Robert Coover - John's Wife

It was the phone that made Otis sit up that morning: Snuffy had pulled him out of the line and put him in as quarterback in a tough game, and his throwing arm had gone dead on him just as he got the snap and the opposing team was coming at him: he couldn’t get rid of the ball, he couldn’t even get his arm above his waist, his linemen had faded from sight as though they didn’t exist, he was going to get killed. He came to with his arm gone to sleep from snoozing on top of it there at his desk. It was Pauline. He stood and did a couple of quick knee-bends, pumping his arm to get the tingling out, telling Pauline, yeah, yeah, speak slower. He hadn’t been sleeping well at night lately, too many worries, and so found himself occasionally nodding off like this at the station, making his workday a bit blurry at times. There were a lot of things about the town that weren’t sitting just right with Otis these days, but what was worrying him most was John’s wife. More than once now, he’d found her car, unlocked and the keys inside, parked far from home — in the empty supermarket lot late one night, for example, once behind the church, last night right in front of the station — and, his neck tingling in a funny way, had had to run it home for her. It was unusual and just the sort of irregularity that made Otis nervous, more so because it had to do with her. When John got back later today, he’d try to talk to him about it. Otis couldn’t understand what Pauline was saying, he was too groggy and she was very agitated, so he excused himself brusquely and set the phone down on the desk, went over to the cooler to splash his face with a handful of ice water. The thing that was most nightmarish about that football game was the crowd. The bench itself was empty, just a kind of cold wind blowing down it, even old Snuffy had left or else had gone to sit in the stands — where no one was cheering, it was very dark and moody up there, more like they were a crowd at a funeral. Or an execution (he remembered thinking, if only she were here, everything would be all right, but she wasn’t and he was up the spout). The field was dark, too. He could see those goons coming but he couldn’t see their faces. He wiped his own face with his handkerchief, blew his nose, and picked up the phone. Pauline said she had to see him, something awful was happening, there was no one else she could turn to, Gordon was gone, he had to come right away. The urgency of Pauline’s appeal, as though she just couldn’t wait for it, excited Otis, but the idea of seeing her alone again also made him feel uneasy. Last time was not so good, it was like he couldn’t get it up as big around her anymore or else she was getting loose with age or something, and he’d thought at the time that maybe their long romance was finally over. When the shoe don’t fit no more, as the old song goes … Though they could still be friends. Old shoe friends. But he could hear her crying on the other end so he said, okay, hang in, he’d be over in a jiff. “And bring a bag of doughnuts,” she begged. He supposed the problem had to do with her husband, the station had been getting several phone complaints about Gordon of late, that flake finally losing it maybe, so what met Otis at the studio, though he thought he was ready for anything, caught him completely by surprise. He pushed in with the doughnuts, ringing the little bells, called out, heard Pauline’s whimpering reply in the next room where Gordon shot his portraits. Otis noticed there was a scatter of unopened mail on the floor that had come through the door slot; Gordon didn’t seem to be paying much attention to business. Curtains were drawn, the place looked closed down, though he remembered seeing lights when he had passed by here on his rounds last night. Ellsworth had been up all night, too, maybe Gordon had had to get some work finished for the Crier . And maybe not. Otis parted the bead curtains and stepped back into the portrait studio, thinking he’d probably better check out Gordon’s newest batch of photos, there might be something to all those complaints, and what he saw, squatting on her haunches there on the little stage like a carnival exhibit, was Pauline, wild-haired and sobbing, wrapped in nothing but a bedsheet, and big as a mountain. Even squatting, she was eye-level with Otis. Otis couldn’t think what to say. He tipped his cap back and scratched his head. If that don’t beat all—! Her teary eyes spied the sack of half a dozen doughnuts and, from the look that crossed her big red face, he figured he’d better give them to her right away, though he had thought they were going to share them. They vanished in six bites and she looked like she might eat the sack as well. And then she did eat the sack. “Oh, Otis,” she bawled with her mouth full of chewed paper. “What’s happening to me?” He didn’t know. He had the idea, though, that those blown-up photos of her private parts might have something to do with it and he thought maybe he ought to examine them again. Just in the line of duty. He lifted one edge of the sheet to have a look (kept his other hand resting on his hip holster, didn’t know why, but it was like he was scouting out strange territory and had to be ready for anything): she was one huge woman. Not fat, just huge. Her flexed knees were big as football helmets, her colossal butt like a pair of boulders. Still soft, though. And they bounced when he jiggled them like they always did. His walkie-talkie buzzed, interrupting his inspection. The station had just got another complaint about that kinky photographer, he’d been caught hanging out in women’s changing rooms out at the mall again, what should they do? Otis told them to send a squad car out to pick him up and hold him down at the station until he got back. “Might be a while,” he said. Pauline was still sniveling, using a corner of the sheet to wipe her nose, but she’d calmed down considerably, and now watched him with the hopeful wet eyes of a good old birddog waiting to be told what to do. So he told her: “Now, let’s go see them photos again. You won’t need the sheet.”

Many — Dutch, for example, or Waldo, Nevada, Bruce, or Daphne — would have dismissed these photographs that Otis was now so intently examining (later, he would take them with him as “material evidence,” though evidence of what he could not say) as mere pornography, butt and beaver shots intended to arouse the scopophile, disparaging perhaps the model, whose shape was generous and skin not without blemish, even while admiring the technical quality of the image, some — Bruce in particular — admiring as well the perversity of the image-taker, a profession Bruce likened favorably unto the sadist’s. Others, too — Trevor, Marge, Lorraine, Floyd — would have found these photographs perverse or worse, a cruel theft of sorts, a violent dispossession of the other, and wretched of purpose, but Ellsworth, with an understanding bred of lifelong friendship, would have perceived their profound lyrical intent and artistic integrity — and did in fact, for he had viewed them and most others in Gordon’s private albums, kept unaware of one series only, that which now had undone (his own undoing) the photographer and plunged him into such despair as well as trouble with the law. For this was a man, Ellsworth would have said, who loved less flesh than form, more pattern of light and dark than what tales or implied excitements those patterns might bespeak, one who sought to penetrate the visible contours of the restless world, ceaselessly dissolved by time, to capture the hidden image beyond, the elusive mystery masked by surface flux, and the name he gave that which he pursued was Beauty. When Ellsworth, for whom movement was all and the stasis that his friend coveted was not Beauty but Death, or both at best, complained about “the easy accident of an opened lens,” Gordon had insisted that “accident,” as he called it, was in fact the essential creative gift, defending his photographs in terms of found objects and aleatory music, about which he knew only what Ellsworth himself had told him when he came back, showing off a bit, from the outside world. To prove it, he gave Ellsworth a camera and told him to go take a hundred photos or so (Ellsworth was bored after a dozen) and they would judge them after as works of art, and of course none stood up as Gordon’s did, though Ellsworth was personally fond of a picture he took at a young war hero’s tomb during a visit by his family there with the French girl who later committed suicide (this little exercise happened a long time ago), simply because there was so much story concealed in it, however ill-managed the shot, and another of three middle-aged women, grinning stupidly at him, seated together on a park bench in the old city park (now vanished), only one of whom, themselves at the time in mourning for a lost friend, was still alive today, an innocent image of love and grief, emotionally enhanced by overexposure and poor focus. He published both (with byline) in The Town Crier , but took no other, for his friend was right, he was no photographer, nor a visual artist of any kind, appreciative of the real thing though he could be, and moreover he came to understand, in more than just a metaphoric sense, that things as well as people actively showed themselves to the photographer because of his gifts, country roads stretching out to display their longing to him, vistas unpeopling themselves to reveal their troubled depths, houses fluttering their starched lace curtains at him like flirtatious lashes, light entering their wide porches to open them into a broad friendly smile, their flower-bordered cement walks reaching out to the front sidewalk like firm proffered handshakes or decorated cleavage. Sometimes. Sometimes there was a darkness, withdrawal, implicit rebuff, threat. Gordon shot the town, Ellsworth often thought, as if it were a strange dream enacted, a dream dreamt by the dead in which the living were condemned to mythic servitude, Gordon as artist not their liberator but the revealer of their common condition which might yet lead to liberation if they would but look closely enough, something his own Artist once said in another way (a line now lost, or rather, perverted by the Stalker, in the novel’s sudden turnings) with respect to the mythology of the pose. For Ellsworth, much as he admired his friend’s talent and respected his quest, no single photo, no single painting or artifact of any sort, no matter how magisterial, could equal any of these things, however modest their quality, when linked together in telling pattern, and for that he often loved the photos Gordon himself most disdained. The family portraits, for example, trite compositions when singly seen, utterly trivial, artificial, and repetitive, but bearing in their austere and staged formality the power of tragedy when seen in temporal sequence, a record of loss and joined resistance to loss. If Gordon prized most that photo of laundry hung out to dry, crisp and stiff in the cold, or this of pale luminous buttocks, all detail burned away except at the perfect fork, or that of a gleaming black coffin held aloft in an overcast sky by four ropy hands as white as bone, Ellsworth loved more his own fat photo archives with their gas stations and orators and sliding Little Leaguers and humpback bridges and trailer parks and Rotary club meetings and pet graves in backyards and Bermuda-shorted duffers and candy-poled barbershops and dancing high schoolers and ginger-breaded bandstands and beaming trophy bearers all ajumble, like a million stories waiting to be told and a million more with every shuffle of the pack. He could appreciate Gordon’s fascination with an empty mall parking lot as a mysterious space, as though nothing had given birth to itself, but he got much more out of it in context with other photos of that mall at other times and of other malls besides. Here a photo of a since-dismantled fountain from an early mall in town, its cement belly adorned with scrawled graffiti (all that rich local culture, lost forever!), there one of the glittery escalator at the inauguration of the new highway mall, the six-screen cinema ads and opening day sales as oracular backdrop, both set beside this one of the steamy food court, filled with the downy young like chicks in an incubator, at yet another mall (though the viewer might commingle them), each enriched with faces and fashions and all the passing foolishness of their times, and add to these another of the bus station soda fountain and pinball machines, once locus of the courting rites of the young now no longer young, and yet another of the abandoned Night Sky Drive-In movie theater, sacrificed to the highway which gave birth to the newest mall, showing its desolation of spirit by the grass and weeds sprouting through the cracks in the cement ramps, the sagging fences, leaning screen, marred by the stones and bottles thrown at it, and then a worker standing in rubble, guiding a beam aloft, and a tennis-costumed woman and her leather-jacketed children in that parking lot before seen so deserted, now filled with gleaming vehicles of the latest models, and a stark empty-windowed downtown dime store closing down forever, and so the story grows: of the town, and of the viewer, and of the photographer, too.