by J. J. Murray
Your bathroom, for one. The kitchen. The downstairs bathroom.
Later. I’m writing now.
Sure. Go ahead.
No history of the average white man could be complete without some humorous anecdote about crazy Uncle Phil or the insane Auntie Phyllis. But first, let’s look at some general, random information gleaned from the endless genealogical findings of Arthur’s mother.
Arthur Stephens Jefferson was named for seven consecutive generations of Arthurs on his father’s side, none of whom used their full first names. They were “Art,” “Arturo,” or “Artie,” and one even went by “King.” But our Arthur is simply “Arthur” (though his wife calls him “Artie” when she’s angry), not that he or his friends have no imaginations.
There is only so much you can do with “Arthur.”
“Stephens” was a family name, some thirteen generations old, a name frequently used by its owner for “Steve” or “Stevie” or “Stephen/ Steven.” And “Jefferson” was an old, renowned American name, one associated with greatness—but it was only an association. His genealogically minded mother had pronounced Thomas Jefferson as Arthur’s “fourth cousin twice removed.”
To where? we might wonder, but we won’t.
This sucks. Who gives a history lesson on his main character? Who would even care?
You care, or you wouldn’t have written it.
I only wrote it to write something.
So, keep writing. Maybe it will smooth itself out. Go with the flow.
I’m going, I’m going.
As a child, Arthur had scoured his mother’s genealogical records looking for his place in the Caucasian pantheon. By most accounts, he was Nordic (his blond hair and love for snow and those little water-filled paperweights with the snow inside), Scotch (his freckles and luve for red, red roses), Irish (his temper softened by nostalgia, warm beer, and sad songs badly sung in bars run by anyone with an O or an Mc in front of his or her name), with a touch of German (his inability to laugh out loud unless ordered to). Yet, he was also descended from the French and English, two entities that had stretched the Hundred Years’ War to 116 because, obviously, neither side could count anything but dead bodies and taxes.
Such a divided man is Arthur Stephens Jefferson. He could never be a hyphenated American. His true hyphenation would never fit on the census form.
Somewhat of a mutt, this Arthur.
Now you’re cooking.
I am? I just called my main character a mutt!
He’s A Mutt in the Melting Pot. That may end up being your title. Keep going.
Stop interrupting, then!
Is there going to be a sex scene soon? Your editor expects one every twenty pages or so.
Later.
Don’t keep her waiting too long.
Who’s writing this, you or me?
We both are, remember?
I’m not so sure.
Maybe an old-fashioned erotic dream out by the shed?
Hush.
Okay. How about a fantasy, then? A quick ten-second fantasy.
In the middle of my character’s family history?
How do you think we get families, Jack? First a fantasy, then the stalking, then the taking…It’s about time you did some taking, Jack.
I don’t know.
You’re getting better, Jack.
I am?
Yeah. You’re almost yourself again.
Almost.
Now if you bathe, trim your nails, shave, and get a haircut—
Don’t push your luck.
Well, at least get cleaned up before you take the books back to the library.
Why?
You might see Diane again. Maybe you’ll have a fantasy or two.
I don’t know.
Just one?
Okay. Just one.
17
Diane
The anonymously written The Quiet Game is a rip-off of headlinesmade a few years ago by the DC sniper, and it completely misses the target as a novel of suspense and intrigue. The narrator, while sufficiently creepy, isn’t compelling enough to carry the plodding, predictable plot to anything but an obvious ending and a twenty-page prison diatribe borrowed liberally from Native Son—perhaps the reason the publisher decided to keep the author’s name from the public eye. The publisher should have also kept this novel from the public eye.
out of
—Nisi, Mid-Atlantic Book Review
I’m worried the publisher will use ellipses to say, “The Quiet Game…is a novel of suspense and intrigue,” but I’m not too worried. I skimmed the novel and found that the last twenty pages is a diary the older sniper wrote while in prison, and the more I read from that diary, the more I was convinced the author stole bits and pieces of it from Richard Wright. I checked, and sure enough, the author summarized many of Bigger Thomas’s thoughts from jail in Native Son. And luckily, I was the first to post my review at Amazon.com, so The Quiet Game will be officially a one-star book in a few days, since it takes up to five days for my reviews to post on the Internet.
Except for Psyche, the remarkably drawn heroine of P&Q, by J. K. Growling, this novel fails as both a romance and satire of the modeling industry. The plot, taken from the mythological story of Psyche and Cupid, breaks no new literary ground, and of the four narrators (Venus, Q, Psyche, and Rosemary), only Psyche’s voice rings true as she stays true to herself and her spiritual upbringing while surviving the evil, soap-operatic machinations of Q and his mother, Venus. Aside from Psyche, the other characters are nothing but living mannequins spouting melodramatic, meaningless lines. Growling should have told the entire story through Psyche’s eyes and not through the glands of the other characters.
out of
—Nisi, Mid-Atlantic Book Review
I’m the fourth person to review P&Q, and except for the first one giving the book five stars—probably put up there “anonymously” by J. K. Growling or his or her publisher—the other two give three and two stars, respectively. The book wasn’t terrible, but any editor worth his or her salt should have known that Psyche’s narrative carried the book. In fact, I only read her parts and followed the story line just fine.
Because I actually read every word of Thicker Than Blood, I plan to give it high praise. Yeah, it is ridiculous and at times unbelievable (it will only get four out of five stars because of that), but it doesn’t take itself seriously and leaves the reader with comfortable, homespun warmth. Every character, and I mean every character, is as dysfunctional as Grandpa Joe-Joe by the end of the novel, and though Rob and Chloe hook up—often, and in the strangest places, including Grandpa Joe-Joe’s root cellar—they don’t connect, going their separate ways in the end. Except for the Drug Enforcement Agency’s raid on Grandpa Joe-Joe’s farm (where the DEA finds nothing but a field of human feces), the worm spill that makes the ducks too obese to fly south for the winter, and a wild dream Rob has involving Chloe’s toes, it is a bittersweet and memorable read.
But because I’m more bitter than sweet this afternoon—no man bumped into me at church, though I did kind of throw that request into a prayer I made during the service—I have to write my review for Wishful Thinking right now while my bitterness is fresh.
Okay, it’s not bitterness. It’s disappointment. The interracial genre has enough trouble being published in this mono-racial, black or white (and not both) literary world, but to publish Wishful Thinking as a “shining” representative of multicultural fiction is a disgrace.
I punch in “Wishful Thinking” on Amazon.com’s search box, and in a moment, I see Ty’s rugged face on the cover staring back at me.
“Hi, Ty,” I say.
“Be the first to review this book!” cries out to me from under the synopsis of the book.
And I will be first.
“Sorry, D.J.,” I say.
It’s weird apologizing to a nameless, faceless author five days before he or she will be wounded, but, hey, it makes me feel a little better.
I read my notes
only once and begin…
18
Jack
Why haven’t you shaved? I had no reason to.
Sixth months of blondish-browning hair—
And a few grays.
They’re blond.
If you say so…
Okay, and a few grays. Was my father gray at thirty-two? I don’t think so. Anyway, 180 days of beard and moustache and sideburns—
I liked the sideburns.
No, you didn’t.
They made you look like Elvis.
A blond Elvis?
Yeah. That’s about as bad as a redheaded Sinatra.
Junior or Senior?
Both.
Are you going to let me finish shaving?
Knock yourself out. Be careful around your—
Ow. My chin.
Good thing you have plenty of toilet paper. And use lotion when you’re done.
I’m echoing Noël in my head now. “Use lotion,” she insisted, and I would always forget. I find a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion on her vanity. “I never much used it when you were here, and now look at me.” I lotion my face and look into the mirror. Who am I looking like?
Kind of a cross between Tom Petty and Andy Warhol.
Scary. I need a haircut so I can look like an unknown, anonymous author, widower by day, author by night.
Sounds like a really bad TV show idea.
I’m full of bad ideas.
After trimming my “claws,” I pull out another outfit from the Christmas bags. Baby blue stripes on a navy shirt with navy pants. Pretty subdued.
Take off the price tags this time, though.
Yeah.
I look at the iron, the cord wrapped neatly around it.
You don’t know how to iron.
I watched Noël do it often enough, just about every night, for that matter. I should be an expert.
They look fine as they are.
True, but…I think I can make them look finer.
But once I fill up the reservoir with tap water and turn the switch to “hot,” I realize that I don’t know what I’m doing. I spray some starch on the pants, expecting a white sheen. There’s no white sheen. Have I used enough? I spray some more. It must be soaking in. Is it supposed to be soaking in? Hmm. I spray it one more time. Then, I iron, the inside of a leg followed by the outside (with three helpings of starch), followed by both sides of the other leg, burning my fingers with the steam whenever I try to make a crease just right.
They’re a bit stiff.
At least they’re not wrinkled.
You could prop up a house with them.
They’re not that stiff.
You walk funny anyway, so maybe people won’t notice.
I pick up the shirt and check the label. “Cool iron if needed,” it says. I look at the iron. It looks pretty cool, all aquamarine and white. Kind of stylish, really.
Turn the heat down.
I know what a cool iron is.
Maybe you should have done the shirt first.
I’m learning.
A few minutes later, I think the iron has cooled enough, and I start with the sleeves. Five minutes of trying to get a single wrinkle out of one sleeve convinces me that I hate ironing sleeves. And no matter how I iron the collar, it still flops around.
So, I starch it.
It still flops around.
Maybe it’s supposed to flop around.
Or maybe my neck will hold it up.
And maybe it won’t.
I flip over the shirt and iron the front. It looks pretty good, but when I hold it up, I see wrinkles on the back that weren’t there a few minutes ago. Now what?
Don’t press so hard.
Maybe if I lift up the front, I can put the ironing board in between and…Hey, it works? It works!
Don’t think you’ve done anything special. Noël did this for you for years.
Yes, she did.
Five days a week, ten months of the year, times five years…over 1,000 times.
And she did it with a smile, too.
Now, what shoes should I wear with baby blue and navy? I look under my side of the bed and come up with some black-and-white high-top Nikes I haven’t worn in years.
No.
I pull out a pair of brown suede hiking boots.
No.
I end up putting on some black Rockport walkers with some new black socks. I use Noël’s full-length mirror on the back of her door and give myself a once-over. Skinny, longhaired, dressed nicely. This outfit says, “Modern.”
It says, “Get a haircut.”
Time to get my ears lowered.
As I’m leaving the house, carrying only the library books and a steno pad, I look at Noël’s car and remember that someone is coming to look at it.
And maybe take a test-drive.
Do I stay? Do I go? Do I wait? Should I call her back?
She said she was doing a drive-by.
I shrug; though I feel strange shrugging at myself in broad daylight; get in the truck; and drive out of the neighborhood. When I turn onto Shenandoah Avenue, I remember…
A phone call…“Your wife’s been in an accident”…“Oh, God! What about my son?”…dead space…“Your son was with her?”…“Oh, God!”…sirens…“Where are they?”…“Off of Shenandoah…in the creek”…
Heavy rain that day. The creek was over the bridge. She couldn’t have known how deep it was.
That van had no ground clearance. This truck would have made it. The Mustang would have made it. They would have plowed right on through.
I get to the bridge and slow down, looking at the spot where the van had been…underwater…rescue divers trying to get inside…they can’t find my son…“He has to be in there!”…Noël laid out on the muddy banks…shocking her, a bag being pumped over her beautiful face…so pale, so pale…they’ve found him…he looks like he’s sleeping—
The creek is barely a gurgle today, hardly flowing at all, even though almost all the snow has melted. They would have survived today. They would have walked away with rosy cheeks and exciting stories and we would have had grilled cheese and tomato soup—
It was an accident, Jack.
It was a mistake. They weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready.
You’re holding up traffic. It’s thirty-five through here. You’re doing twenty.
I accelerate up to thirty, turn in to the parking lot of the barbershop, and park in one of several empty spaces.
Mr. Underwood isn’t too busy today.
Maybe I should put up a memorial for them. I’ve seen them on the side of the road, sometimes with flowers, or stones, a cross, even names and dates on a sign.
You have other errands to run, remember? Get in there.
No, I don’t want a memorial to their pain and suffering.
It’s for remembrance, not pain.
I’d just be advertising my guilt. It would be swept away in the next flash flood anyway. They were going to the grocery store, just a few items, care to tag along? I could have gone. I was too busy reading that day. She could have left Stevie with me. I could have gone for them.
You might be dead.
What’s the difference? And anyway, better me than them.
Maybe you should visit them.
Once was enough.
Just to see if they’re keeping things up nice.
I don’t want to go to a cemetery to see where they aren’t. I see them in every room of the house already. I have to find a realtor.
Selling your first house? All that saving, paying down debt, doing without—all the sacrifices you two made to get into that house?
It’s not a home anymore. There’s no one to hug. There’s no one to greet on the stairs at the end of a long day. There’s no one to watch grow. There’s no one to lie next to. There’s no one—
In the barbershop but the barber. Go get your haircut.
When I enter, I walk past mounds of fishing magazines in the waiting area and see Mr. U
nderwood sitting in the only barber’s chair reading a newspaper, a little bell ringing behind me.
He folds the paper and squints. Then he smiles and stands. “How ya doin’, Jack?”
A loaded question.
Full of wrong answers.
Mr. Underwood, tall and gangly with dark hair and gray eyebrows, swats the chair with a hand towel. “How long’s it been?”
I sit, Mr. Underwood’s fingers wrapping the gown around my neck. “About six months.”
“I’d given you up for dead.”
It feels that way. I don’t respond.
He jacks up the chair. “Were you on vacation?”
“Something like that.”
“You still teaching?”
“Yeah.” It’s easier to lie than to explain.
“How much you want off?”
I look in the mirror. “Leave me an inch or so.”
He spins the chair around and goes to work. Directly across from me is a sign that reads “Gone Fishin’—Be Back at Dark-Thirty.”
He’s going to tell you a fishing story.
And I’m going to let him.
I clear my throat. “Have you done any fishing lately?”
As he cuts, Mr. Underwood tells me of the fishing trip to Ontario he took in September, when “all the leaves—you wouldn’t believe how pretty they looked—were like the Blue Ridge Parkway only everywhere you looked.” He mentions sizes and weights of smallmouth bass and walleyes, pike and lake trout. “They may not all be big fish, but they love a good fight.”
I look at the blond and gray hair floating down to the gown.
I told you there were some grays.
Yes, you did.
“I was using peepers, you know, little spotted frogs, and I was just settin’ up near this island, you know, casting toward shore as I drifted in.” A pause. Snip-snip. “Don’t like using an anchor too much, scares the fish, you know.”
Just drifting in.
Floating.
Snippety-snip. “Anyways, as soon as that peeper hit the water, bam! Swirled right up and took it, and that fish pulled my boat clear into shore.” A pause. Snippety-snip-snip. “Jumped out of the water and just spit that hook out. So, as the boat bumped some rocks in the shallow water, I fixed my line, put another peeper on, cast out…bam! But this time, I got him in the boat.” Snip-snip-snippety-snip. “Four and a half pounds, biggest one I caught all summer.” Another pause. Snip-snip-snippety. “But don’t you know, when I was taking out the hook, I looked inside the bass’s mouth and saw a little green-and-yellow flipper. I used my disgorger, and what should pop out onto my hand but another peeper with a hook hole in its little snout. I had caught the fish that I had just lost!”
