The World According To Garp (68 page)

Kenny Truckenmiller had blamed the women’s movement for the self-education of his wife. Mrs. Truckenmiller had always been self-employed, a “hair stylist” in the town of North Mountain, New Hampshire. She went right on being a hair stylist when Kenny was forced, by the court, to move out of her house. But now that Kenny was no longer driving a truck for the town, Mrs Truckenmiller found the support of her family difficult by hair styling alone. She wrote in her nearly illegible application that she had been forced to compromise herself “to make ends meet,” and that she did not care to repeat the act of compromising herself in the future.

Mrs. Truckenmiller, who never once referred to herself as having a first name, realized that the loathing for her husband was so great as to prejudice the board against her. She would understand, she wrote, if they chose to ignore her.

John Wolf, who was (against his will) an honorary member of the board—and valued for his shrewd financial head—said immediately that nothing could be better or wider publicity for the Fields Foundation than awarding “this unfortunate relation of Jenny’s killer” what she asked for. It would be instant news; it would pay for itself, John Wolf decided, in that it would surely gain the foundation untold sums in gift donations.

“We’re already doing pretty well on gift donations,” Garp hedged.

“Suppose she’s just a whore?” Roberta suggested of the unfortunate Mrs. Truckenmiller; they all stared at her. Roberta had an advantage among them: of being able to think like a woman
and
like a Philadelphia Eagle. “Just think a minute,” Roberta said. “Suppose she’s just a floozy, someone who
compromises herself
all the time, and always has—and thinks nothing of it. Then, suddenly, we’re a
joke
; then we’ve been had.”

“So we need a character reference,” said Marcia Fox.

“Someone’s got to see the woman, talk with her,” Garp suggested. “Find out if she’s honorable, if she’s really
trying
to live independently.”

They all stared at him.

“Well,” Roberta said, “
I’m
not about to discover whether she’s a whore or not.”

“Oh no,” Garp said. “Not
me
.”

“Where’s North Mountain, New Hampshire?” asked Marcia Fox.

“Not
me
,” John Wolf said. “I’m out of New York too much of the time as it is.”

“Oh boy,” Garp said. “Suppose she recognizes me? People
do
, you know.”

“I doubt she will,” said Hilma Bloch, a psychiatric social worker whom Garp detested. “Those people most motivated to read autobiographies, such as your mother’s, are rarely attracted to fiction—or only tangentially. That is, if she read
The World According to Bensenhaver
she would have done so only because of who you are. And that would not have been sufficient reason to cause her to finish the book; in all probability—and given the fact that she’s a hair stylist, after all—she would have bogged down and
not
read it. And not remembered your picture on the cover, either—only your face, and only vaguely (you
were
a face in the news, of course, but really only around the time of Jenny’s murder). Surely, at that time, Jenny’s face was the face to recall. A woman like this watches a lot of television; she’s not a book-world person. I strongly doubt that a woman like this would even have a picture of you in her mind.”

John Wolf rolled his eyes away from Hilma Bloch. Even Roberta rolled her eyes.

“Thank you, Hilma,” said Garp, quietly. It was decided that Garp, would visit Mrs. Truckenmiller “to determine something more concrete about her character.”

“At least find out her first name,” said Marcia Fox.

“I’ll bet it’s Charlie,” Roberta said.

They passed on to the reports: who was living, presently, at Dog’s Head Harbor; whose tenancy was expiring; who was about to move in. And what were the problems there, if any?

There were two painters—one in the south garret, one in the north. The south-garret painter coveted the north-garret painter’s
light
, and for two weeks they didn’t get along; not a word to each other at breakfast, and accusations concerning lost mail. And so forth. Then, it appeared, they became lovers. Now only the north-garret painter was painting at all—studies of the south-garret painter, who modeled all day in the good light. Her nakedness, about the upstairs of the house, bothered at least one of the writers, an outspoken anti-lesbian playwright from Cleveland who had trouble sleeping, she said, because of the sound of the waves. It was probably the lovemaking of the painters that bothered her; she was described as “overextended,” anyway, but her complaints ceased once the other writer-in-residence suggested that all the Dog’s Head Harbor guests read aloud the parts of the dramatist’s play in progress. This was done, successfully for all, and the upper floors of the house were now happy.

The “other writer,” a good short-story writer whom Garp had enthusiastically recommended a year ago, was about to move out, however; her term of residency was expiring. Who would go in her room?

The woman whose mother-in-law had just won custody of her children, following the suicide of her husband?

“I
told
you not to accept her,” Garp said.

The two Ellen Jamesians who just, one day, showed up?

“Now wait a minute,” Garp said. “What’s this? Ellen Jamesians? Showing up? That’s not allowed.”

“Jenny always took them in,” Roberta said.

“This is
now
, Roberta,” Garp said.

The other members of the board were more or less in agreement with him; Ellen Jamesians were not much admired—they never had been, and their radicalism (now) seemed growingly obsolete and pathetic.

“It’s almost a tradition, though,” Roberta said. She described two “old” Ellen Jamesians, who’d been back from a bad time in California. Years ago they had stayed at Dog’s Head Harbor; returning there, Roberta argued, was a kind of sentimental recovery for them.

“Jesus, Roberta,” Garp said. “Get rid of them.”

“They were people your mother always took care of,” Roberta said.

“At least they’ll be
quiet
,” said Marcia Fox, whose economy of tongue Garp
did
admire. But only Garp laughed.

“I think you should get them to leave, Roberta,” Dr. Joan Axe said.

“They really resent the entire
society
,” Hilma Bloch said. “That could be infectious. On the other hand, they are almost the essence of the
spirit
of the place.”

John Wolf rolled his eyes.

“There is the doctor researching cancer-related abortions,” Joan Axe said. “What about her?”

“Yes, put
her
on the second floor,” Garp said. “I’ve
met
her. She’ll scare the shit out of anyone who tries to come upstairs.” Roberta frowned.

The downstairs of the Dog’s Head Harbor mansion was the largest part, containing two kitchens and four complete baths; as many as twelve could sleep, very privately, downstairs, and there were still the various conference rooms, as Roberta now called them—they were parlors and giant dens in the days of Jenny Fields. And a vast dining room where food, mail, and whoever wanted company collected all during the day and night.

It was the most social floor of Dog’s Head Harbor, usually not suited for the writers and painters. It was the best floor for the potential suicides, Garp had told the board, “because they’ll be forced to drown themselves in the ocean rather than jump out the windows.”

But Roberta ran the place in a strong, motherly, tight-end fashion; she could talk almost anyone out of anything, and if she couldn’t, she could overpower anybody. She had been much more successful at making the local police her allies than Jenny ever had been. Occasional unhappies were picked up by the police, far down the beach, or wailing on the boardwalks of the village; they were always gently returned to Roberta. The Dog’s Head Harbor Police were all football fans, full of respect for the savage line play and the vicious downfield blocking of the former Robert Muldoon.

“I would like to make a motion that
no
Ellen Jamesian be eligible for aid and comfort from the Fields Foundation,” Garp said.

“Second,” said Marcia Fox.

“This is open to discussion,” Roberta told them all. “I don’t see the necessity of having such a rule. We are not in the business of supporting what we largely would agree is a stupid form of political expression, but that doesn’t mean that one of these women without a tongue couldn’t be genuinely in need of help—I’d say, in fact, they have already demonstrated a definite need to locate themselves, and we can expect to go on hearing from them. They are truly needful people.”

“They are insane,” Garp said.

“This is too general,” said Hilma Bloch.

“There
are
productive women,” Marcia Fox said, “who have not given up their voices—in fact, they are fighting to use their voices—and I am not in favor of rewarding stupidity and self-imposed silence.”

“There are virtues in silence,” Roberta argued.

“Jesus, Roberta,” Garp said. And then he saw a light in this dark subject. For some reason, the Ellen Jamesians made him angrier than his image, even, of the Kenny Truckenmillers of this world; and although he saw that the Ellen Jamesians were fading from fashion, they could not fade fast enough to suit Garp. He wanted them gone; he wanted them more than gone—he wanted them disgraced. Helen had already told him that his hatred of them was inappropriate to what they were.

“It’s just madness, and simple-minded—what they’ve done,” Helen said. “Why can’t you ignore them, and leave them alone?”

But Garp said, “Let’s ask Ellen James. That’s fair, isn’t it? Let’s ask Ellen James for
her
opinion of the Ellen Jamesians. Jesus, I’d like to
publish
her opinion of them. Do you know how they’ve made
her
feel?”

“This is too personal a matter,” Hilma Bloch said. They had all met Ellen; they all knew that Ellen James
hated
being tongueless and hated the Ellen Jamesians.

“Let’s back off this, for now,” John Wolf said. “I move we table the motion.”

“Damn,” Garp said.

“All right, Garp,” Roberta said. “Let’s vote it, right now.” They all knew they would vote it down. That would get rid of it.

“I withdraw the motion,” Garp said, nastily. “Long live the Ellen Jamesians.”

But
he
did not withdraw.

It was madness that had killed Jenny Fields, his mother. It was extremism. It was self-righteous, fanatical, and monstrous self-pity. Kenny Truckenmiller was only a special kind of moron: a true believer who was also a thug. He was a man who pitied himself so blindly that he could make absolute enemies out of people who contributed only the ideas to his undoing.

And how was an Ellen Jamesian any different? Was not her gesture as desperate, and as empty of an understanding of human complexity?

“Come
on
,” John Wolf said. “They haven’t
murdered
anyone.”

“Not yet,” Garp said. “They have the equipment. They are capable of making mindless decisions, and they believe they are so
right
.”

“There’s more to killing someone than that,” Roberta said. They let Garp seethe. What else could they do? It was not one of Garp’s better points: tolerance of the intolerant. Crazy people made him crazy. It was as if he personally resented them giving in to madness—in part, because he so frequently labored to behave sanely. When some people gave up the labor of sanity, or failed at it, Garp suspected them of not trying hard enough.

“Tolerance of the intolerant is a difficult task that the times asks of us,” Helen said. Although Garp knew Helen was intelligent, and often more far-seeing than he was, he was rather blind about the Ellen Jamesians.

They, of course, were rather blind about him.

The most radical criticism of Garp—concerning his relationship to his mother
and
his own works—had come from various Ellen Jamesians. Baited by them, he baited them back. It was hard to see why it should have started, or
if
it should have, but Garp had become a case of controversy among feminists largely through the goading of Ellen Jamesians—and Garp goading them in return. For the very
same
reasons, Garp was liked by many feminists and disliked by as many.

As for the Ellen Jamesians, they were no more complicated in their feelings for Garp than they were complicated in their symbology: their tongues hacked off for the hacked-off tongue of Ellen James.

Ironically, it would be Ellen James who escalated this long-time cold war.

She was in the habit, constantly, of showing Garp her writing—her many stories, her remembrances of her parents, of Illinois; her poems; her painful analogies to speechlessness; her appreciations of the visual arts, and swimming

“She’s the real thing,” Garp kept telling Helen. “She’s got the ability, but she’s also got the passion. And I believe she’ll have the stamina.”

The aforementioned “stamina” was a word Helen let slide away, because she feared for Garp that he had given up his. He certainly had the ability, and the passion; but she felt he’d also taken a narrow path—he’d been misdirected—and only stamina would let him grow back in all the other ways.

It saddened her. For the time being, Helen kept thinking, she would content herself with whatever Garp got passionate about—the wrestling, even the Ellen Jamesians. Because, Helen believed, energy begets energy—and sooner or later, she thought, he would write again.

So Helen did not interfere too vehemently when Garp got excited about the essay Ellen James showed him. The essay was: “Why I’m Not an Ellen Jamesian,” by Ellen James. It was powerful and touching and it moved Garp to tears. It recounted her rape, her difficulty with it, her parents’ difficulty with it; it made what the Ellen Jamesians did seem like a shallow, wholly political imitation of a very private trauma. Ellen James said that the Ellen Jamesians had only prolonged her anguish; they had made her into a very public casualty. Of course, Garp was susceptible to being moved by public casualties.