The haircut trickled along, and it would take a long time.
But how terribly unhappy Mrs. Farquhar was. She must not have been adaptable to something else much more serious in particular.
However, the tea she had been served had the tang of the dirty lake of her childhood that she remembered swallowing large amounts of while swimming, and she wore the shop’s black Betty Dain easy-to-wear client wrap robe.
The full view of Mrs. Farquhar’s face and of her hair in the mirror was a trial for both of them.
Nonetheless, the hairdresser preened. She wore an elite Betty Dain gown, too.
Later she tidied up and by breakfast time, at home, the next morning—the hairdresser was alone, wedged between her chair and the table. There was a plastic plate in front of her and a ceramic mug. These both had glossy surfaces—impenetrable, opaque.
She removed her solitaire pearl finger ring, put it onto the plate.
Through the window she saw her pruned shrubbery, a narrow green lawn, no trees.
She believed it was her duty to size these things up.
What was it that she did or did not admire? It was a question of her upsetting something.
Head of the Big Man
The family was blessed with more self-confidence than most of us have and with a great lawn, with arbors and beds of flowers, and with a fountain in the shape of a sun at the south end. It is not our purpose to say anything imprecise about their scheme, how they had gotten on with tufted and fringed furniture, with their little tables, a parquet floor, a bean pot.
The walls inside of this country house were amber-colored where they entertained quite formally—until the old mansion was destroyed.
It was a shapely shingle-style house, with bulbous posts.
But what kind of confident people behave poorly by not being confident enough?
Let us examine the case.
Eldrida Cupit had given birth to four children. Three of these and their father drowned trying to cross the Quesnel River in a boat. She later married Mr. Cupit and had many more children. “Imp,” as she was known, was famous for her fresh peach sour cream pie, her steak shortcake, and more significantly for her élan.
People often saw her husband Blade on the street and he not only was polite, but he invited many personally to his home to hear about his rough riding days and his numerous good works.
In her later years, Mrs. Cupit dressed slowly for dinner and did not intend nor want to see anyone, except for her husband at dinner.
Frequently her husband left the table before she arrived and then edged himself up the back stairs.
He began to drink and lost all of his money after his wife died.
Often, as in this tale, a downpour with thunder and lightning is sufficiently full-bodied to get somebody’s whole attention. In one such storm Mr. Cupit had a vision of his wife. Her clothing was not exactly cut to fit and she showed no sign of affection. “Well, act like you’re not going up a hill,” his wife said, “but you’re still going to go up it!”
For a while, after their deaths, their residence was open to tourists who were apt to get exhausted touring it.
The diamond-shaped hall, placed in the center—its dimensions and spaciousness were rooted, were grounded as if the hall was growing as an ample area. It was finished in mahogany. The dominant message here being: “Looks like one of you splurged!”
None of this would have been possible without the involvement of morally strong, intelligent people who were then spent.
Young farmers and rural characters, obstetrical nurses, scholars, clergy—all the rest!—will have their great hopes realized more often than not—unless I decide to tell their stories.
Living Deluxe
True! Yes! Mother always gave me a tribute with a sigh.
I was her favorite, and that was another reason I took money from her that rightfully belonged to my sister and my brother.
My mother knew I needed to be a person with flair and I can be.
It may require a little time.
No lack of courage could have caused me to turn away from a day laborer on the foot pavement who sneezed a larger-than-life-size sneeze with an open mouth. Then he crossed himself multiple times, as I went by him.
It pained me to hold my breath while outdistancing him, and I wondered how far I’d need to go to keep free of any noxious air. I thought briefly I might count out the accurate, necessary number of cubic feet or yards.
But I was restful during a letup in the late afternoon, when my sister visited me. Her metal necklace caught at my shawl collar and it pulled loose a thread as I embraced her.
Her appearance needed some repair, too.
She is Liz Munson. She is a judge! She decides whether people live or die!
She declined a drink but ate a few of the hemp seeds I’d left out in my hors d’oeuvre dish.
“How is Maurice?” I said. “Did that one end?”
“He’s with the boys,” she said, and then took a pause to round out her lungs to their capacity.
Henry the cat put his paws up on me and called out a critical remark. Then he made his other noise that is tinged with bitterness. He is sand color in the style of the day with cement accents.
Liz’s Henry is black chestnut.
I’ll make no attempt to explain a cat’s problems that are basic to all cats—schemes that are unrealistic.
I held tightly, for an instant, on to Henry’s tail, when he moved to go far afield, for his suffering and his sacrifice—although the cat’s tail is a branch that refuses to break.
Henry had charm once upon a time. Now he wastes it stalking. “Stay and eat with me, Liz.”
“Oh, dear,” she said.
What had she come for?
My sister picked up a piece of bric-a-brac that was on the console and put it into the unimpressive realm of her handbag.
What I call a toy—what she took—was mine, never Mother’s: a leaden mammal of some sort, with horns.
Oddly, Liz has never noticed here her ten-pounder da Vinci omnibus with its gravure illustrations, its spine sensationally exhibited on a shelf, that bears this inscription on the frontispiece: To Liz and Neville, with best wishes for a happy life in a world of friendship and guz. (That last was illegible.) Signed Stephen and Lil Cole.
Leonardo may not have founded science, but I learned from him that genius does not bog down.
I lit the stove top and put water on to boil and next poured in baby peas. I made parallel straight rules—incisions in the chunk of Gruyere. The water foamed in the pot and I filled a rare antique potato basket with New York rye.
“You are a wonder,” my sister said. “I am not after your food. I want to bring you bad luck.”
“No harm done!” I said.
The peas had cooked and cooled. I prepared a pea and cheese stuffed-tomato salad. Enough for two.
My visitor was nagging at me, which was hurtful to the pride I intend to take along with me into my future.
And just where am I now?
I live near a dip in the suburbs. Some would call this a ravine—which I make visible at night with floodlights.
I believe it demands cunning enterprise on my part to reveal the fancywork of bare winter poplar and oak, maple and ash. I saw a sycamore tree bent at more than fifteen degrees from vertical!
My dining table is only nominally illuminated, so that our hands and our arms and Liz’s face became quickly—sickly. Unaccountably, she had sat herself right across from me.
My sister sneezed and put her hand to her mouth in time.
“God bless you,” I said.
She sneezed again rather more sloppily and that reminded me of a joke. She underwent yet another sudden, spasmodic action—and this time she did not try to keep her bacteria back.
> My harrier removed two handmade beeswax candles from their brass serpent candleholders on her way out.
She yelled my name—“Ola!”—and I turned away for relief—aiming to sit in my wingback rather than the lounge chair.
I saw the downed sycamore through the pane, the suggestion of a sky far away, and some of the sharply peaked trees straining to bend or to unbend, or at least to shed their shapes, or to be somewhat more neatly executed.
Very well. I took from my family one hundred thousand dollars—say fifty thousand. Say it was three million. It was thirty-five thousand!—forty. It was two hundred dollars.
There was aggravated tapping near the tall wraparound window.
By way of conclusion—I need to say I had divided a pack of gems between Liz and myself. In doing this, I’d forgotten my brother. The nonpareils, I wear in my ears.
There was that tapping again—a repeated and demonic phrase—and the repellent sight of animals through the glass.
They are my very own public property.
Such bollixed and blank expressions.
These flocks and herds and creeping things! Don’t you think they all go to work so wretchedly for what then never amounts to a feast for the soul?
How to live: there are two factors to consider—my husband says there are five!—and one of them puts me into a rage.
My fingers are graceful when I lay the table. My voice is clear when I speak. For God’s sake! For the Lord’s got such style, such originality and boldness.
Personal Details
On the avenue, I was unavoidably stuck inside of an uproar when the wind locked itself in front of my face.
Nevertheless, I had a smeary view of a child in the whirlwind who was walking backward. He was carrying his jacket instead of wearing it. And he kicked up his feet with such aptitude.
In a luncheonette that I took cover in, I overheard, “Yes, I do mind . . .”—this, while I was raising and rearranging memories of many people’s personal details, tryst locales, endearments—faces, genitalia, like Jimmy T’s, or Lee’s, which I pine for.
This is regular work with regular work hours that I do.
Through the windowpane of the coffee shop, I could see clearly into a hair salon across the street where two men—both with hairbrushes and small, handheld dryers—together—downstroked the mane of a cloaked woman.
The men were performing feats of legerdemain. Streamers sprang up around her head, as if snakes or dragons were busy eating their own tails.
And then, weighing down her shoulders, there was the golden hoard—for future use—of bullshit.
How Blown Up
A server making noisy cascades was busy refilling their glasses with ice water from a tall pitcher.
That’s what it was like in there—all peppy! Wouldn’t you know it? It had not been a period of decline.
Having made up her mind, “Why—excuse me,” the woman said peremptorily. She left the café and stepped out into the rain. She was not scaled down or reversed in her views.
There was a car just outside that she stepped into. No daylight any longer.
She rode in the taxicab toward a higher order on account of the movement of her thought.
Here’s the spot!
We shall see!
Do you know how the animals got their tails? How the lesser gods came into the world?
The longer this goddess lives, the more she shakes her tail—or pulls on it with all her strength.
Sigh
Why would anyone be fearful that the man might become distressed or that he might lose his temper in their bedroom?
He is a calm man by nature and not liable to break anything really nice by accident.
He had decided to disrobe in there—where they keep their Polish woman statuette and the fish dish they use for loose coins.
To be civilized, this man had asked to meet with his wife’s new husband.
The three drank tea together, impromptu, from souvenir mugs and paid mind to one another’s questions and the uninformative replies. Next, the man had stepped into their bedroom, towing his roller board, after inquiring if he could change into more comfortable clothes in preparation for his travel.
He said he’d be leaving soon enough—flying into the northeast corridor that he’d heard was an absolute quagmire.
Hard rain had been falling freely and for several days. In addition, now they were suffering occasional sleet. The pressure, the moisture, and the black clouds were progressing.
This is a humid, continental climate in turmoil.
“You’re wearing that?” the wife said, when the man reemerged in Spandex fitness apparel.
“We found it in Two Dot! You don’t remember?” he said—fondly patting lightly his own chest. “It’s breathable. It’s stretchable.”
“I thought it was in Geraldine,” the wife said.
“But look here, maybe you should stay the night,” the new husband said. He offered seed cake and coffee—the mild and friendly kind—this time, to drink.
“What are you doing?” said the wife—for her husband’s hands were filled with the sugar bowl and the creamer and several cups were swinging from his fingers by their ears.
All so beautifully turned out, the dishes found the table’s surface safely. These were specimens of the most romantic china service. The gilding was very good—the glaze finely crazed. There were hand-painted sprays on an apple-green ground.
“I hope you are a comfort to her,” the man said, “and that you show good sense. Because this is what it is—doesn’t everybody have to take care of Tasha?” He did not refer to her sex behavior and instead spoke generally about the dell they had once lived in and lunged silently at his disappointment that he could no longer touch his former wife. He extolled the mountain town where the wife had often reflected that looking up and out, say, over at an elevated ridge—was to her advantage.
Now she resided in this flatter state in an apartment on the third floor across from the church—from where she could see its spire.
Her glance often ran recklessly toward it, as if spurting over a rim, or through a spout.
The chancel and the sanctuary had lately been under ugly scaffolding. A few years back, one of the two aisle rose windows had been carried away for restoration and had not been returned yet.
Fortunately, the inner-draw draperies of the couple’s window facing the church were made of cheerful chintz.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if I stayed,” the man said. “Well, sure, yes, absolutely, you bet!” he said. “I’m a little nervous.”
He prepared to eat by sitting down and stressing his jaws with a big smile.
His cheeks are elongated and hollow—his brow highly peaked. His face is not difficult to explain—it’s cathedral-like.
The new husband’s whole head has an unfinished look that promises to work out well. Whereas the wife’s furrowed face—some have said—shows heavy evidence of deception and is cause for alarm.
Right then, in front of them, the woman uncapped a tube of gel ointment and applied a dab of it under a long fingernail. Next she opened a cellophane packet from which she withdrew a cracker that produced plenty of crumbs.
The husband told the man, “Surely you’d be welcome to stay!”
As the wife mopped up her particles and the traces, she spoke somewhat rudely to the man and also to her husband.
“I went somewhere . . .” the man said, expanding on a point. Hadn’t he been molded to better express himself?
A small object’s overall smallness on a shelf caught his eye—a round-bodied jar of free-blown glass whose neck was straight, that had flat shoulders—a flask he would not get to smash! It was streaked with permanent crimson and cold black. It had about it the real suggestion of the softness of human flesh.
>
“Did you imagine me the way I am?” the man asked the new husband, who answered no.
“What do you mean?”
“But I am not against you,” the husband said.
“Say a little more.”
Sirens in the street produced a brief, headstrong fugue.
“Say a little more,” said the man.
The husband got up from his chair. Why should anyone be fearful of his certain combinations of words, narrowly spaced?
The husband gave himself ample time to speak.
No gross vices were explored. His is not the voice of a man in the pulpit. No personal impulses were defined or analyzed.
He did deliver a slovenly interrogatory.
He went uphill, downhill with—“Wah-aaaaaaaat waaahz it ligh-ike, with herrrrrrrrr-rah, for you-ooooooo—?”
That’s all that he was saying.
Nothing seemed to want to end it.
There Is Always a Hesitation Before Turning in a Finished Job
Beneath his coat, when I first met him, his shirt had seemed to have broken out into an inflammation—into a lavish plaid or a strong enough checkered pattern.
There was the stretch of time when my future materialized on account of Dan.
We fried things on the stove top and made coffee. Formerly, I had been disabled and chilled, the usual story—so then the hamburgers had become fun.
Dan was doing the job of keeping us together and he was creating a little garden at the back of the house and the garden was extending onto the beach and the garden didn’t have any grass to speak of, but we had this vision of growing things there. There was a daisy we were trying to grow. There was another flower that looked like an artichoke, but it was not only to be a garden of landscape plantings. It was supposed to be equal to our worth.
One day when we were out in the garden, a dog that had been chasing a rabbit came up to us. Dan said hello and we kept that dog. It was a tan dog and it was a mix of the best available species and the dog was trembling. He had that look in his eyes. He had the heart to do any work that was necessary, but we had nothing for him to do. And I was struck by how the dog was featuring so prominently. For instance, we might think to go someplace, but would the dog like it?
The Collected Stories of Diane Williams Page 27
