What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

by Raymond Carver

  “I only know what you tell me,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you, Les. I’ll tell you what’s the most important thing involved here. You see, there are things. More important things than your mother leaving me. Now, you listen to this. We were in bed one time. It must have been around lunchtime. We were just laying there talking. I was dozing maybe. It’s that funny kind of dreaming dozing, you know. But at the same time, I’m telling myself I better remember that pretty soon I got to get up and go. So it’s like this when this car pulls into the driveway and somebody gets out and slams the door.

  “‘My God,’ she screams. ‘It’s Larry!’

  “I must have gone crazy. I seem to remember thinking that if I run out the back door he’s going to pin me up against this big fence in the yard and maybe kill me. Sally is making a funny kind of sound. Like she couldn’t get her breath. She has her robe on, but it’s not closed up, and she’s standing in the kitchen shaking her head. All this is happening all at once, you understand. So there I am, almost naked with my clothes in my hand, and Larry is opening the front door. Well, I jump. I just jump right into their picture window, right in there through the glass.”

  “You got away?” I said. “He didn’t come after you?”

  My father looked at me as if I were crazy. He stared at his empty glass. I looked at my watch, stretched. I had a small headache behind my eyes.

  I said, “I guess I better be getting out there soon.” I ran my hand over my chin and straightened my collar. “She still in Redding, that woman?”

  “You don’t know anything, do you?” my father said. “You don’t know anything at all. You don’t know anything except how to sell books.”

  It was almost time to go.

  “Ah, God, I’m sorry,” he said. “The man went all to pieces, is what. He got down on the floor and cried. She stayed out in the kitchen. She did her crying out there. She got down on her knees and she prayed to God, good and loud so the man would hear.”

  My father started to say something more. But instead he shook his head. Maybe he wanted me to say something.

  But then he said, “No, you got to catch a plane.”

  I helped him into his coat and we started out, my hand guiding him by the elbow.

  “I’ll put you in a cab,” I said.

  He said, “I’ll see you off.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Next time maybe.”

  We shook hands. That was the last I’ve seen of him. On the way to Chicago, I remembered how I’d left his sack of gifts on the bar. Just as well. Mary didn’t need candy, Almond Roca or anything else.

  That was last year. She needs it now even less.

  The Bath

  SATURDAY afternoon the mother drove to the bakery in the shopping center. After looking through a loose-leaf binder with photographs of cakes taped onto the pages, she ordered chocolate, the child’s favorite. The cake she chose was decorated with a spaceship and a launching pad under a sprinkling of white stars. The name SCOTTY would be iced on in green as if it were the name of the spaceship.

  The baker listened thoughtfully when the mother told him Scotty would be eight years old. He was an older man, this baker, and he wore a curious apron, a heavy thing with loops that went under his arms and around his back and then crossed in front again where they were tied in a very thick knot. He kept wiping his hands on the front of the apron as he listened to the woman, his wet eyes examining her lips as she studied the samples and talked.

  He let her take her time. He was in no hurry.

  The mother decided on the spaceship cake, and then she gave the baker her name and her telephone number. The cake would be ready Monday morning, in plenty of time for the party Monday afternoon. This was all the baker was willing to say. No pleasantries, just this small exchange, the barest information, nothing that was not necessary.

  MONDAY morning, the boy was walking to school. He was in the company of another boy, the two boys passing a bag of potato chips back and forth between them. The birthday boy was trying to trick the other boy into telling what he was going to give in the way of a present.

  At an intersection, without looking, the birthday boy stepped off the curb, and was promptly knocked down by a car. He fell on his side, his head in the gutter, his legs in the road moving as if he were climbing a wall.

  The other boy stood holding the potato chips. He was wondering if he should finish the rest or continue on to school.

  The birthday boy did not cry. But neither did he wish to talk anymore. He would not answer when the other boy asked what it felt like to be hit by a car. The birthday boy got up and turned back for home, at which time the other boy waved good-bye and headed off for school.

  The birthday boy told his mother what had happened. They sat together on the sofa. She held his hands in her lap. This is what she was doing when the boy pulled his hands away and lay down on his back.

  OF course, the birthday party never happened. The birthday boy was in the hospital instead. The mother sat by the bed. She was waiting for the boy to wake up. The father hurried over from his office. He sat next to the mother. So now the both of them waited for the boy to wake up. They waited for hours, and then the father went home to take a bath.

  The man drove home from the hospital. He drove the streets faster than he should. It had been a good life till now. There had been work, fatherhood, family. The man had been lucky and happy. But fear made him want a bath.

  He pulled into the driveway. He sat in the car trying to make his legs work. The child had been hit by a car and he was in the hospital, but he was going to be all right. The man got out of the car and went up to the door. The dog was barking and the telephone was ringing. It kept ringing while the man unlocked the door and felt the wall for the light switch.

  He picked up the receiver. He said, “I just got in the door!”

  “There’s a cake that wasn’t picked up.”

  This is what the voice on the other end said.

  “What are you saying?” the father said.

  “The cake,” the voice said. “Sixteen dollars.”

  The husband held the receiver against his ear, trying to understand. He said, “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Don’t hand me that,” the voice said.

  The husband hung up the telephone. He went into the kitchen and poured himself some whiskey. He called the hospital.

  The child’s condition remained the same.

  While the water ran into the tub, the man lathered his face and shaved. He was in the tub when he heard the telephone again. He got himself out and hurried through the house, saying, “Stupid, stupid,” because he wouldn’t be doing this if he’d stayed where he was in the hospital. He picked up the receiver and shouted, “Hello!”

  The voice said, “It’s ready.”

  THE father got back to the hospital after midnight. The wife was sitting in the chair by the bed. She looked up at the husband and then she looked back at the child. From an apparatus over the bed hung a bottle with a tube running from the bottle to the child.

  “What’s this?” the father said.

  “Glucose,” the mother said.

  The husband put his hand to the back of the woman’s head.

  “He’s going to wake up,” the man said.

  “I know,” the woman said.

  In a little while the man said, “Go home and let me take over.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “Really,” he said. “Go home for a while. You don’t have to worry. He’s sleeping, is all.”

  A nurse pushed open the door. She nodded to them as she went to the bed. She took the left arm out from under the covers and put her fingers on the wrist. She put the arm back under the covers and wrote on the clipboard attached to the bed.

  “How is he?” the mother said.

  “Stable,” the nurse said. Then she said, “Doctor will be in again shortly.”

  “I was saying maybe she’d want
to go home and get a little rest,” the man said. “After the doctor comes.”

  “She could do that,” the nurse said.

  The woman said, “We’ll see what the doctor says.” She brought her hand up to her eyes and leaned her head forward.

  The nurse said, “Of course.”

  THE father gazed at his son, the small chest inflating and deflating under the covers. He felt more fear now. He began shaking his head. He talked to himself like this. The child is fine. Instead of sleeping at home, he’s doing it here. Sleep is the same wherever you do it.

  THE doctor came in. He shook hands with the man. The woman got up from the chair.

  “Ann,” the doctor said and nodded. The doctor said, “Let’s just see how he’s doing.” He moved to the bed and touched the boy’s wrist. He peeled back an eyelid and then the other. He turned back the covers and listened to the heart. He pressed his fingers here and there on the body. He went to the end of the bed and studied the chart. He noted the time, scribbled on the chart, and then he considered the mother and the father.

  This doctor was a handsome man. His skin was moist and tan. He wore a three-piece suit, a vivid tie, and on his shirt were cufflinks.

  The mother was talking to herself like this. He has just come from somewhere with an audience. They gave him a special medal.

  The doctor said, “Nothing to shout about, but nothing to worry about. He should wake up pretty soon.” The doctor looked at the boy again. “We’ll know more after the tests are in.”

  “Oh, no,” the mother said.

  The doctor said, “Sometimes you see this.”

  The father said, “You wouldn’t call this a coma, then?”

  The father waited and looked at the doctor.

  “No, I don’t want to call it that,” the doctor said. “He’s sleeping. It’s restorative. The body is doing what it has to do.”

  “It’s a coma,” the mother said. “A kind of coma.”

  The doctor said, “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  He took the woman’s hands and patted them. He shook hands with the husband.

  THE woman put her fingers on the child’s forehead and kept them there for a while. “At least he doesn’t have a fever,” she said. Then she said, “I don’t know. Feel his head.”

  The man put his fingers on the boy’s forehead. The man said, “I think he’s supposed to feel this way.”

  The woman stood there awhile longer, working her lip with her teeth. Then she moved to her chair and sat down.

  The husband sat in the chair beside her. He wanted to say something else. But there was no saying what it should be. He took her hand and put it in his lap. This made him feel better. It made him feel he was saying something. They sat like that for a while, watching the boy, not talking. From time to time he squeezed her hand until she took it away.

  “I’ve been praying,” she said.

  “Me too,” the father said. “I’ve been praying too.”

  A NURSE came back in and checked the flow from the bottle.

  A doctor came in and said what his name was. This doctor was wearing loafers.

  “We’re going to take him downstairs for more pictures,” he said. “And we want to do a scan.”

  “A scan?” the mother said. She stood between this new doctor and the bed.

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “My God,” she said.

  Two orderlies came in. They wheeled a thing like a bed. They unhooked the boy from the tube and slid him over onto the thing with wheels.

  IT was after sunup when they brought the birthday boy back out. The mother and father followed the orderlies into the elevator and up to the room. Once more the parents took up their places next to the bed.

  They waited all day. The boy did not wake up. The doctor came again and examined the boy again and left after saying the same things again. Nurses came in. Doctors came in. A technician came in and took blood.

  “I don’t understand this,” the mother said to the technician.

  “Doctor’s orders,” the technician said.

  The mother went to the window and looked out at the parking lot. Cars with their lights on were driving in and out. She stood at the window with her hands on the sill. She was talking to herself like this. We’re into something now, something hard.

  She was afraid.

  She saw a car stop and a woman in a long coat get into it. She made believe she was that woman. She made believe she was driving away from here to someplace else.

  THE doctor came in. He looked tanned and healthier than ever. He went to the bed and examined the boy. He said, “His signs are fine. Everything’s good.”

  The mother said, “But he’s sleeping.”

  “Yes,” the doctor said.

  The husband said, “She’s tired. She’s starved.”

  The doctor said, “She should rest. She should eat. Ann,” the doctor said.

  “Thank you,” the husband said.

  He shook hands with the doctor and the doctor patted their shoulders and left.

  “I SUPPOSE one of us should go home and check on things,” the man said. “The dog needs to be fed.”

  “Call the neighbors,” the wife said. “Someone will feed him if you ask them to.”

  She tried to think who. She closed her eyes and tried to think anything at all. After a time she said, “Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe if I’m not here watching, he’ll wake up. Maybe it’s because I’m watching that he won’t.”

  “That could be it,” the husband said.

  “I’ll go home and take a bath and put on something clean,” the woman said.

  “I think you should do that,” the man said.

  She picked up her purse. He helped her into her coat. She moved to the door, and looked back. She looked at the child, and then she looked at the father. The husband nodded and smiled.

  SHE went past the nurses’ station and down to the end of the corridor, where she turned and saw a little waiting room, a family in there, all sitting in wicker chairs, a man in a khaki shirt, a baseball cap pushed back on his head, a large woman wearing a housedress, slippers, a girl in jeans, hair in dozens of kinky braids, the table littered with flimsy wrappers and styrofoam and coffee sticks and packets of salt and pepper.

  “Nelson,” the woman said. “Is it about Nelson?”

  The woman’s eyes widened.

  “Tell me now, lady,” the woman said. “Is it about Nelson?”

  The woman was trying to get up from her chair. But the man had his hand closed over her arm.

  “Here, here,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry,” the mother said. “I’m looking for the elevator. My son is in the hospital. I can’t find the elevator.”

  “Elevator is down that way,” the man said, and he aimed a finger in the right direction.

  “My son was hit by a car,” the mother said. “But he’s going to be all right. He’s in shock now, but it might be some kind of coma too. That’s what worries us, the coma part. I’m going out for a little while. Maybe I’ll take a bath. But my husband is with him. He’s watching. There’s a chance everything will change when I’m gone. My name is Ann Weiss.”

  The man shifted in his chair. He shook his head.

  He said, “Our Nelson.”

  SHE pulled into the driveway. The dog ran out from behind the house. He ran in circles on the grass. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wheel. She listened to the ticking of the engine.

  She got out of the car and went to the door. She turned on lights and put on water for tea. She opened a can and fed the dog. She sat down on the sofa with her tea.

  The telephone rang.

  “Yes!” she said. “Hello!” she said.

  “Mrs. Weiss,” a man’s voice said.

  “Yes,” she said. “This is Mrs. Weiss. Is it about Scotty?” she said.

  “Scotty,” the voice said. “It is about Scotty,” the voice said. “It has to do with Scotty, yes.”

>   Tell the Women We’re Going

  BILL Jamison had always been best friends with Jerry Roberts. The two grew up in the south area, near the old fairgrounds, went through grade school and junior high together, and then on to Eisenhower, where they took as many of the same teachers as they could manage, wore each other’s shirts and sweaters and pegged pants, and dated and banged the same girls—whichever came up as a matter of course.

  Summers they took jobs together—swamping peaches, picking cherries, stringing hops, anything they could do that paid a little and where there was no boss to get on your ass. And then they bought a car together. The summer before their senior year, they chipped in and bought a red ‘54 Plymouth for $325.

  They shared it. It worked out fine.

  But Jerry got married before the end of the first semester and dropped out of school to work steady at Robby’s Mart.

  As for Bill, he’d dated the girl too. Carol was her name, and she went just fine with Jerry, and Bill went over there every chance he got. It made him feel older, having married friends. He’d go over there for lunch or for supper, and they’d listen to Elvis or to Bill Haley and the Comets.

  But sometimes Carol and Jerry would start making out right with Bill still there, and he’d have to get up and excuse himself and take a walk to Dezorn’s Service Station to get some Coke because there was only the one bed in the apartment, a hide-away that came down in the living room. Or sometimes Jerry and Carol would head off to the bathroom, and Bill would have to move to the kitchen and pretend to be interested in the cupboards and the refrigerator and not trying to listen.

  So he stopped going over so much; and then June he graduated, took a job at the Darigold plant, and joined the National Guard. In a year he had a milk route of his own and was going steady with Linda. So Bill and Linda would go over to Jerry and Carol’s, drink beer, and listen to records.

  Carol and Linda got along fine, and Bill was flattered when Carol said that, confidentially, Linda was “a real person.”

  Jerry liked Linda too. “She’s great,” Jerry said.