Telling Time

by Austin Wright

  Since my sister is moving to Europe, you may never meet her. On the way to the airport, they talked about me. I know they did because I was their common link. She told him what a rotten sister I was (as if I were still her sister after seventeen years of marriage) and he told her what a rotten wife. I must explain my sister’s dislike, for my family is different from yours: if you came into this room and sat down among us you would never notice that anybody disliked anybody. You don’t understand a fight unless it’s a fight. Whereas we Westerlys are full of peace and good will. I have never discussed with my sister her dislike of me, because she would only deny it.

  The reason she doesn’t like me is that I was thin. Because I was graceful in my body, lithe and slim, because I used to willow around chairs, and glide slimmingly across floors, and wander my hips and thighs in flower movements like stalks by the pond. Because I had a pretty face, my features smaller and softer than hers, and my cheeks were pink and I wore makeup and enhanced my eyes with eyelashes and shadow, giving me a stare like a slow loris. My sister didn’t like me because I was flighty and had sex years before she did though she was three years older than I. Because I snuck out at night, smoked cigarettes in the woods, had marijuana, cocaine, beer and gin in my youth. She didn’t like me because I knew she didn’t like me, meaning I could see through her good will and family feeling and pretense of responsibility.

  My older brother doesn’t like me because I don’t like him, though he doesn’t know it. The reason I don’t like him is that he never gave me reason to. He attended to his life, which had nothing to do with me. He was there like the Lord, giving no reason.

  My middle brother and I formed an alliance against the enemies on both sides of us. On one side the older sister and brother, on the other the baby brother, who was everybody’s pet, taught to sit and heel and shake hands until suddenly he came back from college full grown and gay from a scallop shell in the sea. Who’s that, we asked? Don’t worry, you won’t meet him, he’ll never show up in New York.

  My alliance with Henry was imposed on us by the others as a booby prize. My older brother and sister telling us without words (you don’t understand that but never mind): You belong together, stay out of our hair. Go play with Patty, Henry. Be nice to Henry, Patty. Later on I’ll tell you why Henry doesn’t like me. It’s too sticky for your present stage of development.

  My ex-husband doesn’t like me because I am female. It took him almost all the seventeen years to realize this was a handicap. For long he thought he could handle all kinds, and it was worth two children before it became too difficult for him. After we reached agreement it got easier. He has his friends and I have mine. Now that he doesn’t like me because I am female, he likes all females better, including me, and we get along fine, which makes it easier to part.

  He says I married him to prove to my sister that I was not brainless. By marrying a brain, an intellectual. He says you are his natural successor, the reaction. Even though he has not met you nor knows the most elementary fact about you, he looks down on you just as you look down on him.

  None of the members of my family has the slightest interest in God. They’re superior to God, more intellectual, more sensitive, more upper class. Since I met you I’ve been trying to get over that tendency in myself. Some day you and I will have a fight. It’s inevitable and will be the end of us. Unless one of us changes. That will have to be me, for you can’t. Well, I’m trying. Hope for it.

  HENRY WESTERLY: What to tell Thomas

  They brought this Angel Vertebrate down from the Cape, expecting something heroic. Sole Authorized Negotiator. Select and special chosen by the protagonist himself. Brought from the Provincetown Hotel, and across on the first ferry of the morning. Accompanied by McSwan the deputy, he stood on the upper deck forward as the boat came into the harbor, hands against the rail. Dressed special for the occasion—for we have grown accustomed to thinking of him (this Hercules-type with long blond hair in pony tail, weight-lifter biceps) bare chested for construction work or tight-filled T-shirt for schoolbus driving, or at worst and alien to his nature stuffed into a white coat for busboying—but this morning comes Sunday dressed in a dark suit and a tie like a baseball player meeting the public, puffing up in the suit as he makes a point of inhaling the fresh sweet harbor air when the ferry pulls in and he casts his eyes heroically down at the dock to see how many people, reporters, thankful police, grateful relatives, admiring girls, have come to see him arrive.

  Not many, as it turns out. Perhaps a single reporter (his name is Rupert Newton), who asks him an impertinent question or two why he was chosen by Truro for this critical function.

  Trust, Vertebrate says. It’s I’m an old friend of the family, the only guy he can trust.

  Reporter asks if he has any plans, any tactics in mind to get Truro off the hook in not too humiliating a manner.

  No comment, Vertebrate says. Have to size up the situation and see what we shall see, right?

  Reporter asks if he would care to elaborate on his relations with the Truro family. Laborate blabberate, Vertebrate says. I’m the trusted family friend, what more you want? Always used me for sensitive jobs. What kind of jobs? See that hedge? Vertebrate says. Planted that, these here two hands themself.

  They take him in the police car to the Truro house where Sheriff Haines briefs him. Tells him, your job is find out what Mr. Truro wants and persuade him to give up peacefully. You can say we’ll be good to the wife and kids. Offer him loving care in the state hospital, but don’t call it the asylum and be careful lest he think you mean the booby hatch. You can point out we can outwait him the rest of his life if he wants us to. You can remind him we have nothing to lose, it’s his wife and child not ours, but we do have a natural concern and the law has a natural concern that no innocent people get hurt. You can’t promise him anything, you can’t promise he won’t be prosecuted or go to jail or the booby hatch, you can’t promise him no gifts or trades, but you can make it sound like we might be willing to give him something if you think it will loosen him up, without actually lying about it.

  It’s around noon when this happens. The sheriff’s car and two police cars are parked in front of the house with a pretty good crowd standing around, mostly across the street afraid of bullets. Sheriff Haines calls with his bullhorn: Truro? No answer. Truro, we got Vertebrate. You want to talk to Vertebrate, Truro?

  Reminds me of chivalric romances, the silence after the trumpet blast before the hero appears. The house is still. The bullhorn repeats. Silence again. Grumbling in the crowd. Someone says, Look! The eight-year old boy, named Roger, appears at the window. He is opening it. Looks back in and out. His faint little voice. Speak up, son, the Sheriff says. My daddy says—

  What’s that your daddy says? The bullhorn booms over the crowd.

  My daddy says you send Mr. Vertebrate on over here.

  Why don’t your daddy tell us? Whyn’t he come to the window hisself?

  My daddy says you’d better no tricks.

  A voice from the crowd barely audible next to the sheriff’s boomer: Jump out the window kid. Stay close to the house. He can’t get you then.

  My daddy says no tricks.

  The man next to me grumbles, Bastard too much a coward to show himself holding a gun on his own kid. Another man says, Publicity stunt. It’s what you call public relations.

  Angel Vertebrate starts slowly up the front walk. Very slowly, though his arms swing in bravado. Truro, Mr. Vertebrate is on his way. The boy shuts the window and disappears. The front door opens, and the boy appears in it. Angel Vertebrate hesitates. Looks back at the sheriff. Turns abruptly, someone speaking to him from the house, inaudible to the crowd. Angel Vertebrate walks into the house, and the door shuts behind him. The sheriff is heard muttering to the deputy, Christ I wonder if we did that wrong.

  What Angel Vertebrate heard before he went into the house was probably a voice he knew: Come on in Angel, or I’ll split both their heads in half.

&
nbsp; On the basis of the evidence doubtless he looked up to face the carbine pointing at him, the man clutching it, snarling orders: Shut the goddamn door. Lock it, you little son a bitch, Okay now Angel, hands up in the air.

  Why what’s a matter Sam boy, I’m here to negotiate your demands. Don’t you want to sit down and talk?

  Up your hands you don’t want you head blown off.

  Sam, you’re my friend. Ain’t you my friend?

  Off the jacket, come on now, quick. Off the tie, off the shirt. Move now, move. Undershirt too. Now the pants.

  Sam? The pants?

  Drop em. Underpants too. Take em down.

  Sam, the lady!

  Fuck the lady. You lyin doublecrossin skunk. Off em I say. Let the lady take a long look, it aint nothing she aint seen before. Now you can just take a seat right there, that one, while I handcuff you to the chain, and then I’ll explain to you the rules of the establishment. You might as well know the rules since you’ve decided to stay with us.

  I got tired and left in the middle of the afternoon. Just after I heard the sheriff say to the deputy, Seem like they been negotiating a long time. I dropped in later on Rupert Newton, who was writing the following:

  The man brought to the Island for the express purpose of arranging release of Sam Truro’s hostages was himself captured by Truro at the start of the negotiations today and has been added to the number of hostages. Angel Vertebrate, 26, former schoolbus driver, who had been especially requested by Truro to serve as go-between, came to the Island this morning from the Cape. At noon he approached the house to open discussions. Watched from the street by deputies and police, he was admitted to the house by Truro’s son, after which no word was heard for several hours. That he had himself been taken captive was not revealed until five o’clock, at which time Truro telephoned the police office and indicated that Vertebrate was now his prisoner. No explanation was given, nor any new demands. “He’s definitely not playing by the rules,” Sheriff Haines said.

  Today is the sixth day of the siege in which Truro has been holding his wife and son hostage. His daughter Dinah was released Saturday on account of illness. She has been staying at the home of Mrs. E. R. Froehlich on Water Tower Road.

  PHILIP WESTERLY: Lists

  People already here and where they are:

  Lucy Westerly. Master bedroom.

  Philip Westerly. Front bedroom, upstairs.

  Henry and Melanie Westerly. Back bedroom, upstairs.

  William and Patricia Key. Side bedroom, upstairs.

  People expected, when, how, and where they will stay:

  Beatrice Westerly, by car, bringing Greta and Minnie Cordage plus Betty and Nancy Westerly. Arrive 2 p.m. boat tomorrow. Stay: Beatrice with me in the front bedroom. The others (four) on the sunporch. (That fills the sunporch.)

  Charles Westerly, by bus. Arrive 2 p.m. boat tomorrow. Sleep in his tent (if he doesn’t forget it).

  Lucy Realm, from Philadelphia. Arrive 3 p.m. plane tomorrow. Must be met. Stay: Inn, single room.

  Gerald Realm, hitchhiking from Chicago. Arrive ferry Thursday, time unknown. Stay: Inn, Thursday only. See comment.

  Larry Realm, by car, with Dolores and baby (Martha?). Arrive boat tomorrow, time unknown. Stay: Inn, one large room, two nights.

  Angela and Tommy Key, arrive 3 p.m. plane tomorrow. Meet (same plane as Lucy Realm). Stay: Angela on sunporch with Betty, Nancy, and Minnie (this moves Greta to Inn to share double with Lucy Realm). Tommy: the old Westerly tent in the yard—next to Charles’s tent. See comment.

  Uncle Carl. Arrive ferry Thursday, time unknown. Stay: Inn single, Thursday only.

  Aunt Edna Forsyth. Arrive 3 p.m. plane Thursday. Meet. Stay: Master bedroom, moving Mother upstairs when she comes and Patricia and William to the Inn.

  Comments.

  David Westerly not coming, too far. Note phone call of sympathy from him and Olga.

  All three of Ann’s children are coming, without either Ann or Frank. Point this out to Mother.

  Where put Gerald? Too smelly for the Inn? Would he stay in tent with Charles? It’d be worse for Charlie in the tent.

  Tommy and Angela are too old (14 and 16, right?) for cots with William and Patty. And by now Tommy’s too old to share the sunporch with girls. He’ll like the tent probably, being a boy.

  Aunt Edna’s unexpected coming confuses everything. I think she should go to the Inn, but Mother says if Edna comes this far at her age, she must stay in the house. Where? No guest rooms because she can’t climb stairs. Can she walk at all? Sunporch, oust the children? Imagine Edna on the sunporch. Share the master bedroom with Mother? Two old ladies in double bed, one half dead? So it’s Mother who decided to move upstairs and give the master bedroom to Edna. I objected to the sacrifice, the symbolic rending of Mother’s life, but she was firm. This required kicking somebody else out of an upstairs room to the Inn. I would have ousted Henry and Melanie, since they have no children, but William and Patricia volunteered, solving that.

  Mrs. Pixmire unavailable for cooking. Try Mrs. Jordan.

  ANN REALM: Diary

  Tuesday, May 20. Over black Atl > London. Pre go call view TW pre trip > choose corpse/trip. Nasty AR fly Lond headlong rushfut post TW die, coldheart. Goodbye TW goodbye all Lond away we go. Why vis crpse? Crpse crpse. Proof die, saw dead dead, what else, Morticulture Art? Mem TW/crpse compete. Scootairport WK, reason/feel breakrule Centuries Awe, circle vill harb tiny house downlook inside seefam LW PW HW MC PK griefrites + TW in unknown funhome prep for famgroup rit – AR cry in sky. Neghelp Wyoming + corpse + Atl + AR alone = lost = woe > cry. Farewell.

  Damn forgot: Wyoming, Killdog. Find PW, heart attack?

  THOMAS WESTERLY: As skimmed by Philip

  His father’s files again, pages that look the same as before though their source is now dead, and wondering if that changes his mission, still Philip looks for what he might have been expected to censor. Henry follows, then William Key, who asks if he can read the Wyoming papers Ann left behind. Philip is annoyed, soon everybody will be rummaging. Nevertheless he submits, lets William look, gives Henry files from the lower drawer, and takes some for himself. He skims and reads when something attracts his interest.

  THE CLINIC

  The man who screamed at the abortion clinic Shame on you. Blood an your hands in the wrath of Jesus God the avenger I drove off angrily thinking you know nothing about the balmiest sweetest day of spring, tulips and green lace, when the neighbor’s beautiful long-haired cat killed the cedar waxwing waxwing tragedy in life’s revival while the beautiful cat chews its beautiful victim under the beautiful dogwood tree tell life lives by killing life, all live things end up food required by the DNA no argument on behalf of vegetarianism animal kingdom bias on a spring day birds and old people die in the bloom the exuberance of death God of Nature cares more for life than for me or any other me such as you

  ask him how the God who rejoices in life can deplore death rejoice deplore in equal time it balances does God of the woods and highway accidents recognize a category of the unnatural a species of natural when mother mouse ate her first litter, the children watched, try again mousey tell me sir do you really believe this God believes in human supremacy why me more than the cedar waxwing or cat on a spring day poetry of the wilted rose, everybody knows creative flux, the joyfully blossoming murdering God

  thundering angry God the voice of human fear to be food in the wild march of life it’s a human not divine crime, who murder? would believe God who created murder for the sake of life condemn his chief instrument

  THOMAS WESTERLY: As read by Henry COMPULSIONS

  When I was fifteen my father was tacking shingles on the roof with his back turned. I was behind him with a hammer. It was not anger or hate, but like a compulsion from outside against myself and all I loved. It scared me and I thought if it happened I would have to run down to the beach and smash my head dead on the rocks. I had fears like that sometimes. In the kitchen I saw the meat knife on the tab
le, behind my mother where she stood washing the dishes. I moved away, carefully, carefully across the room to be as far from the knife as I could. I thought if touched it even accidentally. And I wouldn’t have the strength afterwards to push the knife into my gut so all I could do would be feebly to howl.

  There was no hostility in these thoughts. They attacked what I loved most. It was the simple realization that at all times in the most ordinary day to day I had the power of life and death in my hands and fingers. A small push, whatever was required, no more than throwing a baseball or kicking a stone, which could change the world. Prevention depended on my restraint, which depended on my will. I couldn’t judge my will and lived in fear lest the balance be upset in an offguard moment. I thought I was insane. I imagined pulling out my hair, drowning my face in mud, screaming, above all screaming, for the horrible things I would do.

  I got over it though never to the point of absolute certainty. Now almost sixty, I’m probably safe. I’m familiar with the connection between deciding and doing, the little push needed to turn a thought into a speech or an act. I had a bad moment at the commencement exercises when I narrowly avoided welcoming you new generation of idiots into the fellowship of educated assholes. But I kept my composure and was never in real danger. I know what it feels like, on the diving board before you jump, especially if you are afraid of jumps and water. But still I wonder, is the destructive impulse a part of me? Or am I what rejects the impulse, my refusal to act? My created self. What you can predict me by.

  So I told Henry, when he was worried about his bad thoughts. I said, What you are is not what you think but what you do about what you think. It sounds good when you put it like that.

  Unfinished. Henry growls bitterly. You should have told me, you old bastard. You should have told me your thoughts. Next, in a folder tagged PROVOST, TOP SECRET, his attention is caught by the word SECRET, a single half page: