David Gates - A Hand Reached Down to Guide Me

“And bleeds ?” she said, chewing.

“Humpty Cunt.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Well. That came readily to mind.”

“What’s the most offensive one you know?”

She shook her head. “I don’t really like that word.”

“Huh,” he said. “Hitting limits left and right here.”

He got up and went into the bathroom, closed the door to piss. Margaret—another of her peculiarities, possibly endearing—went the whole hog, not just closing the door but running the water.

When he came out, she was back in bed, covers up to her chin. The old surprise-surprise. “I will think this is romantic,” she said.

“So,” he said, “you want to fuck?”

“Oh sure.” She sat up against the headboard, her clothes on. “My cunt ,” she said, “is just dripping for it.”

—

When he got out of the shower, she was gone. And the half joint gone from the ashtray. Well, was this not her little interlude too? He should’ve made it crazier for her: pot didn’t cut it these days. Handcuffs? Coke, for sure.

Somebody banged on the door, then the lock clicking, and there stood the ear guy, Margaret behind him.

“You folks are checking out,” he said. “I told the lady.”

“We’re actually booked for tonight too,” Cal said. “If you look in your—”

“You heard what I said. Fifteen minutes, that’s when I’m calling the trooper.”

“What the fuck—”

“The lady’ll tell you about it.”

“Suppose you tell me about it. The fuck exactly is this?”

“What the fuck this exactly is ,” the ear guy said, “is just what I said.” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes I call the trooper and give him your plate number. Right? We straight on that?” He stepped aside to let Margaret into the cabin. “I won’t charge you the extra day. That oughta be a load off your mind.” He walked off leaving the door open.

Margaret was cramming stuff into her bag.

“So,” Cal said. “Will the lady be good enough to tell me what the fuck happened?”

She didn’t turn around. “He’s a total asshole.”

“And here I thought he was one of nature’s gentlemen. So what happened?”

“Let’s just go,” she said. “Before he really has us busted.”

“What did you do, smoke up in front of him?”

She grabbed the bag and went into the bathroom. He heard something clunk into the tub.

“Hey,” he called. “I asked you something.”

She came out and stood in the bathroom doorway. “ ‘I asked you something’?” she said. “Who the fuck are you? I told him I’d get high with him if he wanted. Okay?”

“Are you insane?” he said. “What, you came on to him?”

“And now would you fucking get out of my sight? Out of my field of vision?”

When he took a step toward her, she drew back her hand to hit him.

“Okay, we need to get out of here,” he said.

As they drove past the office, he saw a lanky woman in a pink uniform standing on the steps, watching them go.

—

“Here, I’ll tell you a story,” she said as they passed the exit for Warrensburg. “Will that put you in a better mood?”

“I’m sure,” he said. They hadn’t spoken since she’d told him to drop her where she could get a bus and he’d said that seemed appropriate.

“You’re not very encouraging,” she said. She lit another cigarette. “Okay, when my father was in the hospital? He was in so much pain that he told my mother, if she didn’t bring him these pills he had? That he was going to get God to send her to hell. He was going to, like, intercede with God. So when he was actually, finally going out, after, you know, months of this, my mother and I were each holding one of his hands, and he was whimpering. As if he was, like, coming.”

“How long ago was this?” he said.

She shook her head. “And I had this thing where I couldn’t stop giggling. And my mother slapped me. And right then, like that second, he went Haa and you could feel it in the room—everything, I don’t know, shimmered , and you could just feel it go.”

“How old were you?” he said.

Shook her head again. “This is my story.” She took a drag of cigarette. “I don’t need your editorial guidance.”

—

He walked from Hertz up to Ninety-Sixth and Broadway; it seemed important that he get across Ninety-Sixth before taking out his cell. “Listen, I’m around the corner,” he said. “I got Miltoned out. You want me to pick anything up?”

“Oh, good ,” Fran said. “Good good good. I mean, not good that you’re Miltoned out , but you know, good that you’re back . I was just in the middle of playing the piano and we were just about to call Flor de Mayo. This is amazing, you couldn’t possibly have timed this better.”

Cammy’s voice: “Is that Daddy?”

“I see,” he said. “Well. Good.”

“Yes, it’s Daddy. She’s pumping her fist. She’s not really, but that’s the mood, or I guess that’s the vibe . I can’t quite put my finger on what the mood is.”

He took the elevator up and stood for a moment at the door, hearing the piano inside. It was that Schubert Impromptu—she’d never been able to get that Nude Descending a Staircase cascade of notes quite clean. One time he’d caught her listening to the Mitsuko Uchida recording, weeping. “Well,” he’d said, “you’re a lot better looking.” She’d said, “Fuck you, too.” When his key touched the lock he saw a pinprick of spark, betraying the hot energy bound in all things.

In the living room, Fran sat at the piano, backlit by sunset. Her calves below the piano bench, right leg forward left leg back, butt spread fetchingly, her chin up like an inspired Lisztian virtuoso’s, her hair hanging straight down and shimmying like a hula skirt. He sneaked the door shut, stood listening, then eased down to sit, knees up, against the wall in the foyer.

When she finished, he began to clap.

She turned around: “Oh, come come come. None of that. You’ll turn a girl’s head.”

“So where’s the Caminator?” he said.

She pointed with a thumb down the hall. “Denned up. Like a wolf cub. Like a flower, like a fire, like a fresh footfall in a long-forgotten snow.”

He rapped a knuckle on Cammy’s door.

“Daddy,” she said. She looked toward the living room. “I’ve been counting. That was the seventeenth time .”

“For what?”

“That she’s played that.”

“Babe, why didn’t you call me? Has there been, you know, behavior?”

“Not really. Just a lot of the piano.”

“Did she get any sleep?”

“It’s okay,” Cammy said. “It wasn’t all that bad.”

“Well. I’m back now. I wish you’d called me.”

“So Daddy?” she said. “Can you help me with geometry?”

He sat at Cammy’s computer; she knelt, a hand on his knee. If two sides and the included angle of one triangle are congruent to two sides and the included angle of a second triangle, the two triangles are congruent . “I don’t get why they even need to have this,” she said. “I mean, Duh- uh . All you have missing is the last side. Figure it out .”

“Right, I see what you mean,” he said. “Listen, let me go get a feel for things, and then I’ll come back and we’ll swarm all over this puppy.”

He went to the kitchen and opened a beer.

“So,” Fran called. “Did you have your father-daughter moment?” He came into the living room; she was still sitting at the piano. “I am fine , by the way, thank you very much for asking. Oh God, I sound so critical . What can I play for you? I’ve been on a total run with Schubert. As I imagine you’ve been told. Now what would you most like?” He’d had this said to him last night in a different context. “It doesn’t have to be Schubert. Tell you the truth, I think I’m done with Schubert.”