Gerald's Party

by Robert Coover

  Jim had left us meanwhile with his syringe needle up like a pointing finger. My wife was rinsing out the bloody dishrag. ‘So it’s true what they’ve been saying about Mavis – that she’s …’

  ‘Yes, she’s an epileptic, Gerald. I thought you knew.’

  ‘Old Nigel once told me something pretty weird,’ Fred continued, sipping thoughtfully at his vodka. Epileptic? ‘He said if a fella could become fond of the evil in the world, he’d find hisself embracing delight. Them were the Chief’s exact words: embracing delight. Of course, evil, that takes in death, disease, cruelty, crime, the whole toot and scramble – so not much chance, hunh?’ He got up, brushed the crumbs from his lap, went over to the sink to wash his hands. ‘In the end, though, it’s gotta be said, for all his fancy talk, old Nigel still seems to suspect foreigners, perverts, freaks and bums, just like the rest of us.’

  ‘That’s not very charitable,’ my wife remarked, wiping off the breakfast table with the damp rag Jim had used on my shoulder.

  ‘By the way,’ I said (I realized I’d been staring for some time at a little heart-shaped stain on the butcherblock next to the can of body spray: something someone had said … ?), ‘it turns out that valentine Naomi had was one I once gave you—’

  ‘Yes, I know. Dickie asked me to go through her bag before they left and it was in there. She had your electric razor as well, and somebody’s scout knife, Mother’s hairnet, a yellow ball painted with an eye, even Mark’s old potty and a bunch of inky thumbprints.’ Fred glanced up and winked at me over his neckbrace, shaking the water from his hands. ‘But Cyril said she couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Cyril?’

  ‘Yes, he was there to see Peg off, of course.’ She put the vodka and leftover sausage back in the fridge, then stood staring into it as though watching a movie there. ‘Now I wonder what I could—’

  ‘Peg … !’ It was slowly, very slowly, dawning on me …

  ‘Yes, when she left with Dickie – why! what’s the matter with you, Gerald? We were just talking about—’

  ‘Right … !’ I turned to gaze out once more on the back porch where the dense tide of night seemed suddenly to be falling back: of course, it was Peg who had gone with him, her tattooed bottom, Dickie had mentioned – it hit me now like a revelation: Alison was still here then!

  ‘Maybe I could make some brandied stuffed eggs …’

  ‘Exactly!’ But where? ‘What?’

  ‘You were right about that sleazy bastard, by the way,’ said Fred. ‘Whisked his redheaded baggage right outa here just as we was bringing charges. Accessory after the – wurr-RRP!’ He belched loudly, patting his stomach. ‘Whoo, that’s better!’ He belched again, a kind of brief little afterclap (yes, I thought, hugging myself, even for artless fools there are second chances!), then asked: ‘You ain’t never thought of taking up police work, have you?’

  ‘Not right now …’ My mind was elsewhere, searching, as it were, the premises.

  ‘Too bad. We could use a fella like you. You got the gourd for it. And a good eye.’

  ‘What? Ah, well … but no stomach.’ Those others were giving her a bad time; maybe she went outside to hide. I seemed to see someone on the back porch. But, no, all those guys had just come in from there …

  ‘You get used to it. You got the right attitude and that’s what counts. Of course, as a career, it ain’t what it once was, I admit that, not since they legalized fornication, as we used to call it.’ He pulled on his coat, exercising his shoulders against the seams, then buttoned up. My wife put some water on to boil (where had I last seen her? the living room? I couldn’t remember, it seemed so long ago …), got some tomatoes and green beans out of the fridge, some cottage cheese and butter, a carton of brown eggs. ‘I hope we still have some capers,’ she said. ‘Them were the days – crime everywhere and even them not guilty of fornication was all the more likely to be guilty of something else: fantasy or murder or virulent possession – an excess of sentiment, as the old statutes put it. The force was the place to be in them days, I’ll never forget it, it had something special.’ Maybe the first thing, I thought, is to see if there’s any vermouth left, pick up somehow where we … ‘Of course I was young then – but we had a lotta professional pride and enthusiasm, it was a kinda golden age for the old P.D., all the best brains was in it – that’s when old Nigel joined up, for example – but now, well, most of them boys are gone. The new breed’s got a whole different slant on things. It’s all statistics now, stemming the tide like they like to say – in fact, fornication’s a kinda police weapon these days to keep the citizens confused – these young fellas’ve got no time for dickprints or cuff debris or sussing out a hidden motive. And there’s all this do-gooder crime now, bomb-throwing and food riots in the camps and computer-bashing and the like, most of it happening way over my head – though that don’t mean I won’t lose an arm or a leg from it. Just defending a poker game down at city hall these days can get you napooed.’ He tucked his cap under his arm, adjusted the knot of his tie under the neckbrace, checked his weapons. Quiet deliberations, that’s the important thing, I thought. No more impulsive leaps in the dark. Harmony and balance – I was very excited … ! ‘No, the fun’s mostly gone outa crime these days, what you might call the personal touch – I mean, it’s a real kick for us to get an old-fashioned murder like this one, it sets us up for a week after, even if it is something of a luxury – you shoulda seen old Nigel on the way over, he was tickled pink.’

  ‘That reminds me, Gerald,’ said my wife, prying the lid off a flour tin, ‘what is the way you find out if a girl is ticklish?’

  ‘What’s that?’ The green room, we’d said. Right! But then … ?

  ‘Mmm, looks good,’ said Fred, staring into the boiling water.

  ‘That man with the buckteeth,’ she replied vaguely, fishing around now among the dishes in the sink. ‘He was saying …’

  ‘Earl’s joke, you mean? You give her a couple of test tickles.’

  ‘Well, that’s what he said, but what does that prove?’

  ‘Test-tickles. Testicles.’ I pointed. They were stirring again. I smiled.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She sighed and peered dismally into the empty pot of Dijonais mustard. ‘What did you want to talk to Alison about?’

  ‘Who—?’ She had an amazing way of juxtaposing things (the smile had become a wince: I touched my shoulder gingerly). Maybe it was the secret of her cooking.

  ‘That woman we met at the theater. Louise overheard Sally Ann telling her you were waiting for her down in the rec room.’

  For a moment I couldn’t think. ‘What?’ What did she say? I was suddenly locked in somewhere, deep inside. And then something broke open, it felt like the police smashing in through Mark’s bedroom door, a splintering crash, and I staggered back. Or perhaps I was already staggering. The rec room! I should have known: all those wisecracks, the traffic up and down the stairs (had somebody mentioned bondage?), Alison’s husband staring fearfully down them as I was carrying Mark up to bed, Noble’s sweaty armpits and insolent complaint – it all came together now, I saw things plainly, all too plainly, and it took my knees right out from under me. I slumped weakly against the butcherblock. Going down.

  ‘Gerald? What’s the matter—?!’

  ‘It’s his wound, ma’am, He’s probably in a bit of shock.’

  What was worse, she’d suppose I’d set her up for it – she’d never been to one of our parties before, how could she know it wasn’t a game we played with all our first-timers? I felt like crying. I was crying. Goddamn Sally Ann! The lights in the kitchen seemed to dim and a wave of nausea rippled through me.

  ‘Maybe he should lie down.’

  ‘It’s usually better to try to walk it off.’

  ‘Hey, Ger, what’s wrong? You look terrible!’

  ‘He’s been wounded, sir, nothing serious.’

  I realized we were in the dining room. I seemed to be making progress through it without any effort of my own, he
ld up by Fred and my wife. I still felt lightheaded and queasy. All I could think of for the moment was Tania staring despairingly into the bathtub full of pink suds, overcome – this was clear to me now, it was the only thing that was clear to me – by a paroxysm of self-hatred.

  ‘Here, try this.’

  They were holding something alcoholic to my lips. It dribbled down my chin. Somehow I’d forgotten how to swallow.

  Jim turned up then and said, no, I should be lying down, my feet higher than my head.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said my wife.

  ‘I’ve had ’em die on me like that,’ Fred disagreed. ‘We like to keep ’em moving around.’

  They made some room for me in front of the sideboard, dragging Mavis out of the way, and stretched me out. Something was pounding in my ears. It might have been my heart. But it sounded more like feet thumping up and down the stairs. Someone brought our camel-saddle in from the TV room and propped it under my ankles. Fred made it clear that if I popped off, he wasn’t to be blamed, and Wilma, standing nearby, said I reminded her of the last time she’d seen her third husband Archie. ‘He had that same blue look in the face.’

  ‘Open his shirt there, give him some air!’

  ‘Loosen his belt!’

  Heads dipped over me and bobbed away again like those little drinking birds sold in novelty shops. The ceiling, too, seemed to be throbbing, at times pressing down, at others vanishing into some vast distance, like the empty horizon of Pardew’s dream. Shadows flickered across it like faint images on a cinema screen or a drawn windowshade. I remembered Alison saying: ‘There is no audience, Gerald, that’s what makes it so sad.’ Or perhaps my wife had said that. In any case …

  ‘Oh dear, look at that bruise under his navel,’ she said now.

  ‘He looks pretty tender all over.’

  ‘Is there anything else we can do?’

  ‘You might wet a washcloth with cold water,’ Jim said.

  ‘Has he been crying?’

  ‘Well, Vic was his best friend, after all.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Fred, leaning close, ‘I gotta go now, and I just wondered if you got any more hot tips for us?’ His breath reeked of garlic and vodka. I turned my head away. I found myself looking up somebody’s skirt and closed my eyes. ‘You’d be doing us a real favor …’

  ‘No …’ I whispered faintly, or meant to – what I found myself saying was: ‘No … ble …’

  ‘I think he said something.’

  ‘That’s a good sign.’

  ‘That ham wizard with the glass lamp, you mean?’ murmured Fred in my ear. I shuddered. ‘Hmm, pretty tricky – he’s got that lawyer buddy, family of some sort. Still …’

  ‘He seems to be getting some of his color back, too.’

  ‘Gosh, it was great, Uncle Howard!’ Anatole was saying somewhere just past my vision. ‘I never realized doing it was so easy!’

  ‘… I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘No, that’s probably just fever.’

  ‘And now I’m going to be a playwright!’

  ‘Gerry? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Mr Quagg said I’m to be the brains for the show!’

  ‘Wait—!’ I whispered, turning back (‘Don’t be silly, he was with me,’ I seemed to hear my wife say), but the policeman was gone. What I saw instead was Fats floating high above me, as though suspended in midair: he hung up there, startled, looking like he was about to sail off into distant space – then he came crashing down, making the whole room shake.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The more things change, the more they are the same,’ said Hoo-Sin.

  ‘It’s gettin’ rough in here, Scar – wanta go up and try on the county fair?’

  ‘No, thanks, she’s fulla fleas and I got this preem to mount. Anyhow I just been fannin’ the rubber in the dungeon, man, I got no more snap.’

  ‘What am I doin’ wrong?’ Fats groaned from the floor (‘That opus still pullin’ ’em in?’), and someone said: ‘I love what you’ve done with the space in here, this delicate balance of old and new.’

  ‘Yeah, but not for much longer – if you wanta catch her act, you better get on down there.’

  ‘Hey, you come on like an ice wagon, Fats, you gonna get wrecked!’

  ‘Material goin’ a bit stale?’

  ‘You’re kidding—!’

  ‘It’s just terrible about Tania, Howard. Such a tragedy!’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘Well, the tread’s a bit worn – but what’s really closin’ the show down is this dyke out there at the head of the stairs, doin’ a soapbox number on anybody with an honest bone-on …’

  ‘I know how you must feel.’

  ‘Do you indeed.’

  ‘… I mean, man, she sorta takes the starch out …’

  ‘I only meant …’

  I closed my eyes again and found myself recalling (‘So that’s why Cyril …’), or trying to recall, something that woman in Istanbul had said to me. We were crossing an arched bridge, I remembered (‘Eileen?’ someone asked, this was very far away), there were overladen carts pulled by mules, a leaden sky, a certain spiciness in the air. ‘This will soon be over,’ she’d said. Yes. Tin cooking ware was clinking on the back of one of the carts, and there was a dull rumbling continuo underfoot. ‘In a sense, it was over before it began. We have been living with the last moment ever since the first. That’s been the magic of it all: experiencing the future with the sensual immediacy of the present and all the nostalgia of the past …’

  But then …

  ‘Papanash,’ someone said. What? I heard ice tinkling in glasses, smelled hot food, or perhaps I felt these things: a chill, a flush … ‘I’ve never felt anything,’ Janny Trainer was saying, and someone asked: ‘Vomedy?’ Someone had placed a wet dishtowel on my forehead. ‘Yum!’ ‘Quagg’s casting!’ ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘I always did it because I thought I was supposed to, but suddenly I don’t feel as dumb as I used to!’ ‘Oh, I see – I thought it was a vomit remedy!’ This was Jim. I opened my eyes. There was a lot of excited activity around me. People preening, straightening stockings, tucking their shirttails in. Fats was on his feet again. ‘Hey, man, can you use a good piana player?’ ‘Right now,’ said Quagg, ‘I need a coupla grips to help Scarborough skate the flats!’ Maybe I’d dozed off. My head was thick and there was a metallic taste on my tongue. ‘It’s like letting men shove their thing in me all the time was making my brain all sticky and stupid …’ ‘Feeling better?’ Jim was bending over me. ‘Hot as a junked-up canary, man!’ ‘Hey, where you guys been?’ ‘Vot? Chunk?’ ‘Noble,’ I murmured. ‘I have to tell him …’ ‘He’s all right. The police are talking to him. Do you want to try sitting up?’ ‘Down the well, Zack, you know – so what’s on the menu, somethin’ special?’ What’s on the menu. The line stuck in my head for a moment. As Quagg read it off (‘Ach, yah, zeks!’), I seemed to see real menus, one-page books, tantalizing, yet unreadable, opening out before my eyes. Choices could be made, they said. They are always the same choices. ‘Gerry … ?’

  ‘Let one who knows your nature,’ breathed Hoo-Sin soothingly, ‘feel your pulse.’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t got a name, though the kid’s working on that. But it’s about time and memory and lost illusions …’

  ‘Oh yeah! Is that the one where the director comes running in and says: “No, no, Ros! you’re supposed to pick up the clock and—”?’

  ‘Or how ’bout a little soft-shoe,’ wheedled Fats. ‘And play the piana!’

  ‘No, this is all new, man!’

  ‘The way I heard it, she was – ha ha – supposed to pick up the jewels and run …’

  ‘Both at the same time, Zack, both at the same time!’

  Menus, my mother used to say, were fun’s bait, misery’s disguise. She could be epigrammatic like that. She’d sit over hot coffee, smoking nervously, thinking up these depressing little aphorisms. Happiness, she’d say, is a missed connection …

  �
��Come on, Gerry …’ Jim was slapping my cheeks gently. I felt very remote. The menus had become cue cards, curtains, candles, calendars, the white wakes of ocean liners (Regina said something about the ‘last act’ or maybe ‘elastic,’ and there was distant laughter like the sound of waterclocks), wet laundry …

  ‘To experience perfect interfusion, let all the knots be dissolved.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right …,’ said Janny.

  ‘Here, we don’t need every fucking “i” dotted, son – just give us the nub and a zinger or two and we can pong along on the rest.’

  ‘… Though I’m a little bit ticklish there!’

  ‘What’s Scarborough doing in there?’

  ‘Uh, what’d he say, Uncle Howard?’

  ‘Has to do with some saint, he said.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, it’s wild, man!’

  ‘I believe he wants you to prepare an outline.’

  ‘You ever seen me bang the dogs, Zack?’

  ‘Gerry … ?’

  I opened my eyes again (this took effort) and found myself staring across the floor at Mavis, staring pitiably back. Her own eyes were glazed over (‘Hoo! hah! Just – puff! – clamp your lamps on this move, man!’) and she was grinning, but she didn’t seem to be dead. Just listening. The pale rolls of flesh on her arms and legs lay spread out on the carpet as though deflated. Or deboned. I tried to flex my own arms, but couldn’t.