Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale

by Chuck Kinder

  Ralph fixed another drink and began to push the vacuum cleaner around dutifully. He made his way leisurely through the house, room to room, passing up only the kids’ hovels. Ralph hummed and turned over in his mind the list of people he intended to give the ten copies to. He had submitted a list to his publisher of about everybody he had known in his life who was remotely literate, supposedly for review copies, but the list for the ten copies on hand was different. This list was of folks he wanted to hand a book to personally and watch their faces. Tops on his list were Jim and Jim’s blushing bride, which was like bagging two birds with one book.

  Ralph began turning over in his mind what he would inscribe in the book he intended to give Lindsay and Jim that very afternoon. He would sign the book in front of them, with a flourish, as though whatever he made up to inscribe had come to him in a brilliant flash, today when the four of them were supposed to get together for the first time, to break the old ice. They were to tie up at a roadhouse in the hills west of Palo Alto. If things went smoothly, Ralph and Alice Ann planned to invite Lindsay and Jim back to their place to celebrate the book with several bottles of chilled Mumm’s and the costly cuisine Alice Ann had slaved over the previous night. Ralph planned to give Jim’s blushing bride a grand tour of the refurbished homestead, pointing out the new drapes and rugs, the posters, prints, the flowering plants, the lamps, and, most of all, that pyramid of glossy, glorious white tickets to sail into the future, his own personal booking for posterity.

  2

  In the living room Ralph used the nozzle attachment to get at the mounds of cat hairs between the couch cushions. He thought he heard the phone ring, and stopped and listened, and then switched off the vacuum. Ralph lit a cigarette and headed for the kitchen to freshen his drink. When he turned into the hallway, Ralph saw a man standing in the open back doorway. The man was a shadow against the bright light, and through the sheen on the screen door Ralph could not see his features.

  Ralph could see a dark sedan parked in the driveway behind the man. Ralph stood there at the far end of the hallway, which was partially in shadow. Ralph held his breath and took a step backward.

  Hello there, the man called out. —I rang the doorbell, but I didn’t hear any response. I thought perhaps it was not functioning properly.

  Yes, Ralph said. —Uh, yes?

  The man stepped back and looked from a notebook he carried to the address numbers above the door.

  This is 1422, is it not? You have a number missing. Your second 2 is missing. But this is 1422, am I correct?

  The 2 fell off, Ralph said. —During a storm. I’ve asked my teenage son a dozen times to nail that number back on. Kids. What is it you want?

  So, good, 1422 then, the man said, and closed his notebook.

  Yes, Ralph said. —Yes, but nobody is home. I mean, my wife is not at home at this time. My wife is the one who handles these matters.

  What matters?

  Matters, Ralph said, and waved a hand vaguely. —Whatever.

  Actually, I am interested in speaking with a Mr. Ralph Crawford of 1422 Wightman Street.

  Who? Ralph said.

  Is that you, Mr. Crawford?

  What is it you said you wanted? I’m afraid we really don’t need anything today. Maybe if you would like to speak with my wife later.

  You are Mr. Crawford, then?

  Perhaps you could leave a, you know, card.

  I think I recognize you now, Mr. Crawford.

  What is that?

  Yes, indeedy. I heard you read from your work once, Mr. Crawford. At Foothill College. Just last June, as a matter of fact. My mother accompanied me that evening. It was a splendid reading, Mr. Crawford.

  Oh, Ralph said. —Oh. Well. Yes. Yes.

  Ralph hurried down the hallway to open the screen door.

  Why, it is you, Mr. Crawford, the man said, and smiled. —I couldn’t be certain with that screen door between us. But now I see that it is you in the flesh. Just imagine. Here I am face-to-face with you, Mr. Crawford. An American author to whom I owe so much. It was your voice that gave you away. Yes, your speaking voice is so very like your reading voice, Mr. Crawford. That is not always the case, you know. And more’s the pity, if you ask me.

  Well, yes, Ralph said. —Yes. How are you today? I didn’t hear you drive up. I was . .. well, I was busy.

  Were you composing, Mr. Crawford? I would hate to think I intruded while your creative juices were flowing.

  I was just taking a breather. From, uh, yes, composing. I was running something. But I’m afraid my breather is just about over, however. I’ll have to be getting back there shortly. To my composing, I mean.

  I have attempted on occasion to evoke the muse myself, the man said. He wiped several strands of graying hair from his damp forehead with the tips of his fingers, a gesture Ralph found strangely graceful. He was a short, bulky man who wore a rumpled plaid sportcoat and a red knit tie. —Poetry mostly, the man said. —And that is where you come in, Mr. Crawford. Your work has been an inspiration to me. The way you write about such ordinary people simply going about the business of their ordinary lives. You make it seem so simple. As though simply anybody could do it. But of course they cannot, can they? I can’t, for one. Yes, I have reconciled myself to my lack of expressive gifts. My real life will have to remain forever buried, I suppose. Unlike you, Mr. Crawford.

  Yes. Yes, Ralph said, and chuckled. —Yes. Well, thank you very much for your kind words. Really, you are too kind.

  Do you draw from your own life experiences when you write, Mr. Crawford? the man asked. —The characters in your stories, their desperation, their drinking, the unfaithfulness, the low moral standards, do you know many such people?

  Not at all, Ralph said. —They’re not people I know. A lot of the characters I write about, most of them really, I make up from scratch. And most of them, well, all of them probably, I wouldn’t give the time of day in real life. Well, what can I say? I can’t tell you how pleased I am you enjoy my work. You’ve made my day. Really. You’ve made me happy as a clam. Well. Well, well, I hate to cut this short, but I’m a very busy man, you understand. Just how can I help you?

  I am very sorry, Mr. Crawford, but I have been remiss. I am Mr. Bell. Aubrey Bell, the man said, and took a wallet from his coat pocket. The man opened it to show Ralph a plastic-encased identification card with his picture on it.

  That’s you, all right, Ralph said, bending to study the picture.

  Actually, it is not a very good likeness. My mother says that I have always taken a poor photograph. My weight fluctuates so dramatically, for one thing, Aubrey Bell said, and chuckled. —Mr. Crawford, to get down to cases, I am an investigator from the county prosecuting attorney’s office. I need to ask you a few questions concerning a matter. Our office sent you three letters concerning this, but upon receiving no reply, well, here I am.

  I’ve been away, Ralph said. —Out of town. For weeks. I was out of the country.

  The letters were certified, Mr. Crawford.

  It’s a mystery to me, Ralph said. —Maybe my wife knows something about this. Maybe she signed for them and just forgot to tell me. I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about this.

  I understand. Well, at least this little mix-up permitted us to meet in person, Mr. Crawford. Indeed, I asked for this assignment in hopes that you were the Ralph Crawford whose work I so admire. At any rate, I have to ask you a few questions about this matter. May I come in, please?

  Questions? Ralph said. —What sort of questions? This really is a bad time for me, Mr. Ball.

  Mr. Bell.

  Mr. Bell.

  Mr. Crawford, there is some confusion in our records. I am confident you can clear this little matter up quite easily. If I could please come in.

  My wife will be home in a couple of hours, Ralph said. —She’s the one in this family who takes care of these matters.

  Mr. Crawford, according to our records, it appears that for a period of several months while yo
u were being issued paychecks from the University of California at Berkeley, you were also collecting unemployment benefits.

  What? That couldn’t be! There must be some horrible mistake, Ralph said. —Some computer error. Something like that. A foul-up somewhere in the system. This whole matter is a mystery to me.

  That is precisely the reason I am here, Mr. Crawford. To clear this litde matter up as quickly as possible. If I may come in, we will get to the bottom of this mix-up in no time at all.

  You know what, Ralph said, and scratched his head, it’s not impossible I could have made some sort of silly mistake myself. That’s not out of the realm of possibility. I’ll admit it. I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to things like money matters. Financial affairs aren’t my strongest suit. I’ve never had a head for, you know, numbers. My wife handles all the number business in our family. I’m always busy, uh, composing, as it were. My art takes all my attention. And as I said, I’ve been away for weeks. And things around this household, through no fault of my own, have gone to the dogs. My father has been ill also. That’s why I was away for so long. I had to be on hand to handle matters. For my mother, you understand. Then Daddy died. My mother just fell apart. She hasn’t been herself anyway for a long time. Her eyesight is failing, you know. Mom will be legally blind in a matter of weeks.

  What painful news, Mr. Crawford! Aubrey Bell exclaimed, and threw up his hands. —What misfortune.

  I don’t know where I’m going to turn next, Ralph said.

  I truly understand how confusing the world can become. Especially for an artist such as yourself, Mr. Crawford.

  To me, Ralph said, my art is all. After my blind mother, of course.

  There were benefactors for artists in bygone times, Aubrey Bell told Ralph. —Rilke lived in one castle after another, all of his adult life. Benefactors. Rilke seldom rode in motorcars. He preferred trains.

  I've driven nothing but clunkers all my life, Ralph said. —Breakdowns on the highway are a routine part of my life.

  Then look at Voltaire at Cirey with Madame du Chitelet, Aubrey Bell said. —His death mask. Such serenity, Aubrey Bell said, and raised his hands as though Ralph were about to disagree. —No, no, it isn’t right, is it? Don’t say it. But then, who knows. But one wonders if those great artists of bygone days, if they had lived in our own times without benefactors, would they have resorted to illegal means to secure funds in order to continue their work. Would Rilke, or Voltaire, for that matter, have risked going to jail, such as you may have, Mr. Crawford, for the sake of their art?

  Sisters from a Past Life

  1

  On that day they were supposed to break the ice with Ralph and Alice Ann, Lindsay was nervous. Jim had never seen her so wired. He had packed a fancy picnic lunch, and they had driven two hours south down the coastal Great Highway to Pomponio Beach, where Jim figured they could hang out, wade in the surf maybe, maybe explore some of the cliffside caves, just relax before they drove on over the hills to tie up with Ralph and Alice Ann at the Alpine Inn. It was a chilly, drizzly day, though, and then when they were walking along the beach hunting for a spot to spread their blanket, it had started to really pour, so they made a run for a cave at the bottom of the cliffs.

  Jim found some dry driftwood stored back in the cave and built a little fire at the mouth. He and Lindsay had cuddled up together and gazed out at the rain sweeping in off the ocean and the waves flopping in from China. They smoked some dope and passed a bottle of wine, and Lindsay began to calm down. Jim held her close to him, and rubbed her goose-bumpy, bare arms. Strands of her long hair kept blowing into his mouth, where he held them between his lips. They started to neck, kissing long and deep, and then the next thing Jim knew they were back deeper in the cave making love. When the rain let up, they walked on down the beach, where they came upon a really bad omen in Lindsay’s book, the half-eaten body of a sea lion.

  2

  In the gravel parking lot of the Alpine Inn, a roadhouse on a thread of blacktop lined with peeling eucalyptus trees in the foothills west of Palo Alto, Lindsay and Jim sat sipping the last of the Chablis and listening to the Cutlass tick. The Alpine Inn looked like the stagecoach stop it had once been, a one-story, low-slung, wood-frame affair, its parking lot packed with fashionably funky BMWs, one maroon Mercedes, at least a dozen Harleys, several hippie vans, Volkswagen Bugs, countless ten- speed touring bikes chained in racks where once horses might have been hitched, and, beside their ticking Cutlass, Ralph and Alice Ann’s ancient red Cadillac convertible.

  Jim held the botde up and gently shook it, then he offered it to Lindsay.

  I’ve had enough, Lindsay said. —My tummy is jumpy enough already.

  Down the old hatch, Jim said, and killed the bottle off. —Well, let’s head on in and get it over with.

  Let me smoke a cigarette, Lindsay said, and opened her purse.

  Alice Ann is going to be nervous, too, you know, Jim told Lindsay, who was smoking and studying her split ends intently.

  Somehow that is not particularly reassuring.

  And poor old fucken Ralph is probably chewing his paws off. You know, if it gets down to it, I reckon you could probably take old Alice Ann. Watch out for her sneaky right cross, though.

  Thanks for the fucking tip, asshole. Jim, do you love me?

  A bushel and a peck.

  I want to hear you say it.

  I love you. Let me count the ways. Why don’t we just go on in and get this show on the road?

  Lindsay took hold of Jim’s hand as they walked through the dim, low room packed with bikers playing clanging pinball machines. A big color television set blared a boxing match from above the bar. The air was thick with the smell of frying hamburgers and onions and old boards sour with a century of spilled beer. Just at the back screen door Lindsay suddenly chirped that she was sorry and she ducked into the women’s restroom.

  Lindsay sat down on the single commode’s seat and held her face in her hands. She couldn’t help but think about the last time she had been in this joint, that time with Ralph. When somebody tried the door, Lindsay about jumped out of her skin. She sniffed her underarms, which were swampy with sweat, and then unrolled fistfuls of toilet paper and tried to pat her underarms dry, whereupon she simply stuffed the wet wads of paper under her arms and held them there. She squinted at her reflection in the sliver of mirror above the cruddy sink, and then tried to smudge powder from her compact onto her sweating, flushed face. Lindsay thought she looked awful. Plus she was getting a pimple on her chin. Somebody knocked on the door. Wet bits of toilet paper stuck to Lindsay’s armpits, and she tried to scrape her stinging flesh clean with her fingernails. Suddenly Lindsay realized that the crotch of her jeans felt wet. Jesus. Could it be her period? And that she was not pregnant, after all. Lindsay jerked her jeans down. Sweat, simply cascading sweat. Soaking with it. Then she still could be. After all. Lindsay unrolled more toilet paper and padded her panties. Somebody knocked at the door again. They knocked again. Lindsay lit a cigarette and opened the door just as Jim was about to knock again.

  We’re late, Jim said.

  You asshole.

  I don’t like to make people wait on me.

  My, my, aren’t you the considerate dickhead.

  Just fucken relax, will you.

  They spotted Ralph and Alice Ann sitting far across the wide yard at a picnic table in the shade of a redwood near the creek bank in back. Lindsay saw immediately that it was the very same table she and Ralph had eaten at that evening in another lifetime. Lindsay and Ralph had sat at that same table in the shade and gorged on greasy burgers and then licked one another’s lingers clean.