William Gaddis - Carpenter's Gothic

— Billy? will you call? please? and she watched them out only long enough to see the books tumbled into the leaves as he came off the step, to see wind flapping the raincoat stooped picking them up as though they'd been flung in that boisterous climb of school out for the day and even the laughter she couldn't hear now, getting the door closed against it, turning away so that when the car made the turn down the hill, the wave of a hand leavetook the blind windows of simply a house.

She'd walked back through the kitchen where the clock was now labouring the hour when fingertips had traced down her back, lingered at the top of the rift searching over the edge, down it, deeper, desperate fictions like the immortal soul and these damned babies rushing around demanding to be born and born again, it was all fear, standing there and looking in where the smoke had paled and the dust settled over the littered table under the dimmed panes, over the books, bundles, trash bags, all at once she stepped back and slammed the door full, jammed the padlock closed on it with the heel of her hand and turned crumpling a paper napkin to blow her nose. Stillness filled the place but she seemed to be listening, afraid I disturbed you Mrs Booth but he learned how to use the damned shovel, that's the difference. I wish you'd never said that Bibb, you've always got the upper hand that's like how you survive but he's sort of a neat old, afraid I disturbed you Mrs Booth… She turned on the radio, to be told there was a forcible rape in this country every six minutes and she turned that off, eyes fixed on the still phone till she picked it up and dialed. — Yes, hello? Let me, this is Mrs Booth Elizabeth Booth, may I speak to Adolph? It's just… Oh, oh no that's all right no, don't interrupt him. It's nothing important.

And here they came, borne up the hill on shouts borne in tatters like the leaves blown one like another, spotted, yellowed here, drawn shriveled brown there but all leaves, hats, a glove or a mitten or even a sock, was it? a book in the air spilling pages and the spill of a grin on the face of the smallest of them frozen at wide eyed sight of her there halved in the glass panels of the door where she held to the newel as though fighting for balance, still as the old man propped on his broom out there recovering his bearings, getting his footing against the threat of movement anywhere even hers, now she suddenly pulled open the door and came out for two books almost indistinct from the leaves where they'd fallen, one of them in a yellow jacket and the other, in brown buckram, Bantu Prophets of South Africa she saw when she'd got them in, got the door closed tight before she turned for the stairs.

Où est-ce que je peux changer des dollars pour des francs?

She watched till the lips appeared on the screen shaping the words, drawing her own tight against their artifice, pulling up the welter of sheets, stretching the bottom one and tucking its corners, unfurling the top one, shaking it out.

Can I change dollars in the hotel? Est-ce que je peux changer l'argent a…

And standing there watching it settle, smoothing the wrinkles only to see at each stroke their damp testament promptly return she tore both sheets away in a sweep and had them up the hall with the wadded socks, drawers, sodden towels on the floor of the bathroom.

A quelle heure ouvre la banque?

Those hands disjointed, rust spotted, crumbled features dulled and worn on the page right where she'd left them, she spread the manila folder open on clean sheets, reached for a pencil and found none, and then came back slowly on the fresh pillowslip stilled in the ashen flush of those silenced lips contorting soundless syllables on the screen which gave way, as the light at the windows gave way, to a lady playing the piano, to a man playing golf as the room grew darker, to leafy vistas and soldier ants in grim procession, to shell bursts brightening the walls for an instant, dimming with stretcher bearers, men loading a howitzer, firing a mortar turned away stopping their ears against the pounding, pounding, she was up, her feet off to the floor, reaching for the light, calling out — I'm coming! to the pounding on the door below, hesitating and then sweeping the folder up from the bed and back into the drawer under blouses, scarves, before she made way down the dark stairs, got the light on under the sampler, got the door open.

— I thought nobody's home.

— Who are you!

— These groceries? you ordered groceries?

— Oh. Oh I'm sorry yes, I forgot just, just wait here.

— Only the wine, they couldn't send you no wine.

— It doesn't matter she said, back counting out bills from the drawer in the kitchen. — It doesn't matter.

She'd set out a cup, put on the teakettle and reached out to the radio which had just time to warn her that the hurdy gurdy was the King of Naples' favourite instrument when a kick at the door brought her round with — Paul?

— God damn door standing wide open Liz, did you know that?

— Oh, yes some groceries just came and I…

— Standing here wide open, he came in from the dark heaving a shoulder against it to get through with the bag he dropped on the floor, the armload of papers down on the kitchen table in his search for a glass. — Any calls?

— Yes, there was a…

— Look before I forget it, call from McFardle down in Teakell's office if he wait, wait maybe I can still get him what time is it… He looked up from the bottle pressed hard down on the rim of the glass, — God damn clock Liz you still haven't set the God damn clock? up to where she looked, to where it had just overtaken the moment she'd stepped wet from the bath, rattled drawers open holding this up to her, that, a printed chiffon she hadn't seen since this Ragg knit — any mail? He'd come down heavily in the chair behind the table there, — Liz?

— What?

— Just asked you if there's any God damn mail, ask you if there's any mail if there's been any calls we don't even know what time it is, here… he turned to obliterate Haydn's Notturno number five in C nagging at his back with a twist of the dial that brought them words of hope for hemorrhoid sufferers everywhere, — find out what the hell time it is… and he put down his glass but held to it, tight, against a sudden tremor in his hand.

— The mail it's, yes it's right there it's sort of mixed up with yesterday's but, and you had a call yes, the one you expected from Mister Slot, from, Paul what happened! Your whole sleeve it's, what happened! He was up again pressing the bottle free over the rim of the emptied glass, setting it down hard to pull off his jacket — and your arm! your arm wait, let me…

— Don't! don't need help no just, just get the God damn thing off me… his back turned to her lifting it from his shoulders, parting the sleeve severed wrist to elbow — think I dressed up like a scarecrow for Halloween you didn't even notice it when I…

— But your shirt too the blood it's, what…

— Switchblade. He picked up the glass and drank slowly till he'd emptied it. — Just broke the skin but there goes my good suit. I got mugged Liz, broad daylight coming out of that prayer breakfast people all over the place I got mugged, that's all.

— No but was it…

— A spade of course it was a spade! Looked just like my, see it in his eyes before he came at me, see it coming in the yellow of his God damned eyes before I saw the knife.

— But it's, don't you want to wash it or, or some ice? put some ice…

He was down in the chair again staring fixed at the glass, thrusting it toward her — yes here, get me some ice. I think he was waiting for me… He reached out to drag up the folds of the jacket, — tried to get his hands on this I think he was waiting for me.