Joseph McElroy - Women and Men

Oh Christ, you’re right, he said. Let’s, she said, get back to the libration-space future you’ve already had. Let’s get, he asked, back?

But if these sole things were there to turn to instead of the something identified as real that Margaret a trifle throatily (especially for her) said existed there in the cemetery where they had stood on Brad’s Day before the others moved Brad’s Day to the cemetery, there surely were people to turn to if he wanted; but he couldn’t. He couldn’t want. And not just Byron Kennett, who put his sensitive arm like water around Jim’s broad, strong shoulders and said, If Jimmy ever needed to talk. . well By was comfortable like a fly winging softly in a calm room.

Do you mean, demands the duty interrogator, that the effeminate Byron man was like a fly, was comfortable, was a room in himself?

We can’t answer — for we changing from angel into Jim sometimes find or hear only the moment and the words of its impulse, we’re not explaining.

But there were others. He made a one-quarter turn and it was Brad staring at him from a nest of garden hose a-coil beside the house: "You goin’ somewhere, Jimmy?"

(Why naturally.) "We’re havin’ pork chops tonight."

(Kid brother; no mean chef; acting like a mom, but nothing like theirs, who knew freedom and wouldn’t ask where you goin’ and Jim would never catch her sweeping his bedroom floor.)

And there’s Margaret: he made a half-turn in the leaf-windowed silence of chewing down a kitchen doughnut, and she broke her mood and whanged a n’innocent fly off the white icebox (real icebox on porch, pale-brown unfinished wood with inset panels and two big sections, upper and lower, what timeless comfort that icebox with butter and apples and he didn’t know what in the lower, and a great cake of ice mysteriously and ceremonially alive, a treasure that never needed to blink its eye) — well, this was a summer later and he had a job down ‘t the shore swizzling Tom Collinses at a hotel with a long, long sanctuary porch of rockers where the older ladies sat in their white unbuttoned sweaters, he liked the people on that porch and he came out with his tray and walked to them and they enjoyed especially receiving their drinks watching the wind ruffle the American flag on the pole, he knew that was partly it, while the sun settled lower off to the extreme right, around the bay.

And there was Bob Yard, with whom he did talk, and a lot, and some about Sarah. But then how can you? You just do. Except in Bob his mother came out quirky, and not even… he did not have the word in those days, and sexy wasn’t the word. . "sensual," he said to Mayga later, realizing as he did so that Mayga was "sensual" less mysteriously than his maddeningly gentle wife, Mayga was "there" — he let her be — and he would go to bed with her if he suddenly asked and she wanted to but he never stressed it, and then they did go once, and then it was valedictory, which is very very risky, like looking for special large last words on your deathbed and not settling for what you already know, but no, it turned out to be friendly and miraculous, no doubt the Grace Kimball that Mayn later heard about and came closer and closer to would have said Exciting one-night stand for crying out loud: but it wasn’t anything like that: it was love: and he loved his wife, too: and it was another form of. . well Sarah came out exciting, behind Bob’s memories told frankly sometimes to Jim, the son of Bob’s illicit paramour, my God! are they talking? — well, why not? — quirky and exciting and, yes, magical: and Bob did not know about when she went to France for a few months in 1925 in a carefully supervised program for music studies at Fontainebleau checked out by Margaret so that little but the music was left to chance, and that time evidently meant a lot to Sarah though Boulanger and other mysterious teachers were what Jim recalled her talking about when he didn’t know much about music or care, at least about the violin — he came, eventually, to care about cabaret piano, the super-involved departures and the root simplicities of it all such as the first, perfectly scale-like six-syllable progression of "She dances overhead" (followed by "on the ceiling near my bed"), "Dancing on the Ceiling," a very sexy song half-clothed in the airs and imminences of romantic touch: and one day in Paris Jim woke up knowing that Sarah’s feeling, hardly communicated to him, about Fontainebleau in 1925 or so, was unchecked in him at that moment in a large bed under a comforter in the vicinity of those very few articles of rather heavy dark hotel-room furniture and the sound of cars revving that could not touch him because he was looking at the curtain veiling the ironwork of the narrow balcony you could hardly step out on, and he was due at the airport in the late afternoon and thought today, yes, he would go further out and take a look at Fontainebleau — it was on the way to places that he picked up, according to Joy, his wife, what he really had to report — or left it (he retorted, because wasn’t she putting down his profession such as it was?), and the French journalist he was supposed to be meeting at the airport who wanted to ask him what would happen to top-priority French plans for ballistic-missile submarines if the Russians were to wangle out of Washington an agreement to reduce general western strategic strength changed his schedule and went with Jim to Fontainebleau and during that visit asked many things, had Mayn ever opened Henry Adams? ever been down to the Maginot Line to have a look? try Brittany in January, see Mont Saint Michel and eat very well — but never mentioned a submarine till they were on their way to Orly after a fish lunch that left Jim liking France and still wondering exactly where his mother had lived, he could have checked, it was a school: Jim had never, he realized, thought about his mother fondled by a man or sinking her teeth into a (Clark bar) neck or shoulder, Jim had only his own experience to go on at fifteen, but it was pretty good, he thought about it in a lot of pictures that didn’t easily go away but also didn’t think about it at all, was in casual shock, it was pretty good, better than he grinningly let on to Sammy, who chose himself a girl nobody thereafter would have dared call a pig (which she wasn’t), but she certainly was plain (as the older generation would say it) a very plain girl who also said kissing his way was unsanitary but Sam loved dancing with her slowly with his right hand firm at the downward limit of the small of her back just where the flesh flared beneath clothing, though, as Sammy reported, nothing much was happening — he liked Margaret, that was her name and she had thick, raspy red hair and got brown not burnt-pink at the beach like her brother, who played tennis and got razzed by the guys behind the fence of the town court for playing a fruity game, spring being bad enough but fall too. Jim had never seen his mother undressed and whatever he pictured out of Braddie’s dream he himself didn’t see his mother bloated, salted, or wafted deeply and coldly by the Atlantic Ocean out and back, out and back, though he half-saw her in her panties a few times, hips a little larger than he had expected, shoulders defenseless (—It is true of women, says the interrogator; Crap, we say to him, in your country all people are defenseless).

(On the contrary, the currency is at last defended, thanks to your remarkably durable republic — with panties on, but turned away): only in his mind if he was honest, her back to him and he didn’t see Bob Yard in the daydream and knew him to be somewhere where he would never see Bob’s face, Didn’t remember the first days at school after Sarah’s suicide; felt he could —but didn’t want to, possibly. He did miss his mother’s. . privacy: what a thing to miss! he had his own, and plenty of it; and one day twenty years later he wondered what his daughter’s ever sharp view would be of her father’s mother doing that.