Carpenter's Gothic

by William Gaddis

  — Paul it's not my fault! It's, it's not my…

  — I didn't say that. I didn't say that Liz. I didn't mean…

  — But you did you do! You always do you, I go to the doctor every time I see a doctor you blame me for the bills even the plane crash, you even blame me for that you…

  — Liz stop it…! He put down his emptied glass, coming round the table. — How could I blame you for the plane crash.

  — Well you do. Every time we go to bed, that lawsuit you started against them with mine every time we…

  — Liz don't, look. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…

  — You're always sorry, you always, no don't. Don't, just give me that napkin, don't you're messing my hair…

  But he came down, closer, his breath stirring it, — Liz? Remember that first time? after that funeral? When I leaned over in the car and told you I was crazy about the back of your neck and…

  — No please… she pulled away, cringed lower, his hand on her bared shoulder — you're hurting my…

  — Well what the hell are you wearing this thing for! He was back out of reach, a hand out for his glass, — you haven't worn it since summer.

  — But what, I just…

  — Show off your bruise? Sleeveless thing to show off your God damn combat badge to the neighbors and anybody who…

  — I don't know any neighbors!

  — And your brother what about your brother, your…

  — I said I'd bumped into a bookcase. When do you want supper.

  — A bookcase… He held the bottle over the glass, held it the way he poured drinks, two handed, one holding the bottle up and away against the other forcing it down, forcing the neck down over the glass, and — a bookcase, he muttered again at the sink for a splash of water, turning past her through the doorway. — Where. What bookcase. Will you show me one God damn bookcase? Everything else here but a bookcase it's like a museum, like living in a museum. Liz…? He'd got as far as the door and he turned on a lamp there, something Japanese under a silk shade that cast the reflection of his unfinished face in the glass-framed sampler hung above it. — Did that agent tell you when they're getting this stuff out of here? Liz?

  — They just said his wife's supposed to come for it.

  — That means we've got to live with every stick the way she left it? Pictures, mirrors, plants all those God damn plants in the dining room watering all those plants? He raised his glass, brought it down half emptied coming across the room to put it on the mantel his hand's breadth from a china dog there, and no larger. — Looks like she'll be here any minute, whole place looks like she walked out for lunch and expects to be back for dinner… He ran a finger over the china dog, brought it up close and it snapped in his hands. — Liz? Got to get somebody in here to clean… he fitted the halves together, placed them back and came down blowing on them, pressing them close, blowing again and brushing away with his hand, taking his glass, — that list he left? The plumber, electrician, firewood, some woman on it who comes in and cleans? He'd reached the alcove where he raised his glass and finished it, stood looking down the black crown of the empty road and then ran a finger over the pane and looked at it. — Get her in here to wash the windows, so smoked up you can't see out… He turned with the emptied glass, — know where that list is? Get her in here to clean things up, see if she can oww…!

  — Paul?

  — Does this coffee table have to be right in the middle of the God damn room here? Bang my leg every time I walk past it.

  — Where else can it go? There's no place to…

  — Got to get this toilet fixed.

  — Well what shall I do! I told you I called the plumber and they have to get in that room to reach some trap in the drain.

  — Tell them to break the lock. Just tell them to break the God damn padlock. This McCandless, Argentina Zaire wherever the hell he is, look at these smoked up windows he's probably in a cancer ward someplace what are we supposed to do. He rents us the house with that room locked off and a lease that says he reserves access to his papers in there, what do we do? Sit here waiting for him to show up looking for an old laundry ticket while your brother stands here pissing all over the floor? You know where that list is? Just call and tell them to break that padlock and get in there and fix the God damn drain… He was back standing over the bottle, — they can put on a new lock and give the key to the agent, if McCandless ever shows up she can hand it over.

  — You'll have to leave me cash.

  — Let them send the bill to the agent.

  — For the cleaning woman, she…

  — You sure this is all the mail? He sat down again, sweeping it toward him, — my VA check, where the hell is it… Instead he found the newspaper. — What about supper.

  — There's that ham, what's left of it.

  — See this thing in the paper? these gooks adopting dogs and eating them?

  — Please, put it out Paul. I'm having trouble breathing.

  — We spend five dollars a week here feeding somebody else's cat while these slopes walk into the ASPCA and go home to a dachshund barbecue. See this gook in there patting a Saint Bernard on the…

  — Paul, put it out.

  — All right! He jammed the cigarette into her teacup, — takes it home to the kiddies whole God damn family eats for a week, can't even…

  — They can't help it! She was suddenly up, past him into the living room where she simply stood.

  — What? What do you mean they can't…

  — I just wish you didn't have to keep calling them slopes and gooks, it's all such a long time ago and you can't call them that, all of them gooks… She bent down for the rag on the wet floor, — the ones who were our friends the ones who…

  — Liz God damn it I was there! They're all gooks all of them, every God damn one of them I was there Liz…! and his hand, in a sudden tremor reaching for the telephone, knocked over the glass. — It's probably Ude.

  She came on to the trash, caught breath dangling the wet rag that moment before she dropped it in where the feathers, mottled? or just mud spattered, still shone in brownish pink at the throat. It was a dove.

  2

  Climbing the hill from the river, stopping for breath, an old dog fell in beside her as she started to climb again, every effort of hers caught up in its plodding step, head carried low going white down muzzle and flews, elbow and hock gone hairless and callused, its dry black coat thinned toward the tail. Almost to the top she stopped again, one hand steadied on a pale of the fence as she drew the other across her forehead, and noticed the dog's nails were done bold ruby red. They crossed the road together side by side, as though they had crossed it side by side together many times before right up the crumbled brick to the front door where the dog crowded against her knee, left staring out there as she closed the door behind her.

  Somewhere, the roar of a vacuum cleaner dwindled to a whine. — Hello? she called, — hello? Madame Socrate…? At her elbow a blouse in pale green batiste rag remnant, pearl buttoned, draped the newel. A pail of water barred the kitchen doorway. — Madame Socrate? And she extended a hand to the massive floral print descending the stairs, bare feet in a clatter of vacuum cleaner accessories. — I'm, I'm Mrs. Booth, Eliz…

  — Madame.

  — Yes, well… her hand dropped, — bonjour… she stepped aside. — I'm glad you could come is everything, ça va?

  — On a besoin d'un nouvel aspirateur.

  — Yes a, a what, quoi?

  — On a besoin d'un nouvel aspirateur, Madame.

  — Oh yes. Oui.

  — Celui-ci est foutu.

  — Of course yes the, the vacuum cleaner oui yes it is quite an old one isn't it mais, mais c'est très important de, qu'on nettoyer tout les, le dust vous savez le, le dust? Farce que mon asthma…

  — Madame?

  — Yes well I just mean, I mean vous faites du bon travail quand même… she backed off, — I mean it's an awfully warm day and you've done a lovely job quand même
…

  — Oui Madame.

  The equipment clattered by and she bent to catch her calf where she'd hit it against the coffee table, sank to the edge of the frayed love seat. Ash lay spilled from the fireplace in a fine grey fall on the hearth. Across the room, a delicate length of cobweb joining the alcove's draperies caught the sun striking through from the dining room. — Madame Socrate? Vous avez fini ici? cleaning in here, I mean?

  — Madame? from the kitchen.

  — Ici? cette salle, c'est tout…

  — C'est pas sale Madame!

  — No I didn't mean, not sale not dirty no, salle, I mean, I mean chambre, cette chambre? c'est fini?

  — Oui Madame.

  When the telephone rang she was standing at the mantel piecing together the china dog. Through the dining room, she almost went down crossing the kitchen floor awash with the woman on hands and knees dipping the green batiste in wide sweeps from the pail. — I'm sorry… she got by, and then — hello…? No, I… He's not here no, I don't know how to reach… hello? Hello? She hung up, brought her feet to the chair rung as the pail sloshed closer, — honestly! Why people are so rude!

  — Madame? from the floor there.

  — These people looking for, qui cherchent Monsieur McCandless. Est-ce que, est-ce qu'il y avait des, des telephones, I mean any calls this morning? ce matin?

  — Oui Madame, beaucoup.

  — But I mean, you mean there've been lots of calls? She stared at the blank pad beside the telephone, — but who. Who were they?

  — Je sais pas Madame.

  — But I mean who were they for, then. I mean, pour Monsieur McCandless you mean? Ce matin?

  — Il était fâché, oui.

  — What?

  — Ce matin, oui. I1 était fâché.

  — Who. Qui.

  — Ce monsieur oui, le même qui est venu ce matin.

  — What, looking for him? Somebody came here looking for him you mean? Monsieur McCandless?

  — Monsieur McCandless, oui. Il était fâché.

  — Yes well you said that, he was angry you said that, but I mean who. Qui.

  — Monsieur McCandless, oui… The wet swath swept closer, underfoot, — cette piece la, il ne pouvait pas entrer. Il dit qu'on a change la serrure. Il était fâch…

  — No now wait wait, attendez. He was, you mean Monsieur McCandless était ici? here? He was here?

  — Ce matin, oui Madame.

  — But he, I mean why didn't you tell me! What did he…

  — La pièce lá… with a wet thrust at the door behind her, — il se fâchait parce-qu'il ne pouvait pas entrer quand il est venu ce mat…

  — Yes well you said that, and he was fâché because he couldn't get in I mean why didn't he call? They put on a new lock last week when they fixed a pipe in there why didn't he call, the agent has the key he could have gone to the real estate agent couldn't he? Did he leave any message or anything? Where we could, où on peut lui téléphoner? or if, when he'll be back? S'il retourner?

  — Non Madame.

  — Well I don't know what he expects us to do… The pail lurched closer and she got up, got by it, — he didn't say anything? Rien? I mean where we could, où on peut lui trouver? She turned in the doorway, — where these people can call him? I mean I'm a little fâché myself… Steadied against a dining room chair she slipped off her shoes and her steps, shorn of purpose, took her back to the living room, to the mantel. — Madame? Madame Socrate…? She pressed the broken dog together, — ce chien? Qu'est-ce que arrive avec ce chien que, que c'est cassé?

  — Madame?

  — No nothing, never mind. Rien… She'd turned her back on it, turned her steps irresolute as her gaze fallen vacant where words abruptly snared it, seized upon its own privation shaped here to no purpose,

  LOSS OF $412 MILLION, A RECORD, REPORTED BY GENERAL MOTORS

  yesterday's headline or the day's before, of no more relevance then than now in its blunt demand to be read, building the clutter, widening the vacancy, driving it elsewhere, anywhere, the still embrace of the armchair there beyond the hearth to flee even that for the front door's glass paneled symmetry.

  — Madame?

  — Oh! I, you startled me…

  — Vous parliez du chien, Madame? Out there on the brick, the old dog hunched scratching a callused elbow with those red nails. — Je ne connais pas ce chien Madame.

  — It's not, never mmd, ça ne fait rien it's just, it just acts like it lives here no wait, wait I've meant to ask you. Ces meubles? all this furiiiture? I mean on dit que c'est le, les meubles du Madame?

  — Madame?

  — Du Madame McCandless oui, qu'elle vient pour le, to move it all out I mean? pour le retrouver?

  — Sais pas Madame.

  — Because it's all, I mean some of it's quite lovely isn't it it's, c'est comme un petit musée isn't it. I mean ces chaises? they're rosewood aren't they, I wouldn't leave chairs like that for tenants you don't even know, and this vase? It's Sevres isn't it? n'est-ce pas? Because everything goes together so beautifully, I've never been able to make a place look so, just look so right. Even these… she bent to blow at petals nodding in pink silk, it might have been cyclamen, stood away from the puff of dust. — Madame? Madame So-crate…? From the kitchen the rush of a torrent of water, the clatter of the pail in the sink. — She must have left suddenly, did she? all of a sudden? Or she wouldn't have left everything out like this… And back in the kitchen doorway, — Madame? C'est combien du temps que elle, que Madame McCandless, I mean how long she's been gone?

  — Madame? The pail came to the floor.

  — How long she's, quand elle est partie?

  — Sais pas Madame.

  — No but if you've been working for them, I mean you must have some idea when she, quelque idée…

  — Sais pas Madame.

  — But… she stood there, silenced by the back turned to her, the sullen ease of the arm wiping down white surfaces, the stove, the sink, the sill and there beyond it discoloured leaves filling the terrace in broken sunlight through the haphazard limbs of a mulberry tree, and then abruptly — elle est jolie?

  — Madame?

  — Is she, ce Madame McCandless, est-ce qu'elle est jolie?

  — Sais pas Madame.

  — No but I mean you must know if she's pretty, belle? Is she, if she's young? I mean vous connaissez ce Madame puis…

  — Connais pas Madame.

  — But she, you don't know her? Vous ne connaissez I mean you don't even know her? But that's, I mean that's odd isn't it, n'est-ce pas?

  — Oui Madame.

  Back in the living room she picked up the newspaper, put it down and picked up the field guide to birds where she studied the ragged crest and squat self importance of red breasted merganser. She had never seen one.

  — Madame? in the kitchen doorway now, squeezing on worn pumps.

  — Oh, oh you're finished now yes, un moment… Through the dining room she got the kitchen drawer open digging under napkins, under placemats, — that's, c'est vingt cinq dollars?

  — Trente dollars Madame.

  — Oh…? She came up with another five.

  — Et la monnaie pour 1'autobus Madame.

  — Oh the, your carfare yes, yes combien…

  — Un dollar Madame, deux fois cinquante.

  — Oui… she got her purse, — et merci…

  — Le mardi prochain Madame?

  — Next Tuesday yes well, well no. No I mean that's what I wanted to speak to you about, I mean qu'il ne serait pas nécessaire que, that it's maybe it's better to just wait and I call you again when I, que je vous telephone!…

  — Vous ne voulez pas que je revienne.

  — Yes well I mean but not next Tuesday, I mean I'll telephone you again I hope you understand Madame Socrate it's just that I, que votre travail est très bon everything looks lovely but…

  — J'comprends Madame… the door came open, — et la clef.

  — Oh the key yes
, yes thank you merci I hope you, oh but wait, wait could you, est-ce que vous pouvez trouver le, les cartes… with a stabbing gesture at the mailbox, — la, dans le, des cartes…? And with the mail clasped to her she still kept standing, watching the steady lurch of the floral print down the hill, the splash of lipstick red hibiscus against the shoal of leaves cast up along the black current of the road rising toward her from the river, her chin sunk in an effort for breath. When she raised it again the telephone had stopped ringing. She closed the door, stepped back from the disheveled burst of red in the glass-framed sampler hung there thrusting her hair back, piercing that staled semblance to the entire alphabet laid out beneath the glass in needlework repose and the reproof of consecrated leisure, the mundane desolation in the lines of verse stitched below: While we wait for the napkin, the soup gets cold…

  She came into the kitchen with the halves of the china dog from the mantel, found glue and stood there at the sink pressing the pieces together. An ear snapped off, and she walked more slowly to the trash, her thumb to her lips with a fleck of blood. Here in the top of the trash lay that harsh glimpse of boats off Eleuthera and, down wiping it clean of coffee grounds, a torn piece of a letter in a generous and unfamiliar hand drawn out in severed fragments, anyone's fault, the last thing I, for you to believe me, what else to do. Deeper down, under the wet batiste remnant shorn of its buttons, she found the torn half of the envelope with the Zaire stamp URGENT PLEASE FORWARD, picking it through till the phone brought her up with her thumb to her lips, tasting blood, — Mrs who…? No I'm afraid not, I'm not… Well it's a very small street and I mean I don't even know who lives… No now listen I can't join your march against cancer, I don't like cancer I don't even like to think about it that's all, now… yes you're welcome goodbye.