Steven Millhauser - Edwin Mullhouse - The Life and Death of an American Writer 1943-1954

I found him by the green drugstore at the top of the hill. Hopelessly lost, he sat sobbing on a cement step. His joy in seeing me was so great that he forgot to be angry at me for following him, and on the way home we elaborated a story to explain our lateness to frantic Mrs. Mullhouse. He never attempted to visit Rose Dorn again, though he was destined to see her house once more; nor did we ever speak of the visit in the evil months to come.

TWO DAYS LATER Edwin again fell ill. This time the familiar cold was accompanied by a severe sore throat, vomiting, and muscular pains. For more than a week I was not allowed to visit him, though downstairs in the kitchen I followed the progress of his fever as it climbed steadily up through 101, 101½, 102, 102½, 103, 103½, reaching a terrifying 104 before stopping and slowly subsiding. Mrs. Mullhouse spoke of the “grippe,” a word that made me think of an eagle’s claw. My own concern was less for his health than for his exile: shut up in his room with a burning throat, peering out from between burning lids with burning eyes at a burning world, his whole delicate and burning body grown so sensitive with sickness that a light turned on in darkness affected him like a fingertip thrust into his eye, must not Edwin have experienced his banishment with an equal intensity of awareness? My concern was mistaken. Bursting with health and imagination, I failed to perceive that intense physical suffering constricts the imagination by reducing the universe to a throb of pain. Only with returning health would he suffer the difficult, the intricate, the robust torments of imagination.

During the first morning of his absence I saw Rose Dorn looking at me from various parts of the playground, as if expecting to see Edwin pop out from behind me; as she entered the class through the coatroom she glanced at his empty chair. During the day she looked at me from time to time, perhaps expecting me to deliver a gift, but she did not address a single word to me, nor did I offer any information. After a few days she ceased to exhibit even a remote curiosity. I myself was delighted, thank you, to have nothing whatever to do with her. My only concern was what to tell Edwin when the inevitable questions should arise.

Again the day came when I was allowed to visit Edwin. Again I climbed the carpeted stairs, bearing for some reason another glass of orange juice. Again I found his door closed, but not all the way, and again pushing it open with my foot I entered to see Edwin seated crosslegged on his bed, dressed in his purple bathrobe and looking up guiltily from a piece of paper which lay on a dark blue book on his pillow. He quickly whisked it out of sight behind him. I said: “Your mother told me to”

“I don’t want any stupid orange juice,” said Edwin.

I walked across the room and placed the glass carefully on top of the second gray bookcase, fitting it precisely over the faint ring the first glass had left. Turning I said quietly: “Orange juice isn’t stupid.”

“I don’t want any smart orange juice either,” replied witty Edwin.

I sat down on the bed under the map of the United States and waited. He was evidently in one of his difficult moods. I knew that if I said anything at all he would lash out at me and try to destroy me, because I had seen him whisk that piece of paper out of sight. I began to count the slats of one of the blinds, starting from the bottom. My eyes became confused at 14 and I began again. This time the slats melted together at 9. I began again, and I had counted to 15 when Edwin said: “How was school?”

I continued to count silently, making it to 19 before an untimely blink scattered the slats. I said: “Okay.”

“That’s good,” said Edwin. I maintained a rigid silence. Edwin said: “Was that stupid girl there?” “What stupid girl?” “Oh, I don’t know. Trudy.” “Yes, she was there.” “Somebody ought to kill that stupid Trudy. The stupid jerk.” I said nothing. Edwin said: “That stupid doctor is another stupid jerk. The big stupid jerk. I wonder where this stupid piece of paper came from. This is a stupid house.” He crumpled it into a ball and pushed it into his bathrobe pocket. “Everybody is so stupid in this house. I think I’ll go to China.” “You don’t know Chinese.” “I do too. Cha koo ka. Ka chee chaw.” “That’s not Chinese.” “It is too. Chee koo ka? Oo ka chee! Cha koo keeka. Was that other stupid girl there?” “What other stupid girl?” “You know, Ro, Ro, whatever her stupid name is. I can’t remember.” “Oh, Rose. Yes, she was there. Everybody was there. Donna said to tell you she” “Yes, uh-huh, all right. Did that stupid Rose girl say anything?” “Not about you.” “Everybody is so stupid I think I’ll just fly away. I hate all these stupid people. Would you promise to do me a favor?” “First tell me what it is.” “Thanks a lot. Good night.” And still dressed in his bathrobe he crawled into bed, pushed the book from his pillow, turned his back to me, and began to snore loudly. “All right,” I said, “I promise.” “It doesn’t matter. Forget it.” “I’ll do it. I promise.” Edwin turned over. “Well, I have to sort of send this letter. A secret letter.” “Who’s it for?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “Oh, I don’t know, maybe that stupid girl knows. Give it to her. She’ll know.” “What stupid girl?”

But already Edwin had sat up in bed, replaced the book on the pillow, and extracted the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket; and ignoring me completely he began to copy it over onto another piece of paper. When he was through he folded the letter in half over and over again until it was a tight little ball, and asked me to go downstairs for a piece of Scotch tape. When I returned he wrapped the letter-ball in a thick cocoon of tape, then folded another piece of paper in half once, placed the letter-ball on the crease, and taped up the sides and top. With a red crayon he printed on the center of one side:

To

ROSE DORN

In the upper left-hand corner he printed:

From Edwin.

While all of this was taking place I knew well enough that I should affect an absolute unconcern. When at last I took the clumsy envelope from him, it was with repeated assurances that I would not open it, or lose it, or damage it, or do anything with it at all except deliver it intact into the eager hands of his precious Rose Dorn. I was stung by his suspiciousness, and as I took my leave I turned in the doorway to say sharply: “Don’t forget to drink your stupid orange juice.” His shouted reply, as I hurried down the stairs, was unintelligible.

The human heart is a funny thing. The mind is full of dark secrets. Who can fathom the soul of man? Friendship is a mystery. Curiosity killed the cat. These and other reflections passed through my mind as, in my room that night, with patient fingers I slowly peeled the sticky tape from the paper it tried to tear. I do not, of course, mean to excuse myself when I remark that it was fortunate indeed that my scruples succumbed to my curiosity, since no copy other than my own is known to have survived. The little letter-ball contained a single poem. Untitled, it was printed in a crazy slant on one side of the unlined paper. I hereby give the poem in full:

Rose Dorn, Rose Dorn,

I am forlorn.

My heart is torn

By Rose, Rose Dorn.

Night and morn,

Rose Dorn, Rose Dorn,

For you I mourn,

My Rose, Rose Dorn.

Why was I born,

Rose Dorn, Rose Dorn.

My mind is worn,

O Rose, Rose Dorn.

Rose Dorn, Rose Dorn,

I am forlorn.