Robert Coover - Gerald's Party

‘Yum!’ wheezed Yvonne. ‘Pure bourbon!’

‘Smells like a salad.’

Below us, Dickie laughed, and Daffie, saddened by her glance over the railing (‘But please,’ Howard was arguing, ‘there’s not arts and crafts, there’s only art or crafts!’), said: ‘Roger once told me a funny thing. He said all words lie. Language is the square hole we keep trying to jam the round peg of life into. It’s the most insane thing we do. He called it a crime. A fucking crime.’

‘You mean he … he thought it was a crime to be insane?’ Naomi gasped, looking distressed, and Yvonne, smacking her lips, declared hoarsely: ‘My oh my! That oughta put some chest on my hair!’

The woman cradling Yvonne’s head winced and exchanged a sorrowful glance with Jim, who said: ‘The thing now is to get you more comfortable. Here, son, you’re young and strong, you take that side and I’ll — can you manage the legs, Gerry?’

‘Sure,’ I said as the doorbell rang. ‘Ah …’

Jim glanced up from under Yvonne’s right arm, a shock of gray hair in his eyes. ‘That may be the ambulance …’

‘Ambulance?’

‘The police wanted an autopsy on Ros.’ Anatole, under the other arm, looked startled and annoyed. Jim pivoted toward the foot of the stairs just as Woody appeared there, coming in from the back. The doorbell rang again. ‘They said here and now, but I told them this was not the place for it …’

‘ Woody! ’ Yvonne wailed, breaking into the tears she’d been holding back.

I nodded and set her feet down gently. ‘Thanks, Jim. Just a minute, I’ll let them in.’

‘Where’ve you been , for chrissake?!’

‘I’m sorry, I was in conference,’ her husband said, hurrying up the steps with his cousin Noble. As they brushed past me, Noble took a last impatient drag, then flicked his cigarette butt over the railing (Patrick, below, ducked, glaring — behind him: a line of people at the toilet door). ‘I just heard — are you all right?’

‘All right?! Are you crazy? ’ She was bawling now, all bravura swept away in the sudden flood. Wilma had started for the door, but hesitated when she saw me coming, turned to check herself in the hallway mirror instead. ‘It’s gonna take three goddamn trips just to get all of me home , Woody! Baw haw haw! How can I be all right?! ’

‘She’s had a rough time,’ the woman who’d been holding her said, her voice sharp, and Woody, behind and above me, muttered something apologetic about an interrogation: ‘I’m sorry, the police needed help opening some drawers — I think they’re on to something …’

‘It’s the ambulance,’ I explained to Wilma’s reflection, but when I opened the door it wasn’t. It was Fats and Brenda.

‘ Ta-daa-aa-ah! ’ Fats sang out, his arms outspread like a cheerleader’s, a big grin on his face, and Brenda, squeezed into a bright red pants suit, did a little pirouette there on the porch, one hand over her head, and, snapping her gum, asked: ‘Hey, am I beautiful? Am I beautiful?’

‘But … what are you guys doing out there?’ I asked in confusion.

‘I give up, man,’ Fats replied, rolling his eyes and thrusting a bottle in a paper bag at me. ‘What are you guys doin’ in there? ’

‘But I thought — I thought you’d already—’

‘Sorry we’re late, lover,’ Brenda said breathlessly, pushing in and pecking my cheek (‘She’s too heavy for him,’ Patrick was complaining through the banister rails), ‘but it took — hi, Wilma! — it took me an hour to get into this goddamn pants suit!’

‘It’s gorgeous!’ Wilma exclaimed, holding her breasts. ‘Where’d you ever—?’

‘And I got so turned on watchin ’ her,’ Fats rumbled with a grin, unzipping his down jacket, ‘that I made her get out of it again!’

‘Which was damn near as hard as getting in — God help me if I— pop! — have to pee!’

‘Never mind, I can’t wear pants anyway,’ Wilma sighed ruefully, turning back to the mirror and giving her hair a pat. ‘The last time I tried it, Talbot said I reminded him of an airbag.’

‘Gettin’ in ,’ Fats admitted, jabbing a stiff thick finger at us (‘Or maybe it was Archie who told me that …,’ Wilma mused), ‘it was pretty hard, okay.’ The finger drooped: ‘But gettin’ out …’

‘Or Miles …’

‘Listen,’ I broke in, ‘you have to know, something terrible has—’

‘What? Do I hear somebody at the dartboard?’ boomed Fats, tossing his jacket on the chair over the Inspector’s overcoat: the fedora (now dented as well as spotted, I noticed) fell brim-up to the floor. Above us, glasses kicked, clattered and tumbled. ‘Lemme at ’em!’

‘Talbot likes to do it with mirrors,’ Wilma added, turning away from her reflection. Fats, over her shoulder, was slicking down his pate, someone was hammering on the toilet door: ‘The police are here, Brenda. Ros has been—’

‘ Hey , baby!’ Fats boomed out over our heads. ‘Whatta they done to you?!’

‘It’s been a helluva ballgame, Fats!’ Yvonne declared from halfway down the stairs, her arms around Jim and Anatole, Woody carrying her bound legs, Noble cradling the middle: ‘Don’t let it sag, Noble!’ Jim gasped. Patrick’s face was screwed up, his body tense, as though sharing the burden.

‘He says it makes him feel like a movie star,’ Wilma explained to no one in particular. ‘It only makes me feel depressed.’

‘Well, old Fats is here now, honey — you just point out the bad asses who done this to you!’

‘Easy!’ puffed Jim as they reached the bottom, crunching glass underfoot, and Michelle came over to see what was going on. Up on the landing, Alison’s husband was expounding on something to Howard and Mrs Draper, pointing into the depths of the Ice Maiden’s mouth.

‘Say, Gerry, your wife—’

‘Yes, yes, I know, Michelle—’

‘Wait a minute, what’s all that red stuff all over everybody?’ Brenda cried.

‘It’s just what it looks like,’ said Wilma. ‘Wait’ll you see the living room …’

‘All I can say,’ said Noble darkly (Daffie, stepping down, turned her back to the hallway mirror, presenting us with a mocking before-and-after contrast that seemed almost illusory: a time trick that Tania might have used), ‘is it had better come out!’

The downstairs toilet door opened just then: and it wasn’t Janice Trainer who emerged, but the short cop, shirttails dangling, still struggling with his buttons: ‘Awright, awright! Christ!’ he muttered, his face flushed, and ducked into the living room.

‘Blood always does …’

‘They still won’t give them back to me,’ Patrick was whispering to Woody. Woody nodded, grunting sympathetically: ‘See me about it later, Patrick. We’ll see what we can do.’

‘Roger went crazy,’ Michelle explained to Fats, but he wasn’t listening: ‘Here, man, you ain’t lookin’ so good,’ he said, taking over from Anatole. ‘How ’bout lettin’ ole Fats have a cuddle now?’

Anatole, starkly pale, gave up his burden gladly, and as they carted Yvonne off to the living room (‘I’m okay! Send me in again, coach! I’m not finished yet!’ she was declaiming), he turned to Brenda and said, his breath catching: ‘That woman was there when they killed him. He gave her something.’

‘Who, sweetie?’ Brenda asked, smiling up at him (Patrick, behind the boy’s shoulder, bristled). ‘Killed who?’ She blew a teasing bubble, popped it, sucked it in.

‘It was nothing,’ Daffie shrugged. She held her elbow cradled in her palm, cheroot dangling before her face. ‘I saw it. He gave her a small gold earring, that’s all.’