— Some things are mine, but the sack is not mine, the shoe is not mine, the bonbon dish is not mine, and the doors are not mine.
— You admitted the doors.
— Not wholeheartedly.
— You said, I have it right here, written down, “Yes, they must be mine.”
— Sometimes we hugged. Lengthily. Heart to heart, the one trying to pull the other into the upright other . . .
— I have it right here. Written down. “Yes, they must be mine.”
— I withdraw that.
— You can’t withdraw it. I’ve written it down.
— Nevertheless I withdraw it. It’s inadmissible. It was coerced.
— You feel coerced?
— All that business about “dish” rather than “plate” —
— That was a point of fact, it was, in fact, a dish.
— You have a hectoring tone. I don’t like to be hectored. You came here with something in mind. You had made an a priori decision.
— That’s a little ridiculous when you consider that I have, personally, nothing to gain. Either way. Whichever way it goes.
— Promotion, advancement . . .
— We don’t operate that way. That has nothing to do with it. I don’t want to discuss this any further. Let’s go on to the dressing gown. Is the dressing gown yours?
— Maybe.
— Yes or no?
— My business. Leave it at “maybe.”
— I am entitled to a good, solid, answer. Is the dressing gown yours?
— Maybe.
— Please.
— Maybe maybe maybe maybe.
— You exhaust me. In this context, the word “maybe” is unacceptable.
— A perfectly possible answer. People use it every day.
— Unacceptable. What happened to her?
— She made a lot of money. Opened a Palais de Glace, or skating rink. Read R. D. Laing to the skaters over the PA system meanwhile supplementing her income by lecturing over the country as a spokesperson for the unborn.
— The gold eyebrows, still?
— The gold eyebrows and the gray-with-violet eyes. On television, very often.
— In the beginning, you don’t know.
— That’s true.
— Just one more thing: The two mattresses surrounding the single slice of salami. Are they yours?
— I get hungry. In the night.
— The struggle is admirable. Useless, but admirable. Your struggle.
— Cold, here in the garden.
— You’re too old, that’s all it is, think nothing of it. Don’t give it a thought.
— I haven’t agreed to that. Did I agree to that?
— No, I must say you resisted. Admirably, resisted.
— I did resist. Would you allow “valiantly”?
— No no no no. Come come come.
— “Wholeheartedly”?
— Yes, O.K., what do I care?
— Wholeheartedly, then.
— Yes.
— Wholeheartedly.
— We still haven’t decided what color to paint the trucks.
— Yes. How about blue?
The Question Party
Yes, Maria, we will give the party on next Thursday night and I have an agreeable surprise in contemplation for all our old friends who may be here.” The pleasant air about Mrs. Teach as she entered the parlor where her daughter was seated betokened the presence of something on her mind that gave her great satisfaction. The daughter had been importuning her mother for a party which after due deliberation she had decided to give and to make the evening more entertaining she had determined to introduce a new feature which she thought would create some excitement in the circle of her acquaintances and afford them the means of much amusement. She had just hit upon the plan before entering the room and the smile of satisfaction upon her face was noticed by her daughter.
“Shall we, Mother? I am so glad!” she answered. “But what is it you are preparing for our friends? Are you going to sing?”
“No, Miss, I ain’t going to do no such foolish thing! And, for your quizzing, you shall not know what it is until the evening of the party!”
“Now, Mother, that is too bad. You are too hardhearted. You know the extent of woman’s curiosity and yet you will not gratify me. Are you going to introduce a new polka?”
“There is no use in your questioning; I shall not tell you anything about it, so you may as well save your breath.”
“Do you intend showing your album quilt?” perseveringly inquired Maria.
“Now do not provoke me to cancel my promise by your pertinacity. I tell you as a punishment for quizzing your mother you shall not know until Thursday next what it is.”
“Morning or evening, Mother?”
“Evening, Miss. So no more questions but get about writing your invitations.”
Maria proceeded to the bookcase and taking from it her notepaper and envelopes commenced writing.
Eight o’clock on the evening of the party. The first who were ushered into the parlor were Mrs. Jawart and her two daughters, who were always the first at the reunions. The younger Miss Jawart was somewhere out of her teens, and the elder, although her face was profusely bedecked with curls — the original owner of which, being dead, had no further use for them — could not conceal that she was much older than she wished to be considered. Mr. and Mrs. White came next, the lady somewhat pompous in her manner, and the gentleman quite so. An interest in a canal boat had placed him, in his own view, among shipping merchants, and some of his acquaintances broadly hinted that if he were cut up in small pieces and retailed out for starch, he would be fulfilling his destiny. The two Misses Jennings and brother came next. These young ladies, the one eighteen and the other twenty, seemed somewhat disappointed, when they entered the room, at the absence of some of their young beaux, whom they expected to find there; this feeling was dispelled in a few moments, when a matched pair of the latter presented themselves.
Mr. Lynch, a bachelor of fifty, was the next to claim the attention of the company. He was a short, thickset man, with a small pair of whiskers that curled up on his cheekbones as if endeavoring to cultivate an acquaintance with his eyes. A few gray hairs in them, overlooked by the owner — his attention to them was exemplary — had been, in his toilet for the evening, elbowed, as it were, by the others to the fore, possibly to attract the attention of a few of the same color which peeped from behind the false hair of Miss Jawart A standing collar formed a semi-wall around his neck, and shoes of the brightest polish graced his feet. At about half past nine, then, all the guests had assembled, filling comfortably both parlors and rendering the place vocal with their animated conversation.
The company had been engaged some time in singing when there was a call for a polka. In a few moments partners were selected and everyone was hopscotching through the figures at a lively rate, reminding one strongly of a group in a state of advanced intoxication. The mind of Maria suddenly became abstracted to such an extent by thoughts of the surprise that her mother had promised that she forgot her time and the dancers were compelled to stop and reprove her jokingly for her remissness. Just at that moment Mrs. Teach’s voice could be heard, above the general din of laughter and music, calling for everyone, without exception, to come into the front parlor as she had something to show them which she thought would amuse. In her haste to get into the room Maria almost knocked one of the Misses Jennings over.
The company after much confusion being seated, Mrs. Teach took from the center table a handsome marble card basket containing a pack of plain, gilt-edged cards and explained that she had prepared an innocent and entertaining amusement for them which she hoped would prove interesting.
“Maria,” she continued, “will you pass around this basket, my dear, and let each one of the company select from it one of the cards?”
Maria did as her mother requested.
“I shall propose a question,” said Mrs. Teach
, “to which each one must write an answer on the card they have. Which cards shall be placed in this vase on the pedestal behind me. After they are all deposited I will draw them out singly and will read them aloud. There is to be no mark upon the response by which its author may be known.”
There was a general mustering of pencils at this announcement and an evident curiosity was immediately raised in regard to the subject which would be propounded.
“As there is a majority of ladies here, I shall propose for the first question: What is a bachelor?”
For the space of a quarter of an hour the pencils of the company made desperate attacks upon the faces of the cards which left them covered over with black lines. The last answer written and deposited in the vase, Mrs. Teach, with a smile, commenced the task of reading them aloud.
“A target for fair hands to shoot at,” she read.
A general laugh greeted this response.
“I beg of you, ladies,” said Mr. Lynch, “not to shoot too close to me, but I know that my prayer is to no avail since your arrows are already in that vase.”
The second card was drawn forth.
“Any icy peak, on the mountain of humanity, that the sun of woman’s love has never melted,” read Mrs. Teach.
“Then I will nip you with my frost,” said Mr. Lynch, putting his arms playfully around one of the Misses Jennings.
“How do you know it was my answer?” she cried, releasing herself from him.
“I read it in your face this moment,” he replied.
“Then we must turn our faces from you, or we shall all betray ourselves, if you are such an excellent face reader,” said the elder Miss Jawart.
“I beg you, do not!” exclaimed Mr. Lynch. “For that would deprive me of much pleasure.”
“An old maid’s forlorn hope,” said Mrs. Teach, reading the next response, the aptness of which was felt by all — yet a sense of propriety restrained any acknowledgment of this. Another card was instantly drawn to divert attention from it, and to relieve Miss Jawart from her unpleasant dilemma.
“A fox longing for the grapes he pronounces sour.”
“Now I really do object!” said Mr. Lynch. “I could never find it in my heart to pronounce any lady sour.”
“Heart, indeed! This is the first time I ever knew you to acknowledge the possession of such an article,” Mrs. Teach quickly replied.
“There you do me wrong, for, see! I have one now which you gave me,” said Mr. Lynch, taking from his pocket a handsomely worked velvet heart. “And observe, there are as many pins in it as you are endeavoring to plant thorns in its partner here,” he went on, placing his hand over that part of his coat which covered the real article.
The laugh was turned on Mrs. Teach and she drew forth another card.
“A creature whose miseries might be pitied had he not the remedy within his reach.”
“It must be you, Miss Bookly,” said Mr. Lynch, “as you are sitting closest to me.”
“I did not write it,” said Miss Bookly. “And besides, Miss Jennings was sitting closest to you before she moved away after you put your arms around her.”
“That is true,” he said with a mock sigh.
Another card terminated the conversation on that subject.
“Just like Mr. Lynch.”
The merriment of the company knew no bounds at this answer. Mr. Lynch joined the rest with great zeal, and in a few moments exclaimed, “Well! I really do think you are making me a target to shoot at tonight. It is well for you that I am good-natured, else I might retaliate with some formulations of my own.”
This is really a dumb game, thought Maria.
Mrs. Teach dipped into the vase for the next card.
“One who boasts of liberty but sighs for the slavery he condemns.”
“That would be acute,” Mr. Lynch said thoughtfully, “had I ever boasted. But I recall no such occasion. There is, in fact, a kind of shame and horror attached to the bachelor state — an odium combined with a tedium. Sleeping with strumpets is not the liveliest business in the world, I assure you.”
“What are they like, really?” asked Miss Bookly.
“Some are choice, some are not,” said Mr. Lynch.
“For heaven’s sakes, man, be silent!” exclaimed Mr. White.
“A bit of fresh, as the expression runs,” said Mr. Lynch, “can —”
Mr. White drew forth his pistol and shot Mr. Lynch dead with it.
“Good Lord! He is dead!” cried Mrs. Teach.
Dr. Balfour knelt over the body. “Yes, he is dead,” he said. All assisted the Doctor in placing the carcass on the sofa.
“There is but one more card in the vase,” said Mrs. Teach, peering into the article in question. “Dare we look at it?”
“Yes, yes,” was the answer, in a subdued murmur.
“I sincerely hope that it may be a favorable one,” said Mrs. Teach, “for I fear we have dealt harshly with our late friend tonight.”
The last card was drawn from the vase. Mrs. Teach examined it closely on both sides and then proclaimed, “Blank!”
“A prophecy,” said the younger Miss Jennings. “Who could have foreseen what was to happen?”
“It was not a matter of foreknowledge,” said Maria. “The card is mine. 1 couldn’t think of anything to write.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Teach, “I am not entirely satisfied with my little experiment this evening, and so shall leave it to another to choose the entertainment for our next.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. White. “The evening, despite its sad but necessary consequences, has been most delightful. I can’t recall when more interesting things have been said or done, in all the years of my residence in this city. And as I shall have the pleasure of giving the next party, I shall most certainly adopt your little experiment, as you call it.”
“What will the question be?” asked Miss Jawart.
“Something dangerous,” said Mr. White, with a twinkle.
“Parties are always dangerous,” said Miss Jawart.
“I am inviting Geronimo, chief of the Apache Indians, who happens to be in town,” said Mr. White.
“That will make it all the more dangerous,” said Mrs. Teach, “as I am told that he is extremely cruel to his enemies.”
“He is extremely cruel to everyone,” said Mr. White.
Yes, it was an agreeable party after all, Maria thought. My mother is not dumb. My mother is surprisingly intelligent. It was wrong of me to think ill of her. Now no one will ever know that Mr. Lynch was the man who — How strange is justice! How artful woman!
Author’s note: This piece is an objet trouvé. It was originally published in Godey’s Lady’s Book in 1850, under the byline of a Hickory Broom. I have cut it and added some three dozen lines.
Manfred
Out for a walk I was, wanted to clear my head, I’d been drinking the night before, tequila mostly, a bit of lime juice, one lime per bottle, or four limes in all, by the end of the evening. I was feeling poorly. I had asked for help with the tequila, but no one came, all sent regrets, busy elsewhere, prior engagement, don’t go out after dark anymore, that sort of thing, allergic to rats, that sort of thing. I could not blame them. My brother sent regrets, from his room behind the kitchen, stuffy bastard, nose in a book probably, or playing his drums, the jackass, fraternity is not among his talents.
So I wandered out, in the cool of the morning, fell down a time or two, that was to be expected, reached the whorehouse district without other difficulty but they’d all gone to bed, banged my head on a door or two but no one answered, that was to be expected, it was 7 or thereabouts, fresh, cool, and golden. And I said why not the graveyard? and could think of no compelling contrary argument, and went there, and tumbled into an open grave, and broke a leg.
It was a new grave, having been readied the previous day for a 10 A.M. ceremonial, I say 10 A.M. because that was the hour at which they discovered me. They fished me out and took me in a van to a hospital whe
re a young man cut straight up my trouser leg with shears, not knowing I suppose that I had no other trousers, and then did the necessary with the plaster and canvas or whatever it is, and hung the finished product from a sort of slingshot affair above the bed. Double spiral break, he said, very nasty, and asked the date of my birth and what authority I belonged to, city, county, state or Federal, and I told him, as best as I could remember. And thus I found myself, for three months and ten days, at the mercy of my brother Manfred, for whom pig is perhaps too soft, or sweet, a word.
Manfred sits in his room behind the kitchen, calculating, humming, cabalistic summing, watching N.F.L. football or playing his drums: interests passed on by our father, but to which in the genetic scheme of things, thank God, I inherited a recessive genotype.
Father, a first cousin twice removed of B. Spinoza, inherited his interest in the gematria* from the Hebraic side of the family and his reductivist inclination from his great-nephew A. Reinhardt, the painter. Father spent his entire life summing up the written word and oral information of the Western World, assigning a numerical equivalent to each letter of the alphabet according to its position: A=1, B=2, C=3, D=4, E=5, F=6, G=7, H=8, I=9, J=10, K=11, L=12, M=13, N=14, O=15, P=16, Q=17, R=18, S=19, T=20, U=21, V=22, W=23, X=24, Y=25, Z=26. In so doing he could spell out any word numerically and add it to reach the sum, the essence, the heart of the word. Adding the sum of each word to the heart of the next (an addiction inherited from his granduncle R. Descartes), Father would reduce the glib, the banal, the genius, the truth, the beauty in fiction and nonfiction of the Western World to one final number, to be grasped by all of Occidental mankind instantly and at once. Sums that were prime were entered into a double-entry profit ledger as they were deemed prophetic.
To the end Father summed. Giving up the ghost, as it were, dying so to speak, on the penultimate page of St. Matthew’s “Gospel According To.” Manfred took up the mantle having the genotype of an adder but the phenotype of a pig. He completed Father’s last summation, a number that boggles the mind, but alas, not prime.
Manfred works night and day interpreting numbers, searching for the additional meanings in lists of numerals, reversing the paternal process; translating random and not so random numbers into language. He believes this to be more humanistic and humane, forgetting there is more to a person than his shoe size, blood pressure, diastolic and systolic, weight, age, and blood count. His interest in N.F.L. football has nothing to do with being one of the boys or hail fellow well met, but instead is an obsessive need to decode the line-up on the line of scrimmage. He mutters to himself, “There’s more to N.F.L. football than fun and games.”
Flying to America Page 23
