Robert Coover - Pricksongs & Descants

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She’s just sunk down into the tubful of warm fragrant suds, ready for a nice long soaking, when the phone rings. Wrapping a towel around her, she goes to answer: no one there. But now the baby’s awake and bawling. She wonders if that’s Jack bothering her all the time. If it is, brother, that’s the end. Maybe it’s the end anyway. She tries to calm the baby with the half-empty bottle, not wanting to change it until she’s finished her bath. The bathroom’s where the diapers go dirty, and they make it stink to high heaven. “Shush, shush!” she whispers, rocking the crib. The towel slips away, leaving an airy empty tingle up and down her backside. Even before she stoops for the towel, even before she turns around, she knows there’s somebody behind her.

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“We just came by to see if you were being a good girl,!’ Jack says, grinning down at her. She’s flushed and silent, her mouth half open. “Lean over,” says Mark amiably. “We’ll soap your back, as long as we’re here.” But she just huddles there, down in the suds, staring up at them with big eyes.

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“Hey! What’s going on here?” It’s Mr. Tucker, stumbling through the door with a drink in his hand. She looks up from the TV. “What’s the matter, Mr. Tucker?” “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, I got lost — no, I mean, I had to get some aspirin. Excuse me!” And he rushes past her into the bathroom, caroming off the livingroom door jamb on the way. The baby wakes.

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“Okay, get off her, Mr. Tucker!” “Jack!” she cries, “what are you doing here?” He stares hard at them a moment: so that’s where it goes. Then, as Mr. Tucker swings heavily off, he leans into the bastard with a hard right to the belly. Next thing he knows, though, he’s got a face full of an old man’s fist. He’s not sure, as the lights go out, if that’s his girlfriend screaming or the baby…

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Her host pushes down on her fair fanny and tugs with all his might on her girdle, while she bawls on his shoulder: “I don’t wanna go to a rest home!” “Now, now, take it easy, Dolly, nobody’s gonna make you—” “Ouch! Hey, you’re hurting!” “You should buy a bigger girdle, Dolly.” “You’re telling me?” Some other guy pokes his head in. “Whatsamatter? Dolly fall in?” “No, she fell out. Give me a hand.”

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By the time she’s chased Jack and Mark out of there, she’s lost track of the program she’s been watching on television. There’s another woman in the story now for some reason. That guy lives a very complicated life. Impatiently, she switches channels. She hates ball-games, so she settles for the murder mystery. She switches just in time, too: there’s a dead man sprawled out on the floor of what looks like an office or a study or something. A heavyset detective gazes up from his crouch over the body: “He’s been strangled.” Maybe she’ll take that bath, after all.

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She drags him into the bathroom and pulls his pants down. She soaps up a warm washcloth she’s had in the tub with her, but just as she reaches between his legs, it starts to spurt, spraying her arms and hands. “Oh, Jimmy! I thought you were done!” she cries, pulling him toward the toilet and aiming it into the bowl. How moist and rubbery it is! And you can turn it every which way. How funny it must feel!

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“Stop it!” she screams. “Please stop!” She’s on her hands and knees and Jack is holding her head down. “Now we’re gonna teach you how to be a nice girl,” Mark says and lifts her skirt “Well, I’ll be damned!” “What’s the matter?” asks Jack, his heart pounding. “Look at this big pair of men’s underpants she’s got on!” Those are my daddy’s!” says Jimmy, watching them from the doorway. “I’m gonna tell!”

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People are shooting at each other in the murder mystery, but she’s so mixed up, she doesn’t know which ones’ are the good guys. She switches back to the love story. Something seems to have happened, because now the man is kissing his invalid wife tenderly. Maybe she’s finally dying. The baby wakes, begins to scream. Let it. She turns up the volume on the TV.

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Leaning down over her, unbuckling his belt. It’s all happening just like he’s known it would. Beautiful! The kid is gone, though his pants, poor lad, remain. “Looks like you and me, we got a secret to keep, child!” But he’s cramped on the couch and everything is too slippery and small. “Lift your legs up, honey. Put them around my back.” But instead, she screams. He rolls off, crashing to the floor. There they all come, through the front door. On television, somebody is saying: “Am I a burden to you, darling?” “Dolly! My God! Dolly, I can explain…!”

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The game of the night is Get Polly Tucker Back in Her Girdle Again. They’ve got her down on her belly in the livingroom and the whole damn crowd is working on her. Several of them are stretching the girdle, while others try to jam the fat inside. “I think we made a couple inches on this side! Roll her over!” Harry?

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She’s just stepped into the tub, when the phone rings, waking the baby. She sinks down in the suds, trying not to hear. But that baby doesn’t cry, it screams. Angrily, she wraps a towel around herself, stamps peevishly into the baby’s room, just letting the phone jangle. She tosses the baby down on its back, unpins its diapers hastily, and gets yellowish baby stool all over her hands. Her towel drops away. She turns to find Jimmy staring at her like a little idiot She slaps him in the face with her dirty hand, while the baby screams, the phone rings, and nagging voices argue on the TV. There are better things she might be doing.

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What’s happening? Now there’s a young guy in it. Is he after the young girl or the old invalid? To tell the truth, it looks like he’s after the same man the women are. In disgust, she switches channels. “The strangler again,” growls the fat detective, hands on hips, staring down at the body of a half-naked girl. She’s considering either switching back to the love story or taking a quick bath, when a hand suddenly clutches her mouth.

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“You’re both chicken,” she says, staring up at them. “But what if Mr. Tucker comes home?” Mark asks nervously.

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How did he get here? He’s standing pissing in his own goddamn bathroom, his wife is still back at the party, the three of them are, like good kids, sitting in there in the livingroom watching TV. One of them is his host’s boy Mark. “It’s a good murder mystery, Mr. Tucker,” Mark said, when he came staggering in on them a minute ago. “Sit still!” he shouted, “I’m just home for a moment!” Then whump thump on into the bathroom. Long hike for a weewee, Mister. But something keeps bothering him. Then it hits him: die girl’s panties, hanging like a broken balloon from the rabbit-ear antennae on the TV! He barges back in there, giving his shoulder a helluva crack on the livingroom door jamb on the way — but they’re not hanging there anymore. Maybe he’s only imagined it “Hey, Mr. Tucker,” Mark says flatly. “Your fly’s open.”

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The baby’s dirty. Stinks to high heaven. She hurries back to the livingroom, hearing sirens and gunshots. The detective is crouched outside a house, peering in. Already, she’s completely lost. The baby screams at the top of its lungs. She turns up the volume. But it’s all confused. She hurries back in there, claps an angry hand to the baby’s mouth. “Shut up!” she cries. She throws the baby down on its back, starts to unpin the diaper, as the baby tunes up again. The phone rings. She answers it, one eye on the TV. “What?” The baby cries so hard it starts to choke. Let it. “I said, hi, this is Jack!” Then it hits her: oh no! the diaper pin!