What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

by Raymond Carver

  The barber put a hand on top of my head to turn me for a better look. Then he said to the guard, “Did you get your deer, Charles?”

  I liked this barber. We weren’t acquainted well enough to call each other by name. But when I came in for a haircut, he knew me. He knew I used to fish. So we’d talk fishing. I don’t think he hunted. But he could talk on any subject. In this regard, he was a good barber.

  “Bill, it’s a funny story. The damnedest thing,” the guard said. He took out the toothpick and laid it in the ashtray. He shook his head. “I did and I didn’t. So yes and no to your question.”

  I didn’t like the man’s voice. For a guard, the voice didn’t fit. It wasn’t the voice you’d expect.

  The two other men looked up. The older man was turning the pages of a magazine, smoking, and the other fellow was holding a newspaper. They put down what they were looking at and turned to listen to the guard.

  “Go on, Charles,” the barber said. “Let’s hear it.”

  The barber turned my head again, and went back to work with his clippers.

  “WE were up on Fikle Ridge. My old man and me and the kid. We were hunting those draws. My old man was stationed at the head of one, and me and the kid were at the head of another. The kid had a hangover, goddamn his hide. The kid, he was green around the gills and drank water all day, mine and his both. It was in the afternoon and we’d been out since daybreak. But we had our hopes. We figured the hunters down below would move a deer in our direction. So we were sitting behind a log and watching the draw when we heard this shooting down in the valley.”

  “There’s orchards down there,” said the fellow with the newspaper. He was fidgeting a lot and kept crossing a leg, swinging his boot for a time, and then crossing his legs the other way. “Those deer hang out around those orchards.”

  “That’s right,” said the guard. “They’ll go in there at night, the bastards, and eat those little green apples. Well, we heard this shooting and we’re just sitting there on our hands when this big old buck comes up out of the underbrush not a hundred feet away. The kid sees him the same time I do, of course, and he throws down and starts banging. The knothead. That old buck wasn’t in any danger. Not from the kid, as it turns out. But he can’t tell where the shots are coming from. He doesn’t know which way to jump. Then I get off a shot. But in all the commotion, I just stun him.”

  “Stunned him?” the barber said.

  “You know, stun him,” the guard said. “It was a gut shot. It just like stuns him. So he drops his head and begins this trembling. He trembles all over. The kid’s still shooting. Me, I felt like I was back in Korea. So I shot again but missed. Then old Mr. Buck moves back into the brush. But now, by God, he doesn’t have any oompf left in him. The kid has emptied his goddamn gun all to no purpose. But I hit solid. I’d rammed one right in his guts. That’s what I meant by stunned him.”

  “Then what?” said the fellow with the newspaper, who had rolled it and was tapping it against his knee. “Then what? You must have trailed him. They find a hard place to die every time.”

  “But you trailed him?” the older man asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

  “I did. Me and the kid, we trailed him. But the kid wasn’t good for much. He gets sick on the trail, slows us down. That chucklehead.” The guard had to laugh now, thinking about that situation. “Drinking beer and chasing all night, then saying he can hunt deer. He knows better now, by God. But, sure, we trailed him. A good trail, too. Blood on the ground and blood on the leaves. Blood everywhere. Never seen a buck with so much blood. I don’t know how the sucker kept going.”

  “Sometimes they’ll go forever,” the fellow with the newspaper. “They find them a hard place to die every time.”

  “I chewed the kid out for missing his shot, and when he smarted off at me, I cuffed him a good one. Right here.” The guard pointed to the side of his head and grinned. “I boxed his goddamn ears for him, that goddamn kid. He’s not too old. He needed it. So the point is, it got too dark to trail, what with the kid laying back to vomit and all.”

  “Well, the coyotes will have that deer by now,” the fellow with the newspaper said. “Them and the crows and the buzzards.”

  He unrolled the newspaper, smoothed it all the way out, and put it off to one side. He crossed a leg again. He looked around at the rest of us and shook his head.

  The older man had turned in his chair and was looking out the window. He lit a cigarette.

  “I figure so,” the guard said. “Pity too. He was a big old son of a bitch. So in answer to your question, Bill, I both got my deer and I didn’t. But we had venison on the table anyway. Because it turns out the old man has got himself a little spike in the meantime. Already has him back to camp, hanging up and gutted slick as a whistle, liver, heart, and kidneys wrapped in waxed paper and already setting in the cooler. A spike. Just a little bastard. But the old man, he was tickled.”

  The guard looked around the shop as if remembering. Then he picked up his toothpick and stuck it back in his mouth.

  The older man put his cigarette out and turned to the guard. He drew a breath and said, “You ought to be out there right now looking for that deer instead of in here getting a haircut.”

  “You can’t talk like that,” the guard said. “You old fart. I’ve seen you someplace.”

  “I’ve seen you too,” the old fellow said.

  “Boys, that’s enough. This is my barbershop,” the barber said.

  “I ought to box your ears,” the old fellow said.

  “You ought to try it,” the guard said.

  “Charles,” the barber said.

  The barber put his comb and scissors on the counter and his hands on my shoulders, as if he thought I was thinking to spring from the chair into the middle of it. “Albert, I’ve been cutting Charles’s head of hair, and his boy’s too, for years now. I wish you wouldn’t pursue this.”

  The barber looked from one man to the other and kept his hands on my shoulders.

  “Take it outside,” the fellow with the newspaper said, flushed and hoping for something.

  “That’ll be enough,” the barber said. “Charles, I don’t want to hear anything more on the subject. Albert, you’re next in line. Now.” The barber turned to the fellow with the newspaper. “I don’t know you from Adam, mister, but I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t put your oar in.”

  THE guard got up. He said, “I think I’ll come back for my cut later. Right now the company leaves something to be desired.”

  The guard went out and pulled the door closed, hard.

  The old fellow sat smoking his cigarette. He looked out the window. He examined something on the back of his hand. He got up and put on his hat.

  “I’m sorry, Bill,” the old fellow said. “I can go a few more days.”

  “That’s all right, Albert,” the barber said.

  When the old fellow went out, the barber stepped over to the window to watch him go.

  “Albert’s about dead from emphysema,” the barber said from the window. “We used to fish together. He taught me salmon inside out. The women. They used to crawl all over that old boy. He’s picked up a temper, though. But in all honesty, there was provocation.”

  The man with the newspaper couldn’t sit still. He was on his feet and moving around, stopping to examine everything, the hat rack, the photos of Bill and his friends, the calendar from the hardware showing scenes for each month of the year. He flipped every page. He even went so far as to stand and scrutinize Bill’s barbering license, which was up on the wall in a frame. Then he turned and said, “I’m going too,” and out he went just like he said.

  “Well, do you want me to finish barbering this hair or not?” the barber said to me as if I was the cause of everything.

  THE barber turned me in the chair to face the mirror. He put a hand to either side of my head. He positioned me a last time, and then he brought his head down next to mine.

  We looked into the m
irror together, his hands still framing my head.

  I was looking at myself, and he was looking at me too. But if the barber saw something, he didn’t offer comment.

  He ran his fingers through my hair. He did it slowly, as if thinking about something else. He ran his fingers through my hair. He did it tenderly, as a lover would.

  That was in Crescent City, California, up near the Oregon border. I left soon after. But today I was thinking of that place, of Crescent City, and of how I was trying out a new life there with my wife, and how, in the barber’s chair that morning, I had made up my mind to go. I was thinking today about the calm I felt when I closed my eyes and let the barber’s fingers move through my hair, the sweetness of those fingers, the hair already starting to grow.

  Popular Mechanics

  EARLY that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. Streaks of it ran down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Cars slushed by on the street outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.

  He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.

  I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear?

  He kept on putting his things into the suitcase.

  Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me in the face, can you?

  Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up.

  He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to the living room.

  Bring that back, he said.

  Just get your things and get out, she said.

  He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room.

  She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.

  I want the baby, he said.

  Are you crazy?

  No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come by for his things.

  You’re not touching this baby, she said.

  The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around his head.

  Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.

  He moved toward her.

  For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.

  I want the baby.

  Get out of here!

  She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove.

  But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.

  Let go of him, he said.

  Get away, get away! she cried.

  The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that hung behind the stove.

  He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He held on to the baby and pushed with all his weight.

  Let go of him, he said.

  Don’t, she said. You’re hurting the baby, she said.

  I’m not hurting the baby, he said.

  The kitchen window gave no light. In the near-dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.

  She felt her fingers being forced open. She felt the baby going from her.

  No! she screamed just as her hands came loose.

  She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around the wrist and leaned back.

  But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard.

  In this manner, the issue was decided.

  Everything Stuck to Him

  SHE’S in Milan for Christmas and wants to know what it was like when she was a kid.

  Tell me, she says. Tell me what it was like when I was a kid. She sips Strega, waits, eyes him closely.

  She is a cool, slim, attractive girl, a survivor from top to bottom.

  That was a long time ago. That was twenty years ago, he says.

  You can remember, she says. Go on.

  What do you want to hear? he says. What else can I tell you? I could tell you about something that happened when you were a baby. It involves you, he says. But only in a minor way.

  Tell me, she says. But first fix us another so you won’t have to stop in the middle.

  He comes back from the kitchen with drinks, settles into his chair, begins.

  THEY were kids themselves, but they were crazy in love, this eighteen-year-old boy and this seventeen-year-old girl when they married. Not all that long afterwards they had a daughter.

  The baby came along in late November during a cold spell that just happened to coincide with the peak of the waterfowl season. The boy loved to hunt, you see. That’s part of it.

  The boy and girl, husband and wife, father and mother, they lived in a little apartment under a dentist’s office. Each night they cleaned the dentist’s place upstairs in exchange for rent and utilities. In summer they were expected to maintain the lawn and the flowers. In winter the boy shoveled snow and spread rock salt on the walks. Are you still with me? Are you getting the picture?

  I am, she says.

  That’s good, he says. So one day the dentist finds out they were using his letterhead for their personal correspondence. But that’s another story.

  He gets up from his chair and looks out the window. He sees the tile rooftops and the snow that is falling steadily on them.

  Tell the story, she says.

  The two kids were very much in love. On top of this they had great ambitions. They were always talking about the things they were going to do and the places they were going to go.

  Now the boy and girl slept in the bedroom, and the baby slept in the living room. Let’s say the baby was about three months old and had only just begun to sleep through the night.

  On this one Saturday night after finishing his work upstairs, the boy stayed in the dentist’s office and called an old hunting friend of his father’s.

  Carl, he said when the man picked up the receiver, believe it or not, I’m a father.

  Congratulations, Carl said. How is the wife?

  She’s fine, Carl. Everybody’s fine.

  That’s good, Carl said, I’m glad to hear it. But if you called about going hunting, I’ll tell you something. The geese are flying to beat the band. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many. Got five today. Going back in the morning, so come along if you want to.

  I want to, the boy said.

  The boy hung up the telephone and went downstairs to tell the girl. She watched while he laid out his things. Hunting coat, shell bag, boots, socks, hunting cap, long underwear, pump gun.

  What time will you be back? the girl said.

  Probably around noon, the boy said. But maybe as late as six o’clock. Would that be too late?

  It’s fine, she said. The baby and I will get along fine. You go and have some fun. When you get back, we’ll dress the baby up and go visit Sally.

  The boy said, Sounds like a good idea.

  Sally was the girl’s sister. She was striking. I don’t know if you’ve seen pictures of her. The boy was a little in love with Sally, just as he was a little in love with Betsy, who was another sister the girl had. The boy used to say to the girl, If we weren’t married, I could go for Sally.

  What about Betsy? the girl used to say. I hate to admit it, but I truly feel she’s better looking than Sally and me. What about Betsy?

  Betsy too, the boy used to say.

  AFTER dinner he turned up the furnace and helped her bathe the baby. He marveled again at the infant who had half his features and half the girl’s. He powdered the tiny body. He powdered between fingers and toes.

  He emptied the bath into the sink and went upstairs to check the air. It was overcast and cold. The grass, what there was of it, looked like canvas, stiff and gray under the street light.

  Snow lay in piles b
eside the walk. A car went by. He heard sand under the tires. He let himself imagine what it might be like tomorrow, geese beating the air over his head, shotgun plunging against his shoulder.

  Then he locked the door and went downstairs.

  In bed they tried to read. But both of them fell asleep, she first, letting the magazine sink to the quilt.

  IT was the baby’s cries that woke him up.

  The light was on out there, and the girl was standing next to the crib rocking the baby in her arms. She put the baby down, turned out the light, and came back to the bed.

  He heard the baby cry. This time the girl stayed where she was. The baby cried fitfully and stopped. The boy listened, then dozed. But the baby’s cries woke him again. The living room light was burning. He sat up and turned on the lamp.

  I don’t know what’s wrong, the girl said, walking back and forth with the baby. I’ve changed her and fed her, but she keeps on crying. I’m so tired I’m afraid I might drop her.

  You come back to bed, the boy said. I’ll hold her for a while.

  He got up and took the baby, and the girl went to lie down again.

  Just rock her for a few minutes, the girl said from the bedroom. Maybe she’ll go back to sleep.

  The boy sat on the sofa and held the baby. He jiggled it in his lap until he got its eyes to close, his own eyes closing right along. He rose carefully and put the baby back in the crib.

  It was a quarter to four, which gave him forty-five minutes. He crawled into bed and dropped off. But a few minutes later the baby was crying again, and this time they both got up.

  The boy did a terrible thing. He swore.

  For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? the girl said to the boy. Maybe she’s sick or something. Maybe we shouldn’t have given her the bath.

  The boy picked up the baby. The baby kicked its feet and smiled.

  Look, the boy said, I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with her.

  How do you know that? the girl said. Here, let me have her. I know I ought to give her something, but I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.