Lynne Tillman - American Genius - A Comedy

I carry the language book to the postcard tray, where I shuffle through the frayed stack, and it too hasn't changed, the written messages are as repetitive and empty as they were some days ago. Yet I hope for surprise, more and more, though it's the twin of disappointment, and I want to disown its wanton seductions, but wherever I go, I wait for it, even when I don't know I am, but then I am trying to become more aware, with help, the arrival of which might also be a surprise. I had the surprise of a second mysterious postcard a while ago, when I needed it, like a good laugh. Its typed message was even more simple and blunt: Can't give up now. The signature again appeared to have been scratched onto the card, like a bird's sharp claw might make. On its front the word GREETINGS was covered in glitter, extolling the name of a town that could have been in IA or IN, but it wasn't clear, since the card was torn at the bottom, obscuring the state's identity, and the post office had enclosed the card in a plastic bag, on which they issued a formal printed apology for the poor handling and consequent damage their sorting machines had caused. Some people can't apologize, ever, those who should apologize rarely do, because in their minds they're always victims, like a woman I barely know, who was in residence briefly, a dour character who snubbed me for no reason I could ascertain, we barely made contact, but when I came near her, she showed her back to me in the main lounge, which disturbed my peace of mind. I have done this to others but with a valid reason, as when mutually recognized enemies appeared, their presence an assault, and I couldn't bear their contemptible faces, yet they understood my behavior, since they felt similarly, my presence disrupted their peace, too, but the dour woman's behavior also and paradoxically contented me like an ambiguous tale. She may believe I owe her an apology, which I might give if I understood her complaint, but her complaints are likely endless, for her longings go unfulfilled, she had many ambitions, to be in the foreign service as a diplomat, I heard her say to another, but her father and mother blocked her, and her older sister, too, and daily she grows more bilious, further from her goals. It's easy to perceive her injuries and disappointment when she throws her head to the side and peers with big, dull eyes at a group of people near her and displays, like an angry dog, her contempt. She quickly left the community, to seek another where she might not be as forlorn and receive better counsel, though it is unlikely. The post office regularly apologizes for its many mistakes, and as before when I received the first postcard, on the message side an illegible but familiar signature stood, and again, with the arrival of the second postcard, I recognized that a mysterious character had thought of me, benevolently, maybe a former lover or an amusing acquaintance, though that might not be so, since I do have enemies, like the two former, devious friends I avoided, as well as ones I'm not aware of, even the woman who suddenly snubbed me and disappeared may be an enemy, but I quickly determined not to prolong consideration of the message's meaning or its putative sender, pleasing myself with my sensible forbearance. It must have been six weeks ago that I hid the second elliptical and tantalizing card with the first in a drawer that smelled of pine and blanketed both under a one hundred percent cotton handkerchief, so that I wouldn't see them even accidentally, though I know they are there, the way I know that heavy, frequent snowfalls in the northern hemisphere offer temporary beauty by disguising, for one thing, the ugliness of slovenly and unimaginative architecture.

The shopkeeper wears an old-fashioned costume, because it is Founder's Day week, the town is two hundred seventy years old, and my interest in American history often brings me into proximity with characters such as the shopkeeper, who revere the past or want to simulate it in ways I don't. On this spot, she attests, and we both look down at the unswept floorboards, the town's founders decided there must be a library, and it is one of the towns in America that first had free, public schools and a free, public library, and in her shop, many yellow-paged books describe the town's illustrious past, along with outdated manuals and instruction leaflets, whose pages fall out when opened, on knitting and the other homely arts, as well as on languages, which contain a type of history, at least one of endeavor and of trial and error. The Polish woman might vacation in a picturesque town like this, with her mother or girlfriends, visit the abandoned mills, historic inns, or churches where Jonathan Edwards damned congregations, or go skiing, ski comes from the Scandinavian languages, also, and she might spend a long, active weekend exerting herself until a film of sweat dampened her skin, since, never liking to be idle, when the devil does his work, she's told me, she enjoys walking, volleyball, and most forms of exercise, especially going on outings and strenuous hikes. I don't go on outings or never call them that, though my trips to town might indeed be outings.

The owner of the store has hung photographs of her dog on the wall behind her, a large, black and brown mutt, a mixed breed, like most people, indistinguishable from many others, but I know, because of the way I feel about my animals, that for her there is no other dog like it. My slightly wild cat is black and unmarked, and, he would, if he were lost, be hard to trace, because, unless you loved him, as I do, you wouldn't notice his endearing characteristics, which make him unusual and appealing, since he is not just a black cat, though he is that, too, and only that to others who don't love him. The Polish woman has never mentioned cats or dogs, she might not like animals, or she might like them but not want them to ruin her furniture, a reservation I don't appreciate, because it betrays a respect or reverence for the material world or a materialism I don't admire, though I love chairs and textiles, and would not want either ruined by my cat, but people in this town revere their pets, people everywhere love their animals, and, on the picture-perfect streets here, hulking, aged Labradors creep after adoring masters, and in the town's two cafes and one diner, small dogs sleep on human laps, since dogs are allowed in the bookstore, antique store, drugstore, and health food store, and no one complains about allergies to dog or cat hair, though some people must be allergic to dander and own special vacuum cleaners to facilitate its elimination, in order not to have to expel their beloved animals. My dog was given away by my parents, who pretended to love her but must not have, or if they did, it's a mystery how they could have abandoned the beloved, innocent animal to a shelter and had it killed. Both the family cat and dog disappeared, taken by night or day, left somewhere or given away. The cat supposedly ran from the shelter, jumped out of its cage, and I have many times conjured the scene in the animal shelter, when the cage opened, and someone was about to feed her, and she, wily and desperate, took her opportunity and raced out, far away, kept running until she reached a highway, followed it, and tried to find her way back to the people who supposedly loved her, but then she was hit by a car and maybe killed, or she spent months on the road, wounded, and winter came and killed her, though she had been exceptionally sturdy and resourceful. When my family bought our comfortable house, which was built to my parents' and the architect's specifications, my mother decided that our cat, who was then very young, but very different from my cat now, should live near the house while it was under construction, and that we should visit her every week since we came anyway to see the house's progress. There were woods all around at that time, the area was forested and swampy, not a yawning suburb, which it would eventually become, and back then the cat was left there in the woods, to scavenge and hunt, and every weekend we visited the house and her. My mother, to whom the cat was devoted, because she delivered the cat's first litter, which included a breech birth, whistled sharply, two fingers tucked in the corners of her mouth, and from a distance we could all hear the excited scramble of a four-legged creature racing happily, even madly, through the leaves to her and us. The cat always came.