by Nigel Dennis
Lily put on her fur coat. “I’ll be back by noon, I’m sure,” she said. “Well, take it easy, don’t kill yourself.” “Well, it’s easy to say; “I’ve two days’ washing piled up in the kitchen.” “I only mean, don’t feel there’s any hurry on my account,” said Diver, graciously waving one arm. “Well, here we go,” said Lily, nudging Artie through the door and following close on his heels in a stumbling sway.
The hall-door snapped-to behind them; Divver was alone, but thousands of shivering, high-pitched concerts of sound appeared to be darting through the air, inaudible to the human ear but charged with frightful vitality; the sort of residual tension that might persist between work shifts in an abattoir. Divver crouched down in bed and pressed his ear against the hot-water bag; he cursed himself for having been so stupid as to have a boil; everything was going to be even more hellish than usual; neither he nor Lily would miss a single spiteful opening, and no man can defend himself against a backlog of dirty child’s clothes. Divver thought querulously of the wicked advantage women have over men in matters of illness. A husband has an ear, in which a boil forms in a frank, masculine way, the best he can do. What was this compared with the unbelievable collection of inter-communicating tubes and bags that wives succeeded in burying under the debonair surfaces of their bellies and keeping in a permanent snarl of disruptive heaving, shoving, expansion, contraction and over-all dismay—a condition for which they vindictively demanded the highest respect, as though insisting that everything had been sweet and clean until some husband stepped in and gummed it all up for the sake of his despicable pleasure. After long calculation that involved holding one set of numbers suspended in memory while hastily summing up a second set, and then dividing one set by the other, Divver reached the figure of fifty thousand dollars as the probable yearly income of Lily’s gynæcologist. He then reached about the same figure for Art’s pediatrician, by which time the pulse in his ear was drumming furiously, and it seemed that a dull knife was being pressed into his head.
Lily was the one who brought home the Digests and other literary trash that Divver was ashamed to be found reading and always read. Sitting up with a groan and pressing the warm bag to his ear, Divver read an article entitled “Are You Emotionally Rich?” The gist of this article was that even people who had an adequate bank balance went through life with a sense that they were missing something. When Divver had read it he answered the test-questions: “When you see a beautiful work of art such as Rembrandt’s Descent from The Cross or Grant Wood’s American Gothic, does your blood pressure rise appreciably, and are you conscious of goose-flesh or a tingling in the spine?” “Has the woman (or man) you say you love ever caused you to feel such joy or sorrow that you have been incapable of eating a meal?” “You say you are terribly affected by, say, the suffering of Europe’s refugees or the victims of the recent coal-mine disaster in Pennsylvania. But did either episode, or any similar one, make it impossible for you to get a good night’s sleep?” “If you saw a woman, a stranger to you, hysterically beating her child in a public thoroughfare, would you intervene?” “When you are faced with a difficult situation does the saliva withdraw from your oral cavity?” “You say you have been profoundly stirred by a political address or a beautiful poem, but does much emotional residue remain the next day, or even after a few hours of commonplace distraction?” Divver was always scrupulously honest in such tests, and all his replies were in the negative, except the one about the child-beating, against which he placed a question mark.
The man arrived with the linoleum, and Divver went to meet him, expressing the pain in his ear by walking with a limp. He obtained a thick black signature and let the man out. Standing alone in the centre of the living-room, wearing his heavy bathrobe and red Turkish slippers embroidered with hieroglyphics, his depression reached a new low and he fell into a fit of shivering. The room was thoroughly furnished, but in the stillness of his wife’s and child’s absence it was desolate. And yet each fitting and decoration had been chosen with care; and Divver recalled the conferences at which things had been squinted at subtly from various angles, as by witch doctors, and then placed where they belonged with so powerful an air of gravity and secret deftness that the room had been charged with tension. Divver remembered with what extraordinary excitement he and Lily had hugged each other when the radio-phonograph filled a vacant alcove so precisely that it left on either side a chink of no more than one millimeter. Lily had not been able to keep her eyes off it for days, and Divver had been so touched that he had come up behind her while she was waxing the cabinet and had pressed a French kiss on her lips, and murmured: “Honey, aren’t you my own soft tiny goose?” These excellent arrangements now seemed to suggest a funeral parlour: the most repellant objects were those whose convenience was most admirable, such as the glass and standard ash-trays set at ash-tapping distance from the couch and the chairs. There were pictures on the walls which Divver had not noticed for years; he now studied one of them intently and told himself that it was a work of art. The most frigid and hopeless aspect of the room was the bookshelf, with its six tiers of volumes arranged according to sizes and authors, with size taking precedence over author where necessary; new volumes were regularly added to this collection and thereafter were of interest only to visitors. The spaces between the dead spines were tastefully filled with occasional crockery, such as a glazed leopard in the act of springing, and a Japanese vase whose swollen sides held books in an erect position. We really ought to buy fresh flowers once a week, Divver thought; flowers make a big difference to a room; they make it more human.
He hurried back to bed, laying his head deep in the pillows and hunching his body together until he was warm again. If the boil became a tumour it would possibly penetrate his brain and he would die. He wondered who Lily would marry, and whether she and her husband would keep his belongings or give them to the Salvation Army. He thought they should be given to a refugee.
At this moment a picture of a European street came into his mind. It was a small Tyrolean street, with a limewashed hostel at the far end on which were painted two brown bears clutching opposite sides of a tree. The houses were varnished chalêts with balconies on every floor; on the walls of the balconies stood rows of pots filled with geraniums. Divver had barely dwelt on this vision before the side of a giant steamship came into view; smoke poured from the funnels, and all at once a tender was carrying him ashore and the skyline was marked with cranes and hoists. A porter asked Divver about his suitcases, and Divver followed him to the cabstand, smoking a cigarette. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Divver,” said a distinguished man, rising from his chair and shaking Divver’s hand: “I hope you’re going to tell me all the latest news from Washington.” “Well, there’s not much to tell,” Divver answered, pressing the bag harder against his ear, “except that there is increasing disillusionment as to the prospects of collective security.” “Do you have any views to express on this point, Mr. Divver?” “Well, specifically, I believe that the attitude of the United States is not likely to change unless the people are convinced that the European democracies do really intend to do something. The prevailing feeling is one of despair, even disgust, at the callous opportunism shown by Europe’s democratic leaders, who refuse to admit that the very structure of Western civilization stands at the brink of a catastrophic chasm. There is a stench of decadence in European democracy to which we Americans react with distaste. We see no reason why we should come to the aid of nations which appear to have no intention of aiding themselves. We see no reason why our young manhood’s blood should be shed to prop up a system that is fundamentally corrupt. We are an open-air nation, Lord Berkley, and though at times we may seem unsophisticated, we have nevertheless retained much of the farmer’s natural shrewdness, a certain indefinable spirit of respect for the man who hoes his own row and approaches problems openly, not from behind velvet curtains, in the conclaves of secret diplomacy.” “You’ll stay for lunch, Mr. Divver?” “I should be
glad to do so, but unfortunately my state of health … a tumour from which I may not recover … perhaps only six months to live….”
Divver closed his eyes and slept.
He heard the click of the latch key, and a second later Lily’s and Art’s soprano voices were tearing through the apartment. They burst in on him, Art prancing ahead and screaming “Look, my balloons!” and hurling three huge red, yellow and purple objects into his father’s face; Lily gasping, her face tight with exhaustion, carrying two parcels in one hand and a large shopping-bag in the other. “Artie! Get off your father!” she cried, dropping the shopping bag and slapping Artie on the behind. There was a howl; Art rolled to the empty side of the bed, kicking violently, and turned up a face filled with outrage. “Now don’t say I hit you!” cried his mother. “You did hit me!” screamed Art, bursting into tears. “For Pete’s sake, I do that to you fifty times a day and you know it’s not hitting. Art, d’you want me to give you a real smack? Art, do you or don’t you? You’d better speak up fast, Art; I’m losing my patience. Artie! Do you hear me?” “Leave him to me, honey,” boomed Divver, “you go and lie down.” “Lie down! What do you mean, lie down?” “Art, Max wants to speak to you,” said Divver, ignoring Lily and speaking in the warm, controlled voice of booklet fatherhood. Art paid him no attention; he fixed his streaming eyes on his mother, who had suddenly become completely calm and remote, and, turning her back on her son, whom she appeared to have completely forgotten, was examining her expressionless face in the mirror and pulling and patting her blouse and suit into neatness. At this, Art burst into a desperate wail: “Mommy! Mom-my!” to which Lily paid no attention. “Artie, I want to tell you something,” said Divver, “something very easy that will make you feel better. I want you to listen to me, do you see? listen to me for just one minute.” “Mom-my!” screamed Art—this time with fear in his voice—and scrambling like an animal over his father’s body he hurled himself against his mother and clutched her skirt with both fists. “Mommy!” he screamed again. “Stop crying first,” said Lily very quietly, still looking straight into the mirror. Art beat her with his fists and went on screaming. Lily, her body rocking under the blows, took out a lipstick and peered closer into the mirror. Artie dropped his fists and leaned against her leg; he began to cry feebly. At once Lily laid aside the lipstick, bent down and put her arms around him. “Shall we find you your lunch?” she murmured. Artie nodded, pressing his head against her breast. “O.K. We’ll get your lunch.” She stood up and took him by the hand. They went off to the kitchen, Art shuffling and snuffling, Lily poised and dignified. “Stay in your chair and screw the top off your candy jar to eat after,” said Lily, “and I’ll get a handkerchief for your nose.” “I can’t unscrew it.” “Sure you can….. Blow…. Blow again….. Now hold up your face…. Now you’ve a clean face…. Do you want your pumpkin first? … All right, pumpkin first….” “Wasn’t that a crazy man we saw, Mommy?” “Yes, he was a clown, but never mind that now. You call me when you’re through. I want to talk to your father.”
Divver looked up to find Lily standing beside him with her face so cold and set that his whole body contracted into the narrowest space. She said: “Max, do you mind not interfering when I am having trouble with Artie.” Divver glared at her, and replied in a voice as austere as her’s: “If any help on my part is put down as interference …” “I can manage Artie my own way without you trying to make me feel that I haven’t a brain in my head. You can write an editorial about Czechoslovakia if you want to, but leave Artie to me.” Divver, who was now pale with anger and fear, replied: “I’m only too glad to leave Artie to you, except when you get hysterical and start hitting him.” Lily trembled. “What do you mean, hitting him?” “Didn’t you hit him?” “You know very well I didn’t hit him.” “You must be out of your mind.” “I didn’t know you thought I had a mind.” “Did I ever suggest any such thing?” “I don’t care what you did or didn’t suggest, but you’re not going to lie in a bed and teach me how to mind your son.” “For Christ’s sake!” shouted Divver. “You don’t have to shout. I’m not Mussolini.”
At this body-blow, Divver raised himself to a sitting posture and stared at his wife in amazement. Lily’s face began to work; without more words she returned to the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later Art was laid away for his nap—two hours of an undulating crooning accompanied by strokes on resonant parts of his bed.
At one-thirty Lily brought her husband a bowl of soup and some salad. She said nothing.
At two o’clock she passed through the bedroom, her sleeves rolled up, carrying a basin of wrung-out small clothes.
Divver read the New York Times, coughing delicately from time to time and holding one hand over his ear.
At two-fifteen Lily walked slowly into the bedroom, her face steamy, pale blue shadows under her eyes. Breathing in a subdued panting, she slowly removed her suit and put her bathrobe on over her slip. “How’s your ear?” she asked in a dull voice. “It’ll burst eventually, I guess,” said Divver, in the same weary voice. “Can I get up now?” cried Art from the next room. “No, you cannot,” said his mother, “you’ve still got three-quarters of an hour.” “How much is that?” “You know how much it is. When the big finger on your clock stands straight up, it’s time.” “It’s straight up now.” “Don’t be silly. Artie. Now don’t call again because I’m going to lie down too.”
Lily lay down beside her husband and pulled the bedspread up to her shoulders. She lay on her back, closing her eyes every minute or so, then opening them again and staring dully at the ceiling. Her breathing was that of a runner who has regained his wind but continues automatically to gasp. “Will you give me a cigarette, please?” she asked. In handing her the lighted cigarette Divver gave her face a quick once-over and hastily turned his eyes away. Lily was in one of those momentary stretches when she had lost her dignity and was too disgusted to care: once she had got back her breath she would find this condition so unbearable that she would pull herself together with a show of authority, which would involve storming from one point to another about the apartment, re-establishing everything in view with a lot of patting and pushing and glancing from one thing to another like a hawk. Meanwhile, she gave the impression of a woman who collapses drunkenly in the street, when her skirt rucks up and exposes the tops of her stockings and the metal clips of her garters, and her legs loll any way they happen to fall, with a total picture of shocking ungainliness and abandonment. Divver pretended he had not noticed anything, not merely because he considered such notice unfair to his wife, but because he knew that any man who so much as recognized a woman in this condition is ambushed in a dark alley by harpies and witches, who tear him into pieces with their nails, boil him alive, and eat him so ravenously that not one particle of his beastly self remains. Divver also knew that some day a similar punishment would be visited on all the men who had ever gone to an office with the pretext of going to work: the wives of centuries would arise, rip off their husbands’ business suits, dress them in skirts, and pitchfork them into a stewing hell of fouled baby-clothes, where millions of infants screamed in millions of keys, tiny hands pressed dirty marks on spotless dresses, and piping voices called for a drink of water every two hours every night for all eternity. Lily, Divver reflected, not only desired this fate for him but held the vicious conviction that Hitler’s rise to power was merely a device through which democratic husbands were enabled to while away the day scribbling reproaches on pieces of paper. Divver often suspected, as most men do, that he had never done a real day’s work in his life. But he wished that Lily would be more generous about concealing this fact; she never was. If a person who was meeting her for the first time asked politely: “And do you go to work, Mrs. Divver?” Lily always answered: “Yes, I stay home.” Divver’s men-friends, who were not married to Lily, greatly admired her when she made such remarks—and she made a great many; Lily always made them roar with laughter, and they often said, without meaning
to be personal, that there were damn few wives they could think of who were not far more intelligent than their husbands, and that it was pretty much of a scandal the way the women were pushed into the background. Divver would have been more sympathetic toward Lily in this respect if she had not had so many unpleasant ways of reducing his dignity to the same low level as her own. For instance, when friends came in after supper and there was talk about international affairs, Divver might put in a word or two about Italy—say, an explanation of certain important factors, taking up little more than ten minutes of monologue. When he had finished, and the pause that follows monologues was being observed, it was Lily’s habit to, as it were, dull the effect by remarking: “Speaking of Italy, does anyone know where the Silbersteins buy their gorgonzola?” She had other habits that he found just as painful. If he handed her a press-clipping, say, a review of one of his books or some mention of an article he had written, remarking casually: “Not too bad, eh?” or “Well, here’s someone who seems to think I’m quite a man,” it was Lily’s habit to take the clipping and instinctively to turn it over and read whatever was on the other side. A man had to be a saint …
“What did you feel about the party last night?” Lily asked.
Divver recognized this remark. It was not so much a peace-feeler as a moving of things on to ground where they would both be able temporarily to relax. The one sure bond between them was not love or Art; it was the ready tolerance and comradeship they felt for one another when discussing the characters of their friends. “I thought Henry was a wind-bag,” said Divver firmly.
