Robert Coover - Gerald's Party

My mother-in-law took one glance and replied matter-of-factly: ‘It should be soaked in a chloride-of-lime solution. If that doesn’t work, try salts of sorrel.’

‘Protein soap will do just as well,’ my wife said, turning the fire off under the boiling eggs. ‘Just a minute and I’ll get you some, Tania.’

Her mother sniffed scornfully and paraded out with the milk and pudding, her chin high, old dark nylons whistling in deprecation, Earl Elstob holding the door for her, while slurping at his drink. ‘One who — huh! shlup! — can’t jit?’ he repeated hopefully. Yvonne had buried her face in her hands, her short straight hair, rapidly going gray, curtaining her face. It was the first time I’d seen her break down since the day she first learned about her breast cancer.

Tania picked up the steak knife Patrick had used to cut his grapefruit, touched the point with her fingertip. ‘Janny was crying, too,’ she said, peering up at Charley over her half-lens spectacles.

‘Janny’s not very flexible,’ Charley rumbled apologetically, wiping away the green dip in his eye.

Yvonne lifted her head, flicked her hair back from her face (I saw now that the eyelash on the side splashed with blood was thickly clotted and her penciled eyebrow was erased: it looked like that side of her face was disappearing), blew her nose and wailed: ‘God gave me a blue Louie, Charley!’

‘Well, give’m one back , Yvonne! God -damn it!’

Tania had discovered and examined the cheese knife on the breakfast table, and was now poking through the silverware and utensils drawers. My wife glanced up anxiously from the sink where she was draining the water off the eggs. ‘Is there something you need, Tania?’

‘Yes,’ said Tania, closing a drawer, while Charley staggered around the room dropping cubes in drinks and on the floor and pouring scotch, ‘maybe I will rinse this dress out.’

‘The soap’s up in the bathroom,’ my wife said, running cold water over the eggs. ‘In the cabinet under the sink, or else the linen cupboard — Gerald, could you look for it? It’s in a blue box …’

‘Sure …’ A whiff of herbs rose to my nose from the cool sweating glasses in my hands, and that now-familiar sense of urgency washed over me again. ‘As soon as I—’

‘Is that my wife’s drink?’ It was Alison’s husband, standing behind me in the doorway, one hand in his jacket pocket, the thumb pointed at me like a warrant, the other holding a meerschaum pipe at his mouth. ‘She’s been waiting …’

‘Ah! Yes, I was just—’

‘Two of them? Well …’ He clamped the pipe in his teeth, took both glasses as though, reluctantly, claiming booty. ‘I’ll see that she gets them.’

‘Now, there goes a pretty man!’ exclaimed Yvonne as the door slapped to, and Earl Elstob, as though suddenly inspired, asked: ‘Say, huh! yuh know the best way to find out if a girl’s ticklish?’ Charley was fishing about in the refrigerator and things were crashing and tinkling in there. He came out with that bottle I’d noticed earlier, dragging dishes and beer cans with it, and, holding it at arm’s length, stared quizzically at the label, then shrugged and poured some in his glass of scotch. ‘He looks like Don the Wand!’

‘Juan?’

‘Yeah, or the Scarlet Pippin — Pimple — what the hell—?’

‘Hey!’ Charley laughed, waggling the bottle. ‘Y’know why the—?’

‘Pimpernel,’ my wife said.

Tania took my arm. ‘C’mon, Gerry. Let’s go get cleaned up.’

‘No, wait!’ Charley rumbled. ‘Jussa — ha ha! — jussa goddamn minute! Why’da Mexican push his wife till she — hruff! haw! — fell offa cliff?’

‘Uh, that’s sorta — shlup! — like a shotgun weddin’,’ Earl yucked, sucking.

‘Check on the toilet paper while you’re up there, Gerald!’ my wife called as Tania, her arm wrapped in mine, pulled me through the door, whispering: ‘There’s something I have to show you, Gerry — something strange!’

‘You know, huh, a case of wife or—’

‘What cli-iii-iif-fff? ’ howled Yvonne.

‘ And handtowels! ’

‘No — haw haw! — wait …! ’

As we pushed through the people around the dining table, making our way toward the hall, Tania said, ‘Just a sec,’ and reached in to inspect some knives and skewers, her dress rustling as it brushed others. Over by the sideboard, Alison, discussing Tania’s painting with Mrs Draper, pointed up at something, then adopted ‘Susanna’s’ pose, one hand down in front, the other, holding the vermouth, at her breast, and looked back over her shoulder. Our eyes met and she smiled brightly, dropping the pose as though, still Susanna, exposing herself. She raised her fresh glass of vermouth at me, invited me over with a jerk of her head ‘( In a moment! )I mouthed silently, pointing at Tania’s broad back (she was slipping something into the pockets of her dress), then blew her a kiss just as her husband, who’d been standing in the TV room doorway, turned around, fitting his pipe into his mouth. He froze for a second, teeth bared around the tooth-white pipe, staring at me, and I wiped my lips with the hand with the kiss in it as though I had something hot in my mouth. Alison looked puzzled. Her husband lit up thoughtfully in the shadows behind her.

‘Hey, these horseradish meatballs are terrific, Ger! Is there any more of the dip?’

‘Uh … probably. In the kitchen, Talbot. Ask my wife.’ Earlier, Iris Draper had remarked on the dimness of the light in here, the relative brightness of the rooms around, comparing it to some mantic ceremony or other she’d come across in her tourist travels, and though at the time I’d found her chatter about ‘secret chambers’ and ‘illumination mysteries’ naively pedantic, now as I gazed at the candlelit faces of my friends gathered around the table (Alison had been drawn back to the painting by Iris and her husband, and now seemed glowingly mirrored there) — bruised, crumpled, bloodied — it all seemed strangely resonant. ‘What’s the matter with your ear, Talbot?’

‘Hit the goddamn fireplace with it.’

‘Whew! Did you show that mess to Jim?’

‘Yeah, he had to put three stitches in. Hurt like hell. Good excuse to soak up more anaesthetic, though — oh, oh, the old ball-and-chain’s calling. I was supposed to bring her one of those fancy whatchamacallits in the seashells. See ya in a minute.’ I noticed one of Ginger’s kerchiefs on the floor where he’d been standing and stooped to pick it up, also some toothpicks, spoons, a mustard knife, parsley sprigs, and a ripped-up cocktail napkin. The joke on the napkin, when I pieced it together, was of a frightened young suitor, his knees knocking together, asking a towering irate father with fumes rising from his head: ‘May I have your d-d-daughter’s hole in h-handy matrimony, s-sir?’

Someone’s breast was touching my elbow. ‘Hi, Gerry.’

‘Hey, Michelle.’ Her breast burrowed into the crook of my arm as if seeking shelter. ‘You all right?’

‘I think so. Awful, isn’t it?’

‘What happened to the fucking scotch, Ger?’

‘Charley’s got it in the kitchen.’

‘Is he sober enough to be trusted with it?’

‘I don’t know, Noble — but there’s more down there in the cabinet.’

‘Listen.’ He leaned close, dead eye toward us, good one keeping watch. There was something not quite clean about Noble’s breath. ‘Chooch’s wife knows something,’ he whispered, and Michelle backed off a step.

‘Janny? She doesn’t know the time of day.’

Noble shrugged, his lids heavy. ‘Maybe. But she’s been talking to the cops. I think she’s naming names. I’d check it out if I were you.’ He took Ginger’s fallen kerchief from my hand, casually popped his false eyeball into it, and knotted it up.