by Joy Williams
“Howard,” Chrissie said shyly, “… really …”
“She’s a penitent at heart,” Howard said. “Our Chrissie’s got a zeal for penance.”
“Howard’s got an appetite for life. It’s like a real hunger,” Chrissie said.
“Mutual admiration time,” Howard said.
Willie looked around, his legs outstretched. He smiled at Liberty.
“How about a little tour of the house?” Chrissie said. “It’s such a nice house. I love my little house.”
“House tour time,” Howard said. He giggled, then blew his nose.
Chrissie stood up and put her hand on Willie’s shoulder. They all walked through the kitchen, where the spotted puppy lay panting on a pillow in the corner. Howard carried a wine bottle, brandishing it, pouring erratically. The rooms were in disarray. More baskets. Cardboard boxes and drawn drapes. Television sets ran soundlessly. Liberty watched as James Cagney had a headache in White Heat.
“What do you think of them adding color to the classics?” Howard asked her.
Jimmy Cagney clutched his head, he spun around, sagged to the floor, crawled to cover.
“In this case, it makes the fire brighter,” Liberty said.
“That’s some fire at the end of this all right,” Howard said. “A big, bright fire. Say, play the question game with old Howard.”
“I don’t know the question game,” Liberty said. She was deeply repulsed by Howard.
“Sure you do. I say, ‘I am in torment’ and then you say, ‘What kind of torment?,’ then I say ‘There is a river of fire bubbling above our backs, as high as the sky, and another such river beneath our feet and we are in between these fires. We are back to back and cannot see one another’s faces. But occasionally we are given a little rest,’ and then you say, ‘What kind of rest?,’ and then I say …” Howard rested his tongue on his upper lip.
Liberty heard Willie’s voice behind her, some distance from her, and Chrissie laughing, saying, “Isn’t that a howl!”
“We four have a lot in common,” Howard said to Liberty. “We could become very close. You’re unhappy, I’m unhappy.” He watched her expectantly, raising his eyebrows. Chrissie laughed again.
“You know how to play the question game,” Howard urged Liberty. “Don’t try to fool old Howard.” He took a step forward and bumped his hard distended stomach against Liberty’s hip. “You say, ‘What kind of rest?’ and I say, ‘For a very brief moment, we see each other’s faces.’ ”
“Honey,” Chrissie called, “I’m showing Willie the little man. He thinks it’s a howl.”
“I see you,” Howard said to Liberty. “Howard knows.”
“Honey,” Chrissie was calling, “I think he looks particularly arch tonight.”
“You should be touched by the question game,” Howard said to Liberty. “Your compassion should be aroused.” He turned and practically lunged toward Chrissie. “What is this ‘particularly arch’ shit,” he said. “Since when has it been the ‘little man’?”
Chrissie and Willie were looking at a skeleton painted in gay colors in a balsa wood box a foot high. They were the same bright colors as the fish in the aquarium—vermillion and green and blue. The pelvis was a chalky, scaly white. The skeleton came complete with an hourglass and a scythe, and a scroll at its feet said Heute Nacht, vielleicht?
They were all looking at it now.
“Keeps you alert, I imagine,” Willie said. “Keeps you awake and vigilant at night.”
“Sure does,” Howard said.
“You know, when I die, I want to be buried by lions,” Chrissie said. “I’ve always wanted that, ever since I was little.” She smiled at Liberty.
“It never occurred to me to want that actually,” Liberty said.
“They could do it, you know,” Chrissie said. “They got these big claws.” She curled her fingers and pawed at the air.
“Our Chrissie is certainly being saucy tonight,” Howard said.
Chrissie turned to Willie. “We don’t sleep much. Sleep is disgusting, don’t you think?”
“Got to keep our eye on one another,” Howard said.
“Where’s the goal in sleep? If you’re goal oriented, you’re not fond of sleep,” Chrissie said dreamily.
“Is house tour time over?” Howard asked. “Is it fish training time?”
“They’re coming along,” Chrissie said. “It’s not easy for them but they are coming along.”
“You’re training your fish,” Willie said. He looked relaxed. It was just a night at the theater for Willie.
“Fish give me the willies,” Howard said. “Bet you get that stuff all the time—you give me the willies, Willie—.” Howard laughed, leaving his mouth ajar.
“I’ve established little goals for them,” Chrissie said. “They like it.”
“She dumps ’em out on the rug for a while each night,” Howard said. “Wants to have that kind of fish.”
“Each night, a little longer on the rug,” Chrissie said happily.
Liberty was disturbed by this prospect.
“She doesn’t really leave ’em out longer each night,” Howard said, “she just thinks she does.”
“Maybe not tonight,” Willie said.
Chrissie’s smile faded but she rallied quickly. “Well, I’m glad you got a chance to see our little man at least. We got him in Mexico.”
“Jesus, Chrissie,” Howard said. “What does it say? Is that in Spanish? Jesus.”
Chrissie’s lip trembled. “We could have gotten him in Mexico, anyway.” She said to Liberty, “I like your shoes.”
Liberty looked at her feet. There was nothing going on with her shoes. They were sandals, actually, broken and repaired with staples.
“Don’t go yet,” Chrissie said. “Please stay a little while.”
“You’re a little stupid, Chrissie, you know that?” Howard said.
“It isn’t what you think,” Chrissie said to Liberty. “Howard loves me deeply. There’s something in me, see, that Howard would love anywhere.”
“Tell us,” Willie said.
Liberty was afraid.
“Story telling time,” Howard said. “It’s take your places time.”
“I have to let the dog out of the truck,” Liberty said. “He’s been there all night. He needs a run.” She went hurriedly back through the house, past the dirty dinner dishes stacked haphazardly, the guttering candles. She felt a little calmer in the room where they had sat earlier. She could see the truck outside, and Clem’s head in the cab, big as a medicine ball.
Chrissie had scampered after her. She was holding a loaf of bread in a plastic bag. “You’ve got to take some bread. It’s hard to get good bread in stores. This is the old Pullman loaf recipe. I make all kinds but this is my favorite. It makes excellent toast,” she said formally.
Howard rushed in, seemingly contrite. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, “a heedless display of my bad nerves. Or it’s this shitty wine. Let’s have a decent drink. We’ll have a nightcap. You can’t go now and miss story telling time. It means a lot to our Chrissie.” He fussed about, making drinks. Liberty stood awkwardly, holding the bread. It felt waxy, somewhat heavy. Howard pushed a glass at her and she shook her head. “Your hubby,” he said somewhat mysteriously, “is a cool cookie.” He appeared disarmed by this insight.
Willie flicked a switch on a copper-plated console recessed in a wall. There was music. Strings. A mawkish movement in progress. Willie’s gesture was too smoothly casual to be insolent.
“Aren’t those little toggle switches nice?” Chrissie said. “They’re so much nicer than knobs.”
“Yeah, put on some music. Mi casa su casa, or whatever the hell it is they say,” Howard said.
Willie accepted a drink. Liberty sighed. It was cold out and they just had the truck and nowhere to go exactly. They could stay a while, she supposed.
Chrissie had, at some point, tied an apron around her waist. There were tiny blue flowers on a white background
and the pockets were edged in lace.
“You’ll like this story,” she assured Liberty. “I know you will, it’s a love story. Now, Howard,” she said coyly, “you just let me tell it now.”
It seemed to be a story about love. There were a lot of details involved. Disappointments. Misunderstandings. Matters of no importance. Lust. Monotony. The landscape this was all played against was a little blurry. Squalid places sometimes that produced a sense of freedom. Other places. The weather … There didn’t seem to be a sense of weather. Not much sickness. Trials. Days. Days of it.
“It got so I could have killed the bitch,” Howard said good-naturedly. “My little Chrissie.”
“We were just like almost everybody, but I took it upon myself to change.”
“She abducted herself,” Howard said.
“It took a while, but inside and out I changed completely.”
“Down to the color and curl of her snuffy,” Howard said.
“Howard, don’t make it ugly. I’m telling.”
Howard pouted.
“So inwardly was I transformed, I became unrecognizable,” Chrissie crooned.
“The weight loss helped,” Howard said. “And the face lift. To say nothing of the tucks both tummy and eye.”
“Howard, Howard,” Chrissie said. She paused, thoughtful.
“You assumed a new identity and became dead to your old world,” Willie said. His tone was optimistic.
“Yeah, help her along. She needs help,” Howard said.
“My return was met with neither joy nor sorrow. It wasn’t even met with surprise.”
“That’s because you were so successful,” Willie said.
“Sometimes I think I’ve done it,” Chrissie said. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“She wants to be all the other bitches there have been for me. Well I’ll tell you, sweetheart, you can’t.” Howard tipped toward her, caught himself, worked his way back into the chair.
“He makes it all sound like sex,” Chrissie protested.
“You got mushy edges, Chrissie, you know that?” Howard said.
“I’m not talking sex!” Chrissie wailed.
“We all want our lost nature restored,” Willie said.
Liberty wished that he would not participate in Howard and Chrissie’s evening quite so keenly.
“If we could just take a sleep cure, like,” Chrissie pondered. “I really need a little more sleep than I get. I’m kind of afraid of sleep.”
“Afraid I’m going to get her,” Howard said without much interest.
“Shapes,” Chrissie said earnestly, “it’s all shapes.”
Willie agreed.
Liberty thought that this was becoming dangerous.
“Chrissie,” Howard said, “we got guests tonight. Liven it up, will ya.”
“Don’t push me Howard.”
“Some simple pleasures are just a bit too simple, Chrissie, you know,” Howard said.
“You were telling the story of the avenger’s return,” Willie said in the same kindly, oddly optimistic tone. “But you’ve got to go beyond that. You have a new power.”
Chrissie looked at him gratefully. But she was troubled. “I want to start over,” she said.
“Our Chrissie can really ball up a story,” Howard said.
“Howard is older than Chrissie, you might have noticed,” Chrissie began. “When she was a child, just a child, she was molested by this man Howard. She was where she was, he took her away, he put her back. It was a matter of moments.”
“Seduced,” Harold said. “Not molest, seduce, Miss Malaprop. Jesus, our Chrissie gets younger every year. What’s your driver’s license say, huh? What’s your driver’s license say?”
Sentimental music swirled and swelled around them.
“She was just a child, he stole her innocence,” Chrissie said doggedly.
“I would suggest just gliding over this part if I were you,” Howard said, “this part never having worked for you particularly well in the past.”
“He can’t touch you,” Willie said. “He’s a voice in your head.”
Chrissie smoothed her apron. “He can’t touch me,” she said. “He thinks he knows me but he doesn’t know me.” She seemed to be speaking to the apron.
“She’s playing with her own head tonight,” Howard said.
Chrissie raised her eyes and nodded at Willie happily. “I’m falsely known but that’s my power. I’m the other one he thinks I’m not. I’m both myself and the other person.”
“The other person was better built actually,” Howard said. “She wasn’t so stupid.”
“Words,” Willie said. “Shapes. You want to leave them behind. You want to climb clear of your wrong beginnings. You want another life.”
“I want to win,” Chrissie said.
“You won,” Willie said. “Everything is valid tonight.”
“I’m victorious,” Chrissie said. “I won. I didn’t lose.”
“We are all contestants,” Howard said, “but we are not all winning contestants. Our Chrissie will never be a winning contestant.”
Chrissie looked vexed. Then she put her hand in her apron pocket, took out a gun, leveled it at Howard and fired. A fan of blood struck the aquarium glass. Howard fell from his chair onto his back. Liberty’s ears were ringing. She was standing, she thought. Willie was standing. They were all standing except Howard, who lay unmoving on the floor. His eyes and mouth were open.
“I don’t like temptations,” Chrissie said. “I don’t respond well to temptations.”
“You can deal with them in several ways,” Willie said. “This, perhaps, wasn’t one of the better ones.”
“They come at you … they don’t quit …” Chrissie tossed her head. “If they’d just quit sometimes.”
Willie had his arms around Liberty’s shoulders and was moving them backward toward the door.
“You’ve got to be strong,” Willie said.
Chrissie looked discouraged.
Howard lay on the floor in what seemed a parody of death, but he was dead.
“You two have done this before,” Willie said reasonably.
“Yes, yes,” Chrissie said. “But this isn’t good, you know.”
Willie was sympathetic.
“We’ve lost a lot of ground here,” Chrissie said. She was speaking carefully again, covering her bad teeth.
“Well …” Willie said.
“Yeah, well … see you.” Chrissie scratched her head. She looked at her fingernails, then at Howard.
Willie and Liberty were in the truck, traveling fast on a raised, graveled road winding through marsh. Drowned trees fled from the twisting headlight beams.
Liberty was crying. “You weren’t in control of that. Something happened there. You were encouraging them, directing them, but you weren’t in control.”
“But you were the one who got us out of there. You were wonderful. It was you.”
She couldn’t remember.
“The two of us together,” he said, “but mostly you. It was an accident and you calmly dealt with the accident. You were extraordinary.”
“I couldn’t have,” she said. “I did nothing. We should have done something.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing you can do.”
“You made that happen. You could tell that girl was sick. She was disturbed, both of them, why did we stay there?”
“They do something like that weekly. There was the feeling of cozy ritual.”
“But that man’s dead. She shot him.”
“Maybe,” Willie said.
“He’s dead.” She wanted this to be something that Willie realized, that was the truth.
“She’ll get a good night’s sleep for a change. When she wakes up in the morning, she’ll feel she did the right thing.”
Fog hung in gauzy patches along the road. The truck whipped through it. Willie had bewitched those people, Liberty thought absently. She couldn’t quite picture Howard anymore, or the house,
the woman alone in it.
“You kill things,” she said quietly.
For an instant he looked stricken. “I’ll make up for it,” he said. “Never the other, but this. I’ll make up for this.”
“How can you?”
“I will.”
Liberty pushed her knuckles against her mouth. “Stop,” she said.
He pulled the truck off the road and she stumbled out, Clem leaping after her. The darkness rustled. She knelt on the gravel, clutching weeds, opening her mouth, wanting to throw up, but nothing happened. She crouched there until it came to seem a little artificial to her, this posture, this waiting. It couldn’t have happened, she thought. It was a game the other couple had played, with music and mirrors and words. If they went back there now, those frightful people would open the door, they would be standing there. But she knew that this was not what would happen. Howard would not be standing there. Howard would be dead. Willie had attained something there, somehow.
She was losing her mind, she thought. Going back to the truck she saw with dismay the loaf of bread lying on the floor and she began talking to Willie about the bread and how they must not leave it for the birds to find for that was the important thing now, that the waters should be crossed, that they should not become too frightful to be crossed. She was losing her mind, her mind that didn’t want to be tied down to her confusions, her terrors and mistakes. But Willie understood. He knew her, he assured her, he understood. But she couldn’t remember what they had done with the bread. The bread, after all, hadn’t been the point. He put his arm around her. The night had passed for Willie. He was looking down the road, his arm around her, his Liberty.
This had not been so long ago, after almost everything else but before the saving. Saving people had been relatively recent. Opportunities that were parts of a promise Willie couldn’t keep. Neither of them were very good about keeping promises. She had promised the baby that it would not be alone. Beneath the bird’s wing, she was cold. She ran her fingers across the feathers, the thready insubstantial body. The bewitcher Willie had been bewitched. He had never had a penchant for the saving. It was the details of final things to which he’d always been drawn. And in the end it was all the same to Willie—a matter of details. He was impersonal about it. He had put their new beginnings behind him now.
