by Chuck Kinder
Sweetie, just remember that no matter what the future holds we’ll face it together. I’ll stand by you, Ralph, through thick or thin. For better or worse, Ralph, that’s us.
My goose is cooked, isn’t it, Alice Ann? Just go ahead and tell me the worst.
Why in the world are you so paranoid today, Ralph? Alice Ann said, and laughed. —Why are you so paranoid, puppy? Have you been up to something I don’t know about? We have a few checks bouncing around, but so what? What else is new? So what are you so paranoid about today, Ralph?
I am not paranoid, Ralph said. —Well, if I am, it’s your fault. You’re making me paranoid. You’re the one. Who was at the door? Who was it, anyway? You’re the one who’s acting like it was the sheriff or something. You came back in here acting like there are armed men at the door with a warrant for my arrest.
Did it ever occur to you that it might be news about our missing daughter? Bad news maybe.
Well, yes. Sure it did. Is it? Bad news, I mean.
No, it isn’t, Ralph. In fact, it wasn’t bad news at all for a change. It was just a delivery I had to sign for, that’s all.
Delivery? What delivery? A delivery of what? You know, Alice Ann, we can’t carry this fresh-start business too far. We’ve been throwing money around like water. There has to be a limit, Alice Ann.
I don’t know what it was a delivery of, Alice Ann said. —I, for one, am too worried about the old business of our missing daughter to pay much attention to anything else right now. It was a big box. Maybe it’s the new twenty-five-inch color television set I bought on credit.
Ralph sat down at the table and put his face in his hands.
You big paranoid puppy, Alice Ann said, and laughed. —Get back up and fix my Bloody Mary, you big baby. And turn that radio down.
What’s going on here, Alice Ann? Tell me, please.
Ralph, sweetie, it’s your books. I’m just jerking you off, you big fuckhead. It’s your fucking books, Alice Ann said, laughing, and jumped up from the table. She ran to the hallway and returned lugging a big box. —Your ten free copies from your publisher, puppy. Our books are here!
Oh golly, Alice Ann! It’s the books! Look, it’s the books! Here, let me have those babies, Alice Ann. Let me at that box! Get me some scissors. Or a knife. Alice Ann, get me an ax!
3
Ralph and Alice Ann had toasted the beautiful books stacked on the table between them. They toasted themselves. The white dust jacket with its dramatic black lettering was striking, they agreed, and toasted it. They toasted themselves. The jacket copy was brilliant, they agreed, and in his dust-jacket picture Ralph looked ten years younger, they agreed, and Ralph made them fresh drinks in the two new, long-stem Waterford-crystal glasses that Alice Ann had paid an arm and a leg for.
Read Lenny Michaels’s blurb again! Ralph said, and then he read it out loud again himself: “Ralph Crawford’s stories are extraordinary in their language, their music, and their huge terrifying vision of ordinary human life in this country.”
It’s true, Ralph, Alice Ann said. —Just because you and Lenny are friends doesn’t mean he’s not being sincere.
How would you, Ralph said, and held a foot-high, cherry- wood pepper grinder up to Alice Ann’s mouth like a microphone, you, a typical human-being-type person on the street, describe Ralph Crawford’s vision?
Oh my God, Alice Ann said, and batted her eyes, am I on television or what? Is this live?
You are being broadcast live at this very moment, Susy Citizen. Please answer the question, please. Ordinary human life everywhere is waiting for your answer about Ralph Crawford’s vision. Keep in mind you are speaking for ordinary human life everywhere.
I hope I can rise to this occasion, Alice Ann said. —Well, since you asked me, I think Ralph Crawford’s vision is huge and terrifying. Just like on occasion his boner. Here, listen to this one, she said, and read from the back of the book: “Ralph Crawford’s vision is somber and resolute, and the cumulative effect is powerful.”
Somber as a toothache, Ralph said. —And why not? After all I’ve been through. Well, I’ll tell you what I’m resolute about right now. I’m resolute about sucking another Screwdriver, that’s what. Can I stir you up another huge, terrifying Bloody Mary, my dear?
Only if it’s extraordinary in its vodka, so that its cumulative effect is powerful.
You name it, you got it. That Bloody Mary is in the mail, Ralph said, and stood up. Then Ralph sat back down. He lit a cigarette. Ralph placed his hand on the stack of books. —Alice Ann, do you know what these are? These are my babies. Our babies, hon. And they don't talk back or jump me by surprise or pull disappearing acts. They'll take care of me in my old age, these babies will. These babies are our tickets into the future, Alice Ann.
God, Ralph, Alice Ann said. —I don't know what I want to do the most right now. Fuck you or fight you.
Well, what's wrong with a little of both? Ralph said, and wiggled his eyebrows.
Alice Ann opened a book and read from it silently.
I remember the exact moment you finished this story, Ralph.
Which story?
The one about me selling the convertible just before we went bankrupt the first time.
These stories aren’t really about us, Alice Ann.
I remember you were writing in bed, and God, it was almost dawn. I had to get up and go to work, and you had kept me awake all night wiggling around, but I didn’t say anything, Ralph. You were smoking like a stove and jiggling your feet like you do and muttering under your breath. But I didn’t say anything.
I don’t remember that.
Then you started shouting, Hot dog, hot dog, hot dog! Then you shook my shoulder like I was asleep or something and insisted I sit up and read it on the spot. Then you insisted on a flick. No, it was a blowjob you wanted. Then you insisted on three eggs over easy, pancakes, your little link sausages, your glass of orange juice with a splash of vodka, your strong black coffee with three sugars, some leftover coffee cake heated up, and then another blowjob there at the kitchen table.
I don’t remember any of that, Ralph said, and laughed. —Really? Where were we? What were we doing then?
We were living in Sacramento, Ralph. In that horrible trailer park. I was working as a secretary in that insurance office. You were just collecting unemployment. Something like seventy bucks a week. You weren’t even looking for work, but that was okay. You were writing so well. That was what was important to me. That was all that mattered to me.
Well, Ralph said, and patted a book, it has paid off, Alice Ann.
I remember every single draft of every single story in this book, Alice Ann said. She thumbed slowly through the pages of a book. —I know these stories by heart. And I know the stories behind the stories by heart, too.
Well, I’ll admit I’m no elephant in the memory department, Ralph said. —I don’t have memory one. But thank God for that, I say.
You never needed a memory, Ralph. You’ve always had my memory to rely on.
I use my imagination, Ralph said. —I’ve always counted on my imagination.
Remember this one? Alice Ann said as she scanned the table of contents. —When I was waitressing in that diner up in Humbolt, and you’d come in and hang around. And you’d get upset, but turned on, too, when those men would ogle me.
Whatever you say, Ralph said, and lit a cigarette.
Okay, sweetie, who do we call first? Alice Ann said, and closed the book. She scanned the blurbs on the back again. —Who do we call up and read what Cynthia Ozick has to say to? “There is something rock hard and unafraid about Ralph Crawford’s fiction,” says Cynthia, God love her. Call somebody, Ralph. Who do we call first?
I’d like to call old Jim, I guess, Ralph said.
I don’t know. I don’t know yet, Ralph.
Somebody has to break the ice. Sooner or later.
I know. I miss Jim, too. Let me get a little drunk first. Do you understand?
Sure. Sure I
do. Maybe later. You know, though, we have to sooner or later. Maybe today is the day. But a little later. Let’s get a little drunk first. You’re dead right about that. Let’s get a few drinks under our belts first. Hey, let’s call the Buffalo. These blurbs will break Buffalo’s heart. God, he’ll stay drunk for a month, Ralph said, and laughed. —“Rock hard and unafraid.” Jesus. Buffalo will shit a brick.
But you are, Ralph, Alice Ann said and took one of Ralph’s hands, you are a very brave artist. And you are a brave man, too.
Even in the worst of times I’ve thought that. You are a survivor, Ralph. And so am I.
But rock hard and unafraid, Ralph said, and laughed.
You’re just a little paranoid today, that’s all, Ralph. Don’t ever sell yourself short, sweetie, Alice Ann said, and she polished off the bottle of vodka evenly into the crystal glasses. —Here, make a final toast, sweetie. Then I’ll throw some clothes on and run up to the pop shop and get us a magnum of serious champagne.
You make the toast, Ralph said. —You do it.
Okay. To you, honey. To Ralph Crawford, a great American author.
No, to you, Ralph said. —To Alice Ann Crawford. Without whom I couldn’t have accomplished all that I have. Without whom I would have been chopped liver a long time ago.
To us, sweetie. And our book.
Okay, Ralph said.
To being rock hard and unafraid, Alice Ann said, and raised her glass. —To us and our book and to our fresh start and our future.
Here, here, Ralph said.
They touched glasses and drank the warm vodka down. And then Alice Ann laughed, and she sailed the crystal glass against the wall above the sink.
Jesus Christ! Ralph yelled, and dropped to his knees on the floor. —Alice Ann!
For luck, Alice Ann said, laughing. —We’ll show the future what’s what.
Alice Ann, Ralph said, and got up and walked over to the sink. He picked up a shard of crystal. —These glasses cost an arm and a leg, Alice Ann. Who do you think we are? The Rockefellers or something?
Oh come on, Ralph. For luck. Let’s fly into the future with a flair. We’ll be the Scott and Zelda of our day. Fitzgerald would toss his glass against a wall for luck in a heartbeat.
Well, maybe he would. But I won’t. Not when they cost an arm and a leg, I won’t, Ralph said, and sat down at the table.
Ralph gripped his glass with both hands in case Alice Ann got any more ideas. Ralph looked up past Alice Ann to the doorway, where his daughter stood leaning against its frame.
That was pretty far-out, Mom, Ralph’s daughter said. —Why’s the radio blaring like that?
God! Alice Ann said, and whipped around. —Where have you been? Do you even care about what you have put me through?
This is Paco, Ralph’s daughter said, and nodded to a tall Chicano boy who stepped into the doorway behind her. The sleeves of his black T-shirt were rolled high on his muscular, tattooed arms. He wore motorcycle boots and a thick chain for a belt, and his hair exploded off his head like a mushroom of fur. —Paco is my new old man, Ralph’s daughter said, and leaned back into him.
What’s happening, man? Paco said, and shot a finger of greeting at Ralph, who flinched. Paco put his thick arms around the slender waist of Ralph’s daughter and spread the fingers of one hand over her bare stomach.
Uh, Paco, Ralph mumbled, and pressed his empty glass against his lips. Ralph stared at a huge dog, which for all the world looked to him like the worst wolf of his worst nightmare, which appeared in the doorway beside Paco and began to growl.
This is Paco’s dog Killer, Ralph’s daughter said. —Don’t sweat it. Killer is cool.
Honey, where have you been? Alice Ann said. —Why did you do this to me?
Me and Paco have just been, you know, around. Hey, Dad, it would be so cool if you threw your glass against the wall and busted it like Mom did. Wouldn’t it, Paco?
I could dig it, Paco said, and nibbled at Ralph’s daughter’s neck.
Isn’t this party a little early in the day? Ralph’s daughter said. —Even for you guys.
Copies of my book came in the mail, Ralph said, and gestured vaguely at the stack of books on the table. —Your mom and I were just doing a little, you know, celebrating, that’s all.
Having a little toast or two.
You have no idea, do you? Alice Ann said to her daughter. —You just don’t care about what you put me through, do you?
Look, what would be real cool is for somebody to explain why my cats are locked up in the car trunk, huh, Dad? They’re going nuts out there!
What? Alice Ann said.
Could you clue me in as to why my cats are locked up in the trunk, huh, Dad?
Ralph? Alice Ann said, and looked at Ralph.
The vet, Ralph said. —I was going to take them to, you know, get their shots.
Sure, Dad! I’m totally pissed off about this, Dad, man! Ralph’s daughter said. Killer began to growl again. —I think this is a real fucking bummer, Dad, man!
Ralph? Alice Ann said.
Ralph tossed the crystal glass over his shoulder and braced himself.
The Shadow in the Open Door of the Future
1
Ralph balanced six of the ten beautiful books on the dining-room table, edge on edge, into a three, two, one pyramid. He arranged the remaining four copies in a semicircle before the glorious pyramid. He walked back and forth by the table smoking and looking at the pyramid from every angle. Now and then, at different distances, Ralph would stop abruptly and stare at the display of books as though seeing them in a bookstore window for the first time in his life.
Ralph took up a book and once again read the jacket copy and blurbs on the back. Rock hard and unafraid, Ralph read and chuckled. He stared at his picture on the inside cover. He peered into his photographed eyes. What had he done the moment before that picture was snapped? The moment after? What had he been thinking the moment the picture was taken? Ralph closed his right eye, as though taking aim, and looked deeply into those photographed eyes. He opened his right eye and shut his left and looked again. Ralph blinked his eyes rapidly.
Ralph walked into the kitchen to fix a little pick-me-up. At the kitchen door he glanced back over his shoulder down the dark hallway to the gleaming pyramid of beautiful books. As he ran warm water over an ice tray, Ralph gazed out the kitchen window. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he squinted his eyes in its rising smoke. Paco's partially disassembled Harley was in the driveway. That had been part of the settlement with his daughter. Ralph's daughter was to give up six of the dozen cats, any immediate idea of getting a heap of her own, and make a promise not to get that skull-and-crossbones tattooed above her right breast, in return for Paco getting to work on his Harley in the driveway and sleep over. Ralph shut his right eye and gazed at the Harley. There were parts and tools scattered about it, and pools of oil shone like greasy little lakes of rainbows on the pavement. Ralph opened his right eye and shut his left. He blinked his eyes rapidly. Ralph shut both his eyes and let the warm water run over the backs of his hands.
Ralph sat at the dining-room table smoking and sipping his drink, and he thumbed through one of the beautiful books. He stopped at a random page and found a favorite passage. Ralph imagined himself as his old buddy Jim reading it. He imagined himself as Lindsay reading it, then Buffalo, then each of the sharks in his old Iowa writing workshop in turn reading it and weeping, then any writer of his generation reading it and weeping. Ralph imagined that high-school English teacher who had flunked him reading it, that sales manager who had fired him, that poet who had refused to lend him emergency money, the judges and creditors and asshole attorneys-at-law from his bankruptcies who had witnessed his humiliations. Ralph imagined Jackie O., Ann-Margret, Hanoi Jane, Susan Sontag reading it. He imagined that beautiful barmaid down at O'Rourke's reading it and getting hot to trot. He imagined John Cheever reading it. John Gardner. Mailer. Roth. Hemingway, if he were alive. Faulkner, Fitzgerald, if they wer
en't dead as doornails. Kafka. Chekhov. Chekhov, yes, yes. If they hadn't long ago gone to their rewards in that great library in the sky. Bill fucking Shakespeare. Move over, Bill! Ralph imagined his dad reading it, if he, too, weren't dead as a doornail.
