Beginners

by Raymond Carver

  Mine

  DURING the day the sun had come out and the snow melted into dirty water. Streaks of water ran down from the little, shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Cars slushed by on the street outside. It was getting dark, outside and inside.

  He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.

  I’m glad you’re leaving, I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear?

  He kept on putting his things into the suitcase and didn’t look up.

  Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me in the face, can you? Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up.

  He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to the living room.

  Bring that back.

  Just get your things and get out, she said.

  He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, and looked at the bedroom before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room. She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.

  I want the baby, he said.

  Are you crazy?

  No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come by for his things.

  You can go to hell! You’re not touching this baby.

  The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the blanket from around his head.

  Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.

  He moved towards her.

  For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.

  I want the baby.

  Get out of here!

  She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove as he came up.

  He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.

  Let go of him, he said.

  Get away, get away! she cried.

  The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a little flowerpot that hung behind the stove.

  He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip, holding onto the baby and pushing his weight against her arm.

  Let go of him, he said.

  Don’t, she said, you’re hurting him!

  He didn’t talk again. The kitchen window gave no light. In the near-dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.

  She felt her fingers being forced open and the baby going from her. No, she said, just as her hands came loose. She would have it, this baby whose chubby face gazed up at them from the picture on the table. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around the wrist and leaned back.

  He would not give. He felt the baby going out of his hands and he pulled back hard. He pulled back very hard.

  In this manner they decided the issue.

  Distance

  SHE’S in Milan for Christmas and wants to know what it was like when she was a kid. Always that on the rare occasions when he sees her.

  Tell me, she says. Tell me what it was like then. She sips Strega, waits, eyes him closely.

  She is a cool, slim, attractive girl. The father is proud of her, pleased and grateful she has passed safely through her adolescence into young womanhood.

  That was a long time ago. That was twenty years ago, he tells her. They’re in his apartment in the Via Fabroni near the Cascina Gardens.

  You can remember, she says. Go on, tell me.

  What do you want to hear? he asks. What else can I tell you? I could tell you about something that happened when you were a baby. Do you want to hear about their first real argument? It involves you, he says and smiles at her.

  Tell me, she says and claps her hands with anticipation. But first get us another drink, please, so you won’t have to interrupt halfway through.

  He comes back from the kitchen with drinks, settles into his chair, begins slowly:

  They were kids themselves, but they were crazy in love, this eighteen-year-old boy and his seventeen-year-old girlfriend when they married, and not all that long afterwards they had a daughter.

  The baby came along in late November during a severe cold spell that just happened to coincide with the peak of the waterfowl season in that part of the country. The boy loved to hunt, you see, that’s part of it.

  The boy and girl, husband and wife now, father and mother, lived in a three-room apartment under a dentist’s office. Each night they cleaned the upstairs in exchange for their rent and utilities. In summer they were expected to maintain the lawn and the flowers, and in winter the boy shoveled snow from the walks and spread rock salt on the pavement. Are you still with me?

  I am, she says. A nice arrangement for everyone, dentist included.

  That’s right, he says. Except when the dentist found out they were using his letterhead stationery for their personal correspondence. But that’s another story.

  The two kids, as I’ve told you, were very much in love. On top of this they had great ambitions and they were wild dreamers. They were always talking about the things they were going to do and the places they were going to go.

  He gets up from his chair and looks out the window for a minute over the slate rooftops at the snow that falls steadily through the weak late afternoon light.

  Tell the story, she reminds gently.

  The boy and girl slept in the bedroom and the baby slept in a crib in the living room. The baby was about three weeks old at this time and had only just begun to sleep through the night.

  On this one Saturday night after finishing his work upstairs, the boy went into the dentist’s private office, put his feet up on his desk, and called Carl Sutherland, an old hunting and fishing friend of his father’s.

  Carl, he said when the man picked up the receiver, I’m a father. We had a baby girl.

  Congratulations, boy, Carl said. How is the wife?

  She’s fine, Carl. The baby’s fine too, the boy said. We named her Catherine. Everybody’s fine.

  That’s good, Carl said. I’m glad to hear it. Well, you give my regards to the wife. If you called about going hunting, I’ll tell you something. The geese are flying down there to beat the band. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many of them and I’ve been going there for years. I shot five today, two this morning and three this afternoon. I’m going back in the morning and you come along if you want to.

  I want to, the boy said. That’s why I called.

  You be here at five thirty then and we’ll go, Carl said. Bring lots of shells. We’ll get some shooting in all right, don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.

  The boy liked Carl Sutherland. He had been a friend of the boy’s father, who was dead now. After the father’s death, maybe trying to replace a loss they both felt, the boy and Sutherland had started hunting together. Sutherland was a bluff, heavyset, balding man who lived alone and was not given to casual talk. Once in a while when they were together the boy felt uncomfortable, wondered if he had said or done something wrong because he was not used to being around people who kept still for long periods of time. But when he did talk the older man was often opinionated, and frequently the boy didn’t agree with the opinions. Yet the man had a toughness about him and a woods knowledge that the boy liked and admired.

  The boy hung up the telephone and went downstairs to tell the girl about going hunting the next morning. He was happy about going hunting, and he laid out his things a few minutes later: hunting coat and shell bag, boots, woolen socks, brown canvas hunting cap with fur earmuffs, 12-gauge pump shotgun, long john woolen underwear.

  What time will you be back? the girl asked.

  Probably around noon, he said, but maybe not until after five or six o’clock. Would that be too late?

  It’s fine, she said. Catherine and I will get along just fine. You go and have some fun, you deserve it. Maybe tomorrow evening we’ll dress Catherine up and go visit Claire.

  Sure, that sounds like a good idea,
he said. Let’s plan on that.

  Claire was the girl’s sister, ten years older. She was a striking woman. I don’t know if you’ve seen pictures of her. (She hemorrhaged to death in a hotel in Seattle when you were about four.) The boy was a little in love with her, just as he was a little in love with Betsy, the girl’s younger sister who was only fifteen then. Joking once he’d said to the girl, if we weren’t married I could go for Claire.

  What about Betsy? the girl had said. I hate to admit it but I truly feel she’s better looking than Claire or me. What about her?

  Betsy too, the boy said and laughed. Of course Betsy. But not in the same way I could go for Claire. Claire is older, but I don’t know, there’s something about her you could fall for. No, I believe I’d prefer Claire over Betsy, I think, if I had to make a choice.

  But who do you really love? the girl asked. Who do you love most in all the world? Who’s your wife?

  You’re my wife, the boy said.

  And will we always love each other? the girl asked, enormously enjoying this conversation, he could tell.

  Always, the boy said. And we’ll always be together. We’re like the Canadian geese, he said, taking the first comparison that came to mind, for they were often on his mind in those days. They only marry once. They choose a mate early in life, and then the two of them stay together always. If one of them dies or something the other one will never remarry. It will live off by itself somewhere, or even continue to live with the flock, but it will stay single and alone amongst all the other geese.

  That’s a sad fate, the girl said. It’s sadder for it to live that way, I think, alone but with all the others, than just to live off by itself somewhere.

  It is sad, the boy said, but it’s a part of nature like everything else.

  Have you ever killed one of those marriages? she asked. You know what I mean.

  He nodded. Two or three times I’ve shot a goose, he said, then a minute or two later I’d see another one turn back from the rest and begin to circle and call over the goose that lay on the ground.

  Did you shoot it too? she asked with concern.

  If I could, he answered. Sometimes I missed.

  And it didn’t bother you? she asked.

  Never, he said. You can’t think about it when you’re doing it. I love everything there is about hunting geese. And I love to just watch them even when I’m not hunting them. But there are all kinds of contradictions in life. You can’t think about all the contradictions.

  After dinner he turned up the furnace and helped her bathe the baby. He marveled again at the infant who had half his features, the eyes and mouth, and half the girl’s, the chin, the nose. He powdered the tiny body and then powdered in between the fingers and toes. He watched the girl put the baby into its diaper and pajamas.

  He emptied the bath into the shower basin and went upstairs. It was overcast and cold outside. His breath steamed in the air. The grass, what there was of it, reminded him of canvas, stiff and gray under the streetlight. Snow lay in piles beside the walk. A car went by and he heard sand grinding under the tires. He let himself imagine what it might be like tomorrow, geese milling in the air over his head, shotgun plunging against his shoulder.

  Then he locked the door and went downstairs.

  In bed they tried to read but both of them fell asleep, she first, letting the magazine sink to the quilt after a few minutes. His eyes closed, but he roused himself, checked the alarm, turned off the lamp.

  He woke to the baby’s cries. The light was on out there, and the girl was standing beside the crib rocking the baby in her arms. In a minute she put the baby down, turned out the light, and returned to bed.

  It was two o’clock in the morning and the boy fell asleep again.

  But half an hour later he heard the baby once more. This time the girl continued to sleep. The baby cried fitfully for a few minutes and stopped. The boy listened, then began to doze.

  Again the baby’s cries woke him. The living room light was burning. He sat up and turned on the lamp.

  I don’t know what’s wrong, the girl said, walking back and forth with the baby. I’ve changed her and given her something more to eat, but she keeps crying. She won’t stop crying. I’m so tired I’m afraid I might drop her.

  You come back to bed, the boy said. I’ll hold her for a while.

  He got up and took the baby, and the girl went to lie down again.

  Just rock her for a few minutes, the girl said from the bedroom. Maybe she’ll go back to sleep.

  The boy sat on the couch and held the baby, jiggling it in his lap until its eyes closed. His own eyes were near closing. He rose carefully and put the baby back in the crib.

  It was quarter to four and he still had forty-five minutes. He crawled into bed and dropped off.

  But a few minutes later the baby began to cry once more, and this time they both got up, and the boy swore.

  For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you? the girl said to him. Maybe she’s sick or something. Maybe we shouldn’t have given her the bath.

  The boy picked up the baby. The baby kicked its feet and smiled. Look, he said, I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with her.

  How do you know that? the girl said. Here, let me have her. I know that I ought to give her something, but I don’t know what.

  Her voice had an edginess that caused the boy to look at her closely.

  After a few minutes and the baby had not cried, the girl put her down again. He and the girl looked at the baby, then looked at each other as the baby opened its eyes once more and began to cry.

  The girl took the baby. Baby, baby, she said with tears in her eyes.

  Probably it’s something on her stomach, the boy said.

  The girl didn’t answer. She went on rocking the baby in her arms, paying no attention now to the boy.

  The boy waited a minute longer, then went to the kitchen and put on water for coffee. He drew on his woolen underwear over his shorts and T-shirt, buttoned up, then got into his clothes.

  What are you doing? the girl said to him.

  Going hunting, he said.

  I don’t think you should, she said. Maybe you could go later on in the day if the baby is all right then, but I don’t think you should go this morning. I don’t want to be left alone with her like this.

  Carl’s planning on me going, the boy said. We’ve planned it.

  I don’t give a damn about what you and Carl have planned, she flared. And I don’t give a damn about Carl either. I don’t even know the man. I don’t want you to go is all. I don’t think you should even consider wanting to go under the circumstances.

  You’ve met Carl before, you know him, the boy said. What do you mean you don’t know him?

  That’s not the point and you know it, the girl said. The point is I don’t intend to be left alone with a sick baby. If you weren’t being selfish you’d realize that.

  Now wait a minute, that’s just not true, he said. You don’t understand.

  No, you don’t understand, she said. I’m your wife. This is your baby. She’s sick or something, look at her. Why else is she crying? You can’t leave us to go hunting.

  Don’t get hysterical about it, he said.

  I’m saying you can go hunting anytime, she said. Something’s wrong with this baby and you want to leave us to go hunting.

  She began to cry then. She put the baby back in the crib, but the baby started again. The girl dried her eyes hastily on the sleeve of her nightgown and picked her up once more.

  The boy laced his boots slowly, put on his shirt, sweater, and coat. The kettle whistled on the stove in the kitchen.

  You’re going to have to choose, the girl said. Carl or us, I mean it, you’ve got to choose.

  What do you mean? the boy said slowly.

  You heard what I said, the girl answered. If you want a family you’re going to have to choose. If you go out that door you’re not coming back, I’m serious.

  They stared a
t each other. Then the boy took his hunting gear and went upstairs. He started the car after some difficulty, went around to the car windows and, making a job of it, scraped away the ice.

  The temperature had dropped during the night, but the weather had cleared so that stars had come out, and now they gleamed in the sky over his head. Driving, the boy glanced up once at the stars and was moved when he considered their bright distance.

  Carl’s porch light was on, his station wagon parked in the drive with the motor idling. Carl came outside as the boy pulled to the curb. The boy had decided.

  You might want to park off the street, Carl said as the boy came up the walk. I’m all ready, just let me hit the lights. I feel like hell, I really do, he went on. I thought maybe you had overslept so I just this minute finished calling your place. Your wife said you had left. I feel like hell calling.

  It’s okay, the boy said, trying to pick his words. He leaned his weight on one leg and turned up his collar. He put his hands in his coat pockets. She was already up, Carl. We’ve both been up for a while. I guess there’s something wrong with the baby, I don’t know. She keeps crying, I mean. The thing is, I guess I can’t go this time. He shivered against the cold and looked away.

  You should have stepped to the phone and called me, boy, Carl said. It’s okay. Shoot, you know you didn’t have to come over here to tell me. What the hell, this hunting business you can take it or leave it. It’s not that important. You want a cup of coffee?

  No thanks, I’d better get back, the boy said.

  Well, since I’m already up and ready I expect I’ll go ahead and go, Carl said. He looked at the boy and lit a cigarette.

  The boy kept standing on the porch, not saying anything.

  The way it’s cleared up, Carl said, I don’t look for much action this morning anyway. It sure is cold though.

  The boy nodded. I’ll see you, Carl, he said.