by Nigel Dennis
*
Early one Saturday morning, in May, 1939, Divver realized that the pain in his left ear was a growing boil. The sun edged in through slits in the closed venetian blinds and shaped itself on the bedroom floor in powdery markings, bringing a dim light into the room. Lily was still asleep; Divver heard the morning paper flop outside the hall door; in the next room Home On The Range was being sung in a subdued but querulous soprano, his son Arthur’s warning that worse would come if he were deprived of many more minutes of another glorious day. Divver propped himself against the bedhead with two pillows, easing himself up with the heavy breathing and muted grunting of a man who is determined that no matter how great his agony, his wife shall get her full sleep. He held his head gingerly on one side, brushed his throbbing ear gently with four fingers, and finally delicately inserted his crooked little finger and probed into his ear-hole, edging in further and further, his features expressing excruciating wariness. Soon, a stab of pain rewarded him; Divver gave a sharp hiss, and, his guess that he was in pain being now confirmed, let his face rise into ridges of suffering, while a muted whistle came from his lips. His wife responded with a faint bleat; her smooth black eyebrows started to meet in a frown; then they drifted apart again, and with a little sigh Lily continued to sleep.
For some seconds Divver remained still, his head bent, his eyes half-closed in discomfort. Then, with intense caution, and side-glances at his sleeping wife, he began to manœuvre his right arm, working it free of the covers inch by inch, wincing at the rustling, until the whole limb was exposed in its sleeve of maroon silk. The free hand advanced nervously on a package of cigarettes; Divver’s breathing became stertorous; cigarettes and matches came together with the noise of blown leaves; a match was struck after three or four vain strikes, each of which made the bed hop; the flame flared up with a hiss, and Lily bleated again and again returned to sleep.
Silent as an Indian scout, Art appeared in the open doorway. He looked at his father with sharp interest and made a hopeful grimace. Divver responded with a fearful frown and expansion of the nostrils, jerking his head forcefully in the direction of Art’s mother. Art at once replied with a whole series of contortions, which any trained parent could interpret as suggesting that he might sit on Divver’s side of the bed without saying a single word or moving the least little muscle; to which Divver replied with his own series of facial twitches; which set the whole bed trembling. Art disappeared, giving the door jamb a loud slap as he passed.
Phlegm made its way into Divver’s throat; after ignoring it for a moment he made two or three throaty ejaculations which emerged in a rattle. With great caution he scratched his right shin, which was suddenly ticklish. Again Art appeared in the doorway, this time holding up a box of some mechanical outfit, which jingled. Divver shook his head fiercely. Art disappeared again. In a few minutes, Home On The Range drifted back into the bedroom, sung this time with more expression. Better to get it out of the way for good and all, Divver decided, and cleared his throat raucously. Lily opened her eyes. “Go back to sleep, honey,” said Divver in a low voice, patting her shoulder: but Lily had already done so.
Divver touched his ear again. Placing his index finger on the top of the ear and his thumb under the lobe he cautiously pinched the ends together until the ear resembled a sweet-pea. A loud drumming noise now rang in the cavity, accompanied by a high singing, and a nervous throbbing pain that appeared to be directed into the very heart of the brain. Divver hissed again, and nervously looked down at Lily: her morning face was so soft and full that he could scarcely believe that at the very instant of waking it would take on a whole complexion of lines. When he examined the flesh on either side of her lips, the two grooves that normally ran from her nostrils almost to her jawbone in such a frightening way were visible only as delicate tracings: she looked positively girlish in a smooth, pink way, and her flesh appeared to be as rich and sleek as a good leg of lamb. Divver felt, half-way down the bed, a stirring and knotting of his muscles and insides; he looked crossly at the centre of the quilt and pressed out his cigarette; soon his boil gave him a sharp stab, and he was able to reflect with some pride that if at this moment Lily were to wake, and to hold out her arms to him, as she had often done years ago, he would be obliged to shake his head. “I am sorry, dear. I have a boil.” “You have a what?” “I have a boil in my ear.” Divver hung his head dismally to one side; the boil throbbed louder than ever, and the bedside clock ticked away the minutes in its usual pointless way. About time she woke up, thought Divver crossly.
Art reappeared. This time he carried a woolly animal which he held against his chest. Avoiding his father’s menacing eye as artlessly as a waiter avoids a patron’s, he stepped across the carpet and sat in a low chair beside the dresser. Here he held the animal at arm’s length and began to address it—without speaking, of course, but pursing his lips at it, wagging one finger warningly at its nose, suddenly projecting his chin and appearing to strike the animal sharply on the backside with his right hand. His father was not sure what to do; he eyed his son fiercely and tossed his head, but Art failed to notice: he made up his mind to ignore his son’s exhibitionism, but couldn’t resist glancing toward the animal from time to time. Noticing instantly that his father’s interest was aroused, Art looked at him with a winning smile and began a speechless, grimaceful explanation of the animal’s misconduct, stopping now and then to shake it savagely and threaten it with his bared teeth. He then looked hopefully at his father. Divver half-closed his eyes, to express pain. Art raised his eyebrows and patted his stomach questioningly. Divver replied by laying an open palm against his left ear. “Ts! Ts!” said Art. “Sshh!” said Divver. The bed shook.
A few minutes passed. Art dropped the animal suddenly and stared vacantly into space, his mouth open. Divver lay back on the pillows with his eyes closed, listening to the morning traffic and pressing a plump end of the top pillow against his ear. When he next opened his eyes, he saw that Art had opened the closet door and was toying with the ends of his mother’s skirts, pulling each hem towards him, studying the colour and fingering the material. “Art!” cried Divver in a high whisper. Art turned; Divver beckoned to him, and the little boy came over in a sulky slouch, tossing his body pettishly from the hips up. “Get me the newspaper, eh?” whispered Divver, stroking his hair and kissing him. “What’s wrong with your ear?” whispered Art. “Sshh! We mustn’t talk. It’s a boil.” “What’s a boil?” “Like that thing you had on your arm, but bigger.” “May I see?” “Don’t talk, will you? There’s nothing to see. Get me the paper, please.”
He heard Art wrestle with the handle of the hall door; there was the clang of a milk bottle rolling across the hallway, scraping sounds of pursuit, a loud slam, and the boy reappeared, walking at dead-slow pace, in deep study of the back page of the New York Times. “Go and play in the living-room,” whispered Divver, taking the paper and patting Art’s hand. “I’m hungry,” said Art. “It won’t be long now. Go and play in the living-room.”
Divver opened the newspaper, but after reading no more than a column he found the dim light unbearable. After a short struggle with his conscience he stretched his hand toward his bedside lamp and began to turn the switch with extreme slowness. Eventually there was a loud click; Divver winced and swore; the light poured over Lily’s face. “Don’t wake, honey!” cried Divver. “What d’you mean, don’t wake?” replied Lily, sitting up and breathing out a deep groan. “Did you get Art some breakfast?” she asked, pushing her hair back and staring at him with sticky eyes. “Well, no, I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I’m not feeling so hot.” “He must be starving … Art!” “I have a boil.” “You have a what?” “A boil in my ear.” “You must have drunk too much last night. Does it hurt?” “It’s pretty painful.” “Well, I guess I’d better fix Art his breakfast. God, I feel a wreck.” “I’ll get him his breakfast,” said Divver. “I thought you said you have a boil.” “I have a boil; it doesn’t mean I can’t squeeze an orange.
” “Well, apparently you didn’t think of squeezing one before I woke up.” “Are we going to start the day like this?” “You can start it any way you please, so long as you’ll give me five minutes to fix your son’s breakfast.”
Lily took down an old bathrobe made of towelling, much the same colour as Art’s animal—on which she now stepped and jumped away from with a dismal cry. Art ran in from the living room and threw his arms around his mother’s waist. “Hello, honey,” said Lily in a feeble voice, patting his head and wearily drawing the belt of the bathrobe into a knot. “Max has got a boil,” said Art, looking up into her face proudly. “I know he has, Art, so don’t bother him too much, because boils hurt.” “I don’t think you have to give the child the impression that I’m at death’s door,” said Divver, looking up from the newspaper. “Come on, Artie,” said Lily, “and close the door and we’ll leave your father with his boil.”
O.K. said Divver, holding the newspaper in front of his face. If she wants it that way she can have it that way. If she wants to get up when I want her to sleep, O.K. If she wants to be crucified, let her be crucified. She can spend her day any way she wants; I’ll not say another word. He heard from the kitchen the sound of frying bacon fat and Lily telling Art to put his own plate and own cup and own saucer on his own table and bring up his own chair. Maybe I should go in and just say something, thought Divver, feeling conscience-stricken suddenly and picturing himself putting his arm round Lily’s waist and kissing her softly. He decided that there was no good reason why he should; it was nothing but a matter of his wanting to.
Art came, carrying a glass of orange juice at a steep angle. “Oh, thank you, Art, thank you very much,” said Divver with courtesy, patting Art’s head. He then called loudly: “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have bothered, really.” Lily left the kitchen and came into the bedroom. “I didn’t hear what you said,” she said: “do you want something? I’m trying to fix Art’s breakfast.” “I just said you shouldn’t have bothered, dear,” said Divver, rather impatiently. “Oh,” said Lily, and led Art back to the kitchen. “I want you to eat by yourself,” Divver soon heard her telling Art, “I’m going to eat with your father and I’ve got things I have to talk to him about.” “But it’s Saturday.” “I know it’s Saturday, but you can’t expect to have everything the same always.”
Lily returned to the bedroom with a large tray. “I feel a louse, just lying here,” said Divver, taking his bacon and eggs. “Well, it’s silly not to eat if you can,” said Lily. “I guess I can eat, though this damn thing does hurt.” “They’re lousy things, I know,” said Lily. “Yes, they are: it’s not so much a sort of a sharp pain as the constant ache and not being able to find any position that helps.” “I remember my father getting them at least twice a year.” “I guess lots of people have them. I must be run down. I felt this coming on. I shouldn’t have stayed up talking last night. How about you?” “Well, not so hot. I somehow never seem to get my eight hours.” “Weren’t you in bed by eleven?” “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I slept. It was at least one before I dropped off, and then I had one of those nights where even though you sleep you’re not relaxed. When I woke up this morning I was just as tense as when I went to bed. Would you like a hot-water bag for your ear?” “That’s a swell idea, honey.” They kissed affectionately, but quickly, and Lily went out to the kitchen. “Are you through talking with Max?” said Art. “No,” said Lily, “I’ve only just started, so be a good boy and stay a while longer.” She returned to the bedroom and Art followed her in immediately. “I’m not going to do anything,” he said. “Well, sit on your own chair,” said Lily, “and don’t interrupt.” Art climbed on to the bed. Lily handed her husband the morning’s mail, which consisted of one letter from a press-clipping bureau.
Divver leaned his head sideways, the hot-water bag wedged between his ear and the pillow, and opened the envelope. Inside was a half-column review, from a newspaper in Christchurch, New Zealand, of Divver’s last book, now two years old. “Not so bad,” said Divver, reading the clipping and passing it to Lily. “Let me see,” said Art, crawling over his father’s body. “We’ll not read it now, Art,” said Lily, “we’ll wait.” She pushed the clipping under a wet saucer. “I’ve got to plan the day with your father…. I was going to go to Wanamaker’s; I guess that’s out, with your boil.” “I can mind Art,” said Divver, “though I don’t think I’ll take him out.” “Well, he needs to be taken out, but I don’t want to take him to Wanamaker’s, not on Saturday. But I’m taking him to Dr. Schweitzer this morning, anyway, so maybe he’ll not mind staying in this afternoon.” “D’you have to take him to Schweitzer?” “Yes, he has to have a Schick test.” “Oh, what for? I thought we were through with all that.” “No, this is the Schick test he has to take to make sure the last injection took. And after that comes the Dick test, to check if the Schick test took.” “If that doctor puts one of those stinky needles in me,” cried Art, making a pugilist’s face, “I’ll not let him: I’ll bite him, I’ll hit him, I’ll give him a good sock and knock him on the floor and kick him.” “Do you want to go in the next room, Artie?” said Lily: “No? All right then, keep quiet…. He’s got to have an injection in a few days, too.” “My God, I thought he’d had them all.” “He’s had diphtheria and whooping cough, but he’s never had anti-tetanus; he’s got to have that, and he’s got to have whooping cough.” “I thought you said he’d had whooping cough?” “So he has, but it wears off after a couple of years.” “Seems to me you could skip it.” “And have him have whooping cough?” “Well, you could take a chance. It’s not so bad, anyway. I had it when I was twelve; it never hurt me.” “It wouldn’t hurt you if Art had it either: you go to an office every day; but I’m the one who’d have to stay quarantined with Artie, or maybe you’d like a big hospital bill.” “I only mean, it seems going too far to have all these things done to him.” “O.K. if you want your son to have lock-jaw …” “Do I look like the sort of person who wants his son to have lock-jaw?” “Well, if you spent half the time you spend psychologizing …” “I never psychologize, as you call it; that’s one thing I believe one should never do.” “… If you spent half that time reading the statistics on infant mortality the way it was before they began injections, then maybe you’d find out why Dr. Schweitzer agrees with me.” “Mommy, I don’t have to go to that dirty old doctor. I won’t go. Those needles hurt; I hate the old fool.” “Oh, Art, keep quiet for two seconds, can’t you? And, anyway, I want Dr. Schweitzer to look at Art’s bladder. He still wets the bed, and five’s too old for that.” “I remember I went on wetting until I was ten.” “Maybe you did, but it was your mother who had to wash your sheets and hang the mattress out of the window every morning for ten years.” “I’m never going to wet any, any more, Mom. Only children do that.” “You’ve said that before Art, and I know you’ve tried, but now Dr. Schweitzer is going to look at the place the wet comes from.” “Lily, I guess I’ve said this before, but I bet anything there’s nothing wrong with the bladder. I do wish you’d do what I’ve suggested so often.” “You mean, just do nothing?” “It’s not just doing nothing; it’s a matter of deliberately not saying anything about it. We shouldn’t even speak of his bladder in front of him. After a month I bet he’d stop.” “O.K., then during that month you’ll wash his sheets before you go to the office?” “I shall be very glad to.” “Well, I’d rather trust Dr. Schweitzer to look at his bladder. I notice you don’t say that your boil’s psychological.” “It could very well be.” “Then why not analyse it so it bursts?” “Lily, you don’t imagine that the way you’re talking is serious, do you?” “I want to talk now, Mommy.” “That’s a fine idea, darling: come along and we’ll get dressed and go to Dr. Schweitzer for your bladder, and after I’ll take you to get those balloons.”
When Lily reappeared all the fleshy softness that had been in her face and body when she had worn night-clothes had quite disappeared: she was clamped, as by armour, in a close-fitting suit to which
a hard round hat was the casque. Her face had petrified into the fearsome, pioneer resolution of unremitting housewifery. While Art, dressed in his best for the doctor, leaned against her haunch and waved one leg to and fro in a semicircle, Lily made a census of her handbag, her fingers speeding remorselessly through the contents, flicking aside keys, nickels, and twenty or thirty other oddments, until she seized on a piece of paper that had been savagely folded down to the proportions of a postage stamp. “Here’s the receipt for the linoleum,” she said, unfolding the stamp until it was a fair size, and handing it to Divver. “I don’t think anyone else will come.” “Am I to pay the bill?” “No, can’t you see it’s been paid? All I want to do is have him sign it.” “He has to sign it?” “That’s right.”
