How long has it been since you got some sleep? she asked. He raised his eyebrows, grinned. Let's see, he said, how old am I now? She didn't smile back. You need sleep, she said, I'm worried about you. I'm fine, he said, and I can sleep later. When things are not so busy. Let's finish this and then I need to run a few errands before we make dinner. She shook her head, held out her hand. You are going to get sick, she said. Come here, come with me, she said, leading him to the bed. Here, she said, and it was a command. Lie down and sleep. He opened his mouth to protest, to fight her on this, but she shook her head. When he saw she wouldn't budge, he lay down obediently, but then he opened his arms to her and waited, just as stubborn. She grinned then, climbed into his embrace, and he shut her up tight. Don't panic, he told her in her ear, I'm sure I'll loosen my grip once I'm unconscious. Pleasant dreams, she said, settling in to him. Is that a guarantee? he asked, and she said, If you like. Yes. Yes, it is. I'll insure all your dreams are pleasant, she said, while you do the sleeping. Lovely, he said, and closed his eyes.
She must have slept too, she must have though she did not remember falling asleep or dreaming or being awakened. She knew only that when she looked again, the light in the room had changed, had deepened and softened, and that he was fast asleep with his arms still about her. She watched him breathing, watched his face, soft and relaxed. She leaned toward him to kiss him as softly as a breath, more softly even than that, but she stopped to listen. To listen to a sound from under the bed. A scratching, a scuttling. She froze, she strained her ears. Scrambling, hissing. Mice, she thought. They had never seen any in this house, but certainly one or some would come sometime. She hated mice, hated them. Cautiously she looked over the edge of the bed, looked down, looked under. It wasn't mice. Not mice at all.
Hands coming from under the floor, from between the floorboards, hands reaching out of an impossible crack and long fingers feeling for purchase on the wooden floor. Not mice, hands. She thought it was a mistake, that she was dreaming, that the soft golden light had confused her eyes. She knew it wasn't hands because it couldn't be hands. And it wasn't a shoulder coming up and arms and eyes and tangled, twisted hair. It wasn't a demon. It wasn't. The eyes were only looking at him, fastened on him while he slept, and she watched from within his arms while the little thing clambered and scrabbled across the floor toward the bed, toward the leg of the bed. This is a dream, she thought. This is a bad dream. This is why he's not sleeping. Oh, she thought in horror and panic as the bad dream felt for the bottom of the quilt, how do I do this? She moved so slowly, so carefully, but it never took its eyes off him. Can't it see me? she wondered. Maybe not, it's not mine. Not my dream. The ugly little dream was on the quilt now, climbing hand over hand, clinging with its feet. She was very, very sick. She could feel the small tug of its weight on the quilt, could mark its progress without having to look. She needed not to look, found it turned her stomach to look. She listened to it climb. She listened to it breathe. He stirred in his sleep, murmured something, tightened his arms around her. I love you, she whispered to him and the bad dream jumped and she put herself right in its path and it hit her squarely in the chest.
After, after it was over and she lay by him, trying to stop shaking, trying to steady herself, to slow her breathing, she thought, this is why he never said anything. She did not look at the torn and huddled dream on the floor. She didn't need to. This is why he never told me. This is why he hasn't been sleeping, and she was grateful, so grateful to have done it, done what she said she would do. Sleep, baby, she thought, sleep. She lay back against him, drew a deep breath and heard it again. Heard that sound on the floor, that sound under the bed.
They were everywhere, there were hundreds of them. Climbing and snaking out through the floorboards, scuttling toward the bed, hissing and clicking. She pulled back against him, warm in his arms, reaching for the quilt to hide them, to pull over their heads. Then she was angry. Furious. She jumped out of bed and right over them. They paused, they had seen that. They hesitated, turned to see what she would do, waited to watch her pick up his big work boots. Okay, she said to them, okay.
He opened his eyes to see her looking at him, smiling as his eyes opened. Hey, she said. How did you sleep? His eyes widened, happy, surprised. Great, he said, like I was a little kid again. You did it, he said, you insured me pleasant dreams. Yes, she said, yes I did. She turned a little, turned them so he would not see the broom leaning against the wall where she had left it when he stirred, when she quickly came back to him. You know what? he asked. What? she said. It's been my life long dream to wake from sweet, clean sleep with the woman I love in my arms. Yeah? she said, kissing him under the chin, really? Life long dream? And how was it? As good as you hoped? Better, he said, tightening his arms, much, much better. It's a nice life long dream, she said. That's a very good dream.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 25. Leaves
After it was over, after things calmed down and the family repaired what could be repaired and buried what could never be healed, after they drifted back to their lives, to the way things had been before, he just wandered around for days, for weeks maybe, lost. He took long walks, wandered along the river and among the trees, and so he found her, one day, found her and it all came slamming back on him; that long ago day and how he had run and run, chased her without plan or thought or mercy. How he had hounded her, pursued single-minded his heart's desire. It stopped him, it smashed him, it tore him apart, and he saw in himself his son, his dead boy, consumed pursuing thoughtless desire. He stood frozen, what he had done to her, how she came to be there, what she had been before pouring over him like water, like icy nightfall. It nearly broke him in two, to stumble on that old sin, that silent horror on top of so many others. He stood by her, reaching out helplessly, trying to form words that might be any way useful, any kind of sorry, but he finally just put his head against her trunk and wept til he thought he would run down into the river and be done, be emptied into that larger water. When he had cried himself quiet, he stayed with her, stayed with his arms wrapped around her and his face against her bark. He felt light, peaceful, tired, and he slid down til he lay at her foot and he slept there, against her, all night.
And after, in the days after, he just kept coming back to her. He found himself more and more often sitting in her shade, leaning his head against her bark. After a while, it was foolish, he knew it was foolish, but he talked to her. He talked to her and he told her everything. All of it. How he had wanted that love, his son's love. How he had tried to make the boy believe, how he had wanted this boy, this son to trust him, to admire him, to, well, to worship him. And what he had done. The terrible thing he had done, had allowed. He tried to explain it to her. He didn't lie to her, he told the truth. He spoke only truth, after all, but he really wanted to as well. He told her and it didn't even matter that she would never answer, could not speak. He said it all to her, from the beginning. I did try to talk him into sense, he told her, I did. I told him what would happen, I told him everything. And when he still fought for it, wanted it so badly, so badly, I did everything I could to keep him safe. I did everything I knew. Everything. It wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough. Everything I could do wasn't enough.
And he told her in simple words of the burning, the boiling rivers, the flight and the fall, of streaming flaming hair like a comet's tail, of waters that embrace and close and kill and cherish and soothe a heart's fire. He told her all of that day, his eyes wide and blind, seeing it over again and again. He told her of the death of a son and the end of a world. He told her of green spikes of grass through black ash and of gentle breezes on burned limbs. He told her of a longing as wide as the sky and of daring and of failure and of judgment and he wept soundlessly and endlessly. And after, he sat under her, sheltered in her shade, dark, silent.
But a minute later he was talking again and he was saying the truth and not just because he had to. He wanted to tell her the truth, he wanted to, and he did. I didn't do everything, he said, dry and hollow now. Not everything, he said, not everything I knew to do. I did everything except just tell him no. I could have said no. And he'd be alive. He wouldn't believe in me. He wouldn't worship me or even like me and he'd be alive. He put his face against her again and cried that out of him. He felt a wind about him, soft and caressing, leaves brushing by his face. He looked up at leaves falling from her branches, whirling and spinning about him, piling softly on his legs and feet and on the ground. On the ground where they made a word.
The leaves said, Hey.
That night he couldn't sleep.
He sat under her, in her shade, tried to draw together his courage.
Yesterday, he began.
He stopped.
Tried again.
Yesterday, he said. He stuck there. There are things that simply cannot be believed without a personal dare and a running start, no matter how hot the hope, how sharp the need.
He leaned his head against her, his heart hammering, splintering. Did you talk to me? he whispered, his face on her bark. Was it...was that you? Did you? Are you there? he asked, are you there? Please, he said, shuddering with hope, please. Are you still there?
Silence. He waited for a wind, for a breeze, for leaves to chase across his skin.
It was a long time before he gave up the last shreds of his burning hope and opened his eyes to get up, to go home to his bed, opened his eyes to see the leaves about his feet that said, You've changed. Come back tomorrow.
He came every day.
He told her what he saw as he drove, he told her all the family gossip, the family dirt. He told her about fighting with his sister when they were small, how he used to tell boys she liked them and how she used to shoot him in the back. He told her about the songs he was making. He told her the questions, the heartache, the insoluble dilemmas people brought to him, he asked her advice, he told her what the sun on the river looked like, he asked her, one day, if she remembered her own hair. Is that offensive to you? he asked gently, frightened, that I wonder if you remember something like that? It's just that, that I had never seen such lovely, lovely hair, and I miss it. It's the truth, he said apologetically, I can't help saying it. I hope, he said softly, I hope it doesn't hurt you. I was just remembering. I would hate to hurt you, he said, to hurt you any more. He looked out over the river and remembered hurts he had made. I would do anything, he said toward the river, you know I would do anything. When he wiped the silent tears off his face, he looked down at leaves that were telling him, Find my father.
He flew.
He talked to her father, told him what the leaves said to him, and he did just as he had said, he did anything, anything asked of him and after so much work and after so many days he came back to her and brought her father, came back not knowing, trembling, questing, halting, burning.
She wasn't there. Her place was empty, the ground torn and still damp. He saw it, they both saw it, the leaves, the great jagged strips of bark, the pools and clumps of blood like sap soaking into the ground, but there was nothing else. No marks in the dirt, no footprints, no message. No word. Her father's hands shook, his head shook, her father sobbed and beat his chest softly. He stood by her father, hands empty, heart empty, mouth empty. I'm sorry, he finally said to her father, stunned, broken, this is not what...I'm so sorry. And he ran.
A year later he found her. She was living in a tiny house between the river and the sea, in the shadow of a tall and arching cliff. She smiled when she saw him coming, saw the light rising under the dark of the overhanging cliff. Yes, she said, you found me. She took him into her house and he sat in her chair, brimming. She watched him, curiously. He smiled and smiled, and thought he might be better able to sing than to speak, but he could no more sing than he could leave this place, leave her in the shadow of the cliff. Are you alright? she asked, gently, and he nodded, reached out so slowly, so terribly carefully, to touch her hair. What is it? he asked, looking into her eyes. Uh, she said, you're, um, is that...how are you? she asked. I think I'm completely happy, he said, and she said, Yes, I see, and are those little flames coming off of you? and he looked around him. Yes, he said, embarrassed, yes, those are flames. Could you, he asked, do you have, something? And she said quickly at the same time, Why don't you stand up? Out of the chair? And maybe, I'm sorry, but would you like to take-- and he interrupted her, A cold shower? Yes. That's the thing. It's almost funny, isn't it? Almost, she said. Could you quick step off that rug? But she was laughing so hard. He laughed and reached out for her and she was running outside and before he could think, before he could stop himself he was chasing her. Horrified, loving her, wanting her, chasing. But she was laughing and laughing and she pushed him into the river.
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 after, in the days after, he just kept coming back to her. He found himself more and more often sitting in her shade, leaning his head against her bark. After a while, it was foolish, he knew it was foolish, but he talked to her. He talked to her and he told her everything. All of it. How he had wanted that love, his son's love. How he had tried to make the boy believe, how he had wanted this boy, this son to trust him, to admire him, to, well, to worship him. And what he had done. The terrible thing he had done, had allowed. He tried to explain it to her. He didn't lie to her, he told the truth. He spoke only truth, after all, but he really wanted to as well. He told her and it didn't even matter that she would never answer, could not speak. He said it all to her, from the beginning. I did try to talk him into sense, he told her, I did. I told him what would happen, I told him everything. And when he still fought for it, wanted it so badly, so badly, I did everything I could to keep him safe. I did everything I knew. Everything. It wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough. Everything I could do wasn't enough.
And he told her in simple words of the burning, the boiling rivers, the flight and the fall, of streaming flaming hair like a comet's tail, of waters that embrace and close and kill and cherish and soothe a heart's fire. He told her all of that day, his eyes wide and blind, seeing it over again and again. He told her of the death of a son and the end of a world. He told her of green spikes of grass through black ash and of gentle breezes on burned limbs. He told her of a longing as wide as the sky and of daring and of failure and of judgment and he wept soundlessly and endlessly. And after, he sat under her, sheltered in her shade, dark, silent.
But a minute later he was talking again and he was saying the truth and not just because he had to. He wanted to tell her the truth, he wanted to, and he did. I didn't do everything, he said, dry and hollow now. Not everything, he said, not everything I knew to do. I did everything except just tell him no. I could have said no. And he'd be alive. He wouldn't believe in me. He wouldn't worship me or even like me and he'd be alive. He put his face against her again and cried that out of him. He felt a wind about him, soft and caressing, leaves brushing by his face. He looked up at leaves falling from her branches, whirling and spinning about him, piling softly on his legs and feet and on the ground. On the ground where they made a word.
The leaves said, Hey.
That night he couldn't sleep.
He sat under her, in her shade, tried to draw together his courage.
Yesterday, he began.
He stopped.
Tried again.
Yesterday, he said. He stuck there. There are things that simply cannot be believed without a personal dare and a running start, no matter how hot the hope, how sharp the need.
He leaned his head against her, his heart hammering, splintering. Did you talk to me? he whispered, his face on her bark. Was it...was that you? Did you? Are you there? he asked, are you there? Please, he said, shuddering with hope, please. Are you still there?
Silence. He waited for a wind, for a breeze, for leaves to chase across his skin.
It was a long time before he gave up the last shreds of his burning hope and opened his eyes to get up, to go home to his bed, opened his eyes to see the leaves about his feet that said, You've changed. Come back tomorrow.
He came every day.
He told her what he saw as he drove, he told her all the family gossip, the family dirt. He told her about fighting with his sister when they were small, how he used to tell boys she liked them and how she used to shoot him in the back. He told her about the songs he was making. He told her the questions, the heartache, the insoluble dilemmas people brought to him, he asked her advice, he told her what the sun on the river looked like, he asked her, one day, if she remembered her own hair. Is that offensive to you? he asked gently, frightened, that I wonder if you remember something like that? It's just that, that I had never seen such lovely, lovely hair, and I miss it. It's the truth, he said apologetically, I can't help saying it. I hope, he said softly, I hope it doesn't hurt you. I was just remembering. I would hate to hurt you, he said, to hurt you any more. He looked out over the river and remembered hurts he had made. I would do anything, he said toward the river, you know I would do anything. When he wiped the silent tears off his face, he looked down at leaves that were telling him, Find my father.
He flew.
He talked to her father, told him what the leaves said to him, and he did just as he had said, he did anything, anything asked of him and after so much work and after so many days he came back to her and brought her father, came back not knowing, trembling, questing, halting, burning.
She wasn't there. Her place was empty, the ground torn and still damp. He saw it, they both saw it, the leaves, the great jagged strips of bark, the pools and clumps of blood like sap soaking into the ground, but there was nothing else. No marks in the dirt, no footprints, no message. No word. Her father's hands shook, his head shook, her father sobbed and beat his chest softly. He stood by her father, hands empty, heart empty, mouth empty. I'm sorry, he finally said to her father, stunned, broken, this is not what...I'm so sorry. And he ran.
A year later he found her. She was living in a tiny house between the river and the sea, in the shadow of a tall and arching cliff. She smiled when she saw him coming, saw the light rising under the dark of the overhanging cliff. Yes, she said, you found me. She took him into her house and he sat in her chair, brimming. She watched him, curiously. He smiled and smiled, and thought he might be better able to sing than to speak, but he could no more sing than he could leave this place, leave her in the shadow of the cliff. Are you alright? she asked, gently, and he nodded, reached out so slowly, so terribly carefully, to touch her hair. What is it? he asked, looking into her eyes. Uh, she said, you're, um, is that...how are you? she asked. I think I'm completely happy, he said, and she said, Yes, I see, and are those little flames coming off of you? and he looked around him. Yes, he said, embarrassed, yes, those are flames. Could you, he asked, do you have, something? And she said quickly at the same time, Why don't you stand up? Out of the chair? And maybe, I'm sorry, but would you like to take-- and he interrupted her, A cold shower? Yes. That's the thing. It's almost funny, isn't it? Almost, she said. Could you quick step off that rug? But she was laughing so hard. He laughed and reached out for her and she was running outside and before he could think, before he could stop himself he was chasing her. Horrified, loving her, wanting her, chasing. But she was laughing and laughing and she pushed him into the river.
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 15, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 24. Poison
If we get a dog it shouldn't have so much long hair, she said disapprovingly as she watched the dogs and people walk down the street. He watched them, too. No, he agreed, I don't think your mom would like that much. She looked up at him. I wouldn't like it, she said. Okay, he said, you either. Me either, he added, surprised. Not a cat, she said. No, he agreed, they're creepy. But they don't bark, she observed thoughtfully, which is nice, and they eat predators. He thought a moment. Do you mean rodents? he asked, they eat rodents? What are mice? she asked, aren't mice predators? He smiled, turning the words over in his mind. Tricky question, he said, but either way, no cat. No cat, she agreed. It's got to be a frog, she said, we've talked it through before. A frog and a pretty fish. Yes, he said, we just have to be careful. I think some fish and frogs poison each other, but I can't remember for sure, I can't remember which ones. The store workers help you with that, she said, wisely. They are not supposed to let you put animals together that would die. We can trust them. Yes, he smiled down at her, yes. We're lucky.
At the fish and frog store they bought a glass container and food and plants and a little net and water conditioning drops and a tiny frog and three fish. She asked lots of questions until she got all the care and feeding straight in her head. He watched her from a respectful distance, pretending to read a small handbook on the raising of lizards for profit. They loaded up the purchases. He looked her over; she was quite burdened. We should have maybe driven, he said. No, she said. I like the walk. I like to walk with you. You can carry the heavy things, she told him kindly. I'll take the animals, I'm careful. Thank you, he said gravely.
They walked back past different dogs and other people. She was very quiet; he watched her watching the fish and frog dart about in their tiny life support containers. You were right, she said. You were right about the frogs and the fishes. I was right? he asked, how was I right? Poison, she said. I asked. Oh! he said, I forgot. Did you ask the store workers? Yes, she said. The fish make poison that doesn't hurt them but can hurt the frogs. Sometimes. She held up the bags, held them close together. Why can they do that? she asked him, looking up into his eyes, why can they make poison just by living? He felt helpless, lost. Well, he said. Do they do it on purpose? she asked, do they mean to? No, baby, he said, of course they don't mean to. So it's not like snakes, then? she asked. It's not...like...what? he asked. Snakes bite because they're poison, she said, they try to hurt you. He stopped and looked down at her. Her eyes were big, she held tightly to the cool bags. Here, he said, come over here. They walked over to a bench, he carefully set down the glass container and the bags of marine life accessories. Here, he said, sit here for a minute. She sat, bags on her lap. He sighed.
Snakes don't bite because they want to hurt you, he said, they just bite. It's how they are, how they take care of themselves. And they are just poisonous when they are born. The fish are the same way. They make poison for the frogs just because of the way they are. Not because they mean to. But, she said, but what about if it's an accident? What if it occurs in the wild? And the fish wake up one morning and everyone else is dead? He bit his lip inside his mouth. He loved her words, he wasn't used to this yet from her. I don't think it occurs in the wild, he said carefully, to protect her feelings and because his lip hurt. I think that's the point. In the wild the fish and frogs wouldn't live in the same place, so everyone would be fine. Frogs and fish have learned not to be too close if one would hurt the other one. They don't cohabitate, he said, handing her a new word with deliberate care. He watched her taste that one, turn it over on her tongue. What about people? she asked.
He sighed again, looking across the street. People, he said, that's a tricky question. Yes, people and poison. Well, he said, and she looked at him for a long time. People, he said, well, what do you think? Yes, she said, I think so. He was startled, as he often was, by the sadness and wisdom that passed quickly across her face. He tipped her chin up. Hey, he said, let's get these critters to their new digs. Your mom will be wondering what on earth happened to us. It's okay, she reminded him, she knows we walked. She thinks we're slow. We are slow, he said, balancing the glass container and the bags so he could reach his arms around her to pull her close and kiss the top of her head. Hey, she said, you're squishing the fish bag.
At the fish and frog store they bought a glass container and food and plants and a little net and water conditioning drops and a tiny frog and three fish. She asked lots of questions until she got all the care and feeding straight in her head. He watched her from a respectful distance, pretending to read a small handbook on the raising of lizards for profit. They loaded up the purchases. He looked her over; she was quite burdened. We should have maybe driven, he said. No, she said. I like the walk. I like to walk with you. You can carry the heavy things, she told him kindly. I'll take the animals, I'm careful. Thank you, he said gravely.
They walked back past different dogs and other people. She was very quiet; he watched her watching the fish and frog dart about in their tiny life support containers. You were right, she said. You were right about the frogs and the fishes. I was right? he asked, how was I right? Poison, she said. I asked. Oh! he said, I forgot. Did you ask the store workers? Yes, she said. The fish make poison that doesn't hurt them but can hurt the frogs. Sometimes. She held up the bags, held them close together. Why can they do that? she asked him, looking up into his eyes, why can they make poison just by living? He felt helpless, lost. Well, he said. Do they do it on purpose? she asked, do they mean to? No, baby, he said, of course they don't mean to. So it's not like snakes, then? she asked. It's not...like...what? he asked. Snakes bite because they're poison, she said, they try to hurt you. He stopped and looked down at her. Her eyes were big, she held tightly to the cool bags. Here, he said, come over here. They walked over to a bench, he carefully set down the glass container and the bags of marine life accessories. Here, he said, sit here for a minute. She sat, bags on her lap. He sighed.
Snakes don't bite because they want to hurt you, he said, they just bite. It's how they are, how they take care of themselves. And they are just poisonous when they are born. The fish are the same way. They make poison for the frogs just because of the way they are. Not because they mean to. But, she said, but what about if it's an accident? What if it occurs in the wild? And the fish wake up one morning and everyone else is dead? He bit his lip inside his mouth. He loved her words, he wasn't used to this yet from her. I don't think it occurs in the wild, he said carefully, to protect her feelings and because his lip hurt. I think that's the point. In the wild the fish and frogs wouldn't live in the same place, so everyone would be fine. Frogs and fish have learned not to be too close if one would hurt the other one. They don't cohabitate, he said, handing her a new word with deliberate care. He watched her taste that one, turn it over on her tongue. What about people? she asked.
He sighed again, looking across the street. People, he said, that's a tricky question. Yes, people and poison. Well, he said, and she looked at him for a long time. People, he said, well, what do you think? Yes, she said, I think so. He was startled, as he often was, by the sadness and wisdom that passed quickly across her face. He tipped her chin up. Hey, he said, let's get these critters to their new digs. Your mom will be wondering what on earth happened to us. It's okay, she reminded him, she knows we walked. She thinks we're slow. We are slow, he said, balancing the glass container and the bags so he could reach his arms around her to pull her close and kiss the top of her head. Hey, she said, you're squishing the fish bag.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 23. Snowbuses
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.
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.
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
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