“There’s one in my purse,” she said. “The big one is where it always is.” Now she did lay her book aside; she closed it. “I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me,” she said, standing up. “A decent husband doesn’t address his wife like this.”
He said, “A decent wife—”
“A decent wife,” she said, interrupting calmly, “would expect her husband to support her.”
This diversion, so unexpected, so unrelated to the subject at hand, almost unhinged him. He found himself unable to go on; all he could do was gape at her. What was happening? His wife stood facing him with her lips pressed together, indicating that she was angry, that she, too, was upset, but not as he was; not in the same way or to the same degree. According to her, he had done wrong. He could not turn her attention to their finances, now; she saw only a man who had mistreated a woman, evidently by his overly-loud voice, and by his demanding tone. Her gentility, her heritage, was upset.
And what about the reality which we face? he thought as he turned and walked a short way off. It seemed to him that he was about to blow up and explode like a bottle overheated; he could sense himself, all his parts, flying off. His hands danced in the air and he clasped them together. They at once separated; he could not keep them clasped. His toes, in his shoes, writhed. His tongue crawled. As if, he thought, my body is breaking up.
This is what they mean by unbearable maze for the rats, he said to himself. No way to go. I can’t talk to her but I have to. I have to stay here and try. And yet, it was too much. Behind him his wife waited with composure, but still simmering, still ready to castigate him. He turned, attempting to control himself and his speech, but immediately his words shot out foolishly, they escaped him.
“God damn you,” he said, “you must be crazy or something. All I want to do is find out why.” He waved the notice. “Why this thing!”
Sherry said, “And you know we agreed that reconciling the checkbooks is my responsibility. You abdicated when you couldn’t make a go of it as the breadwinner of the family.” Her voice was cool.
This isn’t a conversation, he thought. It can’t be. It’s an attempt; I want to find out: where are we?
“We have to get money into the account,” he said, panting at her. Gasping for breath.
“Listen,” she said, “I warned you.”
“You’re crazy,” he said. “All you have is being hurt, being a female with pride. What do I care?” What does it matter? he thought. What—now he could not even think, let alone talk; she had deprived him of the power of using words.
“I won’t tolerate this,” she said, her arms folded. “I don’t want to be married to a man who can’t control himself. You really must have some deep-seated childhood neurosis. And I can’t be your analyst. All I can do is pick up the phone and call around and see if there is a good analyst that could take you.”
With intolerable effort he managed to say, “Pay for my help?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll pay.”
He said, “Can’t you just—listen? You? Personally?”
“Not to your vilifications of me,” she said. “Your system that you’ve woven that makes me somehow responsible for your psychological state. Look at you.”
He realized that—god forbid—he was crying. Yes, he saw. Tears were actually coming down his face. Springing forth. And she knew that he could not control them.
“There’s no use trying to reason with you,” she said. “You’re too emotionally disturbed. When you get this way you’re like some sort of animal.”
“Don’t you ever feel sorry for me?” he said.
“Should I?”
“Something,” he said.
“Pity,” she said. “I consider pity a degrading emotion. It degrades both of us.”
He said, “What—about compassion?”
“I don’t see any difference.”
“There is,” he said. “Lots.”
“You want me to hold your hand?” she said. “Let you put your head on my bosom?” Her tone was so flat, so matter of fact, that he could not tell if this were an authentic offer or the most terrible sarcasm; it was not worth looking to see what he felt in answer because he could not even decipher the question.
He said, “Honest to god, this is too much for me. I really think some blood vessel in my brain is going to burst. Look.” He was able to seat himself facing her; seated, his elbows on his knees, he felt more calm. The posture reassured him. “What do you want to do?” he said. “Why do you treat me like this?”
Her expression said, What kind of man are you, carrying on like this? She almost smiled; her lips moved towards it, enough to make known to him that message.
“You want me dead?” he said.
The smile pursed, stayed. Her eyes flashed as coldly as he had yet seen in her. She hated him for asking such a thing.
“Why can’t I even ask?” he said, feeling as if he were going to die right now, on the spot. “Am I committing a crime by trying to find out? I mean, I ought to be able to find out.” Is that too much to allot me? he thought.
“Nobody’s persecuting you,” she said.
“They are,” he said. “You are.”
With detestation she shook her head slowly. “You really are sick,” she said, speaking the word sick as if she had found the final evil in him; she had seen it emerge. All his sins, his weaknesses and vices, came from this. And she was not surprised. It was what she would have expected.
“I’m leaving,” he said, breathing through his mouth, requiring an enormous amount of air; he did not seem able to get enough air. Almost asthma, he thought. He wheezed.
“I wish you would,” his wife said.
Panic made him leap to his feet. Yes, she did wish it; of that at least he felt convinced. Was she acting? It did not matter because if she was, if this was a way of handling him, of getting the response she wanted, she would be able to maintain it; she could keep it up, on and on, for as long as it suited her, perhaps even for years. So what did it matter if it were only a technique? From his standpoint there was no difference.
This is the dreadful thing she can do, he thought. She can make herself feel what she wants to feel. There is no natural feeling, only the most useful one. Once, when she was a child, they taught her what was the proper way to feel. They managed to train her, away from having feelings that simply occur. When she learned that, she had—what? The ability to deny. To shake off, like a pitcher shakes off a sign from his catcher. To select among her emotions, like he does, that skinny tall guy on the mound. That craftsman, with style…Johnny Antonelli. The best pitcher the Giants have, the one he liked best to watch. Fire one at me, he said to himself. I can’t hit it; I am swinging in air. But my wife, he thought, she throws junk. What they call junk. Yet a junky pitcher, a hurky-jerk pitcher can make you fan out as big as life.
Ah, he thought. How my thoughts get away. He sighed, sat clasping his hands, admiring the smell of the mid-day summer air. The country air. While, across from him, Sherry regarded him with the same acuity. Her expression had not softened. Like mine has, he thought. She can outlast me. My energy is gone, but hers remains. And then all at once he had it; or thought he had it.
I know why she jumped on me, he thought. When I waved the bank notice at her. I know why she slapped me down!
She was waiting for this. She knew—oh god damn it, not that the bank account was overdrawn—but that sometime I’d stand up and yell at her. My god, he thought; she was ready—she had it mapped out. That’s why what she says doesn’t fit. It’s geared for another situation; it’s to answer what she’s expected, not the issue.
She’s answering questions in advance, questions I haven’t asked. I have to listen to her answers, he thought excitedly. And figure out from them what’s what, what the real situation is.
Finding himself beginning to laugh, he said, “You really get me. My god, you can get my goat.”
“Do we have to go through this again?” she said
, with weariness. “Every day? This bickering? You obviously feel it’s a strain to live in the same house with me. I’ll see that you’re not saddled with a heavy alimony settlement. In fact, you can have the house. Even the car, if you want. I’ll make it as easy on you as possible.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding reasonably.
“Let me know what you decide,” she said. She reseated herself in her wicker chair, crossed her bare legs, lit a cigarette, and then picked up her book. Laying the open book across her stomach, she studied him and at last said, “I really think you should see an analyst.”
“Fine,” he said, rising. “Maybe I will.”
“If we separate, you’d have to pay for it. The analysis. I can’t support you indefinitely, but I’ll help you at first.”
Nodding, he walked away from her, towards the path.
“You didn’t get my Kleenex when you were down in town,” she said, her eyes on her book, now.
“No,” he said. “When I saw the bank notice I forgot.”
She said nothing; she read.
“Maybe I can get it later,” he said. “I’m going down to Donkey Hall for a while.”
Presently she said, “All right.”
He went on, then, along the path to the road. His hands in his pockets he started down the hill once more, towards Donkey Hall. As he walked he realized, suddenly, that he had never got at the checks; he had never managed to find out exactly how they stood.
So she had done it after all.
His despair returned, then. She managed me once again, he said to himself, in a sort of daze; he found himself mumbling aloud and grinning, as if he had to hear it to believe it. God damn, he said in vague admiration. Should I go back?
Yes, he decided. Donkey Hall can wait.
When he got back he found that she had gone inside; she was no longer on the patio reading her book. Entering the house, he searched for her.
“Oh,” she said, surprised to see him. She had gone into the bedroom; seated on the bed, she was using a needle to get loose a splinter from her finger.
He said, “I really have to hand it to you.”
“Why?” she said, engrossed in the splinter. “Look at this,” she said. “I got it carrying in wood for the fireplace; it’s one of those long soft splinters that breaks.” With a gasp of pain she jerked the needle back. “It hurts,” she said.
“Want me to do it?” he said.
“No,” she said at once. “You’d hurt me more; you’d enjoy it.” She continued fussing with her finger, her lower lip stuck out.
“Sissy,” he said.
Raising her head she said in a quavering voice, “I can’t get it.” She held up her finger.
He took hold of it, then. At his touch she shivered. Beside him on the bed she yielded; he felt her tense, stiff body relax. Within his grip her hand was warm and slightly moist with perspiration. Her mood now was one of almost childish care. He thought, Pain isn’t easy for her to endure. And, as he sat with her, holding her, he began to lose his sense of her as an enemy, a dangerous thing.
“You haven’t held me for so long,” she said. “Couldn’t you put your arm around me?”
He did so. After a moment he drew his hand up and pressed it against the right cup of her halter. Beneath his fingers her breast stirred; he felt it rise to meet him. So he reached beneath the fabric and took hold of the breast itself.
“Mind what you’re doing,” she said. But she did not try to move his hand away. “How long has it been since we last made love?”
“A long time,” he said, holding her nipple between his fingers. The nipple grew and became hard. She sighed, pressing against him.
“Is it wrong?” she said. “In the middle of the day?”
“No,” he said. Now, with his other hand, he reached behind her and unfastened her halter. As soon as he lifted it from her she took it and laid it off to one side. He gripped both her breasts, one in each hand, letting her nipples protrude between his fingers so that he could look at them. She watched them, too; the sight seemed to arouse her.
“Go and draw the curtains,” she said, her eyes half shut.
“In a little while,” he said. He pressed and squeezed.
“Somebody might see in,” she said. “Somebody might drop by. Please.” But she made no move herself; she remained in his grip. “I really wish you would, Walt. It makes me nervous.”
Rising from the bed, he went from window to window. The room became much darker. “More like it,” he said. “Gloomy.”
When he came back to her he found her on her feet, unbuttoning her shorts. Standing on one foot, she slipped them off and put them with the halter. “Is it wrong for me to want to?” Her face had a slack, craving expression; her fingers flew and she breathed erratically. “Take off your clothes and I’ll run and put my diaphragm on.” For an instant she pressed against him, warm and naked and a little damp.
Swiftly, he gripped her and dropped her back onto the bed.
“Wait,” she said, smiling up at him, trembling. “Not so fast.”
With his left hand he separated her knees. Holding her with his body he became big enough and hard enough—he did not wait. In an instant he had his clothes undone. Her smile vanished; her body jerked.
“My diaphragm,” she gasped, struggling, trying to push him out of her. “Walter—I can’t have a child; I can’t get pregnant.” Her voice rose to a wail. “Let me go.” Now she was crying. “Oh dear god, if I get pregnant—what about my job? Let me go.”
He clapped his palm against the inside of her thigh; he forced her open until, at last, he was able to get entirely in. And at once he felt his juices begin to spurt.
“Oh,” she shrieked, writhing under him. “You’re coming!” She got her right hand loose and pinched his shoulder. “Get it out of me! You insane lewd fool—let me go, you rapist! Rapist!” Screaming with fright she flung herself back and forth, pinching him and surging up at him, trying to bite him.
“I think a lot of you,” he said, regaining his grip on her. And he did. “I love you,” he said. He managed to kiss her to the right of her mouth; she snapped her head back and forth, avoiding him.
“It’s all inside me,” she gasped, her eyes blind. Her nails raked against his arms. “You did it; you came inside me. Let me go so I can wash it out—maybe I can wash it out.”
But he kept her, enjoying it, knowing that he had her locked up tight, here, in the grip of his body. He was much bigger than she. And presently he began to move again; he started a second time inside her.
Later in the dank basement of Donkey Hall, under an overhead light, Walt Dombrosio worked while Jack E. Vepp and Earl Timmons watched. The air was filled with plaster dust and the biting fumes of quick-drying enamel, and now and then Timmons coughed. Both he and Vepp, despite the fumes, grinned unrelievedly.
He found it hard to work with the two men watching and grinning, and for a moment he put down his brush.
“Not through, are you?” Vepp said.
“No,” he said. This was a most arduous part; he had always done this kind of job with painstaking care, giving it as much time as was needed. He did not like being rushed. Finally he resumed work. The yellowish cast, behind his brush, spread out.
“This’ll make Sammy really run,” Vepp said.
“What do you mean?” Dombrosio said.
“He means good old Leo,” Timmons said, with a laugh. “That book about Jews. You know—it was on TV.”
“Be quiet,” Vepp said. “So he can work.” Both he and Timmons peered in fascination.
Once, later on, there was a rattling at the knob of the door leading down from upstairs. The door, of course, was locked. But Vepp walked over and said close by it, “Beat it. Go on. We’re busy; you know that.” A muffled voice could be heard. Vepp repeated himself, and then they heard steps going away.
“I hope that wasn’t our teacher friend,” Timmons said.
“No,” Vepp said.
“If he
finds out,” Timmons said, “he’ll say something.”
“I think he’s resigned,” Vepp said. “I think he’s no longer an Advisor.”
“He could still get down here,” Timmons said. “If he saw what’s here he’d figure it out.”
“I’m the only one with a key,” Vepp said. “I’m the only one entitled to a key; you know that.”
Dombrosio said, “I can’t work while you guys talk.”
“Be quiet,” Vepp said to Timmons.
They watched in silence, after that.
“He’s got some guy coming down today,” Vepp said suddenly; it startled Dombrosio and he swore. “Sorry,” Vepp said.
“What guy?” Dombrosio said, pausing.
“Some professor or something. From Berkeley.”
“The University?” Dombrosio said.
“I guess so. Wharton got hold of him. Some guy who’s been up here before. In the past. That’s what I heard in the market, anyhow. Lila Giambossi told me. She knows everything; she used to be a phone operator before they switched the exchange to San Rafael.”
“You used to be able to find out from her where the doctor or the sheriff was,” Timmons said.
“Any hour of the day or night,” Vepp said. “All you had to do was pick up the phone and ask.”
Dombrosio said, “Can I go on working? Will you shut up?”
“Sure,” Vepp said apologetically.
They both looked contrite. But soon they would be talking again; their attention would wander and they would get restless.
“You don’t have to watch,” he said.
“Hell, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Vepp said. “I’ll tell you—you know you’re always saying what a tough New York gutter-rat scrapper he is? Our friend is?” He nudged Timmons.
“I never said that,” Timmons said. “I said that he’s always jumping into a controversy: he always has to get his two cents worth in. Like the school business.”
“Anyhow,” Vepp said, “when my boys pulled down that crappy sign, that ‘live happy’ sign, he didn’t do nothing. He never opened his trap.” He clapped Timmons on the back. “So when he finds out he’s been had on this, he won’t dare open his trap. He’ll crawl around and shake our hands; he’ll come sidling up to us—he has to. What choice has he got? Sure, maybe for a week or so he won’t wave to us.” Vepp laughed. “That’ll really make me weep.”
The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike Page 18