Collected Fictions

by Gordon Lish

  At any rate, it was a local, as I said.

  Or if I didn't say it—hadn't!—then I just did.

  Forget it.

  What we have to deal with is its next being Thirty-third. This means—go ahead and count them off for yourself—nine to get the Euher out and get the Thompson on, nine to get the Thompson on and fire once, nine to have fired once and get the Thompson off, nine to do what page 217 is waiting for you to do and then to get everything back up back in again up in under your coat.

  Which is biggish for you, and loose.

  A part of speech—oh, Christ!

  SPELL BEREAVEMENT

  MY SISTER SAYS, "It's Daddy. It's about Daddy."

  My mother gets on and says, "Don't cry. He will be all right. Please God in heaven, God is taking him into his loving embrace right this very minute and that the man will be all right."

  My sister gets back on and says, "Daddy just went a little while ago. Daddy is gone."

  My mother gets on and says, "I can't talk. You think I can talk? Don't make me talk."

  My sister gets back on and says, "So make up your mind, are you coming or not?"

  My mother gets on and says, "No one could begin to tell you. You turn around and the man is gone."

  My sister gets on and says, "We have to have your answer. So which is it, are you coming or not?"

  My mother gets on and says, "Like that." My mother says, "Just like that." My mother says, "You couldn't believe it." My mother says, "I couldn't believe it." My mother says, "You blink an eye and that's that." My mother says, "Did you hear me, were you listening to me?" My mother says, "You blink an eye and it's goodbye and good luck."

  My sister gets back on and says, "Now is when you have to decide. Not next year, not tomorrow, not after we hang up. Do you understand what I am saying to you? I am saying now, make up your mind right this minute now while we are sitting here talking to you because we do not have all day to wait around for you for you to decide."

  My mother says, "There wasn't an instant when I didn't expect it, not for years was there a single instant when I didn't expect it. But you think it still didn't come to me as a surprise? I want you to know something—it came to me as a surprise. I can't breathe, that's how much it came to me as a surprise."

  My sister gets on and says, "Do you realize we have to make plans? So what are we supposed to do if we don't know how to plan because we don't know if we're supposed to plan for you to come down or not?" My sister says, "Be reasonable for once in your life and tell me do we plan for you to come or do we go ahead and not make plans?"

  My mother says, "My head never once touched the pillow when I didn't expect to wake up with the unmentionable staring me right in the face." My mother says, "I want you to hear me say something—all of my life with that man I had to sleep with one eye open." My mother says, "Did you hear me say that? Did you hear what I said?" My mother says, "Please God that God is listening, because I as the man's wife never got a moment's rest."

  My sister says, "Make up your mind. Are you making up your mind? Here, speak to Mother, tell Mother. Mother wants to know if your mind is made up."

  My mother gets back on and says, "Talk to your sister. I can't talk."

  My sister says, "So is it yes or is it no?"

  My mother says, "The man was my husband. For going on sixty years next month, the man was my husband. So were you listening to what I said to you, almost sixty years next month?"

  My sister says, "Is it the fare? You need us to help you with the fare?"

  My mother says, "You don't have the money to come to your own father when he is dead?"

  My sister gets on and says, "We have to make arrangements. We have to make calls."

  My mother says, "Do you know what it costs to call from Miami to New York? Do you want for me to tell you what it costs for somebody to call from Miami to New York? Do you think they give you free calls when somebody is dead and you are calling from Miami to New York?"

  My sister gets on and says, "Look, no one is saying that this isn't just as much of a blow to you as it is to us. But we can't just sit here and wait all day for you to tell us what, if anything, you are going to decide to do. So once and for all, yes or no, you are coming or not?"

  My mother gets back on and says, "Let me make one tiny little suggestion very clear to you—where there is a will, there is a way."

  My sister says, "Let bygones be bygones—-just say yes or just say no and whichever it is you feel you have to say, we give you our absolute assurance that we will do our very best to completely understand."

  My mother says, "Talk to your sister. Your sister's listening to you. Try to make sense."

  My sister says, "Don't tell me. Tell your mother. Your mother has a right to hear you express yourself as honestly as you can."

  My mother says, "Take this, take this—I don't want to touch it—I can't even breathe yet, let alone pick up a telephone and talk."

  My sister says, "You're making her sick. I already gave her a pill and now you are making your mother sick." My sister says, "I'm telling you, the woman has taken all she can take." My sister says, "If I could afford it, you know what?" My sister says, "If I had the wherewithal to do it, if I had the money lying around to do it, you know what?" My sister says, "I would run get a doctor for her even if I had to beg, borrow, and steal to do it for her because the woman should be given a good once-over by a good doctor, hopefully a specialist who is absolutely top-notch." My sister says, "But thank God the woman doesn't need it." My sister says, "Thank God the woman has the strength of a horse." My sister says, "God love her, an ox, a horse."

  My mother says, "All his life the man was not a big earner, not a big money-maker. But you know something? The man was good."

  My sister says, "Let's be sensible. Let's bury the hatchet and work things out together. Do we plan for you to come down or do we not plan for you to come down? Give me a simple yes or no and we will know how to conduct our affairs after we have to hang up."

  My mother says, "I am here to tell you, the man never made a fortune, but you cannot say the man was not too good for his own good."

  My sister says, "I don't know how the woman is still standing on her feet. Don't torment her with this. Don't you know that you are tormenting her with this? Stop tormenting your mother."

  My mother says, "The man was too good. But do they give you a medal for being too good? Listen to what I am telling you, your father was too good. The man was goodness itself. You know what your father was? Your father was too good for this world, this is what your father was."

  My sister says, "I want you to know that I am getting ready to wash my hands of this." My sister says, "Are you waiting for me to hang up?" My sister says, "Is this what you are waiting for, are you just sitting there waiting for us to hang up? Because if you want me to get off, believe me, I can get off."

  My mother gets back on and says, "The man was a saint." She says, "Listen to what I said to you, did you hear what I said to you?" My mother says, "Ask anyone—a living saint."

  My sister gets back on and says, "No one is saying this is easy for you. Do you think it is easy for me? But things do not get done without plans being made, and things have to get done within no time at all, do you hear?" My sister says, "I have to make certain calls. People have to be called. I am trying to call people and get things taken care of without causing Mother any undue excitement or any additional upset." My sister says, "Consider your mother's health. The woman is not young. The woman is totally devoid of any reserves of energy to draw from should, God forbid, worst come to worst. So don't make worst come to worst. Try to appreciate the fact that the woman is at her wit's end. The woman has not one more shred of energy left over for anymore of your crap. So do I make myself clear? Or do I have to spell this out for you what I am saying to you when I say eighty-eight? Do I have to tell you what your mother has already been through today and she only just an hour ago woke up? So are we going to get your answer or are
we going to have to scream ourselves hoarse? Because all your mother wants to know is if she and I are supposed to expect you to come down here or if we are not. So are we or aren't we? Or is it your instruction to us that we are to go ahead and plan your own father's memorial service without his beloved son being in prominent attendance? Is that what your instructions are?"

  My mother says, "You don't have to do me any favors. You do not have to do anybody any favors. Do as you please. If you want to come, come—if you don't want to come, don't come—the world will go on very nicely with or without you. Your father does not require your presence if it is too big of a bother for you to come to the man when he really needs for you to be here in attendance here when he's dead."

  My sister gets back on and says, "Is he listening to us? Is Mr. Stuck-up listening to us?"

  My mother says, "It is not a necessity. There is no necessity. If you can't make it, you can't make it. Not everybody in the world can always be expected to just drop everything and run. I promise you, it is no disrespect if you couldn't make it. No one would accuse you of nothing. Your father would not accuse you of nothing. Your father would be the first person to tell you to do what you have to do if it is a question of prior business making a prior claim on you which couldn't be avoided at any cost. If it's business, don't give it a second thought. So which is it, business or not business? Because if it is business, then it's all well and good. Believe me, your father would be the first one to go along with the fact that not everybody has a situation where they can afford just at the drop of a hat to take time off from their business, come rain or come shine."

  My sister says, "If it's the money, then maybe Mother can get you something out of savings and reimburse you when you get down here for whatever you had to lay out for it out of your own pocket. So talk to Mother, tell her what your situation is, tell her what you have in mind, make a clean breast of it with her and get it out on the table with her and I am sure a solution can be found and it will all work out. But if all it is is the ticket down and the ticket back, you could see who maybe has a special on right now for night flights if you left sometime tonight. So why don't you maybe call up around town and get the best price and then call us right back?"

  My mother gets back on and says, "The man only wanted the best for his family." My mother says, "The man's every waking thought was for no one but his family." My mother says, "The man could never do enough for his family." My mother says, "The man never wanted one thing for anyone but his family." My mother says, "His family's happiness, this alone is what gave the man life." My mother says, "Wait a minute—not his family's happiness, but your happiness—yours, you, the professor, the poet, his darling, the cherished one, the son."

  My sister says, "This has gone on long enough. I am not asking again. Yes or no? Either answer the question or forget about it, because I am hanging up."

  My mother says, "It is no crime if you cannot come. No one is going to say that there should be a finger pointed at you if you cannot come. You come or you do not come, you only have to think it through and suit yourself."

  My sister gets back on and says, "Don't kid yourself, it is a crime, it is a sin, it makes me sick to be his sister."

  My mother gets back on and says, "I am just trying to think what would make the most sense for all parties and plus also for all persons concerned."

  My sister gets back on and says, "Drop dead. He should do everybody a favor and drop dead. Did you hear what I just said to you? He makes me sick."

  My mother gets back on and says, "Be nice. Children, do you hear me? Don't fight."

  My sister says, "I am giving you one more chance." My sister says, "Do you want another chance?" My sister says, "As God is my witness, this is your last chance."

  My mother says, "He's listening, he's listening." My mother says, "Don't worry, he's listening." My mother says, "Talk turkey to him, tell him what the situation is."

  My sister says, "Your mother wants to hear your voice. Try to act like a human being. Is it possible for you to act like a human being? Let the woman hear your voice."

  My mother says, "Talk to me, darling. I am listening, darling. Let me hear my darling talk."

  My sister says, "Let him go ahead and drop dead. Stop begging him. Stop babying him. Stop pampering him. You know what would serve him right? If he hung up the phone and dropped dead, this would serve him right!"

  My mother says to me, "Your father loved you like life itself." My mother says to me, "You know what your mother is saying to you when she says to you that your father loved you like life itself?"

  My mother says to me, "Speak to me, sweetheart."

  My mother says to me, "Talk to me, sweetheart."

  My mother says to me, "Tell your mother what it is which is in her sonny boy's heart of hearts."

  WHAT IS IN MY HEART of hearts?

  There are not people in my heart of hearts.

  There are just sentences in my heart of hearts.

  So what was I to say to them?

  Not to the locutions of discourse.

  But to my mother and my sister.

  Because I really honestly do not think there was any way for me to say to them why it was I was not answering what they said.

  I mean, hey, let's not be ridiculous.

  Because you can't just turn around and say to people—good God, not to your own most beloved loved —that you are too frantic to talk, that you are too frantic to think, that you are too frantic to pay anyone any attention, lest you fail to have made room in your heart for every word as word.

  THE PROBLEM OF THE PREFACE

  THIS IS A STORY ABOUT A MAN who was done in by a story, and by that, by done in, it is meant killed, done away with, finished, done for—all that. It is a very straightforward affair from its start to its end, the only question being this—is it, was it, made up? Oh, but no, no, no—the question is not whether this story is made up, but whether that one was, that one being the one our victim was dispatched by, for it was—and here is the nastiest spicule in the whole sorry business—a story he himself was the one who had told every chance he got.

  And had he not?

  But tell it he did, and over and over.

  As we ourselves shall now have to do, to offer—wouldn't you know it?—the effect of effecting something, lest elsewise look inert for having not done so.

  Behold.

  This is the story the dead fellow was, true or false, both the origin of and the context for.

  HE SAID JELLY APPLES were coming around and that he hurried to his father to get the money for one and that no sooner did he have the jelly apple and did bite of it then, lo, he set to choking his last upon it, but along came his brother who happened to notice and who got him by the belt and who hiked him up by the belt and who turned him over by the belt and who held him upside-down and who shook him good and proper, such shakings that what had got itself stuck down inside of him came right back up and fell back out of him, such that, by heaven, there our father was, restored to himself and right as any rain and thus a creature who was loving forever everlastingly of his brother.

  Never mind this latter's fate.

  OR MAYBE HE'D CHANGE his tune and tell it like this—say somebody was coming with jelly apples, so he went and told his father about it and his father said there would always be somebody coming who was going to be coming with something, that if they would not be coming with one thing, then that they were going to be coming with another thing, that there was not anything which they were ever going to be coming with which was not going to cost somebody some money, but that, no, no, the father would not be a father ever to deny any son something, least of all savvy and candied nutrition.

  BUT IT ALL WORKED OUT to be the same story, anyway—one bite and the boy was choking to death on whatever he had bitten into—take your pick—sour ball, hot peanut, jelly apple. Whereupon, here comes the brother to come happening along and thereupon to see what lethally gives, so that the brother takes the b
rother by the belt and yanks the brother up and turns the brother over and holds our father upside-down, et cetera, et cetera, such that whatever it was that had got in him gets knocked loose and comes back up out of him and he is breathing again and is among the living again, even if the whole deal is hokum, hokum, cock-and-bull.

  ANYWAY, THIS IS THE STORY the dead man told.

  Or that was.

  But what else could it do but get him killed?

  For the storyteller told the story to his children—who just could not wait to grow up enough for them to get strong enough for them to accomplish the same saving feat that had been so robustly extolled of, who just could not wait for them to be ready enough for when their father would start choking enough, which eventually—as it will with any of us—the father regrettably, but not all that excessively, in the event did.

  Oh boy oh boy oh boy!

  From the children's point of view, it was all for love, whereas from the viewpoint of the father, death was no more than the cost of the narrative endeavor paid out to the end of its aboriginal course. Yet whichever ornament you choose to adorn the humbug of the text with, the fact is the kids managed to get the old man head over heels, all right, but then, upended, the kidder slipped loose and cracked something pretty critical, a stiletto of neck bone thence—oh, shit!—stabbing its way up into the back of a drastically literal brain.

  LEOPARD IN A TEMPLE

  LOOK, LET'S MAKE IT SHORT AND SWEET. Who anymore doesn't go crazy from overtures, from fanfares, from preambles, from preliminaries? So, okay, so here is the thing—so this is my Kafka story, fine and dandy. Actually, it is going to be my against-Kafka story. Because what I notice is you have to have a Kafka story one way or the other. So this is going to be my Kafka story, only it is going to be a story which is against Kafka. Which is different from being a story against Kafka's stories, although I could see myself probably producing a story against those, too, if I ever went back and took another look at any of the preservations of them.