William Vollmann - The Royal Family

No, he said weakly, I can’t afford it.

You spend your money on pretty things, said she. You can spend your money on this.

No, no, he said.

Then you can borrow it from Bertha.

But I don’t feel comfortable with Bertha. I’ll vacuum but can you borrow it?

No.

Okay. Then I’ll do it.

On Tuesday Bertha wasn’t there. He called three times. On Wednesday it was the same. His wife was going to dinner at Bertha’s. He had spoken to Bertha on the phone and it was understood that he would pick up the vacuum. He went down when he was sure that dinner would be over and it had just started. Theodore was sitting at the head of the table, carving the turkey, and his wife was there and Bertha was just bringing in the brussels sprouts from the kitchen.

Oh, you have to stay! said Bertha.

I–I… he said, becoming tongue-tied with shame.

Sit down, beamed the octopus, glowering with pure hatred.

No, I just wanted to borrow the vacuum…

Can’t it wait until after dinner? snarled Theodore. I mean, we’re eating.

I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to—

No, no, no, give him the vacuum, said Bertha anxiously.

Everyone stared at him over their ruined dinner. Bertha rushed into the bedroom and got the vacuum. Doing this she awakened the baby, who began to cry.

Oh, Theodore, said Bertha. There’s something wrong with the vacuum. Can you fix it?

Theodore leaped up in a rage, knocking over the ruined dinner…

She had begun to accord her career the attention which it deserved. She was an engineer for a nationwide company which manufactured super-cold smart refrigerators. If she distinguished herself, they’d give her a promotion and they could move back to the west coast. She had a number of competitors for the position, but she knifed them square in the belly; she slit their livers open; she made their guts see the light of day! Her octopus quivered and listened perpetually; it was impossible to surprise her. Those who tried staggered back gushing blood, and their fate was the same as that of the amateurs whom she herself surprised. She drove them all down to death. Catnapping from year to year, tossing restlessly in that murderous marriage bed, she seized the spoils and gathered grander weapons, until at last she won the triumph; he didn’t care. Now they were all set to move into their dream house.

They fought about where and when and how, and the next thing they fought about was the printer stand. He suddenly realized that she had moved it into the hall to be trashed. She’d gone somewhere when he noticed. He went outside, and there it was. He brought it back inside. It was his; he was using it and it would be good to have when they got to their dream house. It was ugly and lightweight and practically indestructible. As far as he was concerned it would be fine forever. No doubt she hated it for its looks. But they wouldn’t have any money for awhile. The dream house, as dream houses will, had cost more than expected, and once the closing costs were tacked on… If he allowed her to throw it out, he wouldn’t have any ugly chair when they got there. She’d be working, and wouldn’t be available. He wouldn’t have money; he’d just given her his life savings for the down payment on the dream house. So he thought he was entitled to the ugly chair. That was why he brought it back in. When she returned from wherever she’d been, he saw the hatred and anger leap into her eyes.

What’s this? she said.

I brought it back.

Where are you going to put it?

I don’t know. Where do you suggest? he said wearily. (All evening he’d been following her suggestions.)

Out, she said flatly. We’re not taking it.

Look, he said. I don’t have to justify everything I take. You went and put it out without consulting me. It’s mine, and—

No, it’s not yours. We found it together, in the garbage. I tell you, we’re not taking it! You just want to get the moving costs up. You don’t care. It’s not your money anymore. The costs keep going up with every stupid thing you try to save—

I’m not getting rid of it, he said then. (He’d hardly ever noticed it before.)

Now she started screeching at him. He bore it as patiently as he could, for as long as he could. His stomach began to ache. Then he told her to stop. That pleased her. Now that she’d gotten a rise out of him, she could abuse him in earnest.

He was sitting at his desk. She was standing by the table, yelling.

Please stop now, he said.

You sonofabitch, she said. You fucking sonofabitch.

She went on like that for a while.

I’m asking you for the last time to stop, he said.

Now a crisis was approaching. That was what she longed for. She refined the cruelty of her insults as she increased their volume. He did everything he could not to hear, but he heard just the same.

I’m almost at the breaking point, he said. Please stop, or I’ll push you out the door.

You leave, you fucking sonofabitch.

He could actually push her out, but that would only make a public scene, and anyway he didn’t want to be brutal. He just wanted her to stop. There was no use talking to her and she wasn’t going to shut up. He couldn’t bear it. He could leave himself, but he was very tired and had nowhere to go. Now that his money was gone, he couldn’t stay in a hotel. She was going on and on, and he snapped. On his desk, ready to hand, was a textbook of hers. He looked at it. He was very angry now, and could barely control himself.

If you don’t stop now I’m going to throw something, he said.

Go ahead. Throw the ugly chair. Then you’ll break it and I’ll throw it out.

Will you shut up?

Listen to that. The man who never does anything tells me to shut up.

He picked up her book knowing now that he was going to throw it, terrified lest he throw it directly at her and hurt her. He couldn’t stop himself from throwing it anymore. He aimed at a chair near her and launched it and saw it hit the chair with a grand thud. The binding ripped. She swooped down on it and cried in a heartrending voice: You ruined it!

She set it down on the table so gently. (She never touched him like that.) Then she ran to his bookshelf and snatched one of his rarest books.

Well, he thought to himself, now she’s going to throw that. I might as well resign myself.

She ran up behind him glaring and raised it over his head. He wondered if she would bring it down on his face or whether she’d shatter the computer screen. He stared away stonily.

She slammed it harmlessly down on the carpet.

How’d you like it if I broke your book in two? she wept.

She went into the bedroom and he heard her weeping — a weird, not unpleasant musical wail of ooh-oohs that almost made him smile. It went on for half an hour. He knew that if he didn’t go in there she’d add to her hoard of resentments, citing coldhearted abandonment (that had happened before), but if he did go in he’d become the lightning rod of more abuse. So he sat staring at the blank screen of his computer. There was no place to go.

After a while she came out, crying more loudly now, to get Scotch tape to repair the book. She came near him, wailing inconsolably for her poor dear book. No doubt she wanted to make sure that he was paying attention. So he braced himself and went in.

Can I comfort you or make it up to you in any way at all? he said.

Get out, you sonofabitch! she screamed. Fucking sonofabitch!

All right, he said.

She followed him out, screaming.

Please leave me alone, he said. I got out, didn’t I?

She went back in and slammed the door and cried for a while. Then she came out and rummaged in his tool box a foot behind him, loudly. He didn’t look. She took something. Then he heard a loud thud. She’d thrown the ugly chair down on the floor and was trying to smash it with his hammer. It was comical. He had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from laughing. Finally something broke. It was the shaft of the hammer. She cried out and flung the pieces into the garbage and left the chair lying by the door, an upside down monument to battle. He felt affection for the sturdy thing. It was his heart’s proxy, just as her book had been; she could not destroy it.