J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Northward through low hills and tidy white clapboard towns, neat stark and full of dreams. Country side growing green. Long narrow lanes now, between woods and then crossroads with a white church and steeple. Wide shady porches of houses tucked in under the trees. Smith telling out the turns in a low voice into the little microphone, driver raising a finger quietly shaking head as he gets the message.

The road dips down, cross a bridge over the rapids of a river far below. Over another little bridge and up between dark tall shadowy pines. Light shut out from the sky. Left turn past a farm and red barns. And two little houses sitting like children's toys on a lawn. More woods. An old clapboard house, seven kids standing on the porch and two on a swing under a big tree. The road narrowing.

"Mr. Smith, is there a hotel way out here. The road's ending. What's it called."

"Miss Martin, ahem."

"It's got a name."

"No."

"Hotel with no name. But we're at the end of the road."

"Everything's going to be all right Miss Martin. Now don't worry about a thing. Driver, take the right turning. Through the pines. It's perfectly safe, just a little bumpy. Right, here."

Miss Martin sitting straight up in her seat, staring ahead and left and right, thick pine needles on either side. Blanket of brown years of needles underneath, dark and snake forbidding. Over a little hill in the road.

"Mr. Smith, no car's been down here for months it's nearly grown over. Where are we going."

"Miss Martin. This is not exactly a hotel"

"What is it."

"A moment Miss Martin, little trouble ahead with these branches. Driver, just proceed — I'm responsible for any scratches on the car."

Car squeezing between the low branches and new green leaves of maple trees. Down a little hill and ahead a clearing and the brown faint shingled roof of a log cabin. Stone chimney peeking out of the greenery. Driver turning round smiling through emerald tinted glass. In sight of shore.

"I'm not getting out Mr. Smith."

'We're here Miss Martin."

"I'm not getting out."

"Don't be silly. The driver is waiting."

"I'm not getting out."

"Why."

"I'm not getting out."

"Miss Martin, that's the northern office I've spoken about."

"You've never said a word to me about a northern office. This is utter isolation."

"There's a telephone in there Miss Martin. A bath room, kitchen, fireplace, fifty wave radio, which sends, receives and even dances when no one's looking."

"Don't try to be funny."

Smith with one hand on the handle of the door. Driver out. So discreet. Sensing the fly in the recent ointment. Don't try to be funny. Never been so distant from a laugh. Or hearing this kind of common chat. Such a big world with different kinds of personalities everywhere. A slaughter house.

"Very well Miss Martin, suit yourself. I'll get this stuff out. And the driver will take you home. Hand me that file please. And my gloves. My stick. I'm sorry there's been this misunderstanding between us. I know this outpost seems unused to you."

"You said a hotel Mr. Smith. I thought it was The Goose Goes Inn, you had some notepaper from there, that's what I thought. You never said anything about this place. It's all so uninhabited. I'm scared to be way out here."

"Chauffeur's walking around enjoying it. Hear the rapids down there, the Worrisome River."

Miss Martin primly sitting. Hands on her knees. Keep an eye on the fingers to see what they're doing. Don't let the golden moment go. Show her the long door back to town at the mercy of the chauffeur. He might look back through the green tinted glass, grinning. How would you like that Miss Martin. Here, you just retire to your little bedroom and I lie out in the big drawing room with the embers of the fire on my face. And sweet dreams. In your little beddy bo you will be comfy save for the giant spiders. Harmless creatures though huge. And when you scream running into me in your nightgown. Of course I'll save and protect you.

"Mr. Smith what are you thinking."

"I was thinking, Miss Martin, such a pity for you to go back to town. You do need a rest so. Few days in the fresh air. Away from the grime, dust and dirt of the city. You look tired. But I don't want to distress you. If you feel being out here will in some way make you unhappy. I wouldn't want that."

"God."

"What, Miss Martin."

"My mother will kill me. She'll ask me the name of the people. Then she'll look them up in the phone book. Then she'll telephone them and ask if I maybe left my gloves there or something. Mr. Smith, I'm scared."

"Now now."

"I am."

"Vouchsafe."

"What do you mean."

"I don't know myself Miss Martin. I'm just saying the first thing that comes into my head. What can one say."

"I don't know I feel you're an operator."

"I beg your pardon."

"That there's been a whole string of girls up here, or something like that."

"What are you saying, Miss Martin. You've seen the entrance. Overgrown. Besides I think that's a little uncalled for."

"Don't send me back with this chauffeur."

Miss Martin sitting. A frozen silence. Her eye lids go up. And I think I just catch her teeth pressing secretly into the lower lip. But by God I am dying to protect her. Save her from harm and loneliness. From fear of the future. That she should ever want or need. Or go without shoes. Butter or wholesome bread. Lies often have beauty.

"Miss Martin give me your hand."

Smith patting the sad metacarpals. Giving them back, gathered as they are in their white softness of flesh, a tender blue vein to keep them all alive. Smile. Help her out of the car. Herbert popping back from the woods to carry items to the cabin. Can't beat Herbert.

Under the low leaves. Smith struggling with the stiff lock on the door. Finally putting shoulder to it and smashing it open. Herbert and Miss Martin amazed at this casual display of forcefulness from the slender Smith.

All shifted. All unpacked. Herbert saluting. One smile followed with a little bow. Car roaring, then purring quietly. Disappearing out under the awning of new maple leaves, crackling tiny dead branches on the road. Sun high up. Dancing on top of the green.

In the log cabin. On the brown mat on the entrance floor. Next to the little pantry full of dishes, and tin cans of food. Lay a white envelope. Smith putting his armful of files on the stove. Miss Martin pushing past, stepping over it. Smith picking it up with the tweezering fingers. Ripping it open. One look. Ah Jesus, it was a sad day some fuckpig picked up a twig and made a sign in the sand.

We reiterate that

a sufficiency

is enough under

this heading.

George Smith

The Cabin (Log)

The Open Woods.

Dear Sir,

We know you are dying to know how we know you are here.

Yours truly,

J. J.J. (Rural)

P.S. Just wait till the full history is told.

"Mr. Smith, you mustn't get upset."

"Miss Martin. Ah Jesus."

"Come sit on the chair."

"Get your pencil poised, Miss Martin. Got to rattle something back. Attach it to a tortoise and send it on its way. Ready."

"Yes Mr. Smith."

"Dear Sir and rural Junior. Your fly is open. Yours sincerely, George Smith. Urban. P.S. Is your real name Wang."

Miss Martin pressing her pencil on the white porcelain kitchen stove. Writing with her upsidedown left hand. Looks up. A smile at the deflated Smith legs akimbo on the kitchen chair. Head lolling on chest.

"Mr. Smith."

"I'm all right, Miss Martin. Just assuming this attitude for a few moments. I'll rear up once again I assure you. For a minute it's just nice to sit here, slain in battle, as the heart beats its last, pluck one final arrow out of whatever they keep them in, and twang, let it loose to find its way to the heart of the enemy."