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

That afternoon Edwin, accompanied by Mario Antonio, Len Laska, David Bopko, and Chuck Tucey, found Billy Duda standing with some of his little fourth-grade friends on the far part of the playground where the tar turned into dirt and weeds. “There he is!” cried Edwin; and suddenly Billy Duda was running away toward the slope and sidewalk, followed by Mario Antonio, Len Laska, David Bopko, and Chuck Tucey, with Edwin somehow straggling after them, and me after Edwin. Mario Antonio tackled him on the grass slope, but it was Len Laska who pushed his face into some wet brown stinking stuff. Later, in the principal’s office, a sobbing Billy Duda reported that it was Edwin who had shouted “There he is!”, and when grim Miss Maidstone turned to Edwin and asked if it was true, Edwin lowered his bloodshot eyes and nodded. Chuck Tucey then boldly confessed that it was all Edwin’s idea. Miss Maidstone looked at each of us in turn, and at last settled on Edwin. “That was a cruel, cowardly thing to do,” she said. “Why did you do it? Answer me. Why did you do it? Look at me.” But Edwin clenched his teeth and stared ferociously at his toes, for how could he tell her that he wanted to see Billy Duda murdered because there are all these words, nothing but words, what are these words, and there they are, so that’s what you’re faced with, words, words …

EDWIN’S IRRITABILITY began to affect, and infect, the Mullhouse family itself. Things were all right so long as he stayed in his room, but by November he was no longer shutting himself away, and ranged uncaged about the house, snarling and growling. It was Karen who came in for the worst of it; he teased and mocked her mercilessly, lashing her to tears. He was quite reckless about it, tormenting her even in the presence of Dr. Mullhouse, who could not endure ill will between his children. On one such occasion, as we waited in the living room for dinner, Dr. Mullhouse rose quivering from his chair, stalked over to terrified Edwin, and roaring “Get up!” held out his hand palm-up. Edwin rose shakily to his feet, placed his delicate small hand palm-down in his father’s hand, and looked away as Dr. Mullhouse raised his right hand over his head and swung it down on the back of Edwin’s hand with a sound curiously reminiscent of applause. “Oh Abe,” murmured Mrs. Mullhouse, as Edwin ran weeping upstairs. “That boy,” said Dr. Mullhouse, “has got to learn once and for all by God that in this house there is a thing called manners, and by God if he doesn’t learn it quickly he’s going to be in trouble. And by God I’ll teach it to him if it’s the last thing I do. I forbid him to have dinner with us tonight. I forbid it, is that clear? I don’t even know if I want any dinner myself. Christ in heaven what incivility. Christ almighty it makes me sick to my stomach to see my own child act like that. Christ damn it all I don’t ever want to see it happen in my house again. Didn’t I tell you I don’t want any dinner God damn it all to hell. I’m going out. I need some tobacco. Don’t wait for me.”

Mrs. Mullhouse too was a victim of Edwin’s temper, though he inflicted on her an additional and more ingenious form of suffering: he began to display his misery before her in all its splendor. He was especially good at this during lunch on schooldays, when his father was at work. Sitting at the table he would carefully work into his rather inexpressive features a look of intense anguish: he would tighten his lips, wrinkle his brow, tense and untense the muscles in his cheek, and breathe with a little catch in his throat, as if his weary breath had climbed up out of a deep pit and barely had the strength to crawl out past his lips to die. At other times he would be more dramatic, leaning his elbows on the table and pressing his eyes into both palms with a little groan. He complained of intimate unpleasant pains in his blood, his bowels, his brain. And if Mrs. Mullhouse timidly went up to him and laid a gentle hand on his forehead, he would jerk away angrily, saying: “Oh, leave me alone. You’re always touching me.” “Oh Edwin,” she would say sadly, “I’m not always touching you,” and Edwin would say: “Yes you are. You are too. You’re always touching me.” And he would utter the word “touching” with an abrupt violence of loathing, as if he were spitting.

It was during one of these interesting lunches that an incident of violence erupted. In a sense I suppose Mrs. Mullhouse was at fault, for she should have known better than to mention his book. Edwin had been complaining of eye-aches and headaches, and Mrs. Mullhouse finally could not forbear saying: “God, if only you’d finish that awful book.” Edwin looked up sharply, almost eagerly. “It’s not an awful book,” he said. Mrs. Mullhouse said: “I can’t understand why it’s taking so long. I once knew a boy who wrote a book. Of course he was much older than you. He wrote it in two months.” “He must have been stupid,” said Edwin. Mrs. Mullhouse said: “He wasn’t stupid, he was very intelligent. That’s why he could write a book in two months.” “He makes me sick,” said Edwin. Mrs. Mullhouse said: “Oh, everything makes you sick.” Edwin, who by this time was panting, said: “Yes, but he really makes me sick. He makes me so sick I can’t stand it. He makes me so sick I want to die.” “Oh, stop it, Edwin. Please.” “Stop what?” said Edwin. “Just stop it,” said Mrs. Mullhouse. “But he makes me so sick,” said Edwin. “Stop it I said!” cried Mrs. Mullhouse — at which point Edwin pushed out his chair, stood up, picked up his empty milk-glass, and flung it against the wall; and as the glass shattered, Edwin shattered into tears of rage.

READER! What is a book? A book is an intolerable pressure on the inside of the skull, demanding release. Woe to the writer, most wretched of the damned, who cannot finish his book; for then that pressure will seek some other, and darker, release. If Edwin had not been able to finish his book, there is no doubt in my mind that he would have turned into a hoodlum, or worse. Indeed I have sometimes wondered whether all the murderers and criminals in this evil world are nothing but tormented authors, writing their unwritable books in blood. I, for one, can testify that even a modest biographer may be driven to strange devices for the sake of his throbbing book. But let us not speak about that. Let us speak about Edwin. For quite suddenly he was back at work again, lord knows why, lord knows how; and really it was a good thing for everyone concerned. Of course I missed even his mocking and contemptuous company, but I knew now that it was only a matter of waiting. He still complained bitterly on his way to and from school, but somehow it was now a healthy irritability, the inevitable overflow of a vital and fruitful energy, and not a stopped-up energy turned poisonously against itself. Of his secret raptures, who can speak? But sometimes, unable to sleep, I would brood over Edwin’s love affair as from my window I watched his yellow window; and I knew that even now he must sometimes hate that book, which for so long had been breaking his spirit, breaking his body, and breaking his stubborn heart.

THE LAST SUNDAY IN FEBRUARY (we are now in 1954) was a cold gray rainy day; a few sad patches of snow were all that remained of the luminous white kingdom I had watched from my window the night before. Karen and I were sitting on the rug before the fire, playing dominoes. From time to time stray raindrops hissed against the logs, as if to remind us that a chimney is nothing but a big hole in a house. Through the watery strips of window behind the open blinds, dark green and dark gray blurs were visible. The table-lamp was on, though it was only three in the afternoon; a cloud of odorous smoke clung about the glowing shade. Dr. Mullhouse, frowning into a book, sat in his chair with one leg hooked over the arm and a black slipper dangling. Mrs. Mullhouse sat on the couch, frowning into a book of her own; from the kitchen came an odor of roast lamb that mingled with the smell of sweet tobacco and harsh firesmoke. As I blocked the row with a double five I noticed that Karen was gazing up over the couch at the top of the stairs. There, peeping out from behind the balusters, was Edwin’s bespectacled face. Raising a finger to his lips, and pointing to his mother, he began to crawl down the stairs headfirst on his stomach. He looked like a long pale impish worm. “What are you two looking at?” said Mrs. Mullhouse. “Nothing,” I said. “Your turn, Karen.” Mrs. Mullhouse returned to her book as Edwin’s outstretched hands disappeared behind the couch, followed by his head, his neck, his belt, his cuffs, and his shoes. Now nothing remained but the ascending brown balusters, caging an empty wall. “Your turn,” said Karen. I realized that he had entered the most difficult part of his maneuvers, for the slightest noise would attract the attention of Dr. Mullhouse, who had only to glance to his right in order to see his son crawling along the floor near the foot of the stairs. I began to whistle. “What’s that you’re whistling, Jeff?” said Mrs. Mullhouse — a most embarrassing question, as it turned out, for I had summoned to Edwin’s assistance the very first tune I could think of, which happened to be a popular schoolyard ditty beginning: