William Gass - In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

Glick was holding a ballpoint pen between his teeth like a pirate. It was a green pen and it made Fender think: pickle. Glick nodded briefly at Fender who was feeling his way now through an office unnaturally dark and full of lurking obstacles. Goodness but it’s bright outside, he said, his voice false as a wig, which both surprised and annoyed him, since it was a small thing to have said, and he’d certainly meant it. The typewriter was repeating a letter — likely x . Glick nodded again and sucked noisily on his saliva. Fender, in his turn, blinked hard to unmuddy his eyes. Prospects. They made him think dirt. They made him think rags, snakes, picks, and the murder of companions. With difficulty he wriggled out of his coat, found he was angry, and began impatiently stuffing his scarf in a sleeve. Glick’s flowers were rustling like ghosts behind him. The coat hanger swayed and clinked. The typewriter continued to drum and rattle. Isabelle… Ah, Isabelle — but unfortunately…

At his desk he opened drawers. Glick was saluting him, wasn’t he? with a flower. These are new, Glick said, removing the pickle to speak. New, Fender wondered, how, new? I just brought them in this morning, a change, Glick said, and time for it too, the others were dusty. Fender grew watchful. It was a joke perhaps. And he realized he’d given voice to his thoughts. But… I mean… why, he finally said, why these… well… these old dead flowers? Dried , they’re dried , Glick said, it’s a hobby of mine, strawflowers are easy— Helichrysum, Helichrysum monstrosum ; then there’s Statice , sea lavender, Statice sinuata ; and Angel’s Breath, of course, Gypsophila; Xeranthemum; Rhodanthe , Swan River… Why was Glick going on like this just now? He’d been in the office over a year and there’d never been any occasion for — any need to mention — to go into that strange foolishness of his. Fender squeezed his head in the corner of his arm and thought of his icicles growing in long carroty lines. Ah, they should be careful…. Slowly the room began to sort itself. Glick had a heap of leaves and other withered things on a newspaper. He kept thrusting stems in a vase, then yanking their heads. Grasses, he was saying. Pampas grass grows anywhere from ten to twenty feet high. Grasses, said Fender blankly. Hare’s-tail grass and foxtail millet, that’s Setaria italica . Quaking grass, which is Briza maxima . Fender’s anger suddenly flared. He bent and rummaged through his file drawer. That ass, that ass, he thought, just like him too — ten to twenty feet indeed, what a liar — just think, how could he compare… I saw a good many icicles this morning, he said, his tongue thick. He hated that foreign language. Glick was standing back, tipping his head from side to side, winking absurdly. They’re all over, he said. All over? Well, I suppose they are. All over, eh? Everywhere, Glick said, like weeds; you should have seen the bunch I kicked off my car. I can bet, said Fender, hardly able to speak. His head was filled to bursting. When I think of you, Glick, he said to himself, I think: pickle! Have you ever really looked at an icicle, Glick? really looked? Sure, Glick said, straightening, sure I have, why? But Glick wasn’t listening and there was no need for Fender to reply. He slid back deeply in himself, into the threatening heat, his heart and the typewriter thumping, while fear for his icicles passed like a cloud across his stomach. I’ve a fever, Fender decided, shivering as though to verify the diagnosis. So Glick had a hobby. Think of that. Where were the figures on the Ringley house? A hobby. Imagine. No, his mind drew back, he couldn’t picture it. Where was that colored card? He always put those figures on a colored card. Glick was folding and removing the newspaper from his desk whose surface, gleaming, seemed to leap beneath it. He’d put it — he’d put it somewhere — where?… oh he was in a fury, a fury. He glared at Glick to be rude. Blue suit this morning, by george. Desk rubbed. Tightly knotted dark tie lit by metallic threads. What was the reason? And then these carefully collected old weeds. Dried, dead, what was the difference? Left to sweat in the sun like prunes and raisins. Latin, was it? Latin, of course. Hoo. Mummification. He’d written down that couple’s name — he had — he knew he had. It was an attack on him, all of it, everything…. And Pearson would come in a bit. Ah, now Glick was busy. His french cuffs slid from his coat sleeves. Bizz-bizz-bizz. Well, Pearson would come in a bit. Shatteringly. Nothing up with those numbers, Mr. Pearson, I’m afraid, no, nothing up. His icicles now — they ought to increase themselves carefully. If he had time he’d just drive by during lunch — see how they were doing. Strawflowers, did he say? Aaah. They were perfectly turned, that’s how nature did it. Drops gathering at the tip, then falling away. Of course icicles were all over. Who’d said otherwise? Climate general, conditions everywhere the same, consequences similar, very natural, who — Fender drew a deep shuddery breath. My my my, old fellow, friend, what a way really, what a way, take hold now, get a grip. When I think of you, Glick… monstrosum? is that what he said? it had the right sound. Lord. The show-off. The fake. But such a shame. They were so fragile. Such a shame.

Pearson did not come. Contrary to his custom, he did not come at all, nor did he notify them. The phone was still. After a time the typewriter ceased. Fender sat for a long while quite motionless and silent, in a kind of trance, papers spread out before him in a fan, staring down at their decorative surfaces, some pink, some cream, some yellow, most white, a pencil sticking like a twig from his fingers, the warmth coming and going, the worry too, causing his brows to clench and the corners of his mouth to wrinkle, until the remarkable storm of feeling that had burst upon him the moment he had drawn aside the office door passed off, he cooled, and his heart began to slow and settle. Then his gaze regained its content. He heard the humming of the fluorescent lights. Something — jewelry? — clicked. The image of Glick’s vase was squatting in the wax, and Fender, able to speak, though overloudly, said: where’s Pearson this morning? what’s the matter? is he sick? Riding his chair from behind his desk, Glick spun gayly around. Isn’t it nice? Fender tried to smile. He’d be a good fellow. But the office, for some reason, wasn’t safe this morning, it didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel right himself. He was, for one thing, a good deal smaller than his skin. Your body owns you; another house, isn’t it? Fender came up cautiously to the ports of his eyes: lady’s hanky in a wad, string of clips, glistening pen stem, ringlet of phone wire, pamphlets bent back savagely… wrong, wrong, wrong, everything wrong… a golden row of pencils coming to points, then Glick, bluish, turning gently, smiling, pretending to raise his ribs with his hands, inhaling noisily, isn’t it nice?… dull green cabinets covered with sideswipes, darkly indented caster tracks on the asphalt tile, the stainless tube of a chair, while across the window the Gothically lettered name of the agency in black, and beyond that the bright sun littering the street with reflection.

What’s the white stuff? This? that’s honesty. What , demanded Fender, who was prepared to be angry again. It’s called honesty, Fen… Lunaria annua . Glick laughed the hearty joker’s laugh and Fender grew uneasy. It’s also called the money plant. And this is amaranth, Gomphrena . Glick tilted, his shoes rose gleaming. Glick, ah, how… how do you make them, I mean, get them so dry? His voice seemed strange and distant, mechanized, as though it came from a speaker. The office was edging away, pen, pencils, paper; the phone drew back, the punch, the stapler; and Glick sang on without him. Maybe Pearson’s got the word, Glick said — the sheet’s sneaked down from the statue; or maybe he hasn’t any pennies for the papers, he’s broke finally, flindered, his pockets bulge with his pieces; or maybe he sold a property and swooned clean away like the slope on a steeple. Flies of his fingers, Glick flew them in spirals. It was all for Isabelle, and Fender couldn’t bear it. Where was Pearson? Bake… do you bake them somehow? Fender asked. But Glick was handing himself to Isabelle, smiling his soul out. Fender couldn’t bear it. No, Izzy — no, Glick said, I see it quite plainly now — now suddenly I see it all. He was peering between his fingers. In a moment — god! — he’d be a guide on a bus. Do you do them like raisins? Glick pushed both his palms forward like a traffic policeman. Here’s how the news got through — I’m certain — no other way, really — he saw it in the socials. Prunes? like prunes? The socials! Isabelle was giggly. You could have hung her clothes on the line between them. Eee-hee-hee, sweetie. All sorts of dried things these days: fruit, milk, peas, beans, eggs even, potatoes. He saw it in the socials or in the financials. The financials, says Isabelle, sweetie! How could she? Fender heard himself getting loud. Surprise invaded their faces. He had determined on an answer; he had to head them off; he could not endure their duet today or scale the cruel peaks of their hilarity. Cut when young, bound in loose bunches, hung upside down, cold dry place, where a breeze would be helpful … The chance was gone, Glick spoke so swiftly. Then in the funnies, Glick said, beginning the recital, when Pearson was blue-penning the balloons, there he read it — a dog said it. Isabelle flounced. There was a sound of settling sand and sliding paper. Fender shut his eyes. He could not bear it. Surely the financial page, she said, but Glick was on — spinning his chair, bouncing, pointing, wagging his head and making faces.