Robert Coover - Gerald's Party

‘A drink! ’ burbled Vic.

‘What do you think, Jim?’

‘Sure, what harm can it do?’

‘Poor Veek! He ees, how you say, crosseeng out, no?’

‘Yeah. Does his daughter know?’

‘What’s that? Vic goin’ out?’ asked Fats, lumbering over. ‘Don’t step on Gerry,’ someone said. ‘Hey, can he bring back some fresh coronas?’

‘I think Woody’s breaking it to her.’

‘No, no, Fats, I mean, he ees feenesh, all gone over, goode-uh-bahee!’

‘Okay, now the actual murder scene, we’re gonna do in the nude, so we need somebody who strips well.’

‘Finished?’ Fats, tottering above me, rocked back on his heels. ‘Who, Vic—?! ’

‘Great idea! What about the Vagina?’

‘Oh no,’ at least two people said at once, and Daffie, pouring out a tumbler of bourbon, murmured: ‘That Woody’s a busy little boy.’ ‘She’s tripping over her bags these days and her goddamn cheeks ( ‘Bren! It’s Vic! Oh my god , Bren. He’s been shot!’ ) ’re hanging down behind her knees! ’

‘ Beautiful! ’ rumbled Charley Trainer, hobbling up to the sideboard, as Fats staggered away. I seemed to hear people cheering in another room. ‘Hullo, Dollfish, Howard — hey, I like the bra, Howard!’ And booing. ‘ ’Ass cute!’ I rose up on my elbows (there was another burst of cheering) and stared down at my exposed navel, trying to get my bearings. There was a bruise there — had Sally Ann kicked me? No, that’s right, Roger … I fell back again. ‘Whatcha call keepin’ abreast a the times, hunh?’

And more boos: seemed to be coming from the TV room. It was like a kind of voting. Jim propped the camel-saddle under my head.

‘Say, getcher paw outa Olga’s muu-muu for jussa sec, Dolph ole pal, ’n pour yer ole dad one, wudja?’

‘I got it, Zack! How about that ripe chunk in the yellow knittie?’

‘So dot’s vot it vass! I tot I haff vorms back dere!’

‘Chunk?’

‘ Sock it to him, gimpy! ’ someone shouted from the other room. ‘ Put him on ice! ’

‘You mean that suburban hausfrau of yours? C’mon, get serious!’

‘’Ass ole Dolfer, m’love — haw haw! — awways takin’ a backseat!’

‘ Yay! ’

‘We’re not doing farce here, Horn, we don’t want any goddamn travesty!’

‘Fartz?’

‘No, wait, Zack, think about it. Anybody here would be a travesty of Ros, am I right? So all right, you accept that and you push on through into something else! You dig?’

‘Make it a short one, Dolph,’ Jim cautioned. ‘Charley’s had too much already.’

‘ Send him up the country! ’

‘ Boo! ’

‘I mean, you’re not just tryin’ to give these people some cheap fantasy, are you?’

‘What are they yelling about in there?’

‘Okay, Horner, maybe you got something. Why not? See if she’ll do it.’

‘Hey! Wha’ happena ressa my drink , Dolf-ball? ’Ass oney half of it!’

‘They’re watching old videotapes. Weird stuff. Full of sex and violence.’

‘Sorry, Charley, Jim said—’

‘What’s weird about that?’

‘What? What?! ’

‘It’s so fucking cold … my legs …’

‘I take ’iss drink as a insult , ole buddy!’

‘Easy, Vic.’

‘Did you catch the slow-mo sequence with the croquet mallets?’

‘Yeah, hairy, man! All that squosh and splat — really shook me up!’

‘Forshunately, bein’ a easy-goin’ fella, I can swallow a insult!’

‘I still can’t understand what caused them to break up,’ Jim was saying (‘But beautifully filmed!’), zipping up my fly. ‘After all this time …’

‘I don’t know,’ said Daffie. ‘Maybe they thought people weren’t paying enough attention to them.’

‘ Daddy—?! ’

‘Woops, watch it, here she comes!’

‘Oh, Daddy! ’ Sally Ann cried, her voice breaking. She stumbled over me, falling heavily into Vic’s arms. ‘What have you done? ’

‘Sally Ann? Is that … you?’

‘Yes, Daddy. Don’t try to talk …!’

‘I’ve had it … this time, kid! It’s the — whoof! hack! — the end!’ He gasped for breath. (‘He’s not got much longer,’ someone said, and Olga asked: ‘Much longer don whoose?’) ‘I never really thought I’d … have to … have to die …’

‘Is that all you can do, Olga, talk funny?’

‘I–I’ve always known what life,’ Vic spluttered, ‘…what life was about …’

‘Yah, vell, it’s sum -ing.’

‘Mmm — goodness, what is this?’

‘And I never kidded myself about — oh damn! it hurts , baby …! — about death …’

‘It’s a sort of pilaf. With yoghurt sauce.’

‘But I could never imagine … that moment …’

‘Gee, I don’t know,’ Teresa was saying (‘Well, it’s delicious! I don’t know how you do it!’), ‘in front of everybody?’

‘… In between …’

‘Don’t, Daddy. You scare me when you talk like that.’

‘Come on, sweetheart! This is your big chance! ’

‘The truth’s …’

‘The break you been waiting for!’

‘Just leftovers, I’m afraid.’

‘… Always scary, girl …’

‘Well, if it’s art, I guess it’s all right.’

‘And in any case it’s about all I’ve got left …’

‘Atta girl!’

‘… To give you,’ Vic was mumbling (‘So get in there and tear it down , baby!’). He seemed to be fading again. ‘And what’s inside these fan- tas -tic eggs? ’ ‘I’ll give you the recipe,’ my wife said, and Quagg shouted out: ‘Okay, all you lot, into the parlor! It’s time for the apotheosis of Ros!’

‘Tell Mom … I’m sorry, and …’

‘Oh oh,’ somebody cried out (‘I already called her, Dad, and she said she didn’t know who I was talking about …’), ‘here comes that lady guerrilla again!’ I felt someone’s hands in my armpits. ‘You’d better get out of her way, Gerry,’ Jim was saying somewhere behind my ear (‘And do me a favor, baby …’) as I rose, lifted, from the floor: ‘Could you — ngh! — give us a hand, please?’ It was Eileen: she was wearing a trenchcoat with the collar turned up, her hands stuffed in the pockets, a scarf around her head.

‘He’s weak … and frivolous … confused …’

‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I won’t …’

‘Well, we meet again,’ said Mr Waddilow. He was one of those holding me up. The other one (‘… Anyway he’s too old …’) was the older plumber, Goldy; Jim, letting go, was getting dragged away by Quagg’s set-builder Scarborough, who was explaining: ‘We’re using her as part of the scenery, you dig, and we need you to get her ready …’

‘I don’t know …’

‘And hang on to the — kaff! huff! hoo … ! — present, baby! It’s all you’ve—’

‘Oh, Daddy, stop it! You’re spitting blood all over!’

‘No, listen—!’

Eileen stepped up and kicked the glass out of his hands. ‘What are you carrying that fork around for, greedyguts? Nobody’s going to insist on good manners when you’re eating cold mud.’ Vic, grinning, wheezed appreciatively, his hand searching for the lost glass. I realized (‘I’ve never seen Eileen like this before!’) my whole right side had turned to stone. ‘You liked that? Try this one!’ She kicked him in the mouth: his head bounced off the wall, teeth flew.