Guy Vanderhaeghe - Man Descending

I thought I heard a mild yes.

“So,” said Thompson, continuing, “we decided Evelyn needs some peace and quiet before I go back to school in September.”

“School,” said my grandmother. “Don’t tell me you’re some kind of teacher?” She seemed stunned by the very idea.

“No,” said Aunt Evelyn, and there was a tremor of pride in her voice that testified to her amazement that she had been capable of landing such a rare and remarkable fish. “Not a teacher. Robert’s a graduate student of American Literature at the University of British Columbia.”

“Hoity-toity,” said Grandmother. “A graduate student. A graduate student of American Literature.”

“Doctoral program,” said Robert.

“And did you ever ask yourself, Evelyn, what the hell this genius is doing with you? Or is it just the same old problem with you – elevator panties? Some guy comes along and pushes the button. Up, down. Up, down.”

The image this created in my mind made me squeeze my knees together deliciously and stifle a giggle.

“Mother,” said Evelyn, continuing to bawl.

“Guys like this don’t marry barmaids,” said my grandmother.

“Cocktail hostess,” corrected Evelyn. “I’m a cocktail hostess.”

“You don’t have to make any excuses, dear,” said Thompson pompously. “Remember what I told you. You’re past the age of being judged.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said my grandmother. “And by the way, don’t start handing out orders in my house. You won’t be around long enough to make them stick.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Thompson.

“Let’s go, Robert,” said Evelyn, nervously.

“Go on upstairs, Evelyn, I want to talk to your mother.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” said my grandmother. “You can stay put.”

“Evelyn, go upstairs.” There was a pause and then I heard the sound of a chair creaking, then footsteps.

“Well,” said my grandmother at last, “round one. Now for round two – get the hell out of my house.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s very difficult to explain,” he said.

“Try.”

“As you can see for yourself, Evelyn isn’t well. She is very highly strung at the moment. I believe she is on the verge of a profound personality adjustment, a breakthrough.” He paused dramatically. “Or breakdown.”

“It’s times like this that I wished I had a dog on the place to run off undesirables.”

“The way I read it,” said Thompson, unperturbed, “is that at the moment two people bulk very large in Evelyn’s life. You and me. She needs the support and love of us both. You’re not doing your share.”

“I ought to slap your face.”

“She has come home to try and get a hold of herself. We have to bury our dislikes for the moment. She needs to be handled very carefully.”

“You make her sound like a trained bear. Handled . What that girl needs is a good talking to, and I am perfectly capable of giving her that.”

“No, Mrs. Bradley,” Thompson said firmly in that maddeningly self-assured tone of his. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I think that’s part of her problem. It’s important now for you to just let Evelyn be.”

“Get out of my house,” said my grandmother, at the end of her tether.

“I know it’s difficult for you to understand,” he said smoothly, “but if you understood the psychology of this you would see it’s impossible for me to go; or for that matter, for Evelyn to go. If I leave she’ll feel I’ve abandoned her. It can’t be done. We’re faced with a real psychological balancing act here.”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” said my grandmother. “Are you telling me you’d have the gall to move into a house where you’re not wanted and just… just stay there?”

“Yes,” said Thompson. “And I think you’ll find me quite stubborn on this particular point.”

“My God,” said my grandmother. I could tell by her tone of voice that she had never come across anyone like Mr. Thompson before. At a loss for a suitable reply, she simply reiterated. “My God.”

“I’m going upstairs now,” said Thompson. “Maybe you could get the boy to bring in our bags while I see how Evelyn is doing. The car isn’t locked.” The second time he spoke his voice came from further away; I imagined him paused in the doorway. “Mrs. Bradley, please let’s make this stay pleasant for Evelyn’s sake.”

She didn’t bother answering him.

When I barged into the house some time later with conspicuous noisiness, I found my grandmother standing at the bottom of the stairs staring up the steps. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said under her breath. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Goddamn freak.” She even repeated it several times under her breath. “Goddamn freak. Goddamn freak.”

Who could blame me if, after a boring summer, I felt my chest tighten with anticipation? Adults could be immensely interesting and entertaining if you knew what to watch for.

At first things were disappointingly quiet. Aunt Evelyn seldom set forth outside the door of the room she and her man inhabited by squatters’ right. There was an argument, short and sharp, between Thompson and Grandmother over this. The professor claimed no one had any business prying into what Evelyn did up there. She was an adult and had the right to her privacy and her own thoughts. My grandmother claimed she had a right to know what was going on up there, even if nobody else thought she did.

I could have satisfied her curiosity on that point. Not much was going on up there. Several squints through the keyhole had revealed Aunt Evelyn lolling about the bedspread in a blue housecoat, eating soda crackers and sardines, and reading a stack of movie magazines she had had me lug out of the trunk of the car.

Food, you see, was beginning to become something of a problem for our young lovers. Grandma rather pointedly set only three places for meals, and Evelyn, out of loyalty to her boyfriend, couldn’t very well sit down and break bread with us. Not that Thompson didn’t take such things in his stride. He sauntered casually and conspicuously about the house as if he owned it, even going so far as to poke his head in the fridge and rummage in it like some pale, hairless bear. At times like that my grandmother was capable of looking through him as if he didn’t exist.

On the second day of his stay Thompson took up with me, which was all right as far as I was concerned. I had no objection. Why he decided to do this I’m not sure exactly. Perhaps he was looking for some kind of an ally, no matter how weak. Most likely he wanted to get under the old lady’s skin. Or maybe he just couldn’t bear not having anyone to tell how wonderful he was. Thompson was that kind of a guy.

I was certainly let in on the secret. He was a remarkable fellow. He dwelt at great length on those things which made him such an extraordinary human being. I may have gotten the order of precedence all wrong, but if I remember correctly there were three things which made Thompson very special and different from all the other people I would ever meet, no matter how long or hard I lived.

First, he was going to write a book about a poet called Allen Ginsberg which was going to knock the socks off everybody who counted. It turned out he had actually met this Ginsberg the summer before in San Francisco and asked him if he could write a book about him and Ginsberg had said, Sure, why the hell not? The way Thompson described what it would be like when he published this book left me with the impression that he was going to spend most of the rest of his life riding around on people’s shoulders and being cheered by a multitude of admirers.