Joy Williams - Honored Guest

“Lookitim!” he screamed. “Lookit the size of that sucker! He’s a miracle, you can’t just pass him by!”

He grabbed the wheel and turned it toward the snake, but Janice wrenched it back and slammed on the brakes. The car shot off the road, not quite clearing a stony wash, and with a snapping of axles it crumpled against a patch pocket of wild-flowers — primrose and sand verbena and, as ZoeBella pointed out quietly later, sacred datura, a plant of which every part was poisonous.

“Is everyone all right?” Rose said. “All in one piece? That’s the important thing, nothing else matters.”

“I just wanted that snake so bad,” Zorro said.

“He’s always after his dad to hit things for him,” Rose said. “You’re in somebody else’s vehicle, Zorro! You are a guest in another person’s car!”

They got out of the car with difficulty and looked at it. It was clearly a total wreck. The key had snapped off in the ignition, so Janice couldn’t even unlock the trunk to retrieve her suitcase.

ZoeBella touched Janice’s hand. “I’m glad you didn’t run over the snake,” she whispered.

“I have a terrible headache,” Janice said.

“You bumped your head pretty bad,” Rose agreed. “I saw a motel back there. Why don’t we get a room and declare this day over.”

There was only one room available at the motel, and there was a lone, large bed which pretty much filled it. The other rooms were unoccupied, according to the Indian girl in the office, but each possessed a unique incapacity disqualifying it from use. A clogged drain, a charred carpet, a cracked toilet, a staved-in door. Fleas.

Zorro soared from the door to the bed and began bouncing on it. “Skinny Puppy enters the ring!” he shouted. He crouched and weaved, jabbing the air. Rose swatted him away.

“You lie down,” she instructed Janice. “I’ll take the kids over to the cafe so you can rest. They’ve got cocktails, I noticed. Do you want me to bring you back a cocktail?”

“I think I’ll just lie down,” Janice said.

“Don’t do anything until you’ve rested a bit,” Rose said.

“Don’t look in the mirror or anything,” ZoeBella urged her softly.

“You look white as a sheet,” Rose said. “Maybe we should stay with you just until you get your color back.”

“I don’t feel at all well,” Janice said. She crept across the bed and lay on her back. She didn’t want to close her eyes.

“Scootch over just a little bit,” Rose said, “more to the middle so we can all fit.”

They all lay on the bed. After a few moments someone began to snore. Janice wouldn’t want to bet her last fifty it wasn’t her.

WE WERE VISITINGfriends of mine on Nantucket. Over the years they’ve become more solitary. They’re quite a bit older than we are, lean, intelligent and carelessly stylish. They drink too much. And I drink too much when I visit them. Sometimes we’d just eat cereal for supper; other times we’d be subjected to an entire stuffed fish and afterwards a tray of Grape-Nut pudding. Their house is old and uncomfortable, with a small yard, dark with hydrangeas in August. This was August. I told my wife not to expect dinner from my erratic friends, Betty and Bruce. We would have a few drinks, then return to the inn where we were staying and have a late supper. Only one other guest was expected this evening, a local woman who had ten daughters.

“What an awful lot,” my wife said.

“I’m sure we’ll hear about them,” I said.

“I suppose so,” Bruce said, struggling to open an institutional-size jar of mayonnaise that had been set on a weathered picnic table in the yard.

“She’s unlikely to talk about much else with that many,” my wife said. “Are any of them strange?”

“One’s dead, I believe,” our host said, still struggling with the jar. “‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might…’” he said, addressing his own exertions.

“Let me give that a try,” I said, but Bruce had finally broken the plastic seal.

“I meant strange as in intellectually or emotionally or physically challenged,” my wife said. She had already decided to dislike this poor mother.

Bruce dipped a slice of wilted carrot into the jar. “I really like mayonnaise; do you, Paula? I can’t remember.”

“Bruce, you know very well it’s Pauline,” Betty said.

“I’m addicted to mayonnaise, practically,” Bruce said.

My wife smiled and shook her head. If she had resolved to become relaxed in that moment it would be a great relief, for Bruce had been kind to me and there was no need for tension between them. Pauline prefers to be in control of our life and our friendships. She’s a handsome woman, canny and direct, never unreasonable. I suppose some might find her cold but I am in thrall to her because I had almost been crushed by life. I had some rough years before Pauline, years I only just managed to live through. I might as well have been stumbling about in one of those great whiteouts that occur in the far north where it is impossible to distinguish between a small object nearby and a large object a long way off. In whiteouts there is no certainty and every instinct is betrayed — even the birds fly into the ground, believing it to be air, and perish. I strained to see and could not, and torn by strange sorrows and shames, I twice attempted suicide. But then a calm overtook me, as though my mind had taken pity on me and called off the hopeless search I had undertaken. I was thirty-two then. I met Pauline the following year and she accepted me, broken and wearied as I was, with an assurance that further strengthened me. We have a lovely home outside Washington. She wants a child, which I am resisting.

We were all smiling at the mayonnaise jar as though it were one of the sweet night’s treasures when a bell jangled on a rusted chain wrapped around the garden gate. We had likewise engaged the same bell an hour before. A woman appeared, thinner than I expected, almost gaunt, and shabbily dressed. She seemed a typical wellborn island eccentric, and looked at us boldly and disinterestedly … It was difficult to determine her age and thus impossible to guess at the ages of her many daughters. My first impression was that none of them had accompanied her.

“Starky! Have a drink, my girl!” Bruce said in greeting.

She embraced him, resting her cheek for a moment in his hair, which was long and reached the collar of his checkered shirt. She breathed in the smell of his hair much as I had and found it, I could imagine, sour but strangely satisfying. She then turned to Betty and kissed, as I had, her soft warm cheek.

She had brought a gift of candles, which Betty found holders for. The candles were lit and Pauline admired the pleasant effect, for with night, the hydrangeas had cast an almost debilitating gloom over the little garden. It did not trouble me that we had brought nothing. We had considered a pie but the prices had offended us. It was foolish to spend so much money on a pie.

“Guinivere,” Bruce called. “We’re so glad you came!”

A figure moved awkwardly toward us and sat down heavily. It was a young woman with a flat round face. Everything about her seemed round. Her mouth at rest was small and round.

“Look at all that mayonnaise,” Starky said. “Bruce remembered it’s a favorite of yours.”

“I like maraschino cherries now,” the girl said.

“Yes, she’s gone on to cherries,” her mother said.

“I have jars of them awaiting fall’s Manhattans,” Bruce assured her. “Retrieve them from the pantry, dear. They’re in the cabinet by the waffle iron.”

“Guinivere is a pretty name,” my wife said.