Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

“She liked you, Dad?”

“Oh, God,” Betty said. “She thought he was the greatest.”

The pot whistled in the kitchen. After making his tea, Richard was able to go to his room without any further questioning by his parents. He turned on the television and let it soak up the recurring, shameful memories of his love-making.

The next morning at breakfast, Betty told Richard that his sister had called, saying she was going to Europe in a week and would stop off in New York. He asked when they planned to move into the house in Vermont and was told in about a month. It occurred to him later on in the afternoon, while typing the final draft, that he could go up there ahead of time and have three weeks of pleasure with John. There was no fun to be had in the city.

His parents agreed, provided John had no objection. When Richard called that evening, John urged him to come, and he decided to leave the next morning at seven. His father said, “My God, I had no idea we were boring you that much.” His mother was quiet. Later on, Richard overheard snatches of a conversation between them: they speculated that his date had caused his sudden desire to leave. Before going to bed his father tried to talk him into going by plane, but Richard insisted that he really was too scared to fly and preferred the scenery of the bus drive anyway.

It was odd to return to his room and work on a novel about a situation that still engulfed him: his parents retained their sympathy for his cute problems; the trials of adolescence were either funny or exasperating for them; he could never behave with dignity or force.

But writing had helped him. His father knew quickly that Richard was disgusted by his attempts to encourage him out of his desire to go by bus. “I’m really torturing you, eh kiddo?” Aaron said, and hugged him to his side.

“It’s okay,” Richard said. “You can’t help yourself. But you’re getting me depressed.”

Aaron stood back, shocked, and opened his expression in wonder. “Why? I don’t mean to.”

Richard wanted to make his point without a fuss but still flash a glint of steel. “I heard you and Mom talking about my date.”

“Oh no,” Betty said quickly. “You can’t blame us for anything you heard. That’s what you get for eavesdropping.”

“No, no,” Richard said. “That’s not what bothers me. I thought my novel was so good that you’d never dare to guess at my motivations any more.” He meant them to laugh and they did—with the vigor of relief.

It took over ten hours to reach Vermont by bus, Richard nearly going mad in his eagerness to arrive. When he stepped down from the bus and saw the trio approaching, he thought they looked like a schoolchildren’s book illustration of the future: John in a big, white woolen sweater, faded dungarees, and heavy rubber boots; Naomi in a gray poncho, jeans, and boots; and Nana in an amusingly scaled-down version of her father’s clothes. John greeted him in his self-conscious way—a big smile with his eyes looking beyond Richard into the distance with apparent fascination. But his sister was abandoned, saying, “It’s your uncle,” to Nana. And then she flung her arms open and cried, “Ah, brother, to see you again is good for these ancient eyes.” He hugged her and planted a kiss on a reddened, frozen cheek.

They got into the truck and John, giving Richard a mischievous look, reached under the seat and came up with a can of beer. Richard laughed and took it. Naomi, her gaiety amazing Richard, said, “John’s decided to make a drunk of you. No,” she went on with an apologetic glance at John, “we’re celebrating your triumph.”

“My triumph? What are you talking about?”

“School. You don’t have to go to school. Don’t tell me you’re taking it for granted already.”

It came as a shock. That struggle had ended with a whimper. He screamed, “That’s right! I forgot. I mean I didn’t realize. I won!”

They laughed together and shared his first sense of victory and release.

The five days before Naomi left were peaceful for Richard. John worked without a stop upstairs, Richard spent most of the day typing up the final draft, and Naomi took long walks, returning with her big shocked eyes, her body erect, making quick stiff movements. Richard was awed by the abstraction from life that she seemed able to achieve. He was convinced she had the soul of a poet and decided one afternoon to encourage her. He was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of tea when he spotted her coming up the long pine-covered driveway. When she came in he offered her some tea and she rubbed her hands together with excitement. “Goody,” she said. “I’ll make a little fire in the stove.”

While he was busy making the tea, Naomi went outside to the woodbox and returned with split wood cut small to fit into the Franklin stove that had been connected into the kitchen fireplace. She poured a little kerosene onto the wood after stacking it in the stove and stood back with her face averted, tossing a match in. It went up with a roar.

“It’s scary putting the kerosene in,” Richard said.

“I know. But this is a badly made chimney. The wind blows the smoke back into the room. But if the fire starts quickly that doesn’t happen.”

It annoyed Richard that she explained it to him. He had been there the day the house filled with smoke and also the day they tried using kerosene. John had put too much of it on and two streams of flame had leaped out of the stove’s drafts, nearly blinding Richard. Even though he had lived with her in the country she was still expounding on it, apparently thinking him ignorant. “So are you almost done?” she asked as he put her cup down.

“No, I’m only half done. It’s exhausting typing it up. Going over it is fun, but I’m such a lousy typer that I’m forever erasing, typing over.” Silence fell as Naomi put milk and sugar in her tea. She stirred the cup and stared at the stove. Richard was used to conversations ending abruptly with her. For Naomi, it was not merely a mood that caused it, it was an ideology. She had often pointed out to Richard that a group of people in a room didn’t simply dislike silence, they were terrified of it. Whenever they discussed Samuel Beckett she extolled and impressed on him the significance of silence in his work and its healing aspects.

“Naomi. Do you keep a notebook like you used to?” Her contempt for meaningless talk made him ask in a formal tone.

She looked at him distantly with a quizzical tilt of her head. “When I was a kid,” Richard added, “you were always writing something. You’d write poems and—”

“Yes, in my heyday. In my”—she paused dramatically—“youth!” Richard laughed. She charmed him when in this mood. “That’s all in the past,” she said. “We must not cling to it. Move on.”

“No, seriously. Do you really feel that way about it?”

Naomi looked at him with what was almost annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean when I was a kid I always thought you were going to write.”

“You know, there are other ways of living.” Her eyes twinkled at him with a mixture of sarcasm and contempt. He didn’t understand what was going on and looked at her stupidly. “I’m very happy the way I am,” she went on with less sharpness.

“I’m sure you are. I wasn’t saying you weren’t. Have I insulted you in some way?”

“No, no,” she protested. “I write some things. But just for myself.”

He said no more and she was also quiet. He felt as if he had been crass and foolish, though he didn’t know why. The conversation depressed him, and he was sullen for the rest of the afternoon, saying nothing during dinner. He watched Naomi’s movements and found them ugly and unbearable. They were sitting having coffee and ice cream when John said to him, “You worked today?”