William Gass - Eyes - Novellas and Stories

The man who spoke with his hands, because he spoke with his hands, was a quiet man, with a slow warm well-regulated smile, a smile hard to dislike, and he chuckled deeply in his chest to the point of an almost inaudible rumble, and the slow well-regulated shaking of his ribs made his hands, so often positioned on what would have been his stomach had he had one, rise and fall lightly like a pair of drifting leaves — motions charming in their pacifying consequences. It has been said that Saint Francis of Assisi used such gestures to charm birds who would then perch upon his extended arm and eat grain strewn artfully along it, though some say they just flew in for the grub.

Dottie Devise was, in contrast, chipper, perky, cheeky, cheerful, and squeaky as a toy mouse; perhaps her voice could be better described as chirpy, high but thinly pitched, leaping from syllable to syllable almost as if it came from a clock. When she bounced, which was much of the time, her small breasts crossed the net like tennis balls, and reminded Professor Paltry, unpleasantly, of the way his sister’s rose and fell in a manner most disturbing when she had led cheers, her high school letter sweater leaping as if there were small animals bundled behind the cloth trying to burst free.

MOR ning PRO fes sor Paul tree? The question was almost a relief. I am fine, Miss Devise, as you can see. TEE hee, I am HAP pee to no tha TT. And howw arr uuu, Professor Paltry would particulate. FI ner than BE for. Holding books against her busy chest, Dottie (for that is what she chose to call herself) would flicker away at a half skip. Professor Paltry would sigh like a dying inner tube, shake his head as he entered his office, and each time think how terrible poor Devise must feel, having raised such a giggly flibbertigibbet almost from infancy, as the Professor had been led to believe.

He remembered the way she seemed when Art had first arrived at the college: quiet, demure, in a frilly frock, her hair tied up like a restless dog, since Art apparently could not teach combing. She followed her father when he walked her to her school, precisely five paces behind. Dottie was untouched by her future nature then and didn’t jiggle.

The sorrowful story that President Howard Muffin so enjoyed retelling about the tragedies their new colleague, Arthur Devise, had been honored by God to endure — the loss of his wife, the loss, during the war, of his power of speech, which might explain those expressive hands — was just one more thing to hold against him, and would have been held had it been necessary, but there was so much against him already that, at least in the early days of their acquaintance, Devise had to go about bent as if he were leaning into a persistent wind.

The man who spoke with his hands remained on the staff long enough to earn a sabbatical if Millwheel College had granted them. Then he and his daughter disappeared without so much as a giggle of goodbye or an equivalent wave, though President Muffin announced that Professor Devise was leaving for personal reasons. This was regrettable. The bags beneath President Muffin’s eyes swelled with something near tears. Professor Devise would be missed, especially his piccolo and his work with the chorus, which immediately fell out of tune. Bon voyage et bon chance. Don’t forget us.

At the time of Art’s departure, Joseph Paltry not only held nothing against him, he considered Art his friend; he appreciated his trills, rests, riffs, roulades, and cadenzas, and understood what Art had to endure from his daughter whose birdsong Paltry now heard as the cackle of starlings or the shriek of the shrike.

If one were thinking of the northern bird, this comparison would be inaccurate because its call is mellow when it isn’t scolding. But the loggerhead’s is as sharp and abrupt as a spill of tacks, and has a harsh complaining quality as well. Shrikes were not unheard of in this part of Ohio, so her appearance at the College was scarcely a miracle. They are predators, fierce to a fault, with bright white teeth often in a wide girlish grin.

Although she still lived in her father’s protective shadow, Dottie was now a disturbing presence in Professor Paltry’s class, the introductory Elements of Music, and she showed up for office hours more regularly than he had his lunch. She could play several instruments tolerably well and was far ahead of almost everyone else, a fact she let her questions prove. Paltry had attempted to move her to a more advanced level but both Dottie and her father wanted her to stay where she was. Now, in his office, she was provocative, showing leg, showing smile, standing close, tossing her hair as she’d no doubt seen in the movies, and asking increasingly personal questions.

On a day no more dismal than most others, Joseph Paltry was approached, while reading in the faculty lounge (a large closet-sized space with a coffeepot, scarred wooden table, and few chairs where he liked to hide out and study scores because everyone else hated the ratty little room and found that it reminded them of Millwheel’s tightwad president and their benighted condition), by Arthur Devise who had entered with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug in order that they should enjoy its warmth since the day was sleety, gray and cold, although no more dismal than most others.

Devise placed the mug rather emphatically in the middle of the table where some chiseler had scratched TEACHERS LOVE THE IGNORANT with a flinty-pointed pencil, its carbon darkening the line; and then he pulled up a chair near Paltry as a conspirator might, and allowed his hands to make his apologies.

Paltry shrugged his “no matter” shrug. Devise pursed his right thumb and forefinger, and snapped the clasp. I understand, he said in a tone level enough to encourage planting, my daughter Dorothy has been making a nuisance of herself. Devise’s left thumb wiggled as if to say, I don’t mean that. Instead, maybe the pursed thumb meant she is my dear girl who has never had an unclean thought. Perhaps the wiggled thumb meant that an innocent batting of her lashes has led to a misunderstanding. Paltry wondered how to approach such a confession.

Dottie had, of course, been making eyes at Paltry, embarrassing him past pink, but he naturally said, of course not, why would you think that? Both of Devise’s palms slowly showed themselves as if they were aces peeking from a poker hand. Well, she has predilections…she…in the past…From a binocular position, the fingers tentatively disclosed the inner hand, then exhibited one apologetic spasm like tossing a toad from your grasp.

Ah, Paltry exclaimed, genuinely surprised, that’s why you put her in my class. You thought I’d understand.

I thought you’d know I wouldn’t do so otherwise.

Yes, otherwise it would be a poor practice.

I had to keep her near me.

A class with you, a class with me — that’s near.

The hands of the man who spoke with his hands slid into a tangle of shame.

I think it’s because she misses her mother. Well, not misses exactly. Because she has no mother. She’s decided to be the mother she needs.

She doesn’t act like a mother with me.

Ah…she…I’m afraid she wants you to make her a mother.

But anyone…nearly anyone…will do, I presume.

She has gone rather far in other…schools.

High school even?

Yes…well, other places…community colleges…She’s gone rather far. Since she was thirteen.

Surely she would not promote such things with me?

Possibly. It’s likely.

She has accused me of…you know…looking at her.

I am terribly sorry. She is playing the coquette. It’s her subject.

But her speech…

Oh yes, I know, her speech is mechanical. It’s made up. It is a complaint about mine…my hands. His hands were stitching cloth. She…you see…squeaks in protest.