The Collected Stories of Diane Williams

by Diane Williams

I’m a woman. You don’t take that for granted, I suppose, or that I believe in ghosts just because I say, “See the nymph!”

  As Yeats said, “There are no such things as ghosts. Ghosts, no! There are those mortals who are beau­tifully masquerading, and those of them who are car­ried off.” Okay, as Yeats did not say.

  Sometimes girls like her are gotten rid of in a not so gentle way. Socrates said of one, “A northern gust car­ried her over the neighboring rocks, because I said so.” He said, “I was swollen with passion.” Nietzsche said the people of the cities have the machine to get rid of them if they are annoying.

  It was Captain Stewart who informed me that be­cause I saw the girl, “You will rise to the summit of your power, then you will die a violent death.” He said that. His records confirm this fact.

  So far, I have told the truth. It was straight from my heart to say we would be killed.

  Cannibal, the Natural History

  Everything was so bad because of what happened in the spring, but I eat it.

  I asked Chuck, “What happened in the spring?”

  Something very very bad. I couldn’t get to what without Chuck’s help. The reason to remember was to keep talking to Chuck for X amount of time.

  Chuck said, then I nearly said, the drought. He said it first.

  “Is there good news?” I asked Chuck. I did not address Chuck as Chuck, who was unaware I knew his name or his secret.

  Chuck answered me spitefully. “They are ripening them artificially.”

  Spiteful Chuck. I knew. The secret about Chuck was that everything was nice about Chuck except that he did not know how—anything about being nice. Some­thing else about eating—the train of my thought—in X amount of time, nowhere near Chuck, I got to it—it was mothers who would not knowingly eat a coward before their babies were born. Among these people, the diet restrictions were severe. Strict for a purpose.

  I’m a mom like that. Not to brag, today at lunch, Maggie did not smell it on me, what I have been cook­ing. She guessed wrong. Chuuuuuuck!

  I know one thing about Maggie. She is a very, very mixed-up person.

  Bloom

  The ham, the sweet and the tender cookies, pecans—heavily grooved the way they are—candies wrapped in green foil, in red, or in any foil, are the custom, so is the attitude of the little girl named Sandy.

  A man and a woman, not married to each other, who had just returned, they said, from a romantic holiday together in Capri, took turns to speak to each other respectfully of their spouses and I listened in. One attractive man was there. Well, I like him.

  I leaped to my feet to go over to the attractive man, and Sandy followed me. Since then, many others have tried to stick to me like glue.

  Please believe me that there is no part of me which is sad, angry, or resentful when I remember suddenly leaping up that time, or many other times since this time or before. The cause of my serenity may be that I am not ashamed to just go through the motions of having naked power and ambition, as in fucking.

  This burgeoning is gratifying.

  Meat

  The prince’s house makes me feel respect for his house. The house causes me to stand and look at his house as if his house deserves all of my attention. I will need to be butted out of this drifting off into full respect for his house by something necessary or urgent, and nobody will get me to speak about my mother’s new boyfriend instead of the prince who lives in this house.

  The first time I met the prince, he was talking to his hired man inside of my neighbor’s garage, and he told me to come by sometime and we could have an Ovaltine at his house.

  I just don’t want to say why we were all in the garage. It is not even as germane as the rumpled prince on the edge of his property today, talking with the three hired men. His hair, his shirt, his trousers were rumpled.

  There was a rather smooth aspect to the shirt of one of the hired men, how it stretched itself smoothly down, then down in under and behind his belt, which reminds me of the food galore at my mother’s boy­friend’s party, which an overweight woman dressed in white with bleached yellow hair prepared and served to us—meat.

  I loved Gwen—the woman sitting next to me at the party. She bakes her bread in a machine. It doesn’t swirl, but since it is better to be impetuous, she puts into it anyway cinnamon and raisins into the white dough!

  I am tempted to not say anything more which could imply anything, because this is not literature. This is espionage.

  n.b. If you like, change all the words.

  The Strangest and

  Most Powerful

  “Look, we’ve been over this and over this.”

  I giggled. I began to blush. I stammered, “You—you—Dicky—I—”

  It was all unnecessary because—blaaruah!—the doorbell rang. Behind the window adjacent to the door, I saw a face and a fist.

  Where we all were, at my aunt and uncle’s house, was a particularly lovely spot. A group of people not yet too terribly tired continued making comments while I sat in a trance. My uncle opened the door. I heard my uncle say, “No, I won’t do that,” then another man’s voice, “Why not?” then my uncle, “I am afraid,” then the other one, “Poor girl, she’s the kind who gets taken advantage of.” “What on earth do you mean?” my uncle said.

  A certain kind of shock had set in, which protected me. I thought of going home. Of course, I made no attempt to leave. I was puzzled, and as per usual I spoke up. I did not comprehend or enjoy what I said, despite all of my experience talking. Then I laughed, and turned away with embarrassment. The next thing I imagined myself being spoken to. My uncle was hand­ing me a drink, and a big stranger, with a purple orchid in his buttonhole, with his hair combed down flat, stood beside my uncle, gaping at me.

  Clinkety-clink! clinked the ice cubes in my drink. I spilled some of my drink, of course, on my sweater, when the apparition began a conversation, which con­stitutes our culture. It seemed so trivial, our culture.

  The Seduction

  You try so hard when they are sick. He’s very sick.

  When I cooked, I’d cut up a little liver before I left, and he ate it. Do you think that’s good?

  He is a significant figure. There’s a treatise on him I am reading now. There is to be a thoughtful conclusion forthcoming, I hope.

  It took a long time for historians to develop the no­tion of objectivity, because of their compulsiveness, which is a never-you-mind that overcomes logical thinking.

  This calls for an explanation. I’d say it does.

  Let me see: Do I remember? I ask myself. Let me see: you are too big! I did not know what to do. I did not know if I was pushing or if I was just trying to push. I did not know the difference.

  Despite the promising start—I was so excited—things went badly, but I haven’t spoken ill of him. I’ve heard others say, “What a bastard!” I’ve heard his dreadful sobbing. He has clutched at me. He has spo­ken reasonably.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Darling,” he said, and I got frightened. And then he said, “I was afraid to touch you.” I let him hold my hand. I could not tell what he wanted—a theatri­cal marriage? I’m sympathetic to the most simple human act.

  Ha

  “See if you can find a whistle, even a toy whistle, any whistle,” she implored.

  He knew he’d never find one in their town. When you know how it will turn out, you feel tired. So do I.

  There ought to be a brilliant portrayal of the homecoming—the boy with what? or with the lack of what? the matriarch to be reckoned with.

  An hour later, the boy returned with nothing to say.

  After her hesitation, his mother asked, “So?”

  He heard her clanking their plates.

  But instead of answering his mother, the boy went back out into the backyard.

/>   Because the mother’s confusion was even greater than her boy’s, she said nothing more either. But oh, how she thought!

  Oh, this is hopeless! she thought.

  What would her boy’s fate be? she wondered. Well, she decided, they need a victim. I need a victim. We all need a victim.

  The boy’s heart heaved. He thought he was confident of the future. His house had been through fire. Things needed doing.

  As for his mother, her voice had positively no timbre. She barely got her words out. In real life, she was barely heard.

  About other details—or more about the boy—I don’t have any ambition for any more, except to ob­serve that the boy squatted on his haunches in the flowers.

  The mother remembered then—that, as a baby, he had looked a trace displeased to be born.

  The Revision

  You should not read this. It is too private. It is the most serious. It is even too serious for me. I should make something of this.

  Here is the best part, when he said to me come here. That was the very best part of my life so far. In the doorway to his bathroom was where I was. It was where I was when I asked him, “Are you peeing?”

  He said, “No, but now I am.” He was seated to do the peeing, so it would not be any problem to do it, facing me. I didn’t even hear it, the peeing, if he peed.

  Well, why?—why can’t all of it be dirty parts, every part a dirty part, or quickly leading to another dirty part?—the part when he just put himself into my mouth?—or the part when he said you looked—I can’t remember how he said I looked to him, with that part of him in my mouth, but he jiggled on my jaw. He said open up before he went ahead and he peed. Oh! That’s how babies could be made!

  The Earth Is Full of Her Glory

  Mary Lugg had not perceived her fate.

  It would seem so cold-blooded, wouldn’t it? a planned thing. She stood straighter to see if that would help her back feel better. That helped. Then she put herself into her chair at the table.

  Alan Hatt was speaking, “—for years. That’s what I think. In my opinion, you deserve it.”

  “It’s witchcraft,” said Amanda Hatt.

  Rod Rowan had a toothache. Rod Rowan whispered, “I can understand it.”

  Alan Hatt had a brain tumor he knew nothing about. Nobody knew if it would eventually kill him or if he’s to die of boredom.

  Mary Lugg said, “She’s a good cook. Don’t tell, but I can’t eat these.” Mary Lugg was referring to the dump­lings in the soup. She could not eat them.

  “It was a horrible experience,” Rod Rowan said. “I told them everything.”

  “Good Lord, Rod!” cried Alan Hatt. He grabbed the edge of the table for support.

  If the truth were audible, the actual world was moan­ing. It began to dawn on Mary Lugg what was happen­ing. Her thought produced a fine dramatic effect, not unlike what she endured whenever she lied, or when she got what she wanted. It felt good.

  The Time of Harmony,

  or Crudité

  I would say I was half the way through when I thought to myself: Be careful. Anyway, there were twenty of them, to begin with.

  I cut every one in half.

  There were six.

  I cut one to pieces, wedge-shaped. I’d say there were nine wedges. This is the estimate, generally, I get from thinking back on it.

  I cut slices from it.

  I’d say there were six slices.

  I sawed and I sawed back and forth.

  I cut stalks. I made chips. There were about fifty more wedges. There were wheels. One wheel which I had produced took off, rolled along, and dropped. I made sticks and I made slivers. I made raggedy bunches, stalks, chunks.

  The house was neat and clean as ever. I got a lot of things done. I fully enjoyed sex. It turned out I was very deep into being.

  On so many occasions, what goes with what? I do not want to leave behind anything during the accu­mulation that I will have to grasp at one glance because it is not a piece of crap.

  Beyond Principle

  It predestined her to become a thinker, to become a woman in a storm center for many years to come, because she did no fornicating with any other. She never left him out of it, never; not before she met him or after she had met him.

  Into her mind she liked to keep adding what she called “a little curve” or “a little fork” among the path­ways. She was ready to change her mind. Original conclusions were not her aim. She preferred to lay claim to the obvious.

  One time when her hands were on his naked flesh, he said, “I love it when you draw me in.” Squeezing his rump, “Like this?” she said.

  Doing her job, she thought, Who says that men aren’t soft? and the one man became the multitude through the backward path that leads to satisfaction, toward the upshot of all far-fetched speculation and curiosity—which is an example for example of how she first thought her idea of giving herself a little pinch or little pushes, of getting her hand up in between her and him in the very middle of their act. Not seeking to interrupt, to fail shamefully, or to baby herself, she intended to be serious—not to goof up, not to fuck up. “You’re going to have fun with it, I know,” she said. She thought, I want to know how this turns out. She said, “Come in and show me.” She wagged her finger.

  She cut him out of her life.

  Isn’t she wonderful, if an assumption is permissible? It looks as if she ended those embarrassing situations at any cost.

  Her terrible war gave rise to pathology of this kind, but her terrible war finally put an end to temptation. Now I could throw in something that’s so sensual, that’s full of an object.

  Scratching the Head

  We respect her from learning from her. Let us compile the factors of her failure. We could not find hereditary factors. We said, “Tell us about yourself.”

  At the zenith of her life, in her mid-forties, she changed. She met the man who awakened her oldest erotic feelings.

  “What a nightmare!” she said. “Why can’t it be over? When I touched his arm, my hand was on fire. When I am nowhere near him, there’s a sledgehammering down here.”

  She gestured, not shyly, toward her genitalia. She inquired, “I have never heard of that. Have you?”

  Perhaps we should leave the question as it is.

  She asked herself aloud, “Do I have the moral force to finish my life?”

  Her phleglomania was the phenomenomenom that had set in. Her highest average speed of forty-five miles per hour she achieved in her automobile. Sometimes she briefly closed her eyes, she said, while driving, be­cause, she said, “What could possibly happen?”

  She had a regal calmness. That should sound fa­miliar.

  Her instincts for victory, her naturally fierce nature, the entire inheritance of her species, the will to seduce and ensnare, all her cruel powers were melted into a cordial, into a very old sweet, smile—but that’s what’s been said.

  Let us endeavor to sum up. How much repetition does it take? A perseveration? Biological investigation is required to explain the impulses and their trans­formations—the chief traits of a person. It is easy to forget, not that we ever should, that everything in this world is an accident, including the origin of life itself, plus the accumulation of riches. We should show more respect for Nature, not less. An accident isn’t neces­sarily ever over.

  Idea

  The sound our feet made when we walked across his floorboards was a rhythmic accom­paniment to physical desire both of us could have thought to put a stop to. It did occur to me, just on principle, to end that noise.

  When I took off my coat, he said my coat was gray. I said it was green. He said it was gray.

  In the upstairs of his house, when I sat myself down to look around, I decided I liked everything I was looking at. There was nothing I did not approve o
f, or that I did not admire that I could see.

  He said, “You make such fast moves,” when he was kissing me. Then he said, “The watch—you have to take off the watch.” Into the palm of his hand I put my watch, my four hairpins, my necklace made of silver beads.

  He said, “That! Put that in your purse. I don’t like that!” when I took off my brassiere. It remained there, though, curled up on his wooden floor, curled awk­wardly for a piece of clothing, not awkwardly if it had been something else perhaps, a creature.

  He said, “Now,” he said, “use both of your hands so that I will feel you are really with me.” Or, I was the one who said that to him—that’s right, because I knew he could do things he would never want me to do. Add to all of that another distinctive feature, an atmosphere of awe, and something else that could be wet and gleam­ing which would not ordinarily be symbolic.

  It Becomes True

  Someone said, “See!”

  I saw the chimpanzee doing some of its typical twists and it was flourishing its tail par excel­lence up in a phony tree. We’re all here for a party.

  If I said I love this, then what would happen to me?

  “I love this!”

  Nowadays it comes to the surface. This is the zoo. I am at a party which will be of considerable benefit to the zoo.

  And fortunately for me, I got myself squeezed up in the arms of a man.

  A good ways away from the monkey, we were danc­ing in a tent. There was not one whiff of the monkey. The man swept me off my feet. It was my privilege. He swung me around. For this, I will always, always be grateful to him. I love this! Also, he surreptitiously slipped his hands along my body, lightly, so I would not notice, out there in front of everyone, while we were dancing. I was so grateful. I loved that.