Robert Coover - Gerald's Party

‘My, what cute little weenies,’ Patrick remarked as Louise, flushing, took the bowl from my wife’s hands.

‘Can I fix you a drink before you go, Louise?’ I called, but, averting her face darkly, she backed out through the dining room door without replying. ‘What’s the matter with her? ’

‘She was badly bruised in there,’ my wife said, speaking up over the dishwasher. She brought the avocado dip over and set it on the butcherblock worktable in the middle of the room, under the big fluorescent lamp, and I thought of Alison again, that play we’d seen. ‘Don’t you notice? Everything that happens,’ she’d said that night, ‘happens where the light is.’ ‘Didn’t you see her face?’

‘Ah, was that a bruise …?’ I poked my nose in the fridge: about a dozen cans of beer left — Dolph must be drinking them six at a time. They were squeezed in there among dishes and dishes of prepared foods, tins of sardines, anchovies, pimentos, bags of sliced and chopped vegetables, pâtés, and dozens of sausages and wrapped cheeses.

‘She said Roger bumped her cheek with his elbow,’ my wife explained over her shoulder, pulling hot bread out of the oven, hurrying it gingerly to the butcherblock.

‘I’m afraid her face isn’t all that’s bruised,’ Patrick announced archly. ‘It’s a good thing for you this house has firm foundations!’

‘Now, Patrick,’ my wife scolded playfully (her busy hands, slender, a bit raw, stirred dips, arranged biscuits and crackers, sliced bread), winking at me as I dragged a case of beer up to the fridge, ‘she’s not that heavy!’

‘My dear,’ declared Patrick, one hand on his hip, the other holding his glass up as though in a toast, ‘I had already fallen when Louise went down, and when she hit the floor I skidded three feet in her direction! ’

My wife laughed and waggled an admonishing finger. ‘Patrick, you’re a scandal!’ Patrick, looking smug, lit up one of his French cigarettes, and she put a saucepan of water on to boil.

‘By the way,’ I said, realizing that this had been bothering me for some time now — in fact since I’d talked to Daffie — ‘where did they take Roger?’ This last was shouted out in relative silence, as the dishwasher timer suddenly clicked over, and it made my wife and Patrick start. Frightened me, too, in a way. They turned away. I lowered my voice. ‘I, uh, didn’t see him in the dining room.’

‘They took him into your study,’ my wife explained. She put a lid on the saucepan, staring at it as though estimating its contents. ‘They said the TV bothered them.’

‘Really?’ I pulled the cold beers forward, packing the warm cans in at the back. ‘I don’t even think it’s on.’

‘Knud was watching something.’

‘He fell asleep.’

‘You know, he told me a really weird story tonight,’ said Patrick, sucking up some of the crushed ice from his salty bitch.

‘Knud?’

‘No, Roger, of course. Before the — before …’

Shoving things around to make room for the beer, I discovered at the back an old bottle of tequila, still about a third full. Must have been in there for years.

‘He said he came home one night and Ros was gone.’

‘Nothing weird about that. The weird thing was to find her at home. Say, how long’s it been since we were last in Mexico?’

‘Eight and a half years, Gerald — but don’t interrupt. Tell us about the story, Patrick. What happened …?’

‘Well, it’s very peculiar,’ said Patrick, stubbing out his cigarette, his bright eyes squinting from the smoke, his voice losing some of its mincing distance, mellowing toward intimacy. ‘He said he arrived home from the office late one night and Ros was gone, but there in her place, sitting in a chair by the window, was a strange old lady. Roger said the only word for her was “hag.” An old hag. She had long scraggly white hair, wild piercing eyes, a hunched back, and she was dressed in pitiful old rags. He said he felt a strange presentiment about her as though he were in the presence of some dreadful mystery. He asked her why she’d come, and she replied that she’d been told he was a great lawyer and could help her in her misfortune. She claimed to possess a fabulous wealth which she wished to share with all the world, but which had been taken away from her by a wicked and spiteful son and locked in a secret vault. Moreover, her son was seeking to have her declared mentally insane and put away, and she wanted Roger to force the son to release the fortune for the benefit of all and to prevent her unjust incarceration. Well! Roger said he understood immediately that it was a parable she’d been speaking, one meant for him alone, he was the selfish son, and his treasure — well, he told the strange old woman that though he sympathized with her plight he was unable to do as she asked. “For shame!” hissed the old woman. “You’ll burn in hell for your lack of charity!” Mortified by his own weakness, he buried his head in his hands, and when he looked up again the hag was gone. He ran to the door and found Ros, lying in a swoon in the corridor outside, her hair loose and wild, her clothes torn.’

‘In a swoon—?’

‘That’s what he said. You should have seen his eyes when he told us! He said he carried her into the bedroom, fearing for her very life. He sat up with her all night, weeping buckets, kissing her feverishly, pleading for her forgiveness, until at last she came around. He begged her to tell him all that had happened, but she said she couldn’t remember a thing since she’d left the bank that afternoon.’

We were both staring at Patrick in silence when the dishwasher popped suddenly into its rinse cycle, making us all jump. I laughed. My wife said: ‘It must have been a dream, don’t you think, Gerald?’

Even over the noisy churning of the dishwasher, we could hear Mr Draper’s booming voice on the other side of the door: ‘ Yes, heh heh, you might say I’ve got a lot of time on my hands! ’ Patrick started up uneasily. ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘Or maybe a play Ros was in …’

‘ Time, heels! Yeh heh heh! ’

‘Do you think they’ll keep my tweezers?’ Patrick asked anxiously, tugging his cuffs down over his wrists, his eye on the door. ‘They’re real silver!’

‘Speaking of silver, I forgot to tell you, we’re invited to Cyril and Peg’s big anniversary party,’ my wife said, peeking into the kettle of water. The way she held the lid made me think of the Inspector hooded by Ros’s skirt.

‘Are they here yet?’

‘A — a gift from my mother—!’

‘Cyril and Peg? I think so.’ She poked around in the refrigerator and found a carton of eggs. ‘Didn’t they come with Fats and Brenda?’

‘ It’s Old Man Time here, soaks! I mean, folks! ’ Mr Draper sang out jovially, bumping in through the door, and Patrick slipped stealthily out behind him. Mr Draper wore wristwatches chockablock up both arms like sleeves of armor and his pants bagged low, their thin suspenders stretched tight, weighted down by his deep bulging pockets. ‘Come along now, heh heh, no present like the time!’

My wife, using a ladle, dropped the last of the eggs into the boiling water, checked her watch, then peeled it off and handed it to him. ‘Mine was your first, Mr Draper,’ I said, showing him my empty wrist.

‘Call me Lloyd, son! You — oops, nearly forgot!’ The old man reached into his hip pocket and pulled out the butcher knife the Inspector had found. ‘Iris said to return this to you.’

‘Why, thank you, Lloyd. Looks like it needs a good washing.’ As she turned to put it in the sink, our eyes met. ‘Are you all right, Gerald?’ she asked, smiling at me as she might at our young son.