So look, very closely. If one looks, very closely, into the bowl of the toilet, one sees the water inside is in fact not still, but pulses in its thick porcelain cup; rises and falls, ever so slightly, influenced by the ponderous suck and slap of subterranean tides unimagined by any but the devoutest morning pilgrim.
/b/
“ ‘Down the Laughing Brook came Billy Mink. He was feeling very good that morning, was Billy Mink, pleased with the world in general and with himself in particular.’ ”
“Roughage,” said Concamadine Beadsman.
“ ‘When he reached the Smiling Pool he swam out to the Big Rock. Little Joe Otter was already there, and not far away, lazily floating, with his head and back out of the water, was Jerry Muskrat.
“ ‘ ”Hello, Billy Mink!“ cried Little Joe Otter.
“ ‘ ”Hello yourself,“ replied Billy Mink with a grin.’ ”
“And this one is called what again?” asked Mr. Bloemker from across Concamadine’s bed, doing something to his eye with a finger under his glasses.
“It’s called ‘Billy Mink Goes Dinnerless,’ ” Lenore said without looking up from the book. “Can we please just do it, here? I sense Concamadine really liking this one.”
“By all means.”
“Roughage.”
“ ‘ ”Where are you going?“ asked Little Joe Otter.
“ ‘ ”Nowhere in particular,“ replied Billy Mink.
“ ‘ ”Let’s go fishing down to the Big River,“ said Little Joe Otter.
“ ‘ ”Let’s!“ cried Billy Mink, diving from the highest point on the Big Rock.‘ ”
“Her face is healing well in the moisture, don’t you think?” said Mr. Bloemker.
Concamadine actually didn’t look all that good. There were sores, and there were bandages. A translucent white bandage stretched tight from just above Concamadine’s left eye up into her forehead; one of her tiny pale eyebrows was lost in the bandage that seemed to be growing into the skin.
“I think it was a splendid idea, having the humidifier brought in,” Mr. Bloemker said, looking at his thumb. “We’re just beginning to lose the heat and moisture that was in such generous attendance all season, as I’m sure you’re aware. Concamadine had such trouble last year, and if I recall correctly it was at just this time. As do so many of the J-ward residents. In any event, a splendid idea, Ms. Beadsman.”
“Roughage.”
“ ‘So off they started across the Green Meadows towards the Big River. Halfway there, they met Reddy Fox.’ ”
The red sores looked soft and bright in the light of the morning that spilled into Concarnadine’s wall of windows from the central courtyard full of colored water. They looked wet. No running, though. The bandage that Lenore particularly objected to covered a whole big patch like that, right above Concamadine’s eyebrow. Lenore thought of the adhesive sticking to the soft of a sore. She thought of the bandage getting taken off.
“How often do you guys change that bandage?” she said.
“I’m afraid I don’t know, precisely. I would imagine daily.”
“There’s no way you guys—”
“Roughage. ”
“—rip the thing off, right? You always wet it and peel it off carefully?”
“Of that I’m sure. We do not rip here.”
Lenore looked into Concamadine’s eyes. Concamadine smiled.
“ ‘ ”Hello Reddy! Come on with us to the Big River, fishing,“ called Billy Mink.
“ ‘Now Reddy Fox is no fisherman, though he likes fish to eat well enough. He remembered the last time he went fishing and how Billy Mink had laughed at him when he fell into the Smiling Pool. He was just about to say ”No“ when he changed his mind.
“ ‘ ”All right, I’ll go,“ said Reddy Fox.
“ ‘Now Billy Mink and Little Joe Otter are famous fishermen and can swim even faster than the fish themselves. But Reddy Fox is a poor swimmer and must depend upon his wits. When they reached the bank of the Big River they very carefully crawled down to a sandy beach. There, just a little way out from shore, a school of little striped perch were at play. Billy Mink and Little Joe Otter prepared to dive in and each grab a fish, but Reddy Fox knew that he could not swim well enough for that.’ ”
“Roughage roughage roughage roughage.”
Lenore remembered how last fall Mr. Bloemker had shown her a lot of other people in the Home with Concamadine’s particular condition. Mr. Bloemker had called the condition geriatric acne. He had had a theory. He said that both kinds of acne had to do with the skin not doing what it was supposed to do. He had said, “Someone disposed to see it this way might say that the skin is designed to keep what is properly inside the body inside the body and what is outside the body from getting in,” and then that, “whereas in the case of young people we might say that they are so full of interior life and energy and whatnot that said life and bits of its interior may actually protrude from the envelope of the skin, forced outward, in the case of the residents here we might say that the assault here works in the reverse direction, that the residents’ energies and attentions have collapsed on their still centers to such an extent that there is no longer sufficient interior life and energy to keep what is outside from puncturing the envelope and impinging on the steadily receding interior,” and so on. “Not infection rising from within, but injury punched into the tired envelope from without,” “the skin no longer a viable boundary,” and so on. He had not said membrane, to Lenore’s knowledge.
“Except it only happens in the fall, when it gets drier,” Lenore had said. “Next fall we’ll get Concarnadine a humidifier.”
“ ‘But Billy Mink jeered at Reddy Fox.
“ ‘ ”Pooh! You’re no fisherman, Reddy Fox! If I couldn’t catch fish when they are chased right into my hands I’d never go fishing.“
“ ‘Reddy Fox pretended to be indignant.
“ ‘ ”I tell you what, Billy Mink,“ said he, ”if I don’t catch more fish than you do to-day I’ll bring you the plumpest chicken in Farmer Brown’s dooryard, but if I do catch more fish than you do you will give me the biggest one you catch. Do you agree?“
“ ‘Now Billy Mink is very fond of plump chicken—’ ”
“Roughage.”
“ ‘—and here was a chance to get one without danger of meeting Bowser the Hound, who guards Farmer Brown’s chickens. So Billy Mink agreed to give Reddy Fox the biggest fish he caught that day if Reddy could show more fish than he could at the end of the day. All the time he chuckled to himself, for you know Billy Mink is a famous fisherman—’ ”
“Roughage.”
“ ‘—and he knows that Reddy Fox is a poor swimmer and does not like the water.’ ”
Concarnadine Beadsman, Mrs. Stonecipher Beadsman, Jr., had been in residence at the Shaker Heights Nursing Home even before the Home had been bought by Stonecipheco Baby Food Products. Concamadine Beadsman had unfortunately gone senile while still in her fifties. She had giggled in the rain at the funeral of her husband, after the accident involving the Jell-O alternative. She had moaned in the car on the way to the main Beadsman home in Shaker Heights, to which she was moved from her own home in Chagrin Falls after the death of her husband. Then, for a few years in Shaker Heights, her days had been filled with trips to the mailbox: two hours’ walk to the box at the end of the block; the meat of the day spent peering into the black mouth of the box as the slot was held open first with one hand and then the other, the day punctuated neatly by the mailman coming at four and unlocking the bottom of the box and mail heaving out all over—an end-of the-day release with which Concamadine often unfortunately found herself in involuntary empathy—followed by a thirty-second drive back to the house with a family-member who drove low in the seat and wore sunglasses.... Then just rest, relaxation, unlimited Lawrence Welk, a plethora of mail-watching options, function-labels for things. As far as Lenore could tell—and she did try—Concamadine was really happy.
“ ‘By and by they c
ame to another sandy beach like the first one. They could see another school of foolish young fish at play. As before, Reddy Fox remained on shore while the others swam out and drove the fish in. As before, Reddy caught half a dozen, while Billy Mink and Little Joe Otter each caught one this time. Reddy had five and then pretended to be so tickled over catching one, the smallest of the lot, that Billy Mink didn’t suspect a trick.’ ”
Mr. Bloemker sighed to himself and jiggled a shoe.
Lenore looked at him. “You know, you’re really more than welcome to go. I’m sure you must be busy.”
“Roughage.”
“I have been instructed to wait for the owners of the facility, or of course for a representative,” said Mr. Bloemker. “I can just as well wait here. I hope to have a chance for an additional chat, once this delightful piece is through.”
“My father’s coming down here?”
“It is not impossible.”
“I think he’s too busy gearing up for getting all pissed off about Kopek Spasova doing Gerber ads in Erieview tonight.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Roughage.”
“Is it Karl Rummage who’s coming? Do they maybe want to have you look up patients’ ages for them again?”
“For your information, I have been led to understand that the relevant unavailable facility-connected individuals will apparently be back with us very soon.”
“You said the exact same thing a couple days ago, and I called Dad, and nada.”
“But this time I have been led to the above understanding by persons connected with the ownership of the facility.”
“Roughage.”
“Mr. Rummage?”
“A young person in Chemistry, at Stonecipheco Baby Foods.”
“Obstat?”
“That sounds right.”
“Dad swore up and down that he’d call me the minute he had anything about Lenore. He said he’s about ready to call the police if she and everything else missing don’t turn up, or at least drop a line.”
Mr. Bloemker didn’t say anything. He scratched at his beard.
“Anyway,” Lenore said, “the point is that he sure didn’t call this morning. So I don’t believe it.”
Bloemker looked at his shoe and shrugged.
“And Rick and I supposedly have alternate Lenore-finding plans. Largely and weirdly Rick-inspired, but still.”
“As you wish. I will of course pass on any and all relevant information, as per our agreement.”
“You and Brenda are too kind. ”
“Roughage.”
“ ‘For the rest of the day the fishing was poor. Just as Old Mother West Wind started from the Green Meadows to take her children, the Merry Little Breezes, to their home behind the Purple Hills, the three little fishermen started to count up their catch. Then Reddy brought out all the fish that he had hidden. When they saw the pile of fish Reddy Fox had, Billy Mink and Little Joe Otter were so surprised that their eyes popped out and their jaws dropped.’ ”
“Roughage.” Concamadine’s jaw dropped, too. Her legs were straight out before her as she sat up in bed; her feet, in wool socks, pointed in different directions. Her shins, visible between the flaps of her robe, were spotted.
“ ‘Reddy walked over to the big pickerel and, picking it up, carried it over to his pile. ”What are you doing with my fish?“ shouted Billy Mink angrily.
“ ‘ ”It isn’t yours, it’s mine!“ retorted Reddy Fox.’ ”
“Roughage.”
“ ‘Billy Mink fairly danced up and down he was so angry. ”It’s not yours!“ he shrieked. ”It’s mine, for I caught it!“
“ ‘ ”And you agreed that your biggest fish should be mine if I caught more fish than you did. I’ve caught four times as many, so the pickerel is mine,“ retorted Reddy, winking at Little Joe Otter.’ ”
“Roughage roughage roughage roughage,” said Concarnadine Beadsman.
“What’s with this roughage stuff?” Lenore said. “How come she keeps saying ‘roughage’?”
“We have noted that as the autumn begins to cut into the heat that infallibly and understandably drove so many of the J-ward residents into themselves, the residents begin as it were to come around, to begin to rediscover the rewards of communication,” Mr. Bloemker said. “Recall that Concamadine said absolutely nothing all summer. Now we hear words for the sake of words. Explanation? A nurse probably remarked that it would be good for Concarnadine to eat her salad, for the roughage it contained, and Concarnadine fastened on the word, more than likely. Of course you know that here at the Shaker Heights facility we like to encourage regularity through the consumption of fiber, not through harsh chemicals.”
“Roughage.”
“Except she probably doesn’t have any idea what the word stands for,” Lenore said.
“Doubtless. Although Lenore did have ‘roughage’ in the J-ward lexicons. Shall I hunt around for one?”
“And why that word to get fixated on?” Lenore said. “Concarnadine never used to care what she ate. She even ate Stonecipheco stuff, a lot of the time, when it was around the house. She was a weird eater. One time I was little, and we went over for Christmas, and Gramma C. and Grandaddy had had a fight, and Gramma C. didn’t eat all day; she just stayed in the basement, throwing darts at a poster of Jayne Mansfield.”
Concamadine Beadsman smiled.
Mr. Bloemker leaned over the bed toward Lenore. His eyes had a way of attracting sunlight and turning weird colors behind his glasses.
“Ms. Beadsman, may I bounce a theory off you, bearing on matters we’ve previously discussed?”
“Let me finish this story. You can tell by her smile she likes it.”
“Roughage.”
“Merely this. Has it not occurred to you that a sense of shall we say social history is strongest among the young, not the old?”
“ ‘Then Billy Mink did a very foolish thing; he lost his temper completely. He called Reddy Fox bad names. But he did not dare try to take the big pickerel away from Reddy, for Reddy is much bigger than he. Finally he worked himself into such a rage that he ran off, leaving his pile of fish behind.’ ”
“That as people age, accumulate more and more private experience, their sense of history tightens, narrows, becomes more personal? So that to the extent that they remember events of social importance, they remember only for example ‘where they were’ when such-and-such occurred. Et cetera et cetera. Objective events and data become naturally more and more subjectively colored. Does this account seem reasonable?”
“ ‘Reddy Fox and Little Joe Otter took care not to touch Billy Mink’s fish, but Reddy divided his big pile with Little Joe Otter. Then they, too, started for home, Reddy carrying the big pickerel.’ ”
“Roughage.”
“Any thoughts on this? I am of course extrapolating on some of the issues we tackled when last we met face to face. Of course I feel the insight holds particularly true of Midwestemers, who stand in such an ambiguous geographical and cultural relation to certain other less occluded parts of the country that the very objective events and states of affairs that are proper objects of a social awareness must pass in transit to the awarenesses of the residents here through the filters both of subjectively colored memory and geographical ambivalence. Hence perhaps the extreme complication we can see all around us at the Shaker Heights facility.”
Behind Concamadine’s lovely red lip and the bottom row of her even teeth Lenore could see a clear lake of saliva accumulating, growing, lapping with each breath at the backs of the teeth and beginning to shine at the corners of Concamadine’s mouth as her jaw still hung low.
“ ‘Late that night, when he had recovered his temper, Billy Mink began to grow hungry. The more he thought of his fish, the hungrier he grew.’ ”
“Any thoughts at all, then?”
“Not really.”
“Roughagegegege.”
“Oh, dear.”
“She just got too much saliva in her
mouth, is all.” Lenore reached for some Kleenex from the bedside table. “Just a little too much saliva.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Mr. Blumker?” At the doorway was Neil Obstat, Jr., knocking faintly at the thin pretend-wood paneling, staring at Lenore, who was bent over a smiling beautiful gray-haired figure in a cotton bathrobe and wool socks, with a handful of sopped Kleenex. “Hello,” he said. “Hi, Lenore.”
“Hi.”
“How are you today?”
“Roughage,” said Concarnadine, wiggling her toes.
“You can swallow, you know, Gramma C. You can just swallow your saliva, you know.”
“How’s your Mom, there?” said Obstat.
“Perhaps we’ll just step outside and let you finish reading to Concamadine,” Mr. Bloemker said, his finger tracing the outline of his beard.
Lenore put the wet Kleenex in Mr. Bloemker’s outstretched hand and bent to the book again. She heard the tissues drop into Concamadine’s metal wastebasket with a heavy sound as Mr. Bloemker went for the door where Obstat was standing.
“Mr. Blumker I’m Neil Obstat, Jr., of Stonecipheco Baby Food Products,” Lenore heard Obstat say. She could tell he was still looking at her from the back.
“Bloemker, actually ... ,” Lenore heard. “Just step out a bit ... hall.” There were sounds.
“ ‘Finally he could stand it no longer and started for the Big River to see what had become of his fish.’ ”
Lenore could remember that at Shaker School one time Neil Obstat had been given a wedgie in the boys’ locker room by Ed Creamer and Jesus Geralamo and the whole sinister crew, and had been left by Creamer hanging by his underwear from a coat-hook in the hall outside the locker rooms, in full view of Lenore and Karen Daughenbaugh and Karen Baum and all the rest of the girls in seventh-hour P.E. who were on the way to the bus, and that a janitor had had to lift Obstat down, and that Karen Baum had said she’d been able to see just about Neil Obstat’s whole butt.
“ ‘He reached the strip of beach where he had so foolishly left them just in time to see the last striped perch disappear down the long throat of Mr. Night Heron.’ ”
The Broom of the System Page 40
