The snow was so deep they could not get their car out, or even remember where it was parked. That was a long time ago, when they used to drive their car to the places they had decided they wanted to go. Now the only way to get around the city was in the big buses that drifted up and down the streets. If you needed to go somewhere, if it was time for you to go, you went out and stood in front of your house and in just a minute a bus would come along from somewhere and pick you up. It was the only way they could travel, now in this monument, this amazement of snow. This is how it worked. You stood out in front of your house in the deep ditch that you had carved in the snowfall that was like what your sidewalk used to be. Part of you stuck out the top, more or less of you, depending on how tall you were. When the bus came along you got on quickly and the driver took you to where the bus was going that time. You never knew where that would be. Most drivers didn't decide til they saw you. You might have a destination you hoped for, and most people did, at first, anyway but after you rose the snowbuses for a while, if you did, if you could bring yourself to ride them, you realized this was a good way. To take what came to you and after a time to see that this was what was best, after all. It was what you needed.
It was that or walking.
He stood in front of his house, in the deep sidewalk ditch, with his boys. The youngest was not tall enough to be seen above the banks of snow at all and the next oldest was just tall enough that only his hat could be seen, as if someone had come along and set a red hat down on the snow and walked away. A hat that hopped and zipped back and forth. The rest of them stuck out more or less half way above the snow. They were waiting for a bus, and most of them had hopes about where they wanted the bus to go. Some of them were saying out loud what those hopes were. He kept looking over his shoulder, back at the house, to see if perhaps she had changed her mind, if perhaps she might be coming with them after all. She wasn't happy about the buses now that the snow had come. She hated how it was, with the drivers going where you needed to go instead of where you wanted to go, where you chose. She said she wasn't going anywhere til she could drive again, and she folded her arms and shut the bedroom door. He got the boys dressed without her, but still he looked over his shoulder to see if she had changed her mind, if she might be coming. Or maybe even if she might be at the front window watching them. He half thought he saw her, raised his arm in the beginning of a wave, but the wave faltered and died in his hand, at the ends of his fingers. It wasn't her, it wasn't someone. It was a shadow that crossed between the kitchen and the hall but it wasn't her. He turned and saw the oldest boy looking back too, looking at the shadow that crossed and wasn't anyone. The oldest boy slid his eyes away and then leaned out toward the street. Here comes the bus, the oldest boy said, and they all turned to get ready, to jump on.
Where do you think you're off to? the bus driver asked and the boys laughed, delighted. Tell us! they said. The driver leaned over to the two smallest boys and grinned. Guess, the driver said. The zoo! they guessed, jumping. The zoo, the driver said, that's good. That's very, very good. They all held their breaths while the driver thought. The driver narrowed his eyes, staring out the frosted side window. They looked where the driver looked and there was the zoo. Soft and pillowy under the deep round drifts that muffled all the city sounds. There were the lions playing the game of follow-the-pride-leader, each one stepping precisely in First Lion's paw prints as First Lion led them around and about, leaving a single line of one set of prints; chest-deep leg chimneys in the perfect snow. Tails lifted. Happy cat faces wearing smiles of careful concentration. Follow-the-pride-leader is not an easy game. Lots of people end up getting eaten for being bad and sloppy at it. Cobras and boas were making snow tunnels. Monkeys were throwing snowballs at peacocks. Penguins were making snow angels. You could only see half of every zebra. Hmm, the driver said, the zoo. Yes. That's very, very good. The driver's gaze snapped to the youngest boys and he leaned over toward them. Next time, the driver said, pulling out into what must be the street, next time the zoo. Right now, though, you do not want to miss the mall. As they drove away from the house, as he settled his boys into seats, he looked back once more into the shadowed house, and saw his oldest boy looking back, too.
It was sad, driving to the mall. After all these days of wise buses that took them just where they had thought they hadn't wanted to go, the boys knew better than to complain out loud, but they were sure, completely sure, fairly sure, almost sure, they wanted very badly to miss the mall. The bus driver drove straight across the smooth, endless snow that used to be a parking lot. It was like a speeding boat, a snowboat. Glittering white waves flew up on both sides of them, twice as high as the bus. They left a curving and patterned wake behind. The driver went right over mounds that must be planters, parked cars, little parking lot trees, right over curbs and sidewalks and dropped them right at the mall front doors. Go all the way in, he told them, be sure to go all the way in. They went in eagerly, even the oldest boy laughing and wondering. But the mall was empty. Silent. He stopped, his boys clustered and eddied about him. Nothing. Quiet and echoing. Go all the way in, the next-to-youngest said. The driver told us to go all the way in. So they did. He pulled the boys close as they walked carefully, stepping in each other's tracks, through the shadowed and barren mall. They came to the last possible corner, the last place they could go before they were going right back out again, and the world exploded. Welcome! the man in the top hat shouted down at them. He was impossibly thin and impossibly tall. Welcome to the Winter Circus! We're snowed in, we're wintering over in the mall, and we're in dire need of acrobats! Can you do things? Tricks up your sleeves? Show us what you've got and we'll show you what we've got! We've got equipment! We've got costumes! Cotton candy gratis! Welcome! Welcome!
You must just imagine what a wonderful day they had. Not even the oldest boy looked over his shoulder. Tight ropes. Trick ponies. Face paint. Sawdust. Red noses. Cannons needing human balls. Sparkly ladies. Lion cages. Popcorn. All at mall prices. What a wonderful day, a wonderful, wonderful day.
She stood by the window, or, not by the window, but where she could see out the window from too far back to be herself seen. She waited. She watched the buses go by and she never once wished she had gone with them. It got dark and she blamed him. It snowed and she thought of how he did this sort of thing all the time. It began to snow hard and harder and she thought that was just like him. The house filled with shadows and she told him in her mind how wrong he was to take children out in snowbuses with crazy drivers who bossed you into destinations you never intended. Snow filled the deep ditch that had been like a sidewalk and smoothed it and eased it and she counted buses go by. She counted one hundred and eighty six buses and he did not bring back her children. How can you do this, she asked, how could you do this to our family? Snow sifted under the doors and around the feet of couches and chairs. It's not fair, she told him in her mind, you don't get to do this. Shadows filled the room, blue snow shadows, and she made a complete list of all the reasons he was wrong and she reached out both hands and took hold of a shadow and pulled it over her head.
We're back, he said. You should have come, he said helplessly, it was so great. The boys tumbled around, balloons, streamers, spangles, banners and a top hat. She uncurled from the chair. Why are their faces blue? she said, but it was so much like a scream that it was more horrible because it was not. Cotton candy! the youngest boy said, happy. She turned to him in frozen fury. When will you take things seriously, she said to him. Now I'm going to feed my children some real food. She walked stiffly into the dark kitchen, slapping down the milk, pulling out boxes of cereal so that they spilled. He reached out to her, he dropped his hand. The younger boys were asleep in a sticky, smiling pile on the floor. The oldest boy watched her go and his red balloon slipped away from his fingers, nestled in the shadows against the ceiling.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 23. Boots
Here, she said, we have to be quick.
This is not going to work, he said, this is never going to work. Whatever it is you are doing is not going to work.
Yes, it is, she said, hurry. I promise you, I promise you. It will work. Hand me your pants.
The skinny blond one pulled her car over and hopped out. Oh, you guys, the skinny blond said, oh, you guys, are you guys all right?
Thank you, thank you so much for stopping, she said to the blond, I'm fine but my...my brother is hurt. He just went off into the gravel a little but--
Oh my gosh, the blond one said, I know! I've done the same thing and I got so messed up, it was unreal. Hey, let me give you guys a ride back. No, I want to. There's one of those insta-care places, and you can just put your bikes on the rack.
Oh, thank you, thank you so much, she said. He's really messed up, you can see he's really bad, I don't think he can even walk.
You shoved me, he whispered harshly into her ear as she helped him into the car, you nearly killed me and I will get you for it. Do not think I will not pay you back because I will if it is the last thing I do.
Shut it, she whispered back. Let me do this.
She put him in the backseat and herself in the front by the blond and they pulled onto the road. I love, love, love your boots, the blond said, were you riding in those?
Riding? In these? she asked.
Busted, he whispered. If you're so smart how come you bike in boots?
She ignored him. It was easy because he was impotent with agony. Yes, she said, biking. Yes. I was. I love them too, she purred, handmade in Italy for me. I wear them everywhere. Even biking.
They're yummy, the blond said. So, what were you doing?
Lies were told. Lots of long, elaborate lies.
Wait, the blond said, you're the guy who wrote those pieces on sustainable agriculture and co-dependent community living? That The Sun King ran? That's my dad's blog, the blond said excitedly, did you know?
No! Is it? she asked in innocent astonishment.
No! They did? he asked with barely concealed outrage. How the hell did they get there?
Someone must have submitted them, she said evenly, giving him a level stare over the back of the seat, that's how these things usually happen.
Yes, the blond said, nodding, that's always how it happens. I think.
You're totally right, she assured the blond, who grinned with amazing teeth and offered everyone gum.
I do not want my work there, he ground out whispered words through clenched teeth. That man is a lunatic. What the hell do you think you are doing?
That man, she whispered back fiercely, is king of a world food empire. When you marry his daughter, she glanced at the blond who had turned on the radio and was singing, you can save the world. Are you with me? Now shut it and let me work.
No, he said, no. I will not.
But she was purring away in the front seat and he was really hurting from the scrapes all down the left side of his body. Really hurting. He could barely hear her telling inspirational stories about his work reclaiming unused land and in year round container gardening. He needed to strangle her. He had dug up a fourth of the grass in his backyard and grown herbs on his windowsill. His work was theoretical, dammit. I'm swearing, he thought, feeling completely out of control. I have no idea what's going on here. I never swear. No, that's not true. I always swear with her. At her. He slipped into quick and vivid dreams of childhood entanglements that always had him swearing from start to finish. How did he let her get him into things? I'm gonna make something out of you, she always said. Somebody has to. She and the blond were tight as sisters now; he could hear the blond trilling about how impressed her dad was with his work, how her dad was looking for just such a visionary young man to really take off in his company. He looked up, stricken with horror at the thought of finding himself taking off in that company, and caught the blond turned right around to look him over, saw the blond linger on his chest and arms. Drive! he whispered and saw at the same time that she had the wheel so the blond could get her good look. He crossed his arms over his chest, too little too late. Give me your shirt, she had said not too long before she had knocked him off his bike and down an embankment, it will help. He had had no idea what she had meant. I'm going to have to actually make her dead, he thought in amazement. He decided to kill her right then rather than later. He reached for her neck, but he was feeling feverish now, it hurt to lift his arms. She saw him coming a mile away and evaded his grasp, feigning concern, leaning over to ask how he was holding up. She crossed her legs in those boots and smiled.
Almost there, she said.
In the emergency room he told the nurse who was murdering his whole body with antiseptic that he needed to talk to the girl who was waiting for him.
The nurse raised his eyebrows. The blond? the nurse asked, yeah, okay, and then muttered something almost unintelligible about needing to talk to her himself.
No, not her, feel free to talk to her, he said, I need the other one. The dark one in boots.
Oh, the nurse said, her. I'm not sure she's still here. I'll go check.
If she is gone, he thought, if she has left me, I will murder her twice.
But she had not yet gone. Found her, the nurse said, and just in time, she was on her way out.
Hey, she said, arms folded, face blank, told you it would work. I told you. Just play this right and you're king of the world. Your world, anyway. The part of the world you care about. Then you can do the big things you were born for. I'm gone. Got a lunch date, a concert after. She was out the door.
If you marry me, he said, I will take you to Italy next week and have a pair of boots made for you.
She stood, her back to him.
If you marry me I will have you on a plane to Italy as soon as I can walk from long term parking all the way through security.
She turned around. What? she said, you'll what?
If you marry me I will have a pair of boots for every day of the week made for you by the best craftsmen in...wherever the hell you got those boots.
Her face was white and still. Why, she said, why?
Because I love you, he told her, I thought you loved me. I thought you knew. You don't love me, do you? Do you? I thought you did. I thought that was why you worked so hard on me. I thought we'd marry each other when we got ready. I thought that right up until you threw me down the embankment. Now, now I want to know. Don't you love me? I always thought you did, he said sadly.
The embankment was an accident, she told him, I didn't know it was there.
You are most likely lying, he said. So, you don't love me? I love you, he said. Why did you try to kill me?
I love you, she said, I thought that was what you wanted.
To be dead? he asked, you thought what I wanted was to be dead because you love me?
I thought you wanted to be king of something, she said, and I knew you'd never get there alone. I just threw you at an important person. To get you what you want.
The nurse was standing with his back against the wall, an antiseptic pad in his hand and the other hand over his mouth. The nurse was crying and crying. You're what he wants, the nurse whispered to himself, but he was quiet and everyone had forgotten him.
Come here, Boots, he said.
No, she said, first I have to go get rid of a princess.
He held out his hands, so painfully.
No, she said, just a sec, let me go do this.
The nurse pushed him back down. Firmly. It's okay, the nurse said, she's coming right back. Give her a minute, she's having so much fun.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
This is not going to work, he said, this is never going to work. Whatever it is you are doing is not going to work.
Yes, it is, she said, hurry. I promise you, I promise you. It will work. Hand me your pants.
The skinny blond one pulled her car over and hopped out. Oh, you guys, the skinny blond said, oh, you guys, are you guys all right?
Thank you, thank you so much for stopping, she said to the blond, I'm fine but my...my brother is hurt. He just went off into the gravel a little but--
Oh my gosh, the blond one said, I know! I've done the same thing and I got so messed up, it was unreal. Hey, let me give you guys a ride back. No, I want to. There's one of those insta-care places, and you can just put your bikes on the rack.
Oh, thank you, thank you so much, she said. He's really messed up, you can see he's really bad, I don't think he can even walk.
You shoved me, he whispered harshly into her ear as she helped him into the car, you nearly killed me and I will get you for it. Do not think I will not pay you back because I will if it is the last thing I do.
Shut it, she whispered back. Let me do this.
She put him in the backseat and herself in the front by the blond and they pulled onto the road. I love, love, love your boots, the blond said, were you riding in those?
Riding? In these? she asked.
Busted, he whispered. If you're so smart how come you bike in boots?
She ignored him. It was easy because he was impotent with agony. Yes, she said, biking. Yes. I was. I love them too, she purred, handmade in Italy for me. I wear them everywhere. Even biking.
They're yummy, the blond said. So, what were you doing?
Lies were told. Lots of long, elaborate lies.
Wait, the blond said, you're the guy who wrote those pieces on sustainable agriculture and co-dependent community living? That The Sun King ran? That's my dad's blog, the blond said excitedly, did you know?
No! Is it? she asked in innocent astonishment.
No! They did? he asked with barely concealed outrage. How the hell did they get there?
Someone must have submitted them, she said evenly, giving him a level stare over the back of the seat, that's how these things usually happen.
Yes, the blond said, nodding, that's always how it happens. I think.
You're totally right, she assured the blond, who grinned with amazing teeth and offered everyone gum.
I do not want my work there, he ground out whispered words through clenched teeth. That man is a lunatic. What the hell do you think you are doing?
That man, she whispered back fiercely, is king of a world food empire. When you marry his daughter, she glanced at the blond who had turned on the radio and was singing, you can save the world. Are you with me? Now shut it and let me work.
No, he said, no. I will not.
But she was purring away in the front seat and he was really hurting from the scrapes all down the left side of his body. Really hurting. He could barely hear her telling inspirational stories about his work reclaiming unused land and in year round container gardening. He needed to strangle her. He had dug up a fourth of the grass in his backyard and grown herbs on his windowsill. His work was theoretical, dammit. I'm swearing, he thought, feeling completely out of control. I have no idea what's going on here. I never swear. No, that's not true. I always swear with her. At her. He slipped into quick and vivid dreams of childhood entanglements that always had him swearing from start to finish. How did he let her get him into things? I'm gonna make something out of you, she always said. Somebody has to. She and the blond were tight as sisters now; he could hear the blond trilling about how impressed her dad was with his work, how her dad was looking for just such a visionary young man to really take off in his company. He looked up, stricken with horror at the thought of finding himself taking off in that company, and caught the blond turned right around to look him over, saw the blond linger on his chest and arms. Drive! he whispered and saw at the same time that she had the wheel so the blond could get her good look. He crossed his arms over his chest, too little too late. Give me your shirt, she had said not too long before she had knocked him off his bike and down an embankment, it will help. He had had no idea what she had meant. I'm going to have to actually make her dead, he thought in amazement. He decided to kill her right then rather than later. He reached for her neck, but he was feeling feverish now, it hurt to lift his arms. She saw him coming a mile away and evaded his grasp, feigning concern, leaning over to ask how he was holding up. She crossed her legs in those boots and smiled.
Almost there, she said.
In the emergency room he told the nurse who was murdering his whole body with antiseptic that he needed to talk to the girl who was waiting for him.
The nurse raised his eyebrows. The blond? the nurse asked, yeah, okay, and then muttered something almost unintelligible about needing to talk to her himself.
No, not her, feel free to talk to her, he said, I need the other one. The dark one in boots.
Oh, the nurse said, her. I'm not sure she's still here. I'll go check.
If she is gone, he thought, if she has left me, I will murder her twice.
But she had not yet gone. Found her, the nurse said, and just in time, she was on her way out.
Hey, she said, arms folded, face blank, told you it would work. I told you. Just play this right and you're king of the world. Your world, anyway. The part of the world you care about. Then you can do the big things you were born for. I'm gone. Got a lunch date, a concert after. She was out the door.
If you marry me, he said, I will take you to Italy next week and have a pair of boots made for you.
She stood, her back to him.
If you marry me I will have you on a plane to Italy as soon as I can walk from long term parking all the way through security.
She turned around. What? she said, you'll what?
If you marry me I will have a pair of boots for every day of the week made for you by the best craftsmen in...wherever the hell you got those boots.
Her face was white and still. Why, she said, why?
Because I love you, he told her, I thought you loved me. I thought you knew. You don't love me, do you? Do you? I thought you did. I thought that was why you worked so hard on me. I thought we'd marry each other when we got ready. I thought that right up until you threw me down the embankment. Now, now I want to know. Don't you love me? I always thought you did, he said sadly.
The embankment was an accident, she told him, I didn't know it was there.
You are most likely lying, he said. So, you don't love me? I love you, he said. Why did you try to kill me?
I love you, she said, I thought that was what you wanted.
To be dead? he asked, you thought what I wanted was to be dead because you love me?
I thought you wanted to be king of something, she said, and I knew you'd never get there alone. I just threw you at an important person. To get you what you want.
The nurse was standing with his back against the wall, an antiseptic pad in his hand and the other hand over his mouth. The nurse was crying and crying. You're what he wants, the nurse whispered to himself, but he was quiet and everyone had forgotten him.
Come here, Boots, he said.
No, she said, first I have to go get rid of a princess.
He held out his hands, so painfully.
No, she said, just a sec, let me go do this.
The nurse pushed him back down. Firmly. It's okay, the nurse said, she's coming right back. Give her a minute, she's having so much fun.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 22. Jonquil
She told everyone it was not a big deal, not a big problem, though of course, it was, and there, right there, lay her problem. Not that she had told everyone a thing which was not at all true, she had done that over and over, as was nearly inevitable she should, but that she told it to everyone. That was the problem, the big problem.
She told.
Everyone.
Everything.
She was a really nice girl, but she had this problem. With talking. She never stopped. She couldn't help herself. She didn't try. She told things. She told everyone everything and sometimes people liked that about her and sometimes they didn't. Everything she heard, she repeated. And repeated. She was undeniably useful if you wanted to know anything about other people, but certainly troublesome if there were anything you didn't want other people to know. As most people want both to know and not to be known, frictions were bound to arise. You could really throw your heart into it with her, you could plead and say to her, please, please, don't tell this to anyone, ever, or, on the other hand you could say, please, please, tell me everything you know, but whatever you said the effect was precisely the same. She told everything, all the time, and not only that, she always started at the beginning so it took forever to get through it all with her. You had to really weigh your available time before she plunged in.
People took to avoiding her. It was inevitable. They got tired; she was wearing. Everyone was always promising themselves they would never tell her anything ever again but then, of course, they did. Well. She was family and she was there, and she was so receptive. Never tired of listening. And such a fount of information! But she never stopped, she went on and on. And on and on and on and on.
People, even the family, have assumed, quite unfairly, that he didn't care for her, either because she just repeated whatever he said and who could stand that, or else because they thought anyone so wrapped up in himself could never notice her at all, but they were wrong on both points. He never disliked her empty chatter because he simply never noticed it. He never listened to talk about people other than himself, and he loved that she repeated everything he said. It showed that she had good taste and that her priorities were in order. He had the same taste and priorities. It was one of the things he most liked about her, that they had so much in common. He also loved her prettiness because he loved pretty things. Loved them. She was so very pretty and the fact that she was not as pretty as he made him all the more astonishing to people. As you see, people were wrong to assume he never noticed her, he had noticed her. These were the things he noticed. Then, too, he himself talked, all the time, talked about himself and she repeated everything he said and he thought that was wonderful. Really, he did. Right. Appropriate. No frictions ever arose between the two of them. That was not the problem.
The problem was her aunt.
When the aunt got angry the aunt had a way of making the whole world uncomfortable, and she had made the aunt very angry. People felt it, they all felt very uncomfortable now. People were blaming her and they were right. She had talked, she had talked too much. She had repeated things better said only once, and now everyone knew. It was family, it was family business. No one was to talk to her anymore, about anything, the aunt had made that very clear. And you know, they didn't. The aunt made it her business to see it through, to make it stick. When the aunt spoke, people listened but it would have come down to the same thing in the end, regardless. This was coming anyway, it was inevitable, because people were tired of her, they couldn't trust her and she was wearing. No one told her anything anymore, so all she could do was repeat the last things she had heard. She was cut off, isolated, drying up. Everyone turned away. It's the trouble with family business; it's risky, things can go wrong. No one was speaking to her but him. At least she still had him. He would talk to her, he still told her things. And he thought she was pretty. But he wasn't home much. She made a very nice dinner and sat down to wait. Something was wrong with her, she couldn't stop crying. She waited. He had gone to the mall. She wondered why he didn't come back, wondered if the aunt had called him, wondered if he had noticed none of the family were telling her things. She waited.
He hadn't noticed. He had gotten a haircut. He wondered why she hadn't noticed. He waited for her to say something, waited all through dinner but she never complimented him, she never said anything at all. He said, Well, you're pretty quiet. She said, Pretty. Quiet. When she brought in dessert he sighed heavily and said, So, do you notice anything different about me? She said, Do you notice anything different? He ate his ice cream and waited. She said nothing. He ate her ice cream because she didn't. He said, Honey, I need you to be more observant. She said, I need you. He noticed her eyes were red. Not a good color for eyes. He said, What is wrong with you? She said What? He went to watch the game. She cleared the table, did the dishes. She repeated over and over, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you?
She stood in the door, watching him watch the game. I'm dying, she said, I'm drying up. No one talks to me, I'm wasting away. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I can't seem to put two words together. She took a deep breath. I don't feel like I'm real to you, she said, it feels like I'm just a fan club, a gossip page. I was stupid, I said too much and no one will ever forget, no one in this family ever forgives anything. It's like I'm cursed. Are you listening to me? she asked. Am I talking out loud?
But he never listened when she talked about other people, people like herself. His buddy came in to watch the game. Hey, his buddy said to her, lookin' good. You lost weight? She went out to work in the garden but she just sat staring over the little reflecting pond he had installed last summer. The daffodils hung their heads over the water, the wind blew, it was very quiet. You lost, she said to herself, you lost. What's wrong with her? the buddy asked, you guys fighting? Wrong with who? he asked, glancing at his buddy. With her? No, she's fine. She's whatever. We never fight. He looked at his buddy again. Hey, he said admiringly, lookin' good. You been working out?
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
She told.
Everyone.
Everything.
She was a really nice girl, but she had this problem. With talking. She never stopped. She couldn't help herself. She didn't try. She told things. She told everyone everything and sometimes people liked that about her and sometimes they didn't. Everything she heard, she repeated. And repeated. She was undeniably useful if you wanted to know anything about other people, but certainly troublesome if there were anything you didn't want other people to know. As most people want both to know and not to be known, frictions were bound to arise. You could really throw your heart into it with her, you could plead and say to her, please, please, don't tell this to anyone, ever, or, on the other hand you could say, please, please, tell me everything you know, but whatever you said the effect was precisely the same. She told everything, all the time, and not only that, she always started at the beginning so it took forever to get through it all with her. You had to really weigh your available time before she plunged in.
People took to avoiding her. It was inevitable. They got tired; she was wearing. Everyone was always promising themselves they would never tell her anything ever again but then, of course, they did. Well. She was family and she was there, and she was so receptive. Never tired of listening. And such a fount of information! But she never stopped, she went on and on. And on and on and on and on.
People, even the family, have assumed, quite unfairly, that he didn't care for her, either because she just repeated whatever he said and who could stand that, or else because they thought anyone so wrapped up in himself could never notice her at all, but they were wrong on both points. He never disliked her empty chatter because he simply never noticed it. He never listened to talk about people other than himself, and he loved that she repeated everything he said. It showed that she had good taste and that her priorities were in order. He had the same taste and priorities. It was one of the things he most liked about her, that they had so much in common. He also loved her prettiness because he loved pretty things. Loved them. She was so very pretty and the fact that she was not as pretty as he made him all the more astonishing to people. As you see, people were wrong to assume he never noticed her, he had noticed her. These were the things he noticed. Then, too, he himself talked, all the time, talked about himself and she repeated everything he said and he thought that was wonderful. Really, he did. Right. Appropriate. No frictions ever arose between the two of them. That was not the problem.
The problem was her aunt.
When the aunt got angry the aunt had a way of making the whole world uncomfortable, and she had made the aunt very angry. People felt it, they all felt very uncomfortable now. People were blaming her and they were right. She had talked, she had talked too much. She had repeated things better said only once, and now everyone knew. It was family, it was family business. No one was to talk to her anymore, about anything, the aunt had made that very clear. And you know, they didn't. The aunt made it her business to see it through, to make it stick. When the aunt spoke, people listened but it would have come down to the same thing in the end, regardless. This was coming anyway, it was inevitable, because people were tired of her, they couldn't trust her and she was wearing. No one told her anything anymore, so all she could do was repeat the last things she had heard. She was cut off, isolated, drying up. Everyone turned away. It's the trouble with family business; it's risky, things can go wrong. No one was speaking to her but him. At least she still had him. He would talk to her, he still told her things. And he thought she was pretty. But he wasn't home much. She made a very nice dinner and sat down to wait. Something was wrong with her, she couldn't stop crying. She waited. He had gone to the mall. She wondered why he didn't come back, wondered if the aunt had called him, wondered if he had noticed none of the family were telling her things. She waited.
He hadn't noticed. He had gotten a haircut. He wondered why she hadn't noticed. He waited for her to say something, waited all through dinner but she never complimented him, she never said anything at all. He said, Well, you're pretty quiet. She said, Pretty. Quiet. When she brought in dessert he sighed heavily and said, So, do you notice anything different about me? She said, Do you notice anything different? He ate his ice cream and waited. She said nothing. He ate her ice cream because she didn't. He said, Honey, I need you to be more observant. She said, I need you. He noticed her eyes were red. Not a good color for eyes. He said, What is wrong with you? She said What? He went to watch the game. She cleared the table, did the dishes. She repeated over and over, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you?
She stood in the door, watching him watch the game. I'm dying, she said, I'm drying up. No one talks to me, I'm wasting away. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I can't seem to put two words together. She took a deep breath. I don't feel like I'm real to you, she said, it feels like I'm just a fan club, a gossip page. I was stupid, I said too much and no one will ever forget, no one in this family ever forgives anything. It's like I'm cursed. Are you listening to me? she asked. Am I talking out loud?
But he never listened when she talked about other people, people like herself. His buddy came in to watch the game. Hey, his buddy said to her, lookin' good. You lost weight? She went out to work in the garden but she just sat staring over the little reflecting pond he had installed last summer. The daffodils hung their heads over the water, the wind blew, it was very quiet. You lost, she said to herself, you lost. What's wrong with her? the buddy asked, you guys fighting? Wrong with who? he asked, glancing at his buddy. With her? No, she's fine. She's whatever. We never fight. He looked at his buddy again. Hey, he said admiringly, lookin' good. You been working out?
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Forty days and Nights: Love Stories. 21. Earth Mother
She had deciduous hair. In the fall it turned red and orange and in the winter it fell right off and she wore hats. But it came back every spring, and then it was curly. Summers lasted forever, long and flowing. He liked that about her, he really liked it. He didn't get out much and it helped him feel connected. His office was dark, his den was dark, his work was pretty dead boring and the people he worked with were stiff. She made life so interesting. Her mother didn't like him, of course, said he had stolen her daughter, her flower, said he took away the light from the world.
She told him not to pay attention to her mother.
She's a little crazy since the divorce. He nodded; he knew that. If your husband leaves you and marries your sister, it's gonna leave you a little tippy. Anyway, she said, my mom will never forgive me for loving your food. My mom's such a bad cook, such a terrible cook. It's weird, he said, since she's an amazing gardener. Everything just grows for her, too bad she never gets any joy out of cooking it. He sighed. Nothing grew for him. He put his arms around her, held her close. I love to cook with you, he said, and ran his hands through her hair, which right then was long and flowing. And green. She smiled at him. I love you, she said, and it's okay for my mom, she eats mostly fresh stuff anyway. All she has to do it chop. Anyone can use a knife.
It made him uncomfortable when she said things like that.
The thing is, her mom really didn't like him. It wasn't just a little problem, it was a big problem. Her mom talked to people about it, about their marriage. I don't believe she's happy, her mom told people, unloading tomatoes and zucchini onto their kitchen counters, I really don't think she's okay. I think he has some hold over her, I think he somehow keeps her against her will, her mom said, handing people bags of peaches and plums. It didn't bother him, much, that her mom talked to people, even that he knew the uncles and aunts didn't care for him either. People often didn't, he knew that. People found him depressing. Silent, hulking. He was used to it. He made people uncomfortable. That was one reason he loved her so tenderly, so fiercely. She loved him, yes, but she liked him, too, and that meant so much. Even liked his big, dark house. A fortress, her mom said, who does he think he is? What is this, a castle? her mom said, handing over a basket. Here, I thinned the beets and carrots.
Her mom didn't like him at all, would never even come to dinner. Her mom made a big deal about never eating his food.
Thing was, his food was amazing. It was really good. Maybe he couldn't grow anything, no, certainly he couldn't, but his cooking was divine. She told him the first time he cooked for her that he had just changed her life. He remembered her smiling at him across her plate; her hair was short and curly then. Nothing will ever be the same after this, she said, and it never was. She never ate at home again after that first meal. And her mom never forgave him.
Her mom talked to people about him. Her mom complained, campaigned, threatened, even litigated. Her mom called one of the uncles, the judge, nearly every day. Isn't there something you can do, her mom asked, isn't there anything you can do about this? I want my daughter back. I know she can't be happy, but she keeps it from me. I can't sleep, I can't work, nothing is going right. I left corn and string beans on you back step, by the way. The uncle sighed. It was a problem. Her mom had a way of making life difficult for the whole world. Thank you, the uncle said, for the corn and beans, and no. There's nothing I can do. She's of legal age, he takes good care of her, she insists she's happy. But he's so much older than she is, her mom wailed. As if that clinched it. And I'm lonely, her mom said, I'm so lonely. Her mom covered her face with her hands and sobbed. I can't live without her, I'm so, so lonely. Which was what clinched it.
Look, one of the aunts finally said, we've all talked about it, we've all talked about it and this is what we think. Why don't you just ask her to come stay with you for a week or two every so often? Other people do it. It works. Borrow her back, the aunt said, and thank you for the pumpkins. They're beautiful.
She stayed with her mom for a week or two, and he spent the entire time waiting for her to come back. He baked and froze things, he filled the fridge with food, and there was an enormous salad and fresh bread on the table when she came back. Oh, honey, I missed you, he told her, choking a little. Hey, she said, smiling at him, I never want to go back, but I think I will. I think that was good. My mom's so happy right now, in fact, she's going on a cruise. Thank the gods, he thought, but he said, oh? She'll like that. This is so good! she said around a bite of salad, I have missed your food so much! Oh, I do love fruit in a salad. Pomegranates, he said. Don't leave me, he said, running his hands through her hair that was streaked with yellow. A few fine strands came away on his fingers. I'll always come back, she said, I love you.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
She told him not to pay attention to her mother.
She's a little crazy since the divorce. He nodded; he knew that. If your husband leaves you and marries your sister, it's gonna leave you a little tippy. Anyway, she said, my mom will never forgive me for loving your food. My mom's such a bad cook, such a terrible cook. It's weird, he said, since she's an amazing gardener. Everything just grows for her, too bad she never gets any joy out of cooking it. He sighed. Nothing grew for him. He put his arms around her, held her close. I love to cook with you, he said, and ran his hands through her hair, which right then was long and flowing. And green. She smiled at him. I love you, she said, and it's okay for my mom, she eats mostly fresh stuff anyway. All she has to do it chop. Anyone can use a knife.
It made him uncomfortable when she said things like that.
The thing is, her mom really didn't like him. It wasn't just a little problem, it was a big problem. Her mom talked to people about it, about their marriage. I don't believe she's happy, her mom told people, unloading tomatoes and zucchini onto their kitchen counters, I really don't think she's okay. I think he has some hold over her, I think he somehow keeps her against her will, her mom said, handing people bags of peaches and plums. It didn't bother him, much, that her mom talked to people, even that he knew the uncles and aunts didn't care for him either. People often didn't, he knew that. People found him depressing. Silent, hulking. He was used to it. He made people uncomfortable. That was one reason he loved her so tenderly, so fiercely. She loved him, yes, but she liked him, too, and that meant so much. Even liked his big, dark house. A fortress, her mom said, who does he think he is? What is this, a castle? her mom said, handing over a basket. Here, I thinned the beets and carrots.
Her mom didn't like him at all, would never even come to dinner. Her mom made a big deal about never eating his food.
Thing was, his food was amazing. It was really good. Maybe he couldn't grow anything, no, certainly he couldn't, but his cooking was divine. She told him the first time he cooked for her that he had just changed her life. He remembered her smiling at him across her plate; her hair was short and curly then. Nothing will ever be the same after this, she said, and it never was. She never ate at home again after that first meal. And her mom never forgave him.
Her mom talked to people about him. Her mom complained, campaigned, threatened, even litigated. Her mom called one of the uncles, the judge, nearly every day. Isn't there something you can do, her mom asked, isn't there anything you can do about this? I want my daughter back. I know she can't be happy, but she keeps it from me. I can't sleep, I can't work, nothing is going right. I left corn and string beans on you back step, by the way. The uncle sighed. It was a problem. Her mom had a way of making life difficult for the whole world. Thank you, the uncle said, for the corn and beans, and no. There's nothing I can do. She's of legal age, he takes good care of her, she insists she's happy. But he's so much older than she is, her mom wailed. As if that clinched it. And I'm lonely, her mom said, I'm so lonely. Her mom covered her face with her hands and sobbed. I can't live without her, I'm so, so lonely. Which was what clinched it.
Look, one of the aunts finally said, we've all talked about it, we've all talked about it and this is what we think. Why don't you just ask her to come stay with you for a week or two every so often? Other people do it. It works. Borrow her back, the aunt said, and thank you for the pumpkins. They're beautiful.
She stayed with her mom for a week or two, and he spent the entire time waiting for her to come back. He baked and froze things, he filled the fridge with food, and there was an enormous salad and fresh bread on the table when she came back. Oh, honey, I missed you, he told her, choking a little. Hey, she said, smiling at him, I never want to go back, but I think I will. I think that was good. My mom's so happy right now, in fact, she's going on a cruise. Thank the gods, he thought, but he said, oh? She'll like that. This is so good! she said around a bite of salad, I have missed your food so much! Oh, I do love fruit in a salad. Pomegranates, he said. Don't leave me, he said, running his hands through her hair that was streaked with yellow. A few fine strands came away on his fingers. I'll always come back, she said, I love you.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
Friday, June 10, 2011
Forty Days and Nights. 20. Snail's Pace
Things were wild in those days. You could never be sure about life from one minute to the next. One morning a lion might have long hair, then the next day, short curly hair, then no hair at all. No hair was hard on the lions, but it didn't last. Tiny spots stuck to green leaves might turn into caterpillars and then into butterflies and then back and forth. Confusing. One day leopards were sleek and blond, the next day they were all over spots, and no one could ever say why. Wild boars lost their wings but grew tusks. One evening the elephants looked around and realized they were no longer pink, and, oddly, they never, ever were again. Birds lost their scales and snakes lost their tails. Things were wild in those days.
She was low to the ground, she sped about on a bed of slime. She tasted the world through her feelers and it was good, it was very good. Green growing things to munch and to munch and life was good. No one was as fast as she, no one as quick. Messenger to the gods she was, fastest of the creatures on an earth the bucked and swayed and altered as she moved across it. The sea god loved her specially for, though she was a creature of the land, she rode a wave and left a trail of foam, as did many of the god's children. She loved him, loved him and did his bidding. He gave her a beautiful home, a home of shell, twisted and spiraled and chambered.
She loved it.
Loved it with a fierce and desperate love, a terrible lusting passion that rocked her and wrecked her. She possessed it and it possessed her. She was very happy, very happy in her having.
And yet.
Her home was light to carry, as homes go. She moved it about to find the best place, the nicest sun, the choicest shade, the sweetest breeze. She moved it about for the sheer joy of the moving. She lugged and loved and longed and at last, it occurred to her to worry. If she could move it, why not someone else move it? Why not anyone else move it? Why not just everyone move it? The thought stopped her in her track. What if someone moved it and she didn't find the place it had gone? What if someone moved it and took it and lived in it and she never ever saw it again? The thought grew on her and she found she could not bear to be away, for fear, for fear of what might happen. Might. Might happen.
She went back to check.
Home.
Safe.
Again.
She slacked her duties, shirked her work, shoved her promises. Fear grew in her and she rode her wave high, rode it fast, rode it back to check, to check, to check. It was there, it was safe, all was well with her twisted, her chambered, her tapered home of lovely brown shell. All, all was well.
The gods grew restive.
No one likes their messages left lying, their orders ignored, their due reverence unpaid. It you say you'll deliver the words of a god, you darn well better see to that in a timely fashion. You darn well better. She shouldered aside the growing pile of messages as she zipped back for one more look. Just to be sure, just to be safe. Back and forth and back and forth and back and back and back.
Home.
Safe.
Home.
Safe.
It was only a matter of time. Things were too wild, too fluid, too new and raw. The gods altered creatures to suit their fancy, their whim, their style. People awoke to find themselves changed for any reason, for no reason. She was racing against time every time she raced home to check, to be sure, to just be on the safe side. How her heart leaped, how it raced and purred when she saw it, when she caught sight of her beloved. How I love thee, she whispered, how I adore thee.
Finally, the god spoke. He said, in a message for her and for her alone, why on earth don't you just carry the silly thing around with you from now until the end of all things rather than rush off to check it every five seconds? Difficult to tell what those words really meant to him when he said them, but simple to say what they meant to her when she heard them. Approval. Freedom. Permission.
She did it. She did what the god had said. She had to. She had no choice. She desired no other choice.
Yes, she thought, as she stretched under the weight of the home she carried on her back, yes. She was happy, she was safe, she was home. This is what is best for people like us, she thought, people like us aren't meant to live where things are too wild, too unsettled. We're just meant to be at home, to be at home no matter where we go.
Finally, she thought, as she strained and inched her way along. Finally. I am at peace. I can let go now, she thought as she crept through her days with her life on her back. It's all here, she thought. It's all mine. No more worry, no more wonder. No more fastest-of-them-all. No more messages from the blessed gods, she thought. Someone will deliver the words of the gods, someone will step up to the task. Someone always does, even if they have to grow wings on their feet to do it, someone will take that up if I let it fall. Finally, she thought, I can just be. Now. Now.
Now, she thought, now I can rest.
She was low to the ground, she sped about on a bed of slime. She tasted the world through her feelers and it was good, it was very good. Green growing things to munch and to munch and life was good. No one was as fast as she, no one as quick. Messenger to the gods she was, fastest of the creatures on an earth the bucked and swayed and altered as she moved across it. The sea god loved her specially for, though she was a creature of the land, she rode a wave and left a trail of foam, as did many of the god's children. She loved him, loved him and did his bidding. He gave her a beautiful home, a home of shell, twisted and spiraled and chambered.
She loved it.
Loved it with a fierce and desperate love, a terrible lusting passion that rocked her and wrecked her. She possessed it and it possessed her. She was very happy, very happy in her having.
And yet.
Her home was light to carry, as homes go. She moved it about to find the best place, the nicest sun, the choicest shade, the sweetest breeze. She moved it about for the sheer joy of the moving. She lugged and loved and longed and at last, it occurred to her to worry. If she could move it, why not someone else move it? Why not anyone else move it? Why not just everyone move it? The thought stopped her in her track. What if someone moved it and she didn't find the place it had gone? What if someone moved it and took it and lived in it and she never ever saw it again? The thought grew on her and she found she could not bear to be away, for fear, for fear of what might happen. Might. Might happen.
She went back to check.
Home.
Safe.
Again.
She slacked her duties, shirked her work, shoved her promises. Fear grew in her and she rode her wave high, rode it fast, rode it back to check, to check, to check. It was there, it was safe, all was well with her twisted, her chambered, her tapered home of lovely brown shell. All, all was well.
The gods grew restive.
No one likes their messages left lying, their orders ignored, their due reverence unpaid. It you say you'll deliver the words of a god, you darn well better see to that in a timely fashion. You darn well better. She shouldered aside the growing pile of messages as she zipped back for one more look. Just to be sure, just to be safe. Back and forth and back and forth and back and back and back.
Home.
Safe.
Home.
Safe.
It was only a matter of time. Things were too wild, too fluid, too new and raw. The gods altered creatures to suit their fancy, their whim, their style. People awoke to find themselves changed for any reason, for no reason. She was racing against time every time she raced home to check, to be sure, to just be on the safe side. How her heart leaped, how it raced and purred when she saw it, when she caught sight of her beloved. How I love thee, she whispered, how I adore thee.
Finally, the god spoke. He said, in a message for her and for her alone, why on earth don't you just carry the silly thing around with you from now until the end of all things rather than rush off to check it every five seconds? Difficult to tell what those words really meant to him when he said them, but simple to say what they meant to her when she heard them. Approval. Freedom. Permission.
She did it. She did what the god had said. She had to. She had no choice. She desired no other choice.
Yes, she thought, as she stretched under the weight of the home she carried on her back, yes. She was happy, she was safe, she was home. This is what is best for people like us, she thought, people like us aren't meant to live where things are too wild, too unsettled. We're just meant to be at home, to be at home no matter where we go.
Finally, she thought, as she strained and inched her way along. Finally. I am at peace. I can let go now, she thought as she crept through her days with her life on her back. It's all here, she thought. It's all mine. No more worry, no more wonder. No more fastest-of-them-all. No more messages from the blessed gods, she thought. Someone will deliver the words of the gods, someone will step up to the task. Someone always does, even if they have to grow wings on their feet to do it, someone will take that up if I let it fall. Finally, she thought, I can just be. Now. Now.
Now, she thought, now I can rest.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 19. Between the Lines
Once he started, once he got fairly well into it, he simply could not put it down. He stayed up the whole night to finish. He couldn't help himself, he couldn't stop. It was tough in one go like that, long and densely written, but he did it. It was sort of his superpower, reading like that, and this time especially. This time he was not just interested, not simply engaged, he was riveted, he was driven. He couldn't be a moment without her, he just couldn't. He had to, had to know how she ended, and then, of course, she didn't. Finishing her first book left him frantic, raging, caged. He'd surely known she went on into the other books, but he certainly hadn't foreseen any problem with that. They were, after all, merely books, and he was, after all, a great reader. Reading was his passion, a passion he cultivated and nurtured, not a passion which mastered him. Certainly he read his share of current fiction; certainly he had read books in series before; certainly he had felt eagerness to reach the end of a long and involved story. Often. He was, after all, human, even if, he admitted it modestly to himself, even if he were a superhuman reader.
And yet.
Before this, before this very moment, his feelings towards books written in a series had been, at best, passive; if he had accidentally read a book that turned out to be the first of several, if he had liked it, he had casually picked up the later books as he found them in stores, at friends' houses, at the library; at worst he had felt contempt toward them. Real books, he had thought privately and smugly to himself, stood alone. It was an unexamined prejudice, and a strong one, but it had fled in the night and he was naked in his need. Now he was bereft and left hanging at five in the morning. Now he felt nearly frantic with wonder at her, with worry for her. Now he cursed himself for a fool to so casually undertake her having laid no plan, given no thought to in any way securing her to himself. He could not have slept even if his headlong reading had not filled the entire night. At breakfast he began her book again, to be near her while he ate. He carried her book on the train and read it in the taxi. He thought about her, brooded on her every moment he was not actually reading about her. The next day he skipped a meeting and went out eagerly to buy the rest of the books in her series, going to three bookstores to finally get them all because they were sold out everywhere.
By the end of the week he had read all her books through twice.
By the end of the week he knew her through and through.
By the end of the week he could have told you anything her author had decided about her, anything he had himself extrapolated about her and any of the things about her he had, in the last week, carefully and lovingly made up out of the clear blue sky.
By the end of the week he knew her, all and more than all there was to know.
By the end of the week she was so nearly his he could almost taste her.
And by the end of the week he had had a nasty shock.
The series was not complete.
Her last book, the volume which would answer all his questions, lay to rest all his concerns, set a capstone to mark and to celebrate all his longing, had yet to be published. Sometime next year, the website said, sometime next year. That posting was already more than a year old.
Two days later he phoned her author at home, having by that time already sent thirty-seven inquires to the publishing company, forty-one to her author's agent and ninety-six emails to her author's fan page, Facebook account and private mail account. Carbon copies. He phoned out of sheer frustration because, having gotten no response to his storm of electronic and paper pleadings, he assumed no one was listening. He got no answer at her author's home so he left messages. He left eighty-three voice messages over the next five days. He decided her author wasn't at his home. How could he be home and not answer a simple phone call, respond to a simple message making a simple request. Publication date? Plot summary? Story overview? Yes or no answers to three questions that were killing him, sucking the marrow from his bones and leaving him wide awake and staring at his ceiling night after night? Answers, that was all he needed. He had to have them, had to get them, had to know. Had to. Had to know how she would end. He had a right, after all. After all this time he had a right.
By the end of the next week he not only felt he had a right, he felt he had a claim, and a few days later he had a right, a claim and a stake. He also had her ending worked out in his head. It came out wonderfully well, tied up all her loose ends, resolved all her untamed bits and pieces. It was so clear to him, so obvious. Surely this was how it was, what she would herself want. He was sure, so sure he called her author to tell him. He told him, over the phone, into her author's message box. It took two hours. Then he sat back to wait. To await her coming to him, perfect and whole and complete.
As it turned out, everyone was listening to his missives. Even the police, even the FBI. Lots of people were very aware, but none more keenly aware than her author, who loved her for herself, who had found her in his head fully grown and fully realized and had loved her in her fullness and in her wild state. Her author turned over the pleadings on paper with shaky hands. Her author listened again and again to those hours of instruction, teaching him how to end her, to bring it all to a close. He read and he listened and he, too, did not sleep. This was it, this was it, his irrational fear come home to him and to her. He turned over and over in his bed and turned over in his mind what he had known he would have to do. In the end it was very painful for him, but he did it. He had to, he loved her so.
He wrote it all out, his own style, but following the bones, the route taken by the words spoken for those hours into his answering machine. He wrote it out, and he changed her. He changed her in the words and in the letters and in the pauses and in the marks to mark the pauses. He altered her until the woman in this story, this last story, was not at all, not in any way, the woman he knew, and loved. He wrote this new woman into an ending story, and then he sent to the crazed man who did not love her but thought of her til he thought he would die of it, a letter, genuinely expressed and gorgeously worked. He was an author, after all. The letter told the crazed reader that her author was old, too old to see her last book through publication, but that he, the author, had recognized in him, the reader, a fellow and a brother. Her author wrote that he was entrusting her final chapters to her most ardent, her one true reader on condition the reader never reveal her to the world. The secret would die between the two of them. If the reader could abide by these conditions, the author would send her to her most passionate reader for safe keeping til the end of all things. The letter stated her author would die content knowing she was in such careful hands.
Her reader truly nearly died of joy at this. He eagerly sent back his acceptance, his assurances of strict compliance. Let it be here stated that he did in fact comply, all his life, that he took the draft with the woman who was altered past recognition but who was so exactly what he had thought he wanted her to become that he never at all noticed, and hid her up to himself forever and for always. He consumed her stories again and again, filling himself with the idea that she was his alone. He died a long many years later, utterly convinced.
Her author, having sent off the draft directed to the return address on the piles of mail he had received in the last troubling weeks, sat down thoughtfully, and lovingly edited and amended the last story as he had written it over the eight months previous to these events. He marked her and mended his words of her and held her as he brought her through the end he had seen and hoped for all those years and years. He read her manuscript; it pleased him greatly. He held her to him then, proud of her; he wavered, his heart was torn, he was sad almost to death. But he knew, had known even before she acquired this stalker, this tormented lover, that he could not leave her an orphan. He set his heart, sealed up her story, wrote upon it instructions, and lay down that night to become very sick, never, in fact, to rise again from his bed a well man. He died not so long after, and when he did, his instructions were followed exactly, for the people he left behind had loved him well, and her sealed story was laid with him in his wooden box and she slept with him til the end of all things. She was, after all, a person of paper, as he had made her, and very comfortable in his last wooden home.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
And yet.
Before this, before this very moment, his feelings towards books written in a series had been, at best, passive; if he had accidentally read a book that turned out to be the first of several, if he had liked it, he had casually picked up the later books as he found them in stores, at friends' houses, at the library; at worst he had felt contempt toward them. Real books, he had thought privately and smugly to himself, stood alone. It was an unexamined prejudice, and a strong one, but it had fled in the night and he was naked in his need. Now he was bereft and left hanging at five in the morning. Now he felt nearly frantic with wonder at her, with worry for her. Now he cursed himself for a fool to so casually undertake her having laid no plan, given no thought to in any way securing her to himself. He could not have slept even if his headlong reading had not filled the entire night. At breakfast he began her book again, to be near her while he ate. He carried her book on the train and read it in the taxi. He thought about her, brooded on her every moment he was not actually reading about her. The next day he skipped a meeting and went out eagerly to buy the rest of the books in her series, going to three bookstores to finally get them all because they were sold out everywhere.
By the end of the week he had read all her books through twice.
By the end of the week he knew her through and through.
By the end of the week he could have told you anything her author had decided about her, anything he had himself extrapolated about her and any of the things about her he had, in the last week, carefully and lovingly made up out of the clear blue sky.
By the end of the week he knew her, all and more than all there was to know.
By the end of the week she was so nearly his he could almost taste her.
And by the end of the week he had had a nasty shock.
The series was not complete.
Her last book, the volume which would answer all his questions, lay to rest all his concerns, set a capstone to mark and to celebrate all his longing, had yet to be published. Sometime next year, the website said, sometime next year. That posting was already more than a year old.
Two days later he phoned her author at home, having by that time already sent thirty-seven inquires to the publishing company, forty-one to her author's agent and ninety-six emails to her author's fan page, Facebook account and private mail account. Carbon copies. He phoned out of sheer frustration because, having gotten no response to his storm of electronic and paper pleadings, he assumed no one was listening. He got no answer at her author's home so he left messages. He left eighty-three voice messages over the next five days. He decided her author wasn't at his home. How could he be home and not answer a simple phone call, respond to a simple message making a simple request. Publication date? Plot summary? Story overview? Yes or no answers to three questions that were killing him, sucking the marrow from his bones and leaving him wide awake and staring at his ceiling night after night? Answers, that was all he needed. He had to have them, had to get them, had to know. Had to. Had to know how she would end. He had a right, after all. After all this time he had a right.
By the end of the next week he not only felt he had a right, he felt he had a claim, and a few days later he had a right, a claim and a stake. He also had her ending worked out in his head. It came out wonderfully well, tied up all her loose ends, resolved all her untamed bits and pieces. It was so clear to him, so obvious. Surely this was how it was, what she would herself want. He was sure, so sure he called her author to tell him. He told him, over the phone, into her author's message box. It took two hours. Then he sat back to wait. To await her coming to him, perfect and whole and complete.
As it turned out, everyone was listening to his missives. Even the police, even the FBI. Lots of people were very aware, but none more keenly aware than her author, who loved her for herself, who had found her in his head fully grown and fully realized and had loved her in her fullness and in her wild state. Her author turned over the pleadings on paper with shaky hands. Her author listened again and again to those hours of instruction, teaching him how to end her, to bring it all to a close. He read and he listened and he, too, did not sleep. This was it, this was it, his irrational fear come home to him and to her. He turned over and over in his bed and turned over in his mind what he had known he would have to do. In the end it was very painful for him, but he did it. He had to, he loved her so.
He wrote it all out, his own style, but following the bones, the route taken by the words spoken for those hours into his answering machine. He wrote it out, and he changed her. He changed her in the words and in the letters and in the pauses and in the marks to mark the pauses. He altered her until the woman in this story, this last story, was not at all, not in any way, the woman he knew, and loved. He wrote this new woman into an ending story, and then he sent to the crazed man who did not love her but thought of her til he thought he would die of it, a letter, genuinely expressed and gorgeously worked. He was an author, after all. The letter told the crazed reader that her author was old, too old to see her last book through publication, but that he, the author, had recognized in him, the reader, a fellow and a brother. Her author wrote that he was entrusting her final chapters to her most ardent, her one true reader on condition the reader never reveal her to the world. The secret would die between the two of them. If the reader could abide by these conditions, the author would send her to her most passionate reader for safe keeping til the end of all things. The letter stated her author would die content knowing she was in such careful hands.
Her reader truly nearly died of joy at this. He eagerly sent back his acceptance, his assurances of strict compliance. Let it be here stated that he did in fact comply, all his life, that he took the draft with the woman who was altered past recognition but who was so exactly what he had thought he wanted her to become that he never at all noticed, and hid her up to himself forever and for always. He consumed her stories again and again, filling himself with the idea that she was his alone. He died a long many years later, utterly convinced.
Her author, having sent off the draft directed to the return address on the piles of mail he had received in the last troubling weeks, sat down thoughtfully, and lovingly edited and amended the last story as he had written it over the eight months previous to these events. He marked her and mended his words of her and held her as he brought her through the end he had seen and hoped for all those years and years. He read her manuscript; it pleased him greatly. He held her to him then, proud of her; he wavered, his heart was torn, he was sad almost to death. But he knew, had known even before she acquired this stalker, this tormented lover, that he could not leave her an orphan. He set his heart, sealed up her story, wrote upon it instructions, and lay down that night to become very sick, never, in fact, to rise again from his bed a well man. He died not so long after, and when he did, his instructions were followed exactly, for the people he left behind had loved him well, and her sealed story was laid with him in his wooden box and she slept with him til the end of all things. She was, after all, a person of paper, as he had made her, and very comfortable in his last wooden home.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 18. Victor's Crown
He saw her from far off and the only thing he had room for in his mind then was that he wanted to be closer. When he got close enough to talk he tipped his hand, went ahead and told her he was a god. Godlike. Now, she wasn't looking for someone to worship just then, she had plans, things to do, an agenda that didn't involve gods, just people. People like herself. Perhaps, now, if he had told her he was a person, just a person, you know, a guy, it might have been different. She might have stopped and chatted, or at least smiled over her shoulder in a come-hither sort of way as she kept on her way. It might have been different, but then again, it might not. It might have been just as it was because she simply wasn't looking for a god right then. Not right then or right after. She might not have been able to say, to tell you, just what it was she did want, what it was she was looking for, but it wasn't a god.
That's for sure.
She told him so in no uncertain terms. He found that entrancing. She found that annoying. He decided it was a game. She decided to try to pretend he hadn't happened. He couldn't believe she was serious. She, seriously, couldn't believe in him. And so it went. From not-so-good to begin with, they ended at worse-came-to-worst. Throwing caution and her wishes to the wind he decided to make his move. She saw him coming a million miles away and packed it in.
Packed it all in. Moved.
She called her dad, told him she was in trouble. Her dad asked, and she told him everything. Told her dad everything as she drove along the river toward home. He keeps showing up at work, she said, he followed me on a date, she said, he calls my friends, she said, he wants to know where I am, where I am all the time. Her dad said, okay, honey, can you make it home? Can you get here before dark? I can, she said, I think I can, and she drove faster and faster.
Much, much faster.
But as fast as she drove, he drove faster because his car was unearthly and he got to her dad's house before dark. He always got everywhere before the sun went down, it was a thing people noticed about him. Where is she? he said, I know she's coming here. He let it appear he knew these things in a godlike way. But her father was bleak and pale and staring. Her father was grey faced and held the phone in his hand. He tried to speak, he cleared his throat, he shut the door. She's not coming, he said as the door closed, she didn't, she isn't, and her dad just shut the door.
Well.
He took it hard, he told all his friends, everyone, that he took it so hard. At parties he told them, at breakfast and at concerts and at the doctor's office he told everyone that he took it so hard. It was true, he did and it was also true that he never forgot her. He would sit under the trees, in the shade, and think of her fondly. Her memory still made him feel like a winner. Still. When someone did very well, pleased him mightily, he told them they reminded him of her. People, women especially, took it as a complicated compliment. Her dad took it hard, too, he told people. Her dad felt it keenly. Her dad had loved her, too, you know. Yes, loved her very much.
This was true. All that he said was true.
But her dad was a liar and had made the whole thing up. Really, she made it home, of course she did. Her dad got her set up with a job as an arborist in another city, in another state, in a brand new life. She met a guy, a nice guy, her dad really likes him. He's proud of his girl, her dad is, proud she didn't fall for a god when she had the chance, proud she hung on to herself. You're the crown, he tells her, the crown of my life. Thanks, dad, she says every time. You saved me.
You really saved me.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
That's for sure.
She told him so in no uncertain terms. He found that entrancing. She found that annoying. He decided it was a game. She decided to try to pretend he hadn't happened. He couldn't believe she was serious. She, seriously, couldn't believe in him. And so it went. From not-so-good to begin with, they ended at worse-came-to-worst. Throwing caution and her wishes to the wind he decided to make his move. She saw him coming a million miles away and packed it in.
Packed it all in. Moved.
She called her dad, told him she was in trouble. Her dad asked, and she told him everything. Told her dad everything as she drove along the river toward home. He keeps showing up at work, she said, he followed me on a date, she said, he calls my friends, she said, he wants to know where I am, where I am all the time. Her dad said, okay, honey, can you make it home? Can you get here before dark? I can, she said, I think I can, and she drove faster and faster.
Much, much faster.
But as fast as she drove, he drove faster because his car was unearthly and he got to her dad's house before dark. He always got everywhere before the sun went down, it was a thing people noticed about him. Where is she? he said, I know she's coming here. He let it appear he knew these things in a godlike way. But her father was bleak and pale and staring. Her father was grey faced and held the phone in his hand. He tried to speak, he cleared his throat, he shut the door. She's not coming, he said as the door closed, she didn't, she isn't, and her dad just shut the door.
Well.
He took it hard, he told all his friends, everyone, that he took it so hard. At parties he told them, at breakfast and at concerts and at the doctor's office he told everyone that he took it so hard. It was true, he did and it was also true that he never forgot her. He would sit under the trees, in the shade, and think of her fondly. Her memory still made him feel like a winner. Still. When someone did very well, pleased him mightily, he told them they reminded him of her. People, women especially, took it as a complicated compliment. Her dad took it hard, too, he told people. Her dad felt it keenly. Her dad had loved her, too, you know. Yes, loved her very much.
This was true. All that he said was true.
But her dad was a liar and had made the whole thing up. Really, she made it home, of course she did. Her dad got her set up with a job as an arborist in another city, in another state, in a brand new life. She met a guy, a nice guy, her dad really likes him. He's proud of his girl, her dad is, proud she didn't fall for a god when she had the chance, proud she hung on to herself. You're the crown, he tells her, the crown of my life. Thanks, dad, she says every time. You saved me.
You really saved me.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908
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