Carpenter's Gothic

by William Gaddis

  He'd opened a cupboard, looked for a clean glass where he might once have kept them but come down with a cup holding the bottle straight up for little more than the half ounce or less left in it, no more than enough to warm the mouth not even a swallow. — I, incidentally I called Madame So-crate she'll be here first thing tomorrow to, to clean up…

  — All your gentle, your hands on my breasts on my throat everywhere, all of you filling me till there was nothing else till I was, till I wasn't I didn't exist but I was all that existed just, raised up exalted yes, exalted yes that was the rapture and that sweet gentle, and your hands, your wise hands, meeting the Lord in the clouds all these sad stupid, these poor sad stupid people if that's the best they can do? their dumb sentimental hopes you despise like their books and their music what they think is the rapture if that's the best they can do? hanging that gold star in the window if, to prove that he didn't die for nothing? Because I, because I'll never be called Bibbs again… He stood there holding the empty cup as though looking for a place to set it down, for some refuge: she was looking straight at him, and then — I think I loved you when I knew I'd never see you again, she said, looking at him.

  — But that wasn't…

  — And you're going.

  — I, yes… he put the cup down on the counter, — yes, I told you.

  — Summer things, hot places, an umbrella that's all you told me.

  — Where there's work… He started making another cigarette, spilling tobacco off the paper, — New Guinea, Papua there's a big strike back in the mountains there, a million ounces of gold when their smelter's set up, half a million tons of copper, up the Fly river from Kiunga… he twisted the paper and it tore, — or the Solomons, they're all the same these hot places, only difference is the diseases you pick up and even those… crumpling paper and tobacco together — listen, I meant it I, I've got some cash, got my hands on about sixteen thousand dollars and a ticket to anywhere, we can… he reached out to break off the phone on its first ring, — we can…

  — What are you doing!

  — But I thought… he dropped it back, — I thought you weren't answering, I…

  — Just, just leave it alone!

  — But…

  — Because it might have been Paul again, when it rings twice and stops and then rings again no, a ticket to anywhere? to some hot place where the only way we know where we are is the disease we get? Just pack up and go when you're the only one who could stop it? who could tell everybody there's nothing there but some bushes? that you don't even care if they…

  — Don't you see I, good God. And you really think I can stop a war? I told you, try to prove anything to them the clearer the proof and the harder they'll fight it, they…

  — You could try!

  — It's not, it's late… but she wasn't even looking at him — I, I'll do what I can. He caught up a sleeve of the raincoat, pulling it on — I can't get into town before dark. I'll call you.

  — No wait, wait just…

  — I said I'll do what I can! And I'll call you, I'll call you tonight that same two rings, two rings and hang up, will you pack? get a few things together if I can…

  — Just hold me she said, and she already had his wrist tight.

  — When I call… and he held her, — and if anything goes wrong…

  — No, just hold me.

  She stood still as her gaze fallen on the empty chairs out there on the terrace till the snap of the front door brought her round with a broken sound that scarcely left her throat, left her searching the kitchen's silence as though for some provocation square into the ambush strewn there on the counter in the rag ends of headlines, SENATOR DEAD IN RED PLANE SHOOTDOWN VIET VET KILLS MUGG TRAGEDY STALKS all starkly relevant in their stark demand to be read again for what they'd already demolished in their confusion, a wingcollared senator waving from the window of a bright red airplane or Doctor what was his name, might still be for he'd been quite young, the vet who'd wormed and dieted those Jack Russell terriers at Longview where she stood now jamming the black headlines together in a crush of newsprint as though to destroy their tyranny once for all, passing the kitchen table there with the heap clutched high against her so not a page, not a paragraph, not a word paralysed in cliche or sprung into odd company through the first enthusiasm of a byline or even, as she'd remarked herself, in the servitude of a caption which made the picture, for that day's paper, news, would fall to the floor, coming on to heave the armload through the opened door and with it her language in the printed word itself.

  At the top of the stairs she paused, gripping the rail, before she went in to wet a cloth in the basin and hold it to her forehead coming down the hall that way to the bedroom to cry out — oh no! as though there were someone to hear: scarves, sweaters, smalls, papers, the chest's drawers themselves lay flung out on the bed, the floor, the closet door standing wide and even a shade drawn against the view from below. She came in slowly picking things up, dropping them again with a sense of something missing but apparently none of what it might be, finally settling to gather up the pages as though, righting them in their folder, here in her own hand at least lay some hope of order restored, even that of a past itself in tatters, revised, amended, fabricated in fact from its very outset to reorder its unlikelihoods, what it all might have been if her father and mother had never met, if he'd married a chorus girl instead or if she'd met a man with other lives already behind him, crumbled features dulled and worn as a bill collector on through the crossings out, the meticulous inserts, the wavering lines where her finger had run over cut-rate, curt, in pursuit of cunning and on to collisions of only days before, seeking the spelling of those Jack Russell terriers running down jackleg, jack mackerel to trip on jack off (usu. considered vulgar); seeking, for some reason, loose for its meaning as slack here cited in the sex roles of shorebirds with the author's name misspelled; confusing rift for cleft, and there waylaid by the anal ~ of the human body or here was livid, bypassing ashen, pallid, for the perversion she sought and found licensed by a sensitive novelist as reddish (in a fan of gladiolas blushing ~ under electric letters) for this livid erection where her hand closed tight on its prey swelling the colour of rage when she looked up sharp, straight before her: the television set was gone. It was simply not there; but her stare where it had been was as simply one of a blank insistence that the furnishings of memory prevail as though, if it were so abruptly nonexistent as to never have been there, then neither had the man flung from the train on the trestle, nor everything in shadow while wind roared in the laurel walk, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed striking the great horse chestnut at the bottom of the garden and splitting half of it away.

  The shrill of a car's horn brought her over to snap up the shade. In what light remained out there two waist high boys sat sharing a cigarette under the bare tree on the corner where a battered station wagon lurched to a halt bringing one of them to his feet and then she saw both of them pointing at the front door, her front door, and the car glided stalled past the crumbled brick and stopped. By the time she got down the stairs there was already someone there knocking, peering in, and when it came open — yes, I'm looking for Mister McCandless?

  — Oh. I mean he's not here, he left a little while ago, he…

  — I was just passing through the woman said, and then, in the door held wide open — no no no, no I needn't come in… but she did, just inside as the lamp came on under the sampler there catching the faded blonde of her hair, the whole spent fragility of her features turned looking over the room, sounding almost as an afterthought — I'm Mrs McCandless.

  — Oh I didn't, come in yes I'm afraid it's all a little disorganized if you, I mean is it about the furniture?

  — About what furniture.

  — No I just meant about all the furniture, if you've come to, oh oh the flowers yes… looking there where the woman was looking, — I'm sorry, they got knocked over I just haven't had time to clean
up but they're all right I think, I think it's only the vase that's broken we'll replace it but, I mean do you want to take them?

  — Take them? The woman looked at the wilted silk, the spatter of porcelain on the floor. — Take them where.

  — No I just meant, with you, I mean if you'd like to sit down? If you'd like some tea?

  — Thank you. I would, yes, I'm really quite tired… but she came following on into the kitchen. — I really just stopped to see if he'd heard anything from Jack.

  — Oh. I don't know. I mean I don't know Jack, who Jack is.

  — Jack? Jack is his son.

  — His… she half turned from filling the tea kettle, — but I thought, he said he didn't have children.

  — Children, no. That's the way he'd say it of course, he doesn't have children… The woman was over looking into the dining room, at the plants there in the windows, — no other white ones that I know of, at any rate… and she drifted back into the kitchen, past the table there, to stand in the doorway looking into the room. — Quite a mess.

  — Yes he, he's just been cleaning up, in there cleaning up.

  — That's really all he ever does, isn't it… and, a step into the room, — and it's always once for all isn't it, to get things cleaned up once for all… out or sight, only a voice now from the near darkness in there — all his books, what he'll do with all his books they might as well go too, once for all. He probably hasn't looked into one of them since he stopped teaching, has he.

  — I don't, teaching? I didn't know…

  — And he's throwing this out too? this old zebra skin?

  — Well he, I don't think so I mean he brought it back from Africa, I don't think he'd…

  — He told you that?

  — Well yes, I mean I think so, I…

  — No no no, he bought it from a young Nigerian who was emptying bedpans in the hospital, he'd come over here to study medicine and brought a whole stack of them to pay for medical school. A hundred dollars, he gave the boy a hundred dollars for it and I was quite annoyed, a hundred dollars was a lot to us then. He'd just come out of the hospital and there were still all the bills.

  The empty cup rattled its saucer in a tremble of her hand putting it down on the table where she reached for the light. — Was it, what kind of hospital… She put down the other cup. A wisp of steam came from the teakettle, and she reached for it carefully — I mean, it wasn't a…

  — He's probably told you all those stories hasn't he, came through the dark doorway, — finding gold when he was Jack's age and nobody believed him? up above the Limpopo? It was always up above the Limpopo… and a sound as though she'd stumbled over something in there. — Or that boy he taught how to use a shovel?

  — Do you need a light in there? It's over…

  — No no no, just a look around… stepping over the newspapers flung on the floor there — he'll save anything, won't he… and coming out into the light — you can tell he's been in there can't you, the smoke, it clings for ages. And if you know that cough… She sat down and turned the cup's handle to her. — He doesn't much like getting old, does he.

  — I hadn't really…

  — That arthritis in his hands, it's been there since he was thirty. Like his father… she sipped at the steaming cup. — If you'd seen how he acted when he lost those teeth in the front, good God it was like they'd taken his balls all that Freudian stuff, you know, but it was a shock getting used to. He's not one for smiling much is he, but when you've been used to that broken grey Protestant smile and suddenly here's this row of neat even white teeth? That was just before he met you, the same Freudian stuff I guess… she picked up the cup, — because you're young. Just to prove he still had them.

  — But I don't…

  — And I don't mean his teeth.

  — I don't quite, I mean I didn't know you'd be old enough, to have a son twenty five I mean.

  — I didn't know you'd have red hair the woman said, looking at her all appraisal as she'd looked over the living room when she came in, as though that's what she'd come for, putting the cup down. — Is there a drink?

  — It's, no I'm sorry there's not no… following the woman's eyes to the bottle empty on the counter — I mean there was but…

  — No no no I understand, good God I understand that! She was standing, — it's just as well, really…

  — Wait, there's a cobweb wait on the back of your skirt they're just everywhere in there, in that room… coming down to brush it away to be met with a knee come up, with the skirt raised skewed, with an indelible glimpse of flesh sagging these inner lengths of thighs she'd in that bed upstairs inhabited surging to meet him for as long as it lasted, until he came down fighting for breath himself, until she backed off unsteadily straightening up there against the sink — I, let me get something to…

  — It's all right no, they're nasty aren't they… the hairy wisp of the thing hung black from her fingers — why they're so sticky, it's the smoke isn't it, it clings to everything for ages… dropping it into her teacup up with the back of her hand brushing her skirt smooth again, her shoulder, her sleeve as though brushing away her question, — he's not teaching now, is he?

  — Well he, no, no I mean I don't really know what he…

  — I don't think anyone does… she went on toward the front door, — anything he could get his hands on, even Greek drama and you can imagine that, but he didn't even really teach history no, no he wanted to change it, or to end it, you couldn't tell… and she had the door open, — to clean it up once and for all, like that room in there. It's getting dark… she'd stepped out, but she stood there. — If he hears from Jack, but he won't, will he. They just both finally felt like they'd let each other down, like they'd asked too much of each other and there was nothing left to, but he knows how to reach me. I'm sorry I disturbed you, I don't like to drive in the dark, I just spent ninety six dollars to have a new fuel pump put in this old car and it still stalls when you never expect it… and she suddenly put out her hand. — You look pale, she said, and then looking back into the room — you have lovely taste… squeezing the hand clutched there tight to the doorframe before she turned away.

  The streetlight had come on out there on the corner. The door of the car slammed, and then it moved silently, dark, onto the road, coughing, moving faster down the hill, and then it was gone as though it had never been there at all.

  When the phone rang she'd just picked up her own cup, back in the kitchen gazing down over the dark terrace where the twisted limbs of that naked scarecrow of a tree stirred their frayed reach as though in sudden torment to be gone but she'd filled it too full, and it spilled, catching that first ring before she could stop and then holding the phone like a weight unsteadily, listening, and then — oh! gripping the edge of the table — Edie! Oh I'm so glad you… no but you're right here! You could hire a car it's less than an hour, you could be here in less than… No I, I'm all right Edie I, I don't know it's all, everything, wonderful I, I can't tell you all, beautiful yes… yes tomorrow then, early? I can't wait… and she hung it up to get both hands gripping the table, coming up slowly as though fighting each moment, fighting a hand free to turn off the light and then stand, breathing deep, breathing deeper, before she turned back for the living room toward the stairs, toward the newel in flashes of colour caught in the glass on the sampler.

  The front door hadn't closed, and through its glass panels the bare shadows of branches in the streetlight rose and fell on the black road out there in a wind scarce as the gentle rise and fall of breathing in exhausted sleep. For a moment longer she held tight to the newel as though secured against the faint dappled movement of the light coming right into the room here and then suddenly she turned back for the kitchen where she rushed into the darkness as though she'd forgotten something, a hand out for the corner of the table caught in a glance at her temple as she went down.

  Some time later, and well up beyond reach where she lay with her head fallen on her shoulder, the tel
ephone rang and a choked bleat of sound came lost from her throat in a great sigh as her knees drew up sharply turning her on her side, an arm flung out and her thumbs still crushed into the palms of her hands, the uneven trembling of her lip abruptly stilled spilling the tip of her tongue, and it rang again and was silent, and then it rang again, and it kept ringing until it stopped.

  7

  The red glare in the alcove windows spread through the cold living room setting the walls ablaze with the sun's rise red on the river below, gleaming in the emptied bottle and glass beside the wing chair where the hand stirred seizing its arm with the sudden blare of the Star Spangled Banner from the kitchen heralding another broadcast day. He opened his eyes and closed them immediately, and the blaze of the room fell away to a pink, to rose, till by the time the phone's ring brought him up in a stumble banging his shin on the coffee table it was all simply daylight. — Hello? He sat rubbing his shin, staring at the broken trace of the line drawn in chalk on the floor there, — well what about the phone bill, I don't… No this is not Mister McCandless, I don't know where the hell Mister McCandless is look I've never even met him, I'm just… Look, I just told you I've never met him, how can I tell you whether he's sent you a check for the God damn phone bill, I don't even… Good I'll tell him, if I see him I'll tell him, if you don't receive payment by five p m today you'll discontinue service, that's the… no goodbye, there's somebody at the door…

  Somebody hunched down, peering in, snapping open a wallet on an ID card bearihg a photograph similar in all undistinguished respects to the man standing there when the door came open. — God damn early aren't you? He tucked down a tail of his shirt and fastened his trousers, — told you everything I know on the phone yesterday didn't I? same statement I signed for the police? All right here in the God damn newspaper isn't it? He'd led through to the kitchen where he brought up a headline from the heap on the table, HEIRESS SLAIN IN SWANK SUBURB — House ransacked? Apparently interrupting a robbery in progress at her fashionable Hudson river residence, the daughter of late mineral tycoon F R Vorakers was found dead this morning by a childhood friend FBI doesn't read the God damn newspapers? Mrs Jheejheeboy where they got hold of that, must still be her married name that Indian in the dirty diapers look, whole God damn story's right here isn't it? Police said the victim, a stunning redhaired former debutante from the exclusive Grosse Pointe area in Michigan, had suffered a single blow from a blunt don't step on that! He'd seized the man's arm with an intensity locking them in an embrace of violence so pure that his hand came down trembling the whole length of his arm.