The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1

by Donald Harington

  Brother Tichborne returned home to the frock from his “gloaming constitutional,” as he called it, to find that his wife, Ila Frances, had risen and started breakfast for herself and their children.

  “Morsel, Sister Tichborne,” the minister greeted his wife, whom he was wont to address formally. He wished she would do the same, but:

  “Mors, Chid,” she said. “What-all’s the news out yander in the world?”

  “Hit’s purty nice and fair, the night a-comin on,” he observed. “Six zillion stars out and up.”

  “Only six?” she said. “Last night they was seven.”

  “Paw, kin we go to the play-party tonight, us younguns?” requested Archy, one of their sons, past his imago, and indicating himself and his siblings, mostly identical brothers.

  “Naw, Archibald,” the minister said. “They’s liable to be dancin at thet there play-party.”

  “Aw, we kin jist watch,” Archy declared.

  Mrs. Tichborne suggested, “They kin keep their sisters out of trouble.”

  “Shore, I reckon,” said Archy. “We kin watch out for our sisters.”

  “No dancin,” said Brother Tichborne wearily. “None of y’uns do no dancin.”

  The dozen-odd Tichborne offspring sprang away from breakfast—the boys skittled away, while the girls flittered away.

  Alone together, Brother and Sister Tichborne discussed their plans for the night. Sister Tichborne wanted to go visit her sister, who was married to a Smockroach. Brother Tichborne considered going with her; it would be an opportunity to convert a few of the Smockroaches. His ambition, if he lived long enough, if Man’s bullets did not rapture him and send him west, was to convert everyone into Crustians…even the Ingledews, whose domicile, Parthenon, he wanted to consecrate to Crustianity.

  But tonight there was a more pressing chore: Chid Tichborne needed to plan and rehearse his next Sunday prayer meeting and worship service, which, for the first time, he intended to conduct right in the presence of Man, right at Man’s feet, as it were. This bold move would be sure to convert some of the faithless.

  And when he had made those preparations, he had better drop in on that play-party, just to make sure that the young folks were behaving themselves….

  Chapter three

  Sam Ingledew preferred crusts to crumbs, especially when it was crust of Brie, Camembert or Boursin; when it was crust of pretzel or waffle or éclair; when it was crust of brownie or macaroon or ladyfinger; his favorite of all edibles was apple fritter. The crust of beignet aux pommes was the measure of its quality: he could not conceive of a good beignet without a thoroughly crispy crust.

  But he was not a Crustian, not in the devotional sense. Certainly he believed that there had existed in ancient Stay More a certain roosterroach with the name of Joshua, who was called the Crust, and Sam was even ready to accept the possibility that this Joshua Crust had been impaled upon a pin by a Man, or Manchild, who had had the venerable Stay More family name of Ingledew. But Sam could not accept the commonly held belief that the roosterroach Joshua was the son of Man, any more than he could accept the idea that roosterroach Ingledews were descended from human ones. Enough, that we adopt the names and ways of Man; too much, that we should claim biological lineage.

  By temperament as well as by residence, Sam felt removed from the battles between Crustians and non-Crustians, Frockroaches and Smockroaches. Holy House was a world away, although the two buildings were only a couple of furlongs from each other, at opposite ends of the Roamin Road, which had been the Main Street of the village of Stay More when Stay More was still being proliferated by Ingledews, human and roosterroach alike. Sam’s father, Squire Hank Ingledew, loved to talk of the old days, although Squire Hank himself had never known them, nor had Hank’s immediate grandsires or great-grandsires, all the way back to Isaac Ingledew, who had led the roosterroaches into exile during the generations when Stay More had been totally abandoned by Man.

  Ingledews had always been leaders, long before the time of Joshua, and if Sam did not feel inclined to lead anyone, it was because he had even less taste for politics than for religion. A philosopher, an epicure, a naturalist, and a bon vivant, he felt that he was a stranger to the folkways of his kindred. He was a cosmopolite in a world of rustics.

  And unless he got busy and overcame his shyness and found a girlfriend, he was the last of the Ingledews. His father, Squire Hank, though still physically powerful, was psychologically impotent and would never again sire offspring. Sam had no brothers and sisters. When his mother had laid the ootheca which had been his prelife capsule, her easteregg, she had slipped away from his father and climbed the mantel above the unused fireplace in the Woman’s bedroom. She had entered this very Clock and deposited her easteregg carefully in one corner, far from the slow gnashing of the Clock’s gears and the swinging of its pendulum, safe from any spiders or scorpions. It was her third easteregg of the season; the other two had entirely failed to hatch.

  An ootheca hatches through the combined simultaneous and spontaneous inhalation and exhalation of its fourteen to sixteen inhabitants. Sam remembered—it was his first memory—the awful effort of sucking in and puffing out his abdomen, which failed to crack the crust of the ootheca, failed to hatch the easteregg, and the panic when he realized that the other fifteen “passengers” in the ootheca were not helping because they were west, or rather had not succeeded in eastering. They were stillborn, all of them, and Sam would have been also, despite his frantic and most desperate efforts, had not the Clock exclaimed “SUGARPLUM!” and begun striking seven times with such noise and vibration that the sound alone seemed to rupture the ootheca’s case and release him, squalling in fright and singing in triumph in the same breath, into this life.

  His mother had not crusted him “Sam”; that was not his “real” name. There were no Ingledews of any generation, human or roosterroach, with that given name, nor with the name his mother actually gave him, which has been forgotten, even by him (she had been west, lo, since Sam was in his fourth instar and an infestation of the cockroach mite, Pimeliaphilus podapolipophagus, carried her off). She had crusted him with a special name symbolic of the season in which he was born.

  “When ye git growed up,” she had explained, “when ye reach yore imago, you can call yoreself anything you like. Names is sorta sniffwhips on the front of yore face. You can wave ’em about, and use ’em to find yore way around in this world, and keep ’em clean all the time, and ye can touch things with ’em, and talk to other folkses with ’em, and all such as thet, but a given name is jist a sniffwhip.”

  So in his maturity—he was no longer young, but had lived a full circuit of the earth around the sun—he had dropped his Crustian name and chosen to call himself Gregor Samsa Ingledew, the full meaning of which was known, or appreciated, only by himself. How he learned the significance of it is one of those mysteries as puzzling as the fact that every roosterroach is born with all the knowledge that he needs to get him through to his west.

  When the Clock conspired with his mighty efforts to crack the case of his easteregg and he found himself alone with fifteen stillborn siblings on the floor of the Clock, he had no mother to care for him. She was somewhere down below, or in another part of Parthenon, where his infant cries could not reach her. No roosterroach mother can know the instant her easteregg hatches unless she keeps constant watch on it. Few do.

  He found himself alone and hungry and ignorant of his strange surroundings, the wheeling gears and meshing cogs and the swinging pendulum, the clacking rack and bobbing cock and ticking deadbeat escapement. He thought the Clock was his mother, but her mechanisms did not quite fit his imprinted genetic memory, and when he tried to talk with her in her own language—rapid clacking verbs, clittering adjectives, thrumming nouns, with tinkling commas, dingling periods, and bonging exclamation points, she would not respond to him. When she said “FONDUE!” he repeated her exactly, but she ignored him. For three days, he went hungry. His first night’
s absolute whiteness, which frightened him, as if he were a ghost of himself, mellowed into amber, and then into tan. He prowled the length of the mantelshelf, greatly intimidated by the heights. He considered eating one of his stillborn siblings, for nothing is tastier to a rooster-roach than a westered embryo, but somehow he understood that the toothsome delight under consideration was his sister.

  One night (he kept to the darkest corner of the Clock whenever there was a bit of light), he saw the Woman. She stood near the mantelpiece, near enough for his sniffwhips to detect with ravenous recognition what She held in Her hands—in one hand a glass of milk, in the other hand an Oreo, that fabled delectation of chocolate crumbs. He knew She must be his mother, although She looked even less like a mother roosterroach than the Clock did. He felt an overpowering filial love for Her, which was a love not merely for the food She was bringing to him but for Her great beauty; for the golden waves of hair spread upon Her shoulders as white as his own body had lately been, for the surpassing sweetness of Her face, for the grace with which She moved, for the dulcet tones with which She created words—“Now is this Friday? Or is it Saturday? Why, yes, I do believe it’s Saturday.”

  Baby Sam returned the words: “Why, yes, I do believe it’s Saturday.” But She, like the Clock, ignored him. She did not even see him. Nor did She give him any of the food which She was bearing. She set the glass of milk down on the mantelshelf and abruptly opened the glass door on the face of the Clock, startling him into withdrawal further back in the shadows. With the hand that had held the milk She steadied the Clock, and with the other hand, the hand that held the Oreo, She stuck a key into the Clock face and began to wind it. The Clock made new sounds that Sam had not heard before, the scritching of the key, the spranging of the spring being tightened.

  She turned and turned the key, and in the long course of this labor a tiny corner of the Oreo She held crumbled off and fell to the floor of the Clock.

  This minute fragment of Oreo sustained young Sam for over a week, until his true mother arrived and led him down from the Clock and into the world and began explaining to him all the things he did not understand.

  She explained to him that certain things are “not nice.” For example, it is not nice to vomit your food while others are watching. “Gobble yore food, but puke in solitude,” was one of her many maxims. Although it is acceptable to speak of discharges from the front end as “puke,” it is not acceptable to speak of discharges from the rear end by any of the numerous scatological words that many roosterroaches, particularly males, employ daily. It is better to speak of “making water,” or “going out” or “going out to see how high the moon is,” or even “heading for the john to do number two.”

  Above all, his mother explained, it is not nice, ever, to use the word “cockroach.” The simple reason is that “cock” is one of the unmentionable words for either the male generative organ or the female receptacle of same, depending on who uses either, the word or the organ. His mother called his organ a tallywhacker, and he knew what she meant and wished she would drop the subject, it embarrassed him so. In his sixth instar, just before his imago, Sam learned of the Spanish word cucaracha, which is the origin of the English “cockroach,” and has nothing to do with the male member or even male chickens, but in Stay More nobody with any decency would ever say “cockroach,” nor would they speak of cock in any form, such as cockeyed, cocksure, coxcomb, let alone peacock, and it was best to avoid any utterance of pecker, dick, peter, jemmison, prick, root, ducey, dinger, dood, yingyang, tool, goober, horn, rhubarb, okra or even penis.

  Why this prudery? Being already possessed of the uncommon wisdom of the Ingledews, which he refined through countless hours of meditation, Sam Ingledew understood in time that the essential reason for all sexual modesty is to give sex mystery, without which it would be dull, commonplace, obligatory, and uninviting. Modesty makes sex hard-to-get and therefore challenging, and therefore worthy of all one’s waking obsessions and half of one’s dreams. If it were otherwise, the generations would not generate.

  “Roosterroach” seemed ludicrous to Sam when it was applied to a female of his species, but, he supposed, no more ludicrous than “cockroach” itself. The female “cock,” he learned from his childhood companions, was called the twat, snatch, pussy, twitchet, moosey, monkey, or simply cunt, a word which his mother, first making him take a bite of a rancid bar of soap after he uttered it, told him should always be replaced by “gillyclicker,” the feminine equivalent of tallywhacker. “Gillyclicker” sounded forbidding and mechanical to Sam, but was still better than gonapophyses, which is unpronounceable.

  Sam had to chew soap whenever he spoke the wrong word. When he simply misused a word, he was sniffwhipped. On penalty of a severe sniffwhipping, he was told never to use the shortened “roach” as a substitute for “roosterroach,” as Man does, because properly speaking a roach is a small, silvery freshwater fish, Rutilus rutilus, and in its several slang associations it means such things as a roll of hair, or the cut on the edge of a boat’s sail, or the butt of a marijuana cigarette—a form of “roach” which Sam’s mother once took him on a long jaunt to the edge of Stay More to examine, from a safe distance: it was still smoldering upon the ground, and its faint smoke, if allowed to enter one’s spiracles, would make one drunker than Chism’s Dew. “Now, son, that is a ‘roach,’” his mother had said, “unless you ever see the fish kind of roach, which will eat ye quicker’n ye can git word to Man. So don’t never let me hear you say ‘roach’ when you mean us. Us is always ‘roosterroach.’”

  When Sam’s mother westered, he properly grieved for two days, staying awake all during the daylight to mourn, and then he had no further maternal instruction to digest or injunction to obey. His loneliness sometimes compelled him to leave his Clock, whence he had returned to live alone during his fifth instar, and venture out into Stay More to attempt the cultivation of other boys his age, but because he was an Ingledew and destined to be a squire, and because he lived in Parthenon two furlongs away from all the other youth of Stay More, and because he was by nature “different” from other pre-imago roosterroaches his age, he did not succeed in finding a best friend, and the extent of his acceptance by his peers into the youth culture was his learning a few bawdy jokes and bits of gossip about various girls, and learning the practice the boys called “jacking off,” which involved a complicated manipulation of one’s tallywhacker with one’s hind gitalong.

  “Jacking off,” a substitute for the act of mating with a female, caused a spermatophore to burst forth from the endophallus with a high degree of physical and emotional pleasure. A favorite game of the hot-blooded imago males of Stay More involved using the ejaculated spermatophores as small, maneuverable spheres in a contest of sniffwhip dexterity within a circle drawn in the dirt; one’s own spermatophore was one’s “shooter,” and the object of the game was to shoot and capture the other spermatophores. The game was known as “marbles.”

  When he reached the age of imago, Sam indulged in the game of marbles whenever he could find a group playing it, and sometimes he played it alone, by himself, producing marble after marble, and he scorned those Crustians who claimed that the game was sinful, wicked, and could cause one to lose all one’s marbles, or to go deaf, or blind, or to have hair grow on the sides of one’s sniffwhips.

  When he began to lose his hearing, he thought that he had been wrong, the Crustians right, but he learned that none of the other players of marbles were losing theirs. Maybe the other players never played alone, by themselves, as he did. Maybe it really was sinful to play with yourself, and it worried him to the extent that he quit playing the game alone, then quit playing it with others. But still his hearing grew worse.

  Although he told no one, it was very difficult to conceal the fact that he was nearly deaf. More and more he kept to himself and to his Clock. In time he had no friends among the Smockroaches or the Frockroaches. He was the Clockroach, and he could still hear the striking of the Clock
. But he missed, he sorely missed, being able to hear the Woman. All of the months of his growing up, he had listened to Her. She talked to Herself. Much of what She said to Herself he could not understand, but most of it he was able to figure out, and Sam felt that he probably knew Her better than any other creature knew Her, certainly better than Man knew Her.

  Once in a while She talked not to Herself but to a black hard plastic device shaped like an oversized ant, which usually rested upon the back of another black hard plastic device shaped like an oversized beetle. Somehow a person’s voice, another Woman, or, very rarely, a Man, spoke through this device to Her. Usually She spoke back to it, and Sam, before he lost his hearing, could listen to the conversation.

  But often She simply twiddled a dial on the beetle and then listened without speaking. Before his hearing began to fail him, Sam had heard a number of these lectures, or whatever they were. A voice would say, “You have dialed Tel-Med program number 147, ‘The Lady Living Alone.’ Through choice or necessity, many women choose to live by themselves. This can result in medical problems as well as social problems. We want to talk to you about them.”

  Part of Sam’s education, before his hearing began to go, was to eavesdrop on these Tel-Med programs. More than once he had heard Number 42, “I’m Just Tired, Doctor”; Number 693, “Weight Control While Quitting Smoking”; Number 694, “Why a Woman Should Quit Smoking”; Number 6, “Breast Cancer”; Number 323, “Are You Afraid of the Dentist?”; Number 35, “Understanding Headaches”; and Number 728, “When Should I See a Psychiatrist?”

  The last program that Sam heard clearly, a month or so before his hearing went, was Number 945, “So You Love an Alcoholic?”

  Chapter four

  As for Carlott, it was…well, the most charitable thing to be said for Carlott is that it was the most natural of environments, but even that is arguable if we agree that the true native habitat of the roosterroach is the household of Man, within Man’s providence, bounty, and grace. It was a rare day indeed when a Carlotter tasted any food provided by Man.