In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

by William H. Gass

  2

  The following morning the icicles were still there. Every eave had them. They hung in clusters from poles and from the elbows of trees. Where the snow had melted from the faces of the traffic signs, the icicles were spindly, but they emerged from spouts like muscular arms and clung to the gutters in dense strings. The sky was clear again, the cold continuing, and the snow remained deep on the roofs. Good growing weather, Fender thought, letting his breath seep from his mouth. It was simply a question of how much weight their stems would hold. Or had they stems? Parsnips, he remembered, were white. Under a faucet a cone. It put him in mind of caves. From floor to ceiling. Like sets of teeth. And there was scarcely a breeze. The impulse to see if his own string had survived the night was very strong when he awoke. His concern surprised him and he thought there was something wrong with the feeling, something silly, childish almost—yes, childish, that was right; moreover he blamed the icicles for his having slept badly and for the struggle he’d had to prevent himself from drawing the curtains first thing like a fool. The impulse had come on before he was slippered even, had grown while he used the bathroom, become clamorous while he dressed and had his juice, so that he took no pleasure in anything, but thought of the icicles and whether they were safe and whether he was picturing their lengths correctly, except that occasionally, as if there was some connection, he would remember the list in his pocket and all the tasks he’d failed to do, the endless number of things put off: bills, letters, papers, phone calls, errands, odd jobs—god, he was showing a house to a couple at when? ten? eleven—a regular dog’s house—Ringley—empty all winter—fine, damn fine—in bad shape now—dark, cold, walrus-jawed Ringley . . . who was it hunted caves? some funny name . . . gah, to crawl through holes in the earth like worms, who knew what you’d come on? water dripping somewhere and the white pouches of spiders—adventure, they called it . . . nothing like the fire of the mountain, at least as he saw it, the glittering air, distance sloping brilliantly away . . . . Then a vision of an immense snowfield triumphed briefly in Fender, blinding him pleasantly, and he stretched to tiptoe, meaning to look, it was stupid to fight oneself over such a thing, Ringley, three floors of basement, a park for bats . . . and the appointment would run through lunch most likely . . . . He ought to catch up on the figures but what was the use, no one wanted a place like that. This pair, these people: who were they? they wouldn’t want it—a trap . . . . Pearson should tell Clara to sell it herself, he wasn’t a wizard, for heaven’s sake. Look, Pearson, I’m no magician and that place is a pumpkin; it’s full of rats, well anyway mice, they leave their droppings on the kitchen counters—not a chance . . . . So he’d hear Pearson preach the power of imagination: Fender! think what you’re selling! happiness is our commodity! you want to dream for them—dream! But Fender remembered how a Baby Ruth wrapper had ruined a sale, it had gone through their dreams like a brick . . . . He ought to have made those calls, Pearson would ask him about them. No dice, Mr. Pearson, nothing doing there, he’d have to say, while Glick grinned greenishly—soaked in dill . . . . He could use his tape and if they were still there, he could measure them, that would be interesting—to know how large.

  Then another thing I do is I always draw a picture of the house, a simple floor plan. Take this away with you, I say, it’ll help you remember; and let me tell you, they’re grateful. And another thing I always do is I always . . . but Glick is not listening, he is looking away—the newer, the younger man, he has his sharp eyes stuck in something. Glick? I hope you don’t think Pearson’s taught me all I know about this business. Not by a long shot. I always try to think of a way they can save, trim, cut some corner—a fifth one—so they’ll believe they can safely spend their money on the four I’m selling; it gives them the right feeling; they’ve got to have the right feeling—it’s an art—it takes years. Well . . . Ah . . . Glick? I’ve picked up a few things myself, you know, yes sir. Pearson can’t tell you everything. But Glick was not listening to Pearson either, even when Pearson spoke directly to him and Glick looked serious and nodded and the muscle in his jaw jumped. He never listened; even when Pearson told his joke and Glick surfaced his troubled, obsequious face like a fish to receive it, his ears were full. Well you’ll want to know what things, I suppose, a fellow just starting out like you are, learning the ropes, getting the feel, you’ll want to cotton on to what you can, the accumulated wisdom, as they say, well that’s what civilization is, I guess, knowledge handed on, isn’t it? experience of the years; elders, betters, eh? . . . Glick? For instance, sizes. Damn, he was deaf as his flowers. Fender had wanted to take him under his wing. How foolish that was. He was a bramble, a burr. Awf—sharp, he never scratched himself except in pleasure. Sizes of rooms, Glick—think. You want to have them right here, see, on the tip of your tongue—living room: twenty-four by fifteen; master bedroom: thirteen and a half by eleven and a fourth; kitchen: nine by five; bath: six by four, and so on . . . sizes. The dining room is a spacious square, an elegant and useful twelve. Make it sound professional. Smooth. That siding, see? that’s one-by-four t-and-g resawn redwood, my good friend, there’s no better. Your clients are thin with the worms of worry, skinny from the scares inside them. Fatten them on certainty. They want to believe. This closet? It’s twenty-two deep—that’s standard. You say that—you say it’s standard—even if it isn’t. Next the missus’ll want to know whether she can get her what-not in that corner. Quick—the facts! the figures! you rattle off the sizes. Twelve hundred square feet of living space. You’re buying a house, here, Mr. Ramsay, you say, laughing, at only nine bucks a yard. Yes sir, sizes. Gives them confidence. They see your concern. I tell you they’re worn; they’re wires; worry is crawling through them, breeding; they want to believe. So: height of the ceilings. Width of the windows. Here’s a fellow who knows, they think, someone really familiar with his property, someone who has the facts at the tip of his tongue, someone who’s been around and understands the market, someone we can trust. It works, Glick. It has quite an effect. Try it out. One try’ll convince. You feed them facts as sharp as needles. You surprise them. See this piece of pipe, Mr. Ramsay, it’s six feet long. You know how important that sort of thing is—I mean how far your water travels. It flabbergasts them, Glick. Yes sir, it sets them on their ears.

  But Glick was not listening . . . awash in his barrel, sunning himself in brine.

  Fender had triumphed over himself, he had managed not to look, so that now, while the engine of his car was warming, he was able to enjoy the icicles thoroughly, and he thought it was perhaps this righteousness that had driven out the sense, always present and dominant before, that icicles were, after all, well, icicles; yet he could not help noticing that his were longer than any of his neighbors’—they were grander in every way—and since the weather had been considerate enough to remain fine, they would certainly continue growing, they might even double themselves during the day—it was purely a question of how much weight their stems would bear. He tried to remember when he’d last paid icicles any mind—in his childhood sometime, surely—but his memory failed him, he was left with a blank. There was a house, doubtless, somewhere, he’d lived in, but he’d lost the address. Even now his life slid swiftly by and was soon out of sight like a stick on a river. It vanished so completely, in fact, that at a party once, when he was asked as a part of a game to compose his autobiography, he’d had to answer that he couldn’t tell the story of his life because he couldn’t in the least remember it. At this confession everyone laughed strenuously, warming him with shame and pleasure, but it was not a joke, the remark was true, even if he’d recognized its truth himself only at the moment he was making it, and the idea frightened him a bit, though he forgot about it finally along with everything else: the party, his unmeant wit, its small surprise, the anxiety that was a consequence of it, and his smoothly disappearing life. He did remember that at first he’d had the same fear of the icicles he’d had from time to time of sharpened pencils—that one might pierce his e
ye. There was no discomfort in his gaze now, however, only pride, and when he felt the cool mass of the tape measure against his thigh, he had to triumph over himself again. What would people think if they saw him . . . anyone passing . . . Pearson conceivably? He wished his icicles were growing on the other side —within—where he might measure them in private, examine them in any way he liked. But if one broke off . . . The thought was dismaying. Really—good heavens—look here, he exclaimed quite aloud, ducking into his car, you’re not right, Fender, old fellow and friend, one of these days they’ll be taking you away . . . and he backed in reckless bursts out the snowy drive.

  Glick was holding a ballpoint pen between his teeth like a pirate. It was a green pen and it made Fender think: pickle. Glick nodded briefly at Fender who was feeling his way now through an office unnaturally dark and full of lurking obstacles. Goodness but it’s bright outside, he said, his voice false as a wig, which both surprised and annoyed him, since it was a small thing to have said, and he’d certainly meant it. The typewriter was repeating a letter—likely x. Glick nodded again and sucked noisily on his saliva. Fender, in his turn, blinked hard to unmuddy his eyes. Prospects. They made him think dirt. They made him think rags, snakes, picks, and the murder of companions. With difficulty he wriggled out of his coat, found he was angry, and began impatiently stuffing his scarf in a sleeve. Glick’s flowers were rustling like ghosts behind him. The coat hanger swayed and clinked. The typewriter continued to drum and rattle. Isabelle . . . Ah, Isabelle—but unfortunately . . .

  At his desk he opened drawers. Glick was saluting him, wasn’t he? with a flower. These are new, Glick said, removing the pickle to speak. New, Fender wondered, how, new? I just brought them in this morning, a change, Glick said, and time for it too, the others were dusty. Fender grew watchful. It was a joke perhaps. And he realized he’d given voice to his thoughts. But . . . I mean . . . why, he finally said, why these . . . well . . . these old dead flowers? Dried, they’re dried, Glick said, it’s a hobby of mine, strawflowers are easy—Helichrysum, Helichrysum monstrosum; then there’s Statice, sea lavender, Statice sinuata; and Angel’s Breath, of course, Gypsophila; Xeranthemum; Rhodanthe, Swan River . . . Why was Glick going on like this just now? He’d been in the office over a year and there’d never been any occasion for—any need to mention—to go into that strange foolishness of his. Fender squeezed his head in the corner of his arm and thought of his icicles growing in long carroty lines. Ah, they should be careful . . . . Slowly the room began to sort itself. Glick had a heap of leaves and other withered things on a newspaper. He kept thrusting stems in a vase, then yanking their heads. Grasses, he was saying. Pampas grass grows anywhere from ten to twenty feet high. Grasses, said Fender blankly. Hare’s-tail grass and foxtail millet, that’s Setaria italica. Quaking grass, which is Briza maxima. Fender’s anger suddenly flared. He bent and rummaged through his file drawer. That ass, that ass, he thought, just like him too—ten to twenty feet indeed, what a liar—just think, how could he compare . . . I saw a good many icicles this morning, he said, his tongue thick. He hated that foreign language. Glick was standing back, tipping his head from side to side, winking absurdly. They’re all over, he said. All over? Well, I suppose they are. All over, eh? Everywhere, Glick said, like weeds; you should have seen the bunch I kicked off my car. I can bet, said Fender, hardly able to speak. His head was filled to bursting. When I think of you, Glick, he said to himself, I think: pickle! Have you ever really looked at an icicle, Glick? really looked? Sure, Glick said, straightening, sure I have, why? But Glick wasn’t listening and there was no need for Fender to reply. He slid back deeply in himself, into the threatening heat, his heart and the typewriter thumping, while fear for his icicles passed like a cloud across his stomach. I’ve a fever, Fender decided, shivering as though to verify the diagnosis. So Glick had a hobby. Think of that. Where were the figures on the Ringley house? A hobby. Imagine. No, his mind drew back, he couldn’t picture it. Where was that colored card? He always put those figures on a colored card. Glick was folding and removing the newspaper from his desk whose surface, gleaming, seemed to leap beneath it. He’d put it—he’d put it somewhere—where? . . . oh he was in a fury, a fury. He glared at Glick to be rude. Blue suit this morning, by george. Desk rubbed. Tightly knotted dark tie lit by metallic threads. What was the reason? And then these carefully collected old weeds. Dried, dead, what was the difference? Left to sweat in the sun like prunes and raisins. Latin, was it? Latin, of course. Hoo. Mummification. He’d written down that couple’s name—he had—he knew he had. It was an attack on him, all of it, everything . . . . And Pearson would come in a bit. Ah, now Glick was busy. His french cuffs slid from his coat sleeves. Bizz-bizz-bizz. Well, Pearson would come in a bit. Shatteringly. Nothing up with those numbers, Mr. Pearson, I’m afraid, no, nothing up. His icicles now—they ought to increase themselves carefully. If he had time he’d just drive by during lunch—see how they were doing. Strawflowers, did he say? Aaah. They were perfectly turned, that’s how nature did it. Drops gathering at the tip, then falling away. Of course icicles were all over. Who’d said otherwise? Climate general, conditions everywhere the same, consequences similar, very natural, who—Fender drew a deep shuddery breath. My my my, old fellow, friend, what a way really, what a way, take hold now, get a grip. When I think of you, Glick . . . monstrosum? is that what he said? it had the right sound. Lord. The show-off. The fake. But such a shame. They were so fragile. Such a shame.

  Pearson did not come. Contrary to his custom, he did not come at all, nor did he notify them. The phone was still. After a time the typewriter ceased. Fender sat for a long while quite motionless and silent, in a kind of trance, papers spread out before him in a fan, staring down at their decorative surfaces, some pink, some cream, some yellow, most white, a pencil sticking like a twig from his fingers, the warmth coming and going, the worry too, causing his brows to clench and the corners of his mouth to wrinkle, until the remarkable storm of feeling that had burst upon him the moment he had drawn aside the office door passed off, he cooled, and his heart began to slow and settle. Then his gaze regained its content. He heard the humming of the fluorescent lights. Something—jewelry?—clicked. The image of Glick’s vase was squatting in the wax, and Fender, able to speak, though overloudly, said: where’s Pearson this morning? what’s the matter? is he sick? Riding his chair from behind his desk, Glick spun gayly around. Isn’t it nice? Fender tried to smile. He’d be a good fellow. But the office, for some reason, wasn’t safe this morning, it didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right himself. He was, for one thing, a good deal smaller than his skin. Your body owns you; another house, isn’t it? Fender came up cautiously to the ports of his eyes: lady’s hanky in a wad, string of clips, glistening pen stem, ringlet of phone wire, pamphlets bent back savagely . . . wrong, wrong, wrong, everything wrong . . . a golden row of pencils coming to points, then Glick, bluish, turning gently, smiling, pretending to raise his ribs with his hands, inhaling noisily, isn’t it nice? . . . dull green cabinets covered with sideswipes, darkly indented caster tracks on the asphalt tile, the stainless tube of a chair, while across the window the Gothically lettered name of the agency in black, and beyond that the bright sun littering the street with reflection.

  What’s the white stuff? This? that’s honesty. What, demanded Fender, who was prepared to be angry again. It’s called honesty, Fen . . . Lunaria annua. Glick laughed the hearty joker’s laugh and Fender grew uneasy. It’s also called the money plant. And this is amaranth, Gomphrena. Glick tilted, his shoes rose gleaming. Glick, ah, how . . . how do you make them, I mean, get them so dry? His voice seemed strange and distant, mechanized, as though it came from a speaker. The office was edging away, pen, pencils, paper; the phone drew back, the punch, the stapler; and Glick sang on without him. Maybe Pearson’s got the word, Glick said—the sheet’s sneaked down from the statue; or maybe he hasn’t any pennies for the papers, he’s broke finally, flindered, his pockets bulge with his pieces;
or maybe he sold a property and swooned clean away like the slope on a steeple. Flies of his fingers, Glick flew them in spirals. It was all for Isabelle, and Fender couldn’t bear it. Where was Pearson? Bake . . . do you bake them somehow? Fender asked. But Glick was handing himself to Isabelle, smiling his soul out. Fender couldn’t bear it. No, Izzy—no, Glick said, I see it quite plainly now—now suddenly I see it all. He was peering between his fingers. In a moment—god!—he’d be a guide on a bus. Do you do them like raisins? Glick pushed both his palms forward like a traffic policeman. Here’s how the news got through —I’m certain—no other way, really—he saw it in the socials. Prunes? like prunes? The socials! Isabelle was giggly. You could have hung her clothes on the line between them. Eee-hee-hee, sweetie. All sorts of dried things these days: fruit, milk, peas, beans, eggs even, potatoes. He saw it in the socials or in the financials. The financials, says Isabelle, sweetie! How could she? Fender heard himself getting loud. Surprise invaded their faces. He had determined on an answer; he had to head them off; he could not endure their duet today or scale the cruel peaks of their hilarity. Cut when young, bound in loose bunches, hung upside down, cold dry place, where a breeze would be helpful . . . The chance was gone, Glick spoke so swiftly. Then in the funnies, Glick said, beginning the recital, when Pearson was blue-penning the balloons, there he read it—a dog said it. Isabelle flounced. There was a sound of settling sand and sliding paper. Fender shut his eyes. He could not bear it. Surely the financial page, she said, but Glick was on—spinning his chair, bouncing, pointing, wagging his head and making faces.