“Forget it,” Charley Hume said.
After he had drunk down a third Gin Buck he decided to go back to the Mayfair and get the Tampax. He paid for his drinks and left the bar. Presently he found himself back in the Mayfair, roaming around among the shelves, past the canned soups and packages of spaghetti.
In addition to the Tampax he bought a jar of smoked oysters, a favorite of Fay’s. Then he returned to the pick-up truck. Elsie had fallen asleep, resting against the door. He pulled on the door for a moment, trying to open it, and then he remembered that he had locked it. Where the hell was the key? Putting down his paper bag he groped in his pockets. Not in the ignition switch… he put his face to the doorwindow. God in heaven, it wasn’t there either. So where could it be? He rapped on the glass and called,
“Hey, wake up. Will you?” Again he rapped. At last Elsie sat up and became aware of him. He pointed to the glove compartment. “See if the key’s in there,” he yelled. “Pull up the button,” he yelled, pointing to the lock-button on the inside of the door. “Pull it up so I can get in.”
Finally she unlocked the door. “What did you get?” she asked, reaching for the paper bag. “Anything for me?”
There was a spare key under the floormat; he kept it there all the time. Using it, he started up the car. Never find out where it went, he decided. Have to get a duplicate made. Once more he searched his coat pockets… and there it was, in his pocket, where it was supposed to be. Where he had put it. Christ, he thought. I must really be stoned. Backing from the lot, he drove up highway One, in the direction that he had come.
When he reached the house, and had parked in the garage beside Fay’s Buick, he gathered together the two bags of groceries and started along the path to the front door. The door was open, and classical music could be heard. He could see Fay, through the glass side of the house; at the dish drier she scraped plates, her back to him. Their collie Bing got up from the mat in front of the door to greet him and Elsie. Its feathery tail brushed against him and it lunged with pleasure, nearly upsetting him and causing him to drop one of the bags. With the side of his foot he pushed the dog out of his way and edged through the front door, into the living room. Elsie departed along the path to the rear patio, leaving him by himself.
“Hi,” Fay called from the other part of the house, her voice obscured by the music. He failed, for a moment, to grasp that it was her voice he heard; for a moment it seemed only a noise, an impediment in the music. Then she appeared, gliding at him with her springy, padding walk, meanwhile drying her hands on a dishtowel. At her waist she had tied a sash into a bow; she wore tight pants and sandals, and her hair was uncombed. God, how pretty she looks, he thought. That marvelous alert walk of hers … ready to whip around in the opposite direction. Always conscious of the ground under her.
As he opened the bags of groceries he gazed down at her legs, seeing in his mind the high span that she reached, in the mornings, during her exercises. One leg up as she crouched on the floor… fastening her fingers about her ankle, while she bent to one side. What strong leg-muscles she has, he thought. Enough to cut a man in half. Bisect him, desex him. Part of that learned from the horse, from riding bareback and clutching that damn animal’s sides.
“Look what I got for you,” he said, holding out the jar of smoked oysters.
Fay said, “Oh—” And took the jar, accepting it with the manner that meant she understood that he had gotten it for her with such deep purpose, some desire to express his feelings. Of all the people in the world, she was the best at accepting a gift. Understanding how he felt, or how the children or neighbors or anyone felt. Never said too much, never overdid it, and always pointed out the important traits of the gift, why it was so valuable to her. She looked up at him and her mouth moved into the quick, grimace-like smile—tilting her head on one side she regarded him.
“And this,” he said, getting out the Tampax.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting it from him. As she took the box he drew back, and, hearing himself give a gasp, he hit her in the chest. She flew backwards, away from him, dropping the bottle of smoked oysters; at that he ran at her—she was sliding down against the side of the table, knocking the lamp off as she tried to catch herself—and hit her again, this time sending her glasses flying from her face. At once she rolled over, with stuff from the table clattering down on her.
At the doorway, Elsie began to scream. Bonnie appeared—he saw her white, wide-eyed face—but she said nothing; she stood gripping the doorknob… .she had been in the bedroom. “Mind your own business,” he yelled at the children. “Go on,” he yelled. “Get out of here.” He ran a few steps toward them; Bonnie remained where she was, but the baby turned and fled.
Kneeling down, he got a good grip on his wife and lifted her to a sitting position. A ceramic ashtray that she had made had broken; he began collecting the pieces with his left hand, supporting her with his right. She slumped against him, her eyes open, her mouth slack; she seemed to be glaring down at the floor, her forehead wrinkled, as if she were trying to make sense of what had happened. Presently she unbuttoned two buttons of her shirt and put her hand inside, to stroke her chest. But she was too dazed to talk.
He said, by way of explanation, “You know how I feel about getting that damn stuff. Why can’t you get it yourself? Why do I have to go down and get it?”
Her head swung upward, until she gazed directly at him. The dark color of her eyes reminded him of that in his children’s eyes: the same enlargement, the depth. They, all of them, reacted by this floating backward from him, this flying further and further along a line that he could not imagine or follow. All three of them together… . and he, left out. Facing only this outer surface. Where had they gone? Off to commune and confer. Accusation shining at him… .he heard nothing, but saw very well. Even the walls had eyes.
And then she got up and past him, not easily, but with a squeezing push of her hand; her fingers thrust him away, toppling him. In motion she had terrific strength. She bowled him over in order to get away. Kicked him aside, just to spring up. Heels, hands—she walked over him and was gone, across the room, not moving lightly but striking the asphalt tile floor with the soles of her feet, impacting so that she gained good traction—she could not afford to fall. At the door she made a mistake with the knob; she had a moment in which she could not go any further.
At once he was after her, talking all the way. “Where are you going?” No reply could be expected; he did not even wait. “You have to admit you know how I feel. I’ll bet you think I stopped off and had a couple of drinks at the Western. Well, I’ve got news for you.”
By then she had the door open. Down the cypress needle path she went, only her back visible to him, her hair, shoulders, belt, legs and heels. Showed me her heels, he thought. She got to the car, her Buick parked in the garage. Standing in the doorway he watched her back out. God, how fast she can go backward in that car… the long gray Buick off down the driveway, its nose, its grill and headlights facing him. Through the open gate, onto the road. Which way? Toward the sheriff’s house? She’s going to turn me in, he thought. I deserve it. Felony wife-beating.
The Buick rolled out of sight, leaving exhaust smoke hanging. The noise of its engine remained audible to him; he pictured it going along the narrow road, turning this way and that, both car and road turning together; she knew the road so well that she would never go off, not even in the worst fog. What a really superb driver, he thought. I take off my hat to her.
Well, she’ll either come back with Sheriff Chisholm or she’ll cool off.
But now he saw something he did not expect: the Buick reappeared, rolling into the driveway, narrowly missing the gate. Christ! The Buick rolled up and halted directly ahead of him. Fay jumped out and came toward him.
“How come you’re back?” he said, speaking as matter-of-factly as possible.
Fay said, “I don’t want to leave the kids here with you.”
“Hell,” he said,
dumbfounded.
“May I take them?” she said, facing him. “Do you mind?” Her words poured out briskly.
“Suit yourself,” he said, having trouble speaking. “For how long did you mean? Just for right now?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I think we ought to be able to talk this over,” he said. “We should be able to sit down about it. Let’s go on inside. Okay?”
Passing by him, into the house, Fay said, “Do you mind if I try to calm the children?” She disappeared beyond the edge of the kitchen cabinets; presently he heard her calling the girls, somewhere off in the bedroom area of the house.
“You don’t have to worry about any more rough stuff,” he said, following after her.
“What?” she said, from within one of the bathrooms, hers, which was off their bedroom and which the girls used occasionally.
“That was something I had to get out of my system,” he said, blocking the doorway as she started out of the bathroom.
Fay said, “Did the girls go outside?”
“Very possibly,” he said.
“Would you mind letting me past?” Her voice showed the strain she felt. And, he saw, she held her hand inside her shirt, against her chest. “I think you cracked a rib,” she said, breathing through her mouth. “I can hardly get my breath.” But her manner was calm. She had gotten complete control of herself; he saw that she was not afraid of him, only wary. That perfect wariness of hers… the quickness of her responses. But she had let him haul off and let fly—she hadn’t been wary enough. So, he thought, she’s not such a hot specimen after all. If she’s in such darn good physical shape—if those exercises she takes in the morning are worth doing—she should have been able to block my right. Of course, he thought, she’s pretty good at tennis and golf and ping pong… .so she’s okay. And she keeps her figure better than any of the other women up here… I’ll bet she’s got the best figure in the whole Marin County PTA.
While Fay found and comforted the children, he roamed about the house, looking for something to do. He carried a pasteboard carton of trash out to the incinerator and set fire to it. Then, taking a screwdriver from the workshop, he tightened up the large brass screws that held the strap to her new leather purse… .the screws came loose from time to time, dumping one end of her purse at odd moments. Anything else? he asked himself, pausing.
In the living room the radio had stopped playing classical music and had started on some dinner jazz. So he went to find another station. And then, while he tuned the dial, he began thinking about dinner. It occurred to him to go into the kitchen and see how things were going.
He found that he had interrupted her while she was making the salad. A half-opened can of anchovies lay on the sideboard, beside a head of lettuce, tomatoes, and a green pepper. On the electric range—a wall installation that he had supervised—a pot of water boiled. He turned the knob from hi to sim. Picking up a paring knife, he began to peel an avocado… Fay had never been good at peeling avocados—she was too impatient. He always did that job himself.
4
In the spring of 1958 my older brother Jack, who was living in Seville, California, and was then thirty-three, stole a can of chocolatecovered ants from a supermarket and was caught by the store manager and turned over to the police.
We drove down from Marin County, my husband and I, to make sure that he had gotten through it all right.
The police had let him go; the store hadn’t pressed charges, although they had made him sign a statement admitting that he had stolen the ants. Their idea was that he would never dare steal a can of ants from them again, since, if he were caught a second time, his signed statement would put him in the city jail. It was a horse-trading deal; he got to go home—which was all he would be thinking about, with his limited brain—and the store could count on his absence from then on—he would not even dare be seen in the store, or even rooting around the empty orange crates in the rear by the loading dock.
For several months Jack had rented a room on Oil Street near Tyler, which is in the colored district of Seville, although colored or not it is one of the few interesting parts of the town. There are little dried-up stores twenty to a block that set out on the sidewalk every morning a stack of bedsprings and galvanized iron tubs and hunting knives. Always, when we were in our teens, we used to imagine that every store was a front for something. The rent there is cheap, too, and with that loathesome little job of his at that crooked tire outfit, plus his expenses for clothes and going out with his pals, he has always had to live in such places.
We parked in a 25 cent an hour lot and jaywalked across the street, among the yellow busses, to the rooming house. It made Charley nervous to be down in such a district; he kept peering at his trousers to see if he had walked on anything—obviously psychological, because in his work he is always up to his ass in metal filings and sparks and grease. The pavement was covered with gum wrappers and spit and dog urine and old contraceptives, and Charley got that grim disapproving Protestant expression.
“Just make sure you wash your hands after we leave,” I said.
“Can you get venereal disease from lamp posts or mail boxes?” Charley asked me.
“You can if you have that sort of mind,” I said.
Upstairs in the damp, dark hall we rapped on Jack’s door. I had been there only once before, but I recognized his room by the great stain on the ceiling, probably from an ancient overflowed toilet.
“You suppose he thought they were a delicacy?” Charley asked me. “Or did he disapprove of a supermarket stocking ants?”
I said, “You know he’s always loved animals.”
From within the room we could hear stirrings, as if Jack had been in bed. The time was one-thirty in the afternoon. The door did not open, however, and presently the stirrings died down.
“It’s Fay,” I said, close to the door.
A pause, and then the door was unlocked.
The room was neat, as it of course would have to be if Jack were to live there. Everything was clean; all objects were stacked in order, where he could find them, and of course he had carried this to the shopping newses: he had a pile of them, opened and flattened, stacked by the window. He saved everything, especially tinfoil and string. The bed had been turned back, to air it, and he seated himself on the exposed sheets. Placing his hands on his knees he gazed up at us.
He had, because of this crisis, reverted to wearing the clothes that, as a child, he had worn around the house. Here again was the pair of brown corduroy slacks that our mother had picked out for him back in the early ‘forties. And he had on a blue cotton shirt—clean, but so repeatedly washed that it had turned white. The collar was almost nothing but threads and all the buttons were off it. He had fastened the front together with paperclips.
“You poop,” I said.
Roaming around, Charley said, “Why do you save all this junk?” He had come upon a table covered with small washed rocks.
“I got those because of the possibility of radioactive ores,” Jack said.
That meant that, even with his job, he still took his long walks. Sure enough, in his closet, under a heap of sweaters that had fallen from their hangers, a cardboard box of worn-out Army surplus boots had been carefully tied up with twine and marked in Jack’s crabbed handwriting. Every month or so, as a high school boy, he had worn out a pair of boots, those old-fashioned high topped boots with hooks on the tops.
To me this was more serious than the stealing, and I cleared a heap of Life magazines from a chair and seated myself, having decided to stay long enough for a real talk with him. Charley, naturally, remained standing to keep me aware that he wanted to go. Jack made him nervous. They did not know each other at all, but while Jack paid no attention to him, Charley always seemed to imagine that something to his disadvantage was going to happen. After he had met Jack for the first time he told me straightforwardly—Charley never could keep anything to himself—that my brother was the most scre
wed-up person he had ever met. When I asked him why he said that, he answered that he knew god damn well that Jack did not have to act the way he did; he acted like that because he wanted to. To me the distinction was meaningless, but Charley always set great store by such matters.
The long walks had begun in junior high school, back in the ‘thirties, before World War Two. We were living on a street named Garibaldi Street, and during the Spanish Civil War because of the feeling against the Italians the street name was changed to Cervantes Street. Jack soon got the notion that all the street names were going to be changed and for a while he seemed to be living among the new names—all ancient writers and poets, no doubt—but when no other street names were changed that mood passed. Anyhow it had made the world situation seem real to him for a month or so, and we thought of that as an improvement; up to then he had seemed unable to imagine either the war as an actual event or, for that matter, the real world itself in which that war was taking place. He had never been able to distinguish between what he read and what he actually experienced. To him, vividness was the criterion, and those nauseating accounts in the Sunday supplements about lost continents and jungle goddesses had always been more compelling and convincing than the daily headlines.
“Are you still working?” Charley said from behind him.
“Of course he is,” I said.
But Jack said, “I temporarily gave up my job at the tire place.”
“Why?” I demanded.
“I’m too busy,” Jack said.
“Doing what?”
He pointed to a pile of notebooks, filled, I could see, with pages of his writing. At one time he had spent his spare time writing letters to the newspapers, and here, once more, he was involved in some long. winded crank project, probably elaborating some scheme for irrigating the Sahara Desert. Picking up the first notebook, Charley thumbed through it and then tossed it down. “It’s a diary,” he said.
Confessions of a Crap Artist Page 4
