William Gaddis - A Folic Of His Own

— He looks real young doesn't he.

— What! he started almost upright, splashing the drink on his hand, on the crease in his trousers.

— Oh I'm sorry! I didn't know you were sleeping I'm sorry, wait a second, and before he could finish off the drink if simply to get rid of it she was down beside him with a tissue dabbing at the back of his hand. — I know it's this old picture of him, they probably took it before I was even born, she came on, setting the emptied glass aside to dab at his wrist, the warmth of her knee pressing carelessly against his — I'm always amazed when somebody dies like that how the newspaper can sit down and write this long story with everything about him practically overnight, it would take me a month.

— Not quite the way it works, he told her, letting the knee he'd sharply withdrawn come back to rest against hers, against the soft length of her thigh against his as he sank back in the cushions clearing his throat, breathing deeply the cool scent of soap mingling with perspiration from the careless buttoning of her blouse, probably wrote this obituary itself before she was born, anyone of any promise or prominence they're prepared well ahead and kept updated in the morgue he went on, short of breath, that's what they call it, the morgue where these files are kept for the day death comes along and they can simply write in the lead, after a long illness, in a plane crash, in the warm glow of low lights and lowered voices in the funeral home exchanging condolences and appointments for lunch, for drinks, for some affirmation to deny and obliterate the reality that had brought them together with another at distinct and ultimate odds on a couch somewhere, in a bed, no mystical conjunction of death and eros here as she bent closer over him to go at the spot on his trousers with the damp tissue, his hand brushing her shoulder as though for it to slip lower dislodging a button would be the most natural thing in the world reeling round him baring her breast to his lips in the act of restoring nature's equation with a new life, simply part of the natural order of things for her hand diligently rubbing away the wet crease there to stray scarcely its own breadth to undo his trousers discovering the pulsing source of her deliverance already obediently evident in its lair to redress the balance of natural law in all its practicality and lack of sentimentality, regardless of hardship.

He woke with a start to a voice saying — Don't wake him, poor thing he's exhausted, has he had anything to eat? the lights snapping on like some whirling galaxy infringing upon the darkness that had settled round him there struggling under the burden of disentangling the contributions of the pirated warmth of her thigh and the lingering soap scent drenched with perspiration from his own, gone to unrequited rest now where he straightened his trousers sitting up.

— Harry?

— Oh, Oscar yes, what…

— I've been thinking about what you said earlier, about the court leaving it up to them to disentangle their contribution from mine? from my play? He came shuffling by dragging the quilt to pull it over him coming down in a heap in a chair — the last act? that they hadn't even used it? You said a third, there goes a third of my contribution but it's not a third, it's a very short act, just the denouement it's just three scenes, three very short scenes and if they didn't use it, Mudpye said he hadn't even read it did you know that? did I tell you that?

— Probably Basic didn't hand it over, surrender as little as possible and if they didn't ask for it he's under no duty to hand it over, must have known they were on safe ground with whatever their writers dreamed up for an ending.

— Dreamed up! What could they, they took whatever they wanted from what they claimed was the public domain but where else would they look, the letters and papers in that decrepit historical society down there that's trying to sue me that's not the public domain is it? Basic said he'd tried to register them for copyright but Father had already done it, Father had got in there before him and done it.

— Then they're yours Oscar, copyright passed right to you per stirpes like anything else he…

— Yes but meanwhile Father…

— Meant to say I, meant to say will pass to you, the title will pass to you when he, probably to you and Christina if you're both his legal benefic…

— Because if they didn't use that or any of my last act how could they make any sense of it, the whole thing builds toward the last act that's what any play is about isn't it?

— Can't help you there Oscar, haven't seen their exhibits just what's here in the decree. All these special effects, they may end it snatching everybody up to meet the Lord in the clouds when the trumpet sounds for the second coming while we sit here tonight eating popcorn in a rain of fire and brimstone, about time for the news isn't it? Mind if I turn this on? He was up and already halfway across the room, — have you seen Christina?

— They're doing something in the kitchen Harry listen, they've claimed they never read the last act but if we see things in the movie tonight that…

— No sit still, just going to see what they're up to out there I'm suddenly really hungry, bring you anything? safely beyond reach now of the fit of coughing he left behind where the screen burst into life with Yummy! a waffle crowned with peanut butter being drenched in maple syrup and a blare of music that pursued him all the way to the kitchen table ravages of crusts and torn muffins, heels of cheese, wilted butter, jam, soggy remnants of an omelette and a sprinkling of spilled sugar or it might have been salt, empty cups, glasses, juice cartons, an oily sardine tin and sodden tea bags, olive pits, crumpled napkins, spoons and a butter smeared carving knife where the two of them sat, greeting his gratuitous inquiry, — Are you eating? with an equally senseless response.

— Oh Harry, are you up? He may want a bite of something Lily.

— Does he want that omelette or should I make a new one.

— Some hot tea, he looks like he needs it.

— Or maybe he wants some soup, there's this can of tomato soup? both their vacant gazes fixed on him where he'd sat down between them chewing on a bite of something.

— I can't even think about supper, I don't think anyone will care about it at this point anyhow. Is Oscar up, Harry?

— In there watching the news, can't you hear it? he muttered to the distant echo of gunfire, reaching for another crust.

— Have you said anything to him yet? I mean it had to happen sooner or later, he was almost a hundred years old and the smoking and drinking on top of it, I do wish you'd take better care of yourself Harry you've lost weight. I mean you should really make a point of eating three full meals a day, are you still taking those pills? are you? He nodded, spooning up the last cold shred of omelette — because God knows what tonight will, oh Lily! We forgot the popcorn.

— I better clean up here anyway before we, what was that.

— What was that!

— Christina Harry Christina quickly! Come here quickly!

— My God I knew it! chairs scraping, crusts cup and the carving knife gone to the floor — I knew it!

— Look! The flaming effigy swung closer in a floodlit melee of flying rocks and beer cans, Stars, Bars and Stripes asunder, signs and placards brandished and trampled, GOD IS JUDGE aloft and IMPEACH smouldering on the judicial robes — what do they, look!

— It had to happen sooner or later Oscar, I mean he was almost…

— What did! What are they doing all this again for! they…

— What the media's all about Oscar, pictures make the news, no fun showing an old judge writing a landmark legal opinion but they get an excuse to show their old file tape full of rum and riot, burning crosses, burning flags stir the pot and they've got a feature story, any excuse to stir up the flames of hatred and…