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

The owner of the house and lot at seventeen eleven Pierce; of the duplex that backs up to the alley at four seventy-seven Chauncey, formerly the family home and now a house divided…

Fender peeked where their glee, in beaded strings, divided: Glick’s fists were turtling toward his knees, the thumbs were heads….

… of lots at six oh five North Erie and two twenty-three Scott, both vacant except for ashes, cans, and native weeds…

Such a saddens story, sweetie, says Isabelle, such a sorry story…

… a beaten path across Billswool Place…

I know the one.

Do you, dearie? Well… renter of dingy office space at ninety-eight South Main near the Central Station and close to the bus…

Maybe, thought Fender, he should scream them under, throw a fit, have some sort of frothing seizure. How many peas, Glick, do you suppose are contained in the average pot pie? the beef? He might ask that.

… sordid work room…

Yes indeedy, says Isabelle.

… a ratty-off-hole…

Don’t we know it, says Isabelle.

… a god damn grave…

Oh now, Leo, exclaims Isabelle.

… but handy…

Very handy, says Isabelle.

… to the bus…

To the bus, yes, says Isabelle.

… and to the railroad…

Just as you say, says Isabelle, the railroad.

What was epilepsy, Fender thought, but a struggle with the powers of the air.

… holder in fee simple of Leo Glick and Charlie Fender…

And also me-oh, says Isabelle.

… holder of expired guarantees, depression script, forfeited bail bonds…

Eeee…

… holder of mortgages…

How many peas? he might ask that. Go ahead, Glick, guess.

… tennis courts, Coke machines, car lots, traffic islands, circus tents, cat houses…

Reelee, I wouldn’t know, says Isabelle.

… holder of options in addition…

Fender had chosen to wallow in the gravy and the steam.

… fire escapes, dumbwaiters, clothes chutes, letter drops, elevators…

Guess, how many peas? I’m not green like you, Glick, not countably discrete, not caught between tines, not raised, not even bitten through or mashed against the teeth.

… pee-bins and squat-closets…

Leo, hon estly, says Isabelle.

Fender remembered the census had missed him. He’d had to call attention to himself. How bitter he’d been about that.

… furthermore landlord in London-like absentia of slums in the country and yard-farms in town…

Fender began fumbling for his figures — the gently purple card — and Pearson perhaps would come; please lord to let him.

… acres of scrub and eroding gullies, mud flats, river islands…

Look, Glick, jesus, stop, cease, end —get off!

… erstwhile…

Dearie, exclaims Isabelle.

… erstwhile, I say, though still at times trader in lamp-wick stock and photo booths…

Okay, okay, okay, okay, consider it over…

… as well as salt swamps in Florida, pine barrens in Canada, sand boxes and cliff sides in New Mexico and Arizona…

O- kay …

… in Kentucky: caves; in Montana: butte tops; all over the country — the appropriate clip; for hire, let, lease, rent, charter, or sale: cattle-tittle ranches in Idaho, for instance (pardon me, Isabelle)…

You’re forgiven, honey.

Wait’ll you’re dead, you’ll see. It’s the physical they’ll respect — only right .

… yessiree, Pearson of the Pearson Agency and the Pearson Agency itself are all washed up, done for; they’ve gone pop, kaflooey, bang…

You sing so sweetly, like a thrush, says Isabelle.

Most bodies outlast the souls that rent them — know that? I read it somewhere. True .

… yup, this same Pearson Agency, after years of splendid service to the community, is absolutely bussst (pardon me, Isabelle, but busssssssst!)…

Think nothing of it, honey, you were carried away.

You know, Fender, a person gets his living room for a low fee. It’s something to think about. On the nose. Smacko .

… and Pearson, in arrears up to his assets…

Oh Leo — that’s good, that’s always good, says Isabelle.

… in bitter shame, in low despair, all sour-mouthed and quite thoroughly quinced, has fallen not on the sword of his lodge…

Not, wonders Isabelle.

… but on the — on the impertinent pick of an icicle…

What, exclaims Isabelle.

… so when it’s melted itself from the puncture, everyone will wonder — like in the mystery books and pictures—

Oooo , says Isabelle.

… as much at how he lowered the lid on his life…

Closed the cover on his career…

Hush now, honey — let me … so I say that everyone will wonder, when it’s melted itself from the puncture, as much at how he let the air out of his life as they ever had before at how he’d pumped it in her.

Leo, you’re simply fabulous, I mean really fabulous.

Yeah, you’re one of the wisemen, Glick, you know? one of the wisemen.

3

As Fender slowly approached, they got out of their car and waited for him on the sidewalk. She seemed terribly small and muffled up, and when he drew near he saw that she was both. Her hat was covered with fur, she wore a fur coat that seemed to have been stained mahogany, and there were tattered strips of fur around the tops of her overshoes that had been dipped in a similar color. Her hands were hidden in a fur muff that almost matched her coat and she stood very formally, the muff at her middle, like a figure in a print or display in a shop. She was even smaller than he’d thought: the furs of her coat were long and coarse, the collar closed across her chin, her over-shoes had high thin heels. The man said something. Fender greeted him; his words were gay. The moist lips, the movement of the arm, the grip, the crinkle at the edge of the eye, the bob he gave to his head — all were there, performing for him, working their spell as he liked to think, for even if it was Ringley he was selling, he owed it to Pearson, and after this morning he felt his loyalty more deeply, perhaps, than he ever had before. He gratefully acknowledged his debt, because Pearson was far better than… far better than Glick and all the other people who regularly jeered at him. He was better absolutely. He had a beautiful belief. And although it was true that he sold badly — he had too much momentum, it carried him past the sale — still… Fender smiled at the woman, who blinked. She had swollen eyes, and her nose, which surprised Fender by being huge and angular, was raw beneath the nostrils. That’s the way it goes, he thought, turning away; she’s got the flu or something, and I’ll catch it. Fender couldn’t blame people for hating Pearson. Pearson was a bully. Fender had felt his anger and contempt often enough; had heard him brag at length and failed his challenges. With a pencil pulled suddenly from his pocket, Fender wrote figures in the snow. Needs a bit of paint of course… but sits well back. These fine old homes… there’s no other way to purchase space these days, the space one requires for gracious living. It was true: he sold badly, he bragged, well, yes, he lied too, he was a bully. He was impossibly vain, an incurable gossip. But he could drive a street and tell its fortune like a Gypsy. Your body owns you; another house, isn’t it? Old souls in them, old souls like aged widow women, watching through the windows Pearson coming, helpless, unable, even, to crawl their stairs. There’d be embalming in the basement if it wasn’t damp. He threw the woman a ferocious glare but she seemed quite oblivious to him, swallowed in her animal. Fender led the way up the unshoveled walk, gallantly raking his feet from side to side to make a path, and as he mounted the steps a breeze moved up beside him and the sun bloomed so brilliantly that the snow seemed to leap with the light. Icicles hung from the high eaves of the house, fantastically twisted, enormously long, and all around the porch smaller ones grew in great profusion. They certainly disfigure a place, he said, and the key was still cold in his pocket. Prop-purr-tee. A lovely sound. He hauled the door open.