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

In the darkness he began to examine his dangerous toy, bringing it close to his eyes, turning it over, holding it against his ear like a clock. “What time is it?” he whispered. “Quarter of,” I whispered. “Tell me when,” he whispered. “Okay,” I whispered. Several days passed. “What time is it?” he whispered. “Twelve to,” I whispered. “That’s all?” he whispered. “That’s all,” I whispered. Then raising the gun to his right temple he whispered: “Like this?” And moving the barrel awkwardly to his forehead he whispered: “Or like this?” And slowly turning the gun toward me he whispered: “Or like this?” “Stop it!” I whispered, pushing away his hand, and Edwin began to giggle.

That giggle seemed to release something in Edwin. It marked the beginning of a madcap mood that swelled to a mindless frenzy of frantic mirth, as if he were a bubble of mad merriment about to burst. And perhaps it was only a sign of my overwrought condition that in some dim way I felt he was making fun of me. Leaping lightly from his bed, he scurried across the darkness to my bed, entering feet-first and disappearing entirely under the heaving covers. Beneath the black map of the United States I perceived a dark, wriggling mass as Edwin proceeded to turn himself around under the sheets and clumsily make his way to the foot of the bed near one of the black bookcases. A final groping from the inside of the low-hanging spread at the foot of the bed reminded me of Edward Penn behind his curtain. At last, with a gasp, Edwin’s dark featureless head appeared, followed by the confused rest of him as huffing and puffing he crawled forward on his hands, one of which, as I knew by an occasional soft clank, contained the gun. His head reached the bookcase, knocking softly against a box, and he had to twist to one side as he continued to crawl from his soft cage, pausing to reach back with one hand in what was apparently a modest effort to hold up his invisible pajama bottoms. Free at last, he crouched in the black space between the bookcase and the bed, and suddenly began to pull out boxes and books, piling them up in front of him to form a wall. I sat rigidly on his bed, listening fearfully for sounds from the hall; and as I stared in dazed disbelief toward the quiet commotion at the foot of my bed, suddenly something came hurtling out of the dark and hit me softly in the shoulder. I gasped, and mad Edwin giggled, and the next missile hit my knee. They were his slippers. I clutched them in fearful silence, wondering whether the next thing to come spinning out of the dark would be a loaded gun. “Bang bang!” he whispered, his dark head bobbing up and down from behind his barricade. Suddenly he leaped onto the bed and began bouncing or dancing in wild silence across it, holding up his arms; a rectangle of light from a passing car rippled over his face like an illuminating mask. Then stepping onto the floor he began to spin round and round: holding out his arms he whirled faster and faster, he seemed a dark dancer whirling in darkness, I saw for a moment the glint of the gun, and suddenly he flung himself onto the bed before me, landing half on and half off but freezing as he fell, gripping the spread and squeezing his eyes shut as in his brain the black room turned and turned, and as if infected by his dizziness, I too felt the dark walls turning and turning. And as he lay there before me, clutching his gun, it seemed to me that he was already dead.

The magic potion wore off, and Edwin, breathing rapidly, climbed onto the bed and took up his position crosslegged before me. “Time?” he whispered. There were three minutes left. And now I noticed that Edwin was grinning, rather fiendishly it seemed to me, and in a mirthful whisper he said: “Make sure you put that in your book,” and softly laughed. Oh, he was mocking me, he was mocking me, and again I felt a sense of dim foreboding, as if I feared for my life, and with a curious feeling of self-pity I whispered: “You’re making fun of me, Edwin.” “Who, me?” whispered Edwin, blinking in dark astonishment. “Why should I make fun of you? Time?” There were two minutes left. And again pointing the gun at me he whispered: “You’re so serious, Jeffrey.” “Oh what are you doing, what are you doing,” I moaned, pushing away his hand, and still grinning he whispered: “What’d you get me for my birthday?” “Huc” “Don’t say!” he whispered, “I want to be surprised. Time?” There were ninety seconds left. And now Edwin became serious, bowing his dark head in thought. After a time he looked up and whispered: “Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Jeffrey.” And despite my sense that things were somehow rushing out of control, I was moved almost to tears by the sound of those words. Placing his hand gently on my shoulder he whispered: “Goodbye, O friend.” He began to giggle but stifled his mirth. “Time?” “Twenty seconds,” I whispered. Placing his hand over his heart, and looking up at the ceiling, he whispered: “Goodbye, O life.” Looking at me he added: “Jot that down, Jeffrey.” He released the safety and whispered: “Start counting.” “Thirteen,” I whispered, staring at my glowing wrist, “twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one”—I raised my eyes—“zero.” And calmly raising the gun to his right temple, Edwin whispered: “Bang, I’m dead,” and fell backward on the bed with his eyes shut, clutching the silent gun. A moment later his eyes opened and he said: “Now what?” In a split second I was leaning over him, gripping his gun-gripping hand; and I remember thinking, quite lucidly in the midst of a dreamy numbness, that the entry under “I Am Born” in MY STORY: A BABY RECORD allowed a certain leeway in the matter of seconds.

ON A RADIANT BLUE APRIL AFTERNOON, in an odor of dust and sunshine, I strolled past Edwin’s house on my way to Beech Street. Through the blossoming trellis I caught a glimpse of mama and Mrs. Hooper standing by the flowerbed. As I passed the house I glanced at the backyard hedge, over which the skeleton of a new house loomed: a man in blue overalls and a red shirt was seated on a plank in the air, banging away cheerfully with his hammer. I crossed Robin Hill Road and made my way along noisy Beech Street. There were children everywhere. Two little girls came clattering along on silver roller skates, another little girl jumped up and down solemnly over her red-handled white rope, three little boys were having a vigorous game of three-way catch, and farther along a game of hit-the-bat was in progress. Halfway down, the old sidewalks ended and the new, darker sidewalks began. The trees in front of the new houses were thin and bare, and some of the lawns were flat dark tracts of earth stippled lightly with pale grass. In a vacant lot between a new white house and an even newer house without roof and windows, a large sign shouted: SOLD. Slabs of wood, bags of nails, cement blocks, buckets, and rolls of tarpaulin lay about in front of the skeleton houses, and in the vast rectangular earthen hole of one small lot, a sad yellow tractor looked as if it were awaiting burial. At the end of the street I passed the two brown posts with their red reflectors. I climbed the rise and descended to the stream, where for a while I stood looking across at the unchanged yellow field. Then strolling some little distance to the right, I sat down on the rippling root of the fat old tilted tree, and leaning back into the shade, and extending my legs into the sunlight, I brooded over my final chapter.

Edwin’s funeral was strictly a private affair. I, unfortunately, was too sick to attend. My presence was, however, required at the routine inquest, where Edwin’s note and Huckleberry Finn also made an appearance, and where Edwin’s suicide was rendered official. I dimly remember telling a white-haired gentleman that Edwin had received the gun from Arnold Hasselstrom, and I distinctly recall three yellow shades that stood at three different heights. But it is all rather hazy, for already I was hard at work upon Edwin’s biography.