William Gass - Middle C

It’ll be damp enough down there:

down down down down

in the tunnels we’ll have runneled for them

where they’ll be piled as high as the heads

of the tourists who are bringing their bones

down down down down

to see these bones through eyes,

eyes set properly in their sockets

just to see, only to see, not to smell

wet earth around them: heavy deep odiferous dirt.

Down down down down

all those steps, those stairs

lit by yellow light, lit by bulbs in pairs,

into halls which hold the transferred bones:

dongbones ballbones bustbones,

on and on and on and on and on,

sorrowbones terrorbones bitterbones,

liverish in the light, gray in shadow, offwhite;

tempting the memento mori in us

to pilfer one, an armbone maybe,

pop in purse, stick in sack, slip under shirt,

look good on mantel coffee table desk:

chitchatbone talebone pickbone

wishbone tomorrowbone smightbone,

one’s own homebone,

and treasured chest.

After all those upstep stairs

up up up up up up up up up up,

toward day’s light, let us rest awhile,

with the dead awhile

and try to smile the way they smile.

Up up up up to smile into fresh airs

a show of teeth, sigh of relief,

where the flics are waiting

at the backdoor, the exit of the Catacombs,

to peer into your purse, look into your bag,

pat your ribcage breastbone neck

in case your cunt conceals a bone,

or the boner’s in your pocket.

They must fish in them for that:

to retrieve your souvenir of death Almighty,

return it to its pile stack proper aisle;

for these bones have another body now,

the body of the buried they belong to—

long long long long to—

down down down down—

through the comb like teeth,

straw in a broom,

teeth in a comb,

in a comb,

a comb,

comb.

Professor Skizzen thought it should be sung. He planned to compose some music. If only he knew how.

The Bumbler coughed but caught fire anyway. Like the shadow of a cloud, a moment of sadness, brought on by nostalgic thoughts, passed over Joey’s other, more energetic, even malevolent, plans; yes, the way the shadow of the car passed over the road when the car was running smoothly; and its passage softened his anger toward the old heap, because, right now, its existence was a nuisance. This was going to be, Joey vowed, the Bumbler’s last voyage. Miriam was in her own foul mood. She yelled orders at him as though he were refusing to wear his overcoat or go quietly to the dentist. The Rambler is out of commission, Joey lied. Do you want to spend the money it will take to get it fixed? His mother cursed in German as if he could not possibly understand ……… Verstehen?

Joey had parked the car alongside a vacant lot a few blocks away and well out of Miriam’s customary lines of sight. There it had sat for some weeks, out of commish, he insisted, to smooth out the scowls of doubt from his mother’s face. It really was a field of metal weed. The car’s soft tires demonstrated fatigue; its pale orange color had the pallor of weak rust. It did seem abandoned, and Joseph hoped the neighbors would complain, so it might then be towed away by the city to serve as spare parts. More than once he had dreamed of the organs and other elements of his body being distributed like prizes among the maimed. A shoulder here, for someone to cry on, a liver for an alcoholic writer, a spare ear for a tone-impaired musician, a tear to repair a dry eye, each part and appendage arriving promptly at their posts, ready to take up, anonymously, their new duties. These were pleasant dreams, the sort his mother once nightly wished for him as he began his brief encircle of the earth.

Was he not a criminal and the Bumbler his getaway car? In answer, Joey had left behind nothing of himself. He imagined he had wiped the seats and dashboard free of any previous owner’s mischief, and the wheel clean of incriminating prints. Maps that might have given away habitual routes, grocery lists, and other trash had been removed. A soda bottle that had been thrust into a door pocket, because Joey couldn’t bear to touch it, remained until Joseph, with a gloved hand, achieved its extraction. Despite these precautions, an umbrella lay neglected in the trunk. The Bumbler’s slide backward into a humiliating dent had made it very difficult to retrieve the jack. There was no spare.

The days when the car was of great service were over. It had allowed itself to be driven between Woodbine and Urichstown for nearly a year. The word “driven” seemed supremely appropriate. Joey felt the need to remind his mother, when discussing their vehicle’s parlous condition, that the Bumbler had been backslid

down a hillside

over snow and ice

during the early edge of night

by a screaming Major,

only to return

to Woodbine, its tail in a crook. Subsequently it was compelled to journey in petulant jerks around the county over a period whose conservative measure was several college semesters. Joey claimed to have lost count of similar treks the Bumbler had bravely undergone, its body full of fear, its engine of trepidation. Why did we risk mechanical failure or suffer the threat of arrest, my dear mom? To visit the smug new weds and their freshly harvested seed? To run errands of no need and less import? To satisfy selfish and sentimental wishes called love? Of no need because the Boulders had a far better car than the Bumbler and could safely make the required round-trip. As for weekly duties, the grocery store was an unimpeded downhill walk and, in its pleasant old-fashioned way, filled orders and made deliveries in the grateful light of late afternoon when its boy was out of school. So it needn’t be driven to. Or in parallels to park. Of less import because grandmotherly visits to their last offspring will scarcely alter the spin of the planet. The kid will grow up in a nation perpetually at war and indifferent to the safety of its citizens. Cars will carry guns and fly flags. The kid is going to be an important part of my world, Miriam said firmly, as if she had already thought about it. Even if he is a Boulder, the boy is the best thing that has happened to our family since we arrived in this country. We shall never know what the best thing is, Joseph declaimed with an emphasis that stepped equally on every word. Are you going to ferry me to the farm so I can hear this baby talk and chortle, to see him walk, or not? Why do you speak of “world,” Professor Skizzen replied, when your glimpse of it is like that straw mat of hall light that sneaks under your door at night. Hah! Miriam scornfully said, we inhabit a hotel now, do we? What of the world I don’t see I shall ring for! DO NOT DISTURB hangs on all our hearts, Joey shouted, shocking both of them into laughter. As a consequence of Miriam’s bullyraging, the Bumbler’s humiliating servitude, dangerous to itself, its driver, and the road, lasted two years longer than anyone expected. Despite that, the poor wreck was cursed instead of praised, its wounds scorned, as if, again, it had fought in the wrong war.

Now his sister— his sister — had a baby big as its bellow. Joey called Debbie a cow to draw attention to her milk-heavy breasts, but his mother put an outraged stop to that. Honor the mother! honor the sister! older than you! properly married! suitably respected! And my small pleasures should receive your smile! No more of your excuses! Don’t you forget I mothered you! held my breasts to your greedy mouth! You weren’t a baby when you were a baby — your father took away your childhood and gave you war instead — but you’ve grown into one — that’s right, an infant — spoiled as last year’s apple — to be jealous of your sister’s sweet sunny cuddlesome cutie. Miriam’s tone had slipped into a croon but in a moment recovered itself. He sleeps through the night. Can you say the same! I’ve heard you scratching about the house for something missing. Miriam would bring in her voice for a landing and then, without a gear newly engaged, go on to boast of the boy’s fat legs, his rolling eyes, and squeals of astonishment.