Percival Everett - Erasure

“So, you think I’m only concerned with myself.”

“I didn’t say that either. But, basically, that’s true of all of us.”

“I don’t need your platitudes.”

“Did you call looking for a fight?”

“No, I didn’t. I just thought I’d get a little more support from my little brother.”

“Support. You don’t need me to be gay. How’s your new—”

“Partner, it’s called a partner. Or boyfriend. You can say boyfriend. His name is Tad and he’s fine. I don’t know where he is right now, but he’s fine. Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Sell any books lately?”

“No. Listen, I’ve got to get some sleep.”

Click.

Often humans will seek to improve the habitat of trout in a stream by providing some kind of structure under the water. People will sometimes dump anything in the stream, think that the fish will want to take shelter in it. Car bumpers, shopping carts, dog houses. Generally fish prefer the smooth curves of nature to the hard edges of humans. But more importantly, if the structure is not proper and is not put in the right place in the stream, the flow of the current might find an erodible bank and so cause more harm than good.

I walked in the morning, all the way to McPherson Square where I took the Metro to the mall. I walked around the National Gallery for a couple of hours, ate lunch alone in the cafeteria and imagined that I had a life. I contemplated also that suddenly I was slightly well off and that I really didn’t have to teach for a while. This was good, as I couldn’t bring myself to accept the slave wages over at American to teach a survey course to kids who didn’t care a hill of beans about Melville, Twain or Hurston.

Having come into what I considered a lot of money, I decided to go see something worth more than money. Granted, not all of it was worth more than money, in fact much of it was not worth the canvas or linen it was slathered upon, but some was and that was enough to put my new gain, rightly and sadly, into place. I thought of Cocteau and his saying that everything can be solved except being, this while staring at a Motherwell that both seduced and offended me. I stopped at a late Rothko, the feathery working of the brush, the dark colors, the white edges and I thought of death, my own death, my making my own death. I could not think like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry that death was a thing of grandeur. Death was frighteningly as simple as life, instead of waking everyday and just doing it, one didn’t wake everyday and just did it. In the painting, whether the colors were there or not, I saw the cream of my mother’s skin and the brown of mine. My self-murder would not be an act of rage and despair, but of only despair and my artistic sensibility could not stand that. Throughout my teens and twenties I had killed myself many times, even made some of the preparations, stopping always at the writing of the note. I knew that I could manage nothing more that a perfunctory scribble and I didn’t want to see that, have my silly romantic notions shattered by a lack of imagination.

I tried to distance myself from the position where the newly sold piece-of-shit novel had placed me vis-à-vis my art. It was not exactly the case that I had sold out, but I was not, apparently, going to turn away the check. I considered my woodworking and why I did it. In my writing my instinct was to defy form, but I very much sought in defying it to affirm it, an irony that was difficult enough to articulate, much less defend. But the wood, the feel of it, the smell of it, the weight of it. It was so much more real than words. The wood was so simple. Damnit, a table was a table was a table.

The stream of humanity pouring down the tunnel into the Red Line was too much for me. I walked for a while, watching the sky darken, then a light rain began to fall. At first it was a pleasant relief to the heat, then it fell harder. I had walked as far as New York Avenue and decided to hail a taxi. Three or four empty ones passed me and I thought of the old joke: What do you call two black men trying to get a cab in Washington, D.C.? Pedestrians. I raised my arm again and this time a car stopped, no doubt because the Ethiopian driver had a male companion with him and he felt safe enough. They looked back at me after I gave them my address, one saying, “Are you Ethiopian?” and the other, “You look Ethiopian.” I said, “No, I’m just Washingtonian.” I closed my eyes and drifted.

Mother’s bridge club was meeting at our house. Mrs. Johnson, widow of the mortuary owner Lionel Johnson, greeted me as she entered as if I were ten. “Oh, little Monksie, you’re looking so fit.” She was with her daughter, about my age, who carried her bag and wore on her face an expression of fatigue like the one I imagined I wore. “This is my daughter, Eloise,” Mrs. Johnson said. Then she saw my mother and told us to run on and play.The others arrived. And soon there were eight old ladies seated at two card tables, all of them too arthritic to shuffle and too senile to remember to whom the last card was dealt. While in the living room, eight children, around the age of forty, sat holding purses, stoles and umbrellas. We looked at each other and all regarded that as adequate and eloquent enough commiseration, then closed our eyes for naps.

“Hey, Washingtonian,” the cab driver said. “This your house?”

I paid and made my groggy way up the walk to find Lorraine sitting on the porch. “Enjoying the rain?” I asked.

She shook her head and looked at the door.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the Mrs.”

“Is Mother all right?” At that moment I heard a noise at the narrow window by the door and turned to see Mother holding aside the curtain and staring out, somewhat wild-eyed, then she disappeared. “What’s going on?”

“She’s locked and bolted the doors,” Lorraine said.

If it was true, that the doors were bolted from the inside, then my keys wouldn’t help. “Why won’t she let you in?” I asked.

“She doesn’t recognize me.”

I went to the window and knocked. Mother’s face, at least it resembled her face, flashed wild again behind the glass. I spoke to her. “Mother, it’s me, Monk.”

“Go away,” she hissed. “We don’t want any.”

I looked back at the shrugging Lorraine.

“Mother,” I said. “Please, unlock the door.”

She dropped the curtain and was gone again.

I stepped out into the yard into the rain, away from the house, and looked up at the roof covering the porch and the windows of the second floor. I recalled the window behind the desk in Father’s study had a broken latch.

I climbed while Lorraine watched from the porch, having never moved from her seat. The bark of the crepe myrtle was slick and I felt my age as I hauled my weight onto the roof. I got the window open and crawled in, knocking over a stack of books on the sill. Then I looked up to see Mother.

She said, “Monksie, there’s a man at the door who won’t go away.” In her hand was the thirty-two-calibre pistol Father had kept in his nightstand. She pointed the gun at me and said, “You might need this.”

I walked slowly to her, watching her shaking hands on the dry metal of the gun. I pushed the muzzle away from me as I took it from her. “I’ll take care of the man, Mother. You just go to your bedroom and take your nap.”