Dottie Devise was, in contrast, chipper, perky, cheeky, cheerful, and squeaky as a toy mouse; perhaps her voice could be better described as chirpy, high but thinly pitched, leaping from syllable to syllable almost as if it came from a clock. When she bounced, which was much of the time, her small breasts crossed the net like tennis balls, and reminded Professor Paltry, unpleasantly, of the way his sister’s rose and fell in a manner most disturbing when she had led cheers, her high school letter sweater leaping as if there were small animals bundled behind the cloth trying to burst free.
MOR ning PRO fes sor Paul tree? The question was almost a relief. I am fine, Miss Devise, as you can see. TEE hee, I am HAP pee to no tha TT. And howw arr uuu, Professor Paltry would particulate. FI ner than BE for. Holding books against her busy chest, Dottie (for that is what she chose to call herself) would flicker away at a half skip. Professor Paltry would sigh like a dying inner tube, shake his head as he entered his office, and each time think how terrible poor Devise must feel, having raised such a giggly flibbertigibbet almost from infancy, as the Professor had been led to believe.
He remembered the way she seemed when Art had first arrived at the college: quiet, demure, in a frilly frock, her hair tied up like a restless dog, since Art apparently could not teach combing. She followed her father when he walked her to her school, precisely five paces behind. Dottie was untouched by her future nature then and didn’t jiggle.
The sorrowful story that President Howard Muffin so enjoyed retelling about the tragedies their new colleague, Arthur Devise, had been honored by God to endure—the loss of his wife, the loss, during the war, of his power of speech, which might explain those expressive hands—was just one more thing to hold against him, and would have been held had it been necessary, but there was so much against him already that, at least in the early days of their acquaintance, Devise had to go about bent as if he were leaning into a persistent wind.
The man who spoke with his hands remained on the staff long enough to earn a sabbatical if Millwheel College had granted them. Then he and his daughter disappeared without so much as a giggle of goodbye or an equivalent wave, though President Muffin announced that Professor Devise was leaving for personal reasons. This was regrettable. The bags beneath President Muffin’s eyes swelled with something near tears. Professor Devise would be missed, especially his piccolo and his work with the chorus, which immediately fell out of tune. Bon voyage et bon chance. Don’t forget us.
At the time of Art’s departure, Joseph Paltry not only held nothing against him, he considered Art his friend; he appreciated his trills, rests, riffs, roulades, and cadenzas, and understood what Art had to endure from his daughter whose birdsong Paltry now heard as the cackle of starlings or the shriek of the shrike.
If one were thinking of the northern bird, this comparison would be inaccurate because its call is mellow when it isn’t scolding. But the loggerhead’s is as sharp and abrupt as a spill of tacks, and has a harsh complaining quality as well. Shrikes were not unheard of in this part of Ohio, so her appearance at the College was scarcely a miracle. They are predators, fierce to a fault, with bright white teeth often in a wide girlish grin.
Although she still lived in her father’s protective shadow, Dottie was now a disturbing presence in Professor Paltry’s class, the introductory Elements of Music, and she showed up for office hours more regularly than he had his lunch. She could play several instruments tolerably well and was far ahead of almost everyone else, a fact she let her questions prove. Paltry had attempted to move her to a more advanced level but both Dottie and her father wanted her to stay where she was. Now, in his office, she was provocative, showing leg, showing smile, standing close, tossing her hair as she’d no doubt seen in the movies, and asking increasingly personal questions.
On a day no more dismal than most others, Joseph Paltry was approached, while reading in the faculty lounge (a large closet-sized space with a coffeepot, scarred wooden table, and few chairs where he liked to hide out and study scores because everyone else hated the ratty little room and found that it reminded them of Millwheel’s tightwad president and their benighted condition), by Arthur Devise who had entered with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug in order that they should enjoy its warmth since the day was sleety, gray and cold, although no more dismal than most others.
Devise placed the mug rather emphatically in the middle of the table where some chiseler had scratched TEACHERS LOVE THE IGNORANT with a flinty-pointed pencil, its carbon darkening the line; and then he pulled up a chair near Paltry as a conspirator might, and allowed his hands to make his apologies.
Paltry shrugged his “no matter” shrug. Devise pursed his right thumb and forefinger, and snapped the clasp. I understand, he said in a tone level enough to encourage planting, my daughter Dorothy has been making a nuisance of herself. Devise’s left thumb wiggled as if to say, I don’t mean that. Instead, maybe the pursed thumb meant she is my dear girl who has never had an unclean thought. Perhaps the wiggled thumb meant that an innocent batting of her lashes has led to a misunderstanding. Paltry wondered how to approach such a confession.
Dottie had, of course, been making eyes at Paltry, embarrassing him past pink, but he naturally said, of course not, why would you think that? Both of Devise’s palms slowly showed themselves as if they were aces peeking from a poker hand. Well, she has predilections…she…in the past…From a binocular position, the fingers tentatively disclosed the inner hand, then exhibited one apologetic spasm like tossing a toad from your grasp.
Ah, Paltry exclaimed, genuinely surprised, that’s why you put her in my class. You thought I’d understand.
I thought you’d know I wouldn’t do so otherwise.
Yes, otherwise it would be a poor practice.
I had to keep her near me.
A class with you, a class with me—that’s near.
The hands of the man who spoke with his hands slid into a tangle of shame.
I think it’s because she misses her mother. Well, not misses exactly. Because she has no mother. She’s decided to be the mother she needs.
She doesn’t act like a mother with me.
Ah…she…I’m afraid she wants you to make her a mother.
But anyone…nearly anyone…will do, I presume.
She has gone rather far in other…schools.
High school even?
Yes…well, other places…community colleges…She’s gone rather far. Since she was thirteen.
Surely she would not promote such things with me?
Possibly. It’s likely.
She has accused me of…you know…looking at her.
I am terribly sorry. She is playing the coquette. It’s her subject.
But her speech…
Oh yes, I know, her speech is mechanical. It’s made up. It is a complaint about mine…my hands. His hands were stitching cloth. She…you see…squeaks in protest.
I’ve noticed you do move your hands about.
I don’t do it. God does. God moves my hands. I speak that way on his behalf.
This conversation had been so painful for Paltry that each previous word had felt pulled from him like an embedded cork, but now almost every function ceased: his throat clogged, his face burned, so his blood must have rushed into his cheeks. They are both mad, he thought. Since he was able to make such a judgment, his mind must be operating. But he wasn’t breathing. Never had he heard anything so preposterous, but such a statement, made to his face and meant for him, was like a blow to his chest.
I know that what I say must seem surprising, although our good President Muffin was ready to entertain it. However, I have become merely an instrument of God’s, or rather, not I, but my hands have become an instrument of God’s. They do his bidding and, when he’s speaking, will not mind me. Since they often make their moves while I am speaking as I am speaking now to you, some people have concluded that they are accompanying me. Two fingers pinched and lifted the loose skin about the knuckles of his l
eft hand. I have thought you might be one of those. The musical connection, you know.
Devise’s pause made his statement a question. Paltry could not answer. He began to think, though, of what he might possibly say to this man who had become a threatening stranger—humor him, deny him, sympathize, chastise him, return the subject to his daughter’s wayward ways? say I don’t want to hear another word, bolt the room? Paltry’s weight shifted. This was sensed. One of those hands touched his arm.
As if released, Paltry stood up. He thanked God he had grown a beard, and in that moment realized who it was he had invoked—already a ghostly presence if this testimony could be believed. Always a presence according to doctrine. He might perhaps ask how Professor Devise presumed to know that the gestures he involuntarily made were those of some other spirit than his own unconscious, but this would prolong a conversation he wished had never begun. Well, there was no conversation since he hadn’t said a word. Maybe he shouldn’t aid or abet it. He would just go.
I can’t make out the signs they are sending; I cannot read their code; I just know; and I was never a believer either, before my wife was so terribly killed. Devise’s smooth firm features looked to be dissolving in a solution of sorrow. He was swimming in tears, that was it. When I told Dorothy what had happened to my hands, she became hysterical. She accused me of leaving her as her mother had, though, of course, I hadn’t, and I assured her that my mind was clear, sane through and through like—you know—paper that’s one hundred percent cotton.
Paltry found this comparison almost as unsettling as his colleague’s revelation about his hands. The man was mad. Did his hands heal? He had been touched but was it the King’s touch? He had some warts…perhaps if…He had shaken this man’s hands. What happened then? The man was mad. I shall wash my hands of him, Paltry thought. He has the whole world in those hands. They certainly were idle, but why was it only his hands? If he were a puppet, his legs should move too. When his head tilts, his eyes should roll. The madman…Why was he—Joseph Paltry—a person who endeavored to stay in the background—why was he always the accosted one? the falsely accused? the rudely confronted? After all, he had only backed around his office desk, keeping his moral distance, with Dottie in salacious pursuit; and then, rid of her one more time, all he had done…well, he had locked up all his temptations in a steel cabinet and fled to this squatters’ hole, a place forsaken by all until now when a crowd seemed to have assembled. The chairs were standing guard, the coffeepot was listening. No comment from the mug but steam. Paltry noticed that there were only six checkers left. Mostly reds.
I’ve endured the shame of her nymphomaniacal imposture; I’ve put up with all the jokes—
Jokes?
That I’m only going through the motions.
I—. Ah…Oh.
Professor Paltry, my friend, if you complain of her, we shall have to move on again, and we are running out of places to land.
I despise imposture, Paltry found himself saying.
I thought you might understand imposture very well.
Paltry did not reply because he was suddenly frightened. What was meant by that? Was there a threat? what sort? from what quarter? Devise had been last seen smothering his mug with both hands. Perhaps he was making a joke about the quality of its—what did one say?—mud. Led by his beard, Paltry retreated toward the door. Keep your eye on the hands, he implored himself. Keep an eye on.
I mean it is very hard to be honestly what we are. A finger, rooted in a fist, popped free.
Well, she better not. Dottie. Dottie better not imposture me. She crowds me, even in corridors. Where everyone can see. Paltry cracked the door and slid through. And from the building, he ran out.
Perhaps, after this, the man who spoke with his hands said less with his hands than before. Perhaps he kept his arms loaded with books. Perhaps he chose to participate in fewer social gatherings or to plan fewer accidental encounters. It was hard to tell. But for a time, at least, Dottie did nothing in class but cross her legs, and nothing after class but bob when he was carried close by circumstances.
Professor Paltry said nothing with his eyes or mouth, or evidenced anything in the way he walked, or gave his own hands leave to stray into oratory. He kept mum about God and God’s signals; he kept mum about Dottie’s—well—devices; he kept mum about his fears. Before the morning mirror he made certain to be clothed.
But he did practice flicking crumbs from the dinner table. Flick, that’s gone, he would say his hands said. Get thee to a nunnery. Flick. As if it were a picnic and there were ants on the cloth. Flick. Let the air eat you.
If it is possible for a member of the faculty to drop out of school that is what Arthur and his daughter did. He disappeared and left his colleagues with four classes adrift like bottles in mid-ocean. Rinse decided to bus one bunch to Oberlin for the Fauré Requiem and regretted the ride. Buses, when a stranger occupies every seat, can be cheap, convenient, and restful ways to travel. Unless the bus careens over an embankment and tips, the bus gives the hits, the bus does not receive them. But when a bus is transporting what is called a group, there is likely to be singing and other forms of merriment—jokes, nips, makeouts, disorderly glee—and a weakening of the leader’s position. It was unlikely that the man who spoke with his hands left by car because he didn’t seem to drive. Perhaps his hands were too busy with their obedience to God’s will. Perhaps he took a bus to Columbus and the train from there. Perhaps he had his goods shipped, whatever they were. His flute. His piccolo. His recorder. Dottie’s clarinet.
The last time Professor Paltry saw Professor Arthur Devise the man was sitting on a campus bench like an ampersand. Paltry studied, from a safe distance, those hands, but what he saw was a very ordinary clench.
The Toy
Chest
Breast. Twin orbs. Check.
When I was ten I had a tin train that ran on juice. Juice was dad’s word for it. The juice came out of the wall like pus from a pimple. The juice came out of the wall if you knew where the right places were, dad said, where light sockets lit eye sockets lit valleys and hills. Then you needed to squeeze those places until you forced juice to run inside a wire—a wire that was wearing a rubber protective suit—until the wire razzled across the floor in a frenzy of energy, and, in an electric ecstasy that all the same must have hurt like hell, forced juice to speed into a weighty little black box that was otherwise filled with the darkness of closets. And there it grew, dad said, like mushrooms in a cave, on stale air and mystery; there it hung on old clothes and weary metal hangers; there it mustered its resources until it showed it had some of t
That’s all I remember about that sort of juice. Should I start over? There is such a lot of juice: orange with pineapple, pulp or not, vitamins added, shake well before pouring. Cider—not likely in this case—too seasonal. There’s more to remember. T omato. Fits. Not an edge piece, though. Later in life, when the doctors put dad on a salt-free diet, we had to keep bottles of that thick red sodium solution out of his reach. He did love it. His doctors recommended cranberry. Dad mustered his patience—a drill for which he rarely called the roll—diet, blood pressure, temperature, pills, and such. He swallowed the whole lot in one greedy gulp. Cranberry was a fruit juice, he informed his physicians; what he wanted was vegetable juice. One doctor—we laugh about it now—had the gumption to tell dad that the tomato was a fruit. The man was fired in short order. Well, not exactly fired. Not exactly short order. Dad was a coward about most things if he had to face them with his face. He just never went back to that surgeon’s shop. So I must have meant by “short order” that dad had ducked the doc in three states: meeting, memory, or mention. Dad knew the fellow was right about tomatoes, even the yellow ones, and dad knew that we knew. Such a realization stung like a sand ant.
he zip necessary to get my tin train going when I gradually moved the handle that lay across the top of the heavy black box like a hand on a clock’s face. “Transinformer” was dad’s word for it.
The word was quite heavy for so small a cube. Full of its importance, dad said, but I was ready to give it all the importance it wanted. It had a name—the cube did, the word did not. Dial-a-speed. He said it made the juice somehow juicier so the juice was willing to shoot onto and through the train’s tracks, though you couldn’t tell by just looking at them that anything was different from one minute to the next; and the engine sucked up the juice that was lying there wetting the rails, and everything about how the train ran after he reached that point in his explanation, dad said, was like our Studebaker burning gas. Excep That’s all I remember.
t we got good mileage out of the old bitch. She was more reliable than my tin train. Tin train, tin train, come out and play, tin train. It would go lickety down a length of track and then slow to a maunder as if there were a window it wanted to look through or a tree that stood out, funny reasons to groan to a stop. Even if Indians were chasing the engine or perhaps Pauline lay roped to the ties, it would utter a slow groan—hiss own, hiss own—it was always the train, the train that told the story I was dressing my world with. Toy train, toy train, toy train, let’s take a trip, toy train. Dad showed me how to sandpaper the track. This made, he said, for a better contact. Your track’s been gathering grime since last Christmas, he reminded me. He was so fond of reminiscence. Not because remembering was something he could do well because he couldn’t do it well, huge hunks of his life had disappeared as if they had never happened, like those pieces that get lost immediately they are released from the puzzle box, and maybe they hadn’t happened, but his life had possibly skipped a beat now and then; I know my life has holes at its elbows and its knees; it is a tatter of tales, mostly incomplete; my thin bones show. I know. I know. When our present date gets eaten, some crumbs, some smears will remain to mark the plate. Licked unclean. Unclean. Then the past that we’ve devoured, we excrete. This manure feeds the meat of a new moment. Isn’t that cheery?
Eyes Page 14
