E. Doctorow - Loon Lake

I wanted to talk to Clara about it when I got home. Anyway, she’d be interested to know why I was late — but something else was on her mind entirely.

“Did you know,” she said to me, “Sandy James is all of fifteen years old? Did you know that? She got married at thirteen. Can you beat that? And she does everything, she goes to the store she knows what’s good and what isn’t, she takes care of that kid like royalty, feeds that stupid hick better than he deserves, washes, shops, cleans, Jesus! The only thing I haven’t seen her do is sew the American flag!”

What kind of time was this, a matter of a few weeks, a couple of days, minutes, and this other couple was in us, through us, I couldn’t remember when we hadn’t known them and lived next door.

In the second war we used to jam each other’s radio signals, occupy the frequency, fill it with power.

Clara didn’t think much of Red James but she never said no to one of their invitations, she had fixed on young Sandy, in that way she attached to people who interested her, locking on her with all her senses. I sometimes became jealous, actually jealous, I felt ashamed, stupid it was the diversion I had hoped for, it was just what I had counted on, I jammed myself when I saw the way Clara looked at Sandy, watched every move she made. Worrying about survival was something new to her and she was engaged by it, as by the little baby, the smell of milk and throwup, a bath in a galvanized-tin tub with water made hot on a coal stove, and all the ordinary outcomes of domestic life which presented themselves to her as adventure — how could I feel anything except gratitude! I thought every minute with Sandy James put Clara’s old life further behind us, I felt each day working for my benefit I was a banker compounding his interest.

In the James kitchen Clara watches Sandy James dry the baby after her bath, the baby in towels on the kitchen table, two lovely heads together and laughing at the small outstretched arms, the gurgling infant, the women laughing with pleasure. I am noticed in the doorway, the heads conspire, the flushed faces, some not quite legible comment between them as they turn and look at me, smiling and giggling in what they know and what I don’t.

I liked Sandy myself, I thought of her as my ally, the chaperone of my love, this child! I found her attractive especially in the occasional surprised look she gave me, as if she were an aspect of Clara and the current of attraction was stepped up by that.

“She was made to have babies,” Clara said to me. “You can’t see how strong she is because she doesn’t know anything about clothes, all her things are too big for her, I don’t know where she got them, but when she doesn’t have anything on you can see how well built she is in the thighs and hips.”

Clara’s attentiveness to his wife did not go unnoticed by Red James, when we were all together he did what he could to affirm the universal order of things. One night he brought out his infant girl from their bedroom. Baby Sandy had no diaper or shirt. He held her up in his hand and said, “Looky here, Joe, you see this little darlin between her legs? You ever see them pitchers of gourami fish in the National Geographical? You know, them kissin fish? Ain’t I right? Now I got two of em, two lovin women with poontangs just like that!”

This made Sandy James stare at the floor, her face reddening to the roots of her hair. “Lookit!” he said, laughing. “Colors up like the evenin sun!”

Clara sighed, stubbed out her cigarette and took Sandy and the baby into the other room.

He one night pours two shot glasses of Old Turkey I don’t know what we’re celebrating does he see Clara’s hand touch Sandy’s hair?

He says, “Hey, y’ll see this here little girl, I kin make her do what I want, laugh, cry, anythang, watch.” He begins to laugh, a silly high-pitched little laugh. Sandy ignores him, he jumps around to get in front of her puts his hand over his mouth, tries to keep from laughing, after a minute of his pyrotechnics she can’t help herself, begins to laugh, protesting too of course, “Shh, shh , your gonna wake her Loll, shhh , you’re wakin her up!” but he’s really funny and she is laughing now, a child laughing, and in fact I’m laughing too at the mindlessness of the thing and suddenly he stops, face blank, staring at her puzzled his mouth turns down at the corners a sob comes out of him, he puts his arm up to his eyes, cries pitifully, we know what he is doing so does Sandy but she goes very quiet and asks him quietly to stop, he ignores her, keeps it up, crying to break your heart. “Oh Loll darlin’,” she says, “you know I cain’t tol’rate that,” and then her eyes screw up, her lower lip protrudes, she is reduced, begins bawling, arm up, fist rubbing her eyes, she has a hole in the underarm of her dress, her red hair.

“What I tell you!” Red James says, laughing. “This li’l ole thang, look there she’s a-just cryin her heart out!” and she is, she can’t stop, he goes to her to comfort her maybe a bit sorry now that he’s done this but she’s furious. He tries to put his arms around her, she brings her leg up sharply, knees him in the groin, stalks off. Red James has to sit down, he takes a deep whistling breath.

And that’s when Clara began to laugh.

In a great dramatic scrawl, full of flourishes:

To Joe—

Herein all my papers, copies of chapbooks, letters, pensées , journals, night thoughts — all that is left of me. Dear Libby is to keep them for your return. And you will return, I have no doubt about it. I have thought a good deal about you. You are what I would want my son to be. More’s the pity. But who can tell, perhaps we all reappear, perhaps all our lives are impositions one on another.

w. p.

Loon Lake

Oct 24 1937

Three little words. Suree rittu waruz . The girls had voices like cheap violins and they kept their wavery pitch as the car careened around abrupt corners, horns blasting, peddlers and old monks falling out of the way. It was three o’clock in the morning and the shopkeepers were already unrolling their mats heaving the flimsy boxes of fresh wet seagreens from the beds of trucks pitch-black the Tokyo sky above, Warren looked up as if to pray like a seasick sailor keeping his eye on a fixed point a light in the Oriental heavens channeled by tile roofs the heavens flowing in an orderly manner unlike the progress of the Cord, its headlights flashing the startled faces of the poor Japanese street class taking their morning fish soup hunkering beside small fires in metal drums. White-gowned attendants at the Shinto shrines sprinkled the cobblestoned courts with handfuls of water. Suree rittu waruz .

The car braked to a halt and Warren and the ladies pitched forward over each other hysteric laughter they all climbed down where are we he said and they led him triumphantly to the next bistro of the infinite night this one a mirikubawa . A what? Warren kept saying as they were led in through the smoke up on the platform three black musicians were playing jazzu and a waitress got to the little table almost before they sat down and they all watched the expression on Warren’s face as the drinks were ordered and then the rollicking hysterico laughter as he tasted the white substance in the sake cup mirik it was milk this was a milk bar and their civilization had triumphed again in producing for the American their friend the one substance they never drank and were astonished that anyone could, cow’s milk, the very sort of thing that made the Westerners smell that characteristic way from their consumption from birth of the squirted churned curded and boiled issue issyouee of the ridiculous cow. They did not like the smell of course and only one garu from whom he learned the Chiara-stun and what merriment that was that they had to teach him his dance, a bold brown-eyed bow-legged thing with her bobbed hair and low-waisted dress pleated to flare out above the knees had the nerve in the intimacy of his room one dawn to hold her fingers squeezing her own nostrils while he fucked her looking down over the upraised knees upon which he rested his bulk she was lying there holding her nose and squeezing her eyes shut but making the sounds of pleasure too how odd and later he said do I smell so bad do I need to bathe no no she said with moga merriment you can never washu away you it is ura smerr , you smena butta Penfield-san a whore tubba butta