something happening to her. Sadly, he knew, things would
always
be happening to Quiet Alice.

Garp wandered into the kitchen and without really noticing the time, or remembering when he opened another beer, he discovered that he had dialed the Percys’ number; the phone was ringing. Slowly, Garp could imagine the long way back from sleep that Fat Stew had to travel before he could answer the phone.

“God, who are you calling?” Helen asked, coming into the kitchen. “It’s quarter of two!”

Before Garp could hang up, Stewart Percy answered the phone.

“Yes?” Fat Stew asked, worriedly, and Garp could imagine frail and brainless Midge sitting up in bed beside him, as nervous as a cornered hen.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Garp said. “I didn’t realize it was so late.” Helen shook her head and walked abruptly out of the kitchen. Jenny appeared in the kitchen doorway; on her face was the kind of critical look only a mother can give a son. That is a look with more disappointment in it than the usual anger.

“Who the hell is this?” Stewart Percy said.

“This is Garp, sir,” Garp said, a little boy again, apologizing for his genes.

“Holy shit,” said Fat Stew. “What do
you
want?”

Jenny had neglected to tell Garp that Cushie Percy had died
months
ago; Garp thought he was offering condolences on a fresh disaster. Thus he faltered.

“I’m sorry, very sorry,” Garp said.

“You said so, you
said
so,” Stewart said.

“I just heard about it,” Garp said, “and I wanted to tell you and Mrs. Percy how truly sorry I was. I may not have demonstrated it, to
you
, sir, but I was really very fond of—”

“You little swine!” said Stewart Percy. “You mother humper, you Jap ball of shit!” He hung up the phone.

Even Garp was unprepared for this much loathing. But he misunderstood the situation. It would be years before he realized the circumstances of his phone call. Poor Pooh Percy, batty Bainbridge, would one day explain it to Jenny. When Garp called, Cushie had been dead for so long that Stewart did not realize Garp was commiserating with him on
Cushie’s
loss. When Garp called, it was the midnight of the dark day when the black beast, Bonkers, had finally expired. Stewart Percy thought that Garp’s call was a cruel joke—false condolences for the dog Garp had always hated.

And now, when Garp’s phone rang, Garp was conscious of Helen’s grip emerging instinctively from her sleep. When he picked up the phone, Helen had his leg clamped fast between her knees—as if she were holding tight to the life and safety that his body was to her. Garp’s mind ran through the odds. Walt was home asleep. And so was Duncan; he was
not
at Ralph’s.

Helen thought: It is my father; it’s his heart. Sometimes she thought: They’ve finally found and identified my mother. In a morgue.

And Garp thought: They have murdered Mom. Or they are holding her for ransom—men who will accept nothing less than the public rape of forty virgins before releasing the famous feminist, unharmed. And they’ll also demand the lives of my children, and so forth.