Charles Baxter - Gryphon - New and Selected Stories

And just at the moment when Harrelson thinks that he is Kafka’s K. and will never reach the Mobil station no matter how long or how hard he tries, there it is. First it appears through the curtain of snow as a glowing patch of light without any solid outlines. Then, second by second, he sees the snowy spotlights, the fluorescent lights over the gas pumps, the aquamarine station itself with its closed garage doors, and now he sees a small old man in a black overcoat filling his car with gas at the self-service pump, and now, closer, he sees an attendant gazing in his direction with something like stupefaction, at Harrelson behind the wheel, in his dark car with no headlights.

The attendant walks over to him. Harrelson’s head is bowed and he is muttering. Though the attendant doesn’t know it, Harrelson is thanking his familiars, making concrete spiritual promises. The man, who is covered with snow, knocks on the window. Harrelson looks at him and rolls it down.

“You okay, buddy?” the man asks. He is wearing a blue parka and gazes in at Harrelson with friendly curiosity. His mouth is open, and Harrelson can see the huge gap of his mouth and his bad, crisscrossed teeth.

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

“Reason I asked is, you got no headlights.”

“I know.” Harrelson suddenly remembers. “Is there a woman waiting inside the station? She’s waiting for me.”

“Yeah,” the man says, “she’s here. What happened to your face, buddy?”

“My face is all right.” He looks toward the door and sees Meredith coming out, all smiles, dressed in her warm red winter coat, her brown boots, and black gloves. Harrelson tries to take his hands off the wheel and finds that he is having difficulty uncurling his fingers. Meredith crosses the front of the car and opens the door on the passenger’s side.

“You should put new headlights in,” the man says, but now Harrelson is closing the window.

He turns toward Meredith, who, instead of smiling, looks horror-struck. “John,” she says, “honey, what happened to you?”

He turns to her, his eyes full of gratitude. “Well,” he says, “I drove over here.”

“No,” she says, “I mean this.” She takes off her right glove and raises her hand to his face. When she touches his skin, he feels a dull burning on his left cheek. “There’s a cut here. A gash. It’s been bleeding. What’d you do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you have an accident coming over here?”

“Two.” He holds up two fingers. “I had two accidents.”

“You must have hit your head against the window or the … this.” She reaches over and touches the latch for opening the no-draft window. “You may need stitches.”

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt.” He smiles. “It’s good to see you.” Now he feels happy. “I made it! I made it over here!” He looks at her with a private, conspiratorial expression. “The roads were terrible, and I’m not sober.”

“I know.” She looks at him, top to bottom. “Get out and come over on this side,” she says. “I’ll drive back to my place. I don’t want you driving anymore.”

“All right.” He does as he is told. Now, with Meredith behind the wheel, he sits back, and the pain in his cheek flares up. She is driving. Harrelson does not know where they are. He feels sleepy. She is saying something, but he is not quite sure that it makes any sense. Then the car is parked and Meredith has helped him out, and he is sitting in her living room, his face washed lightly with a washcloth, his cut covered with antiseptic cream. Meredith’s radio is on, and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau is singing.

Habe ja doch nichts begangen

Dass ich Menschen sollte scheu’n—

Welch’ ein törichtes Verlangen

Treibt mich in die Wüstenei’n?

“ ‘I’ve done no wrong,’ ” Harrelson translates, hoping to impress Meredith, “ ‘to shun other men, so what is it that sends me out into the wilderness?’ ”

“That’s the song?”

“That’s it.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s German.”

“I know,” she says. “Isn’t it interesting?”

“I guess so.”

“There.” She is finished cleaning Harrelson’s cheek. “It’s a smaller cut than I thought. Aren’t you going to take off your jacket?” He nods but does nothing. She unzips it and helps him out of it. He is not really looking toward her but toward the stereo radio. “Poor John,” she says. “But listen: thanks for getting me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t realize how drunk you were.”

He waves his hand. “That’s all right.”

“Are you cold?” He nods. “Come in and take a warm bath.” She leads him into the bathroom and sits him down while she fills the tub. The warmth in the bathroom makes him sleepy again. He feels her taking his clothes off and helping him into the bathwater. The water’s heat is intensely painful on his chilled feet, like ice picks thrust into the skin. She is still talking. He is bent over in the water, looking at the hair on his legs. “I’ve made a decision,” she is saying. “I’m not going to marry you.”

Harrelson nods. “I know.”

“How did you know? I’ve only just decided.”

“I just knew.” He does not look at her.

“I decided a few days ago. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He puts his hand on the surface of the bathtub water and moves it back and forth, creating waves.

“I need more security than you can give me,” she says. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“Of course.” Now he turns his head toward her. “Please don’t say any more.”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you.” He takes the soap and washes his arms and chest. “You know, I don’t feel very good.”

“Where?” she asks. “Is it your face?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t feel very good anywhere.”

She stands up and turns away. She opens the medicine cabinet and examines the bottles. “Want some aspirin?”

“No.”

He rises to his feet unsteadily in the tub. Meredith turns around, then takes his hand. With her other hand she reaches for a towel and dries him off. “You need some sleep,” she says. “We both need some sleep.” They walk together toward the bedroom, and Harrelson slips between the cold sheets. He hears the radio being turned off. In a moment, Meredith is in her nightgown, next to him. “We can still be friends,” she says.

“Yes.”

She leans over toward him and kisses him lightly. “We can still make love. There’s no harm in that.” His eyes are closed, but he nods. “Do you want to?”

“No,” he whispers. “I don’t.”

“Maybe next time,” she says. “When you haven’t had so much to drink.” He nods, then reaches his arms around her and rests his hands in their accustomed place below her breasts. As he falls asleep, Harrelson realizes that, after all, they are friends. Meredith does not think he will ever be a husband. Probably she is right. He does not have it in him to take care of another human being. It will never happen. As he drifts over, Harrelson has a premonition that he may not live for long. With what resistance he has left, he dismisses the idea as weakness, a bout of self-pity.

As soon as he is asleep, he finds himself in the company of his familiars. The faces that surround him are illuminated from within, and what they say is articulated in the language of angel speech. One of them welcomes him by saying, “What two time fine,” and another replies with “And certainly certainly more sunsets provided than last February.” These angels have no interest whatever in meaning. They say whatever pops into their heads. But it hardly matters because they gather around him, all smiles, and are pleased to be in his company. Some dispense with words and speak in music. Archaic joy washes over him. One angel detaches himself from the rest and says, “John, you are quite a poor sort,” and it is meant as a compliment. Harrelson accepts the compliment. He feels another one of them bend down and kiss him lightly on the head. He is being gathered up.