by John Updike
“Hey, hey,” he has to say. “Come on. Nobody’s trash.” But even as he says it he knows this is an old-fashioned idea he would have trouble defending. We’re all trash, really. Without God to lift us up and make us into angels we’re all trash.
Her sobbing is shaking the bed so badly that in his delicate postop state he feels queasy. To quiet her big body he reaches out and pulls her toward him. As if expecting his touch, she huddles tightly, though a blanket and a sheet are between them, and continues sobbing in a bitter, lower register, her breath hot on his chest, where a pajama button has come undone. His chest. They want to carve it up. “At least you’re healthy,” he tells her. “Me, all they need to do is nail down the coffin lid. I can’t run, I can’t fuck, I can’t eat anything I like, I know damn well they’re going to talk me into a bypass. You’re scared? You’re still young. You’ve got lots of cards still. Think of how scared I feel.”
In his arms Pru says in a voice gone calm again, “People have bypass operations all the time now.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say. Like me telling you people are married to shits all the time. Or you telling me people have their kids turn out to be dope-addict embezzlers all the time.”
A small laugh. A flash of light outside and, after some seconds, thunder. Both listen. She asks, “Does Janice say you can’t fuck?”
“We don’t talk about it. We just don’t do it much lately. There’s been too much else going on.”
“What did your doctor say?”
“I forget. My cardiologist’s about Nelson’s age, we were all too shy to go into it.”
Pru sniffs and says, “I hate my life.” She seems to him to be unnaturally still, like a rabbit in oncoming headlights.
He lets the hand of the arm around her broad back move up across the bumps of the quilted robe and enter the silken cave at the nape of her neck, to toy with the warm hair there. “I know the feeling,” he says, content to toy, aware through the length of his body of a cottony sleepiness waiting to claim him.
She tells him, “You were one of the things I liked about Nelson. Maybe I thought Nelson would grow into somebody like you.”
“Maybe he did. You don’t get to see what a bastard I can be.”
“I can imagine,” she says. “But people provoke you.”
He goes on, “I see a lot of myself in the kid.” The nape of her neck tingles under his fingers, the soft hairs rising to his electricity. “I’m glad you’re letting your hair grow long,” he says.
“It gets too long.” Her hand has come to rest on his bare chest, where the button is unbuttoned. He pictures her hands with their pink-knuckled vulnerable raw look. She is left-handed, he remembers. The oddity of this excites him further. Not waiting too long to think about it, he with his free hand lifts hers from his chest and places it lower, where an erection has surprisingly sprouted from his half-shaved groin. His gesture has the pre-sexual quality of one child sharing with another an interesting discovery - a stone that moves, or a remarkably thick-bodied butterfly. The eyes widen in the dim face inches from his on the pillow. Tiny points of light are caught in her lashes. He lets his face drift, on the tide of blood risen within him, across those inches to set their mouths together, carefully testing for the angle, while her fingers caress him in a rhythm slower than that of his thudding heart. As the space narrows to nothing he is watchful of his heart, his accomplice in sin. Their kiss tastes to him of the fish she so nicely prepared, its lemon and chives, and of asparagus.
Rain whips at the screen. The leak onto the windowsill accelerates its tapping. A brilliant close flash shocks the air everywhere and less than a second later a heart-stopping crack and splintering of thunder crushes the house from above. As if in overflow of this natural heedlessness, Pru says “Shit,” jumps from the bed, slams shut the window, pulls down the shade, tears open her bathrobe and sheds it, and, reaching down, pulls her nightie up over her head. Her tall pale wide-hipped nakedness in the dimmed room is lovely much as those pear trees in blossom along that block in Brewer last month were lovely, all his it had seemed, a piece of Paradise blundered upon, incredible.
III. MI
BY MID-JUNE the weeds have taken over: burdock and chicory stand three feet tall along the stony dry shoulders of Route 111, and the struggling little yew hedge meant to dress up the base of the Springer Motors display window has crabgrass and purslane spreading through the rotting bark mulch, which hasn’t been renewed for a couple of years. It’s one of the things Harry keeps making a mental note to do: call the landscaping service and renew the mulch and replace the dead yews, about a third of them, they look like hell, like missing teeth. Across the four-lane highway, its traffic thicker and faster than ever though the state still holds to the fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit, the takeout restaurant called the Chuck Wagon has been replaced by a Pizza Hut, one of the six or so around Brewer now. What do people see in it? All those gummy wedges of dough and cheese, that when you try to eat them pull long strings out in front of your face. But, on Saturdays when in the weekend mood Benny runs over and brings back an order for whoever wants it, Harry allows himself a pepperoni with peppers and onions but no anchovies, please. Like little snails stuck in the mud.
Today is not Saturday, it is Monday, the day after Father’s Day. Nobody sent Harry a card. He and Janice have visited Nelson twice, for family therapy at this gloomy big rehab center in North Philly, full of banisters and bulletin boards and a damp mimeograph smell that reminds him of the basement Sunday school he went to, and both times it was like a quarrel around the kitchen table only with a referee, a lean pale colored woman with fancy spectacles and one of these sweet churchgoing smiles Harry associates with the better type of Philadelphia black. They go over the old stuff -the baby’s death, the mess in the Sixties with Janice moving out and Jill and Skeeter moving in, the crazy way Nelson got himself married to this Kent State secretary an inch taller and a year older than he, a Catholic furthermore, and the kind of crazy way the young couple moved into the old Springer house and the older couple moved out and in fact lives half the year in Florida, all so the kid can run wild with the car agency; Harry explains how from his point of view Nelson’s been spoiled rotten by his mother because of her guilt complex and that’s why the kid feels entitled to live in never-never land with all these fags and druggies and let his wife and children go around in rags. When he talks, the mocha-colored therapist’s smile gets even more pious and patient and then she turns to one of the others, Nelson or Janice or Pru, and asks them how they feel about what they’ve just heard, as if what he’s saying isn’t a description of facts but a set of noises to be rolled into some general mishmash. All this “talking through” and “processing” therapists like to do cheapens the world’s facts; it reduces decisions that were the best people could do at the time to dream moves, to reflexes that have been “processed” in a million previous cases like so much shredded wheat. He feels anticipated and discounted in advance, whatever he says, and increasingly aggravated, and winds up telling Janice and Pru to go next time without him.
Benny comes over to where Harry stands at the window looking out and asks, “Whajja do for Father’s Day?”
Harry is pleased to have an answer. “Nelson’s wife brought our grandchildren over in the afternoon and I did a cookout for everybody on the outdoor grill.” It sounds ideally American but had its shaky underside. Their grill, for one thing, is a metal sphere that Consumer Reports said years ago was a classic but that Harry never has quite the patience for, you must wait until the briquettes are gray and ashy, but he’s afraid of waiting too long, so there was a lot of staring at the raw hamburger patties not cooking, with Janice annoying him by offering to cook them in the kitchen, since the children were being eaten alive by mosquitoes. For another, the grandchildren brought him cute grandfather’s cards, all right, both by this new artist Gary Larson that everybody else thinks is so funny, but this uniformity - they were even signed by the same red pen, Judy’s wi
th quite a girlish flourish to the “y” and Roy’s a bunch of aimless but intense pre-literate stabs - suggested a lack of planning, a quick stop at the drugstore on the way over from the Flying Eagle. Pru and the kids arrived with their hair wet from the pool. She brought a bowl of salad she had made at home.
“Sounds terrific,” Benny says, in his husky small voice.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, explaining, as if his image of Pru with her wet long hair holding this big wooden bowl of lettuce and sliced radishes on her hip was visible to them both, “we’ve arranged a temporary membership for Nelson’s wife over at the country club, and they’d been swimming over there most of the day.”
“Nice,” Benny says. “She seems a nice gal, Teresa. Never came over here to the lot much, but I hate to see a family like that having a hard time.”
“They’re managing,” Harry says, and changes the subject. “D’jou watch any of the Open?” Somebody really should go out and pick up all the wrappers that blow over from the Pizza Hut and get caught in the struggling little yew hedge. But he doesn’t like to bend over, and doesn’t quite feel he can order Benny to do it.
“Naa, I can’t get turned on by games,” the pudgy young sales representative says, more aggressively than the question requires. “Even baseball, a game or two, I’m bored. You know, what’s in it for me? So what?, if you follow me.”
There used to be a stately old maple tree across Route 111 that the Pizza Hut cut down to expand its red-roofed facility. The roof is shaped like a hat, with two slants. He ought to be grateful, Harry thinks, to have a lively business along this struggling little strip. “Well,” he tells Benny, not wanting to argue, “with the Phils in last place you aren’t missing much. The worst record in baseball, and now they’ve traded away two of their old all-stars. Bedrosian and Samuel. There’s no such thing as loyalty any more.”
Benny continues to explain himself, unnecessarily. “Me, I’d rather do something myself f on a nice Sunday, not sit there like a couch potato, you know what I mean? Get outdoors with my little girl at the neighbor’s pool, or go take the family for a walk up the mountain, if it’s not too hot, you know.”
These people who keep saying “you know”: as if if they don’t keep nailing your attention to their words it’ll drift off. “That’s the way I used to be,” Harry tells him, relaxing as the disturbing image of Pru holding the great bowl on her hip recedes, and feeling philosophical and pleasurably melancholic the way he usually does gazing out this big window. Above his head the big blue paper banner spelling ArnAUATOYoT with the sun shining through it is beginning to come unstuck from the glass. “Always doing some sport as a kid, and up until recently out on the golf course, flogging the stupid ball.”
“You could still do that,” Benny says, with that Italian huskiness, faintly breathless. “In fact, I bet your doc advises it. That’s what mine advises, exercise. You know, for my weight.”
“I probably should do something,” Harry agrees, “to keep the circulation going. But, I don’t know, golf suddenly seemed stupid. I realized I’d never get any better at it, at this point. And the guys I had my old foursome with have pretty well moved away. It’s all these blond beefy yuppie types up at the club, and they all ride carts. They’re in such a fucking hurry to get back to making money they ride around in carts, wearing the grass off the course. I used to like to walk and carry. You’d strengthen your legs. That’s where the power of a golf swing is, believe it or not. In the legs. I was mostly arms. I knew the right thing to do, I could see it in the other guys and the pros on TV, but I couldn’t make myself do it.”
The length and inward quality of this speech make Benny uneasy. “You ought to be getting some exercise,” he says. “Especially with your history.”
Rabbit doesn’t know if he means his recent medical history, or his ancient history of high-school athletics. The framed blowups of his old basketball photos have come out of Nelson’s office and back onto the walls, rose-colored though they are, above the performance board. That was something he did carry through on, unlike the rotting bark mulch. ANGSTROM HITS FOR 42. “When Schmidt quit, that got to me,” he tells Benny, even though the guy keeps saying he is no sports nut. Maybe he enjoys bullying him with it, boring him. He wonders how much Benny was in on Nelson’s shenanigans, but didn’t have the heart or energy to fire him when he came back to run the lot. Get through the day, and the cars sell themselves. Especially the Carnry and Corolla. Who could ask for anything more?
“All he had to do,” he explains to Benny, “to earn another half million was stay on the roster until August fifteenth. And he began the season like a ball of fire, two home runs the first two games, coming off that rotator-cuff surgery. But, like Schmidt himself said, it got to the point where he’d tell his body to do something and it wouldn’t do it. He knew what he had to do and couldn’t do it, and he faced the fact and you got to give him credit. In this day and age, he put honor over money.”
“Eight errors,” Elvira Ollenbach calls in her deep voice from over in her booth, on the wall toward Paraguay, where she has been filling out the bill of sale and NV-1 for an ivory Corolla LE she sold yesterday to one of these broads that come in and ask to deal with her. They have jobs, money, even the young ones that used to be home making babies. If you look, more and more, you see women driving the buses, the delivery trucks. It’s getting as bad as Russia; next thing we’ll have women coalminers. Maybe we already do. The only difference between the two old superpowers is they sell their trees to Japan in different directions. “An error each in the last two games against the Giants,” Elvira inexorably recites. “And hitting .203, just two hits his last forty-one at bats.” Her head is full, between her pretty little jug ears, with figures. Her father was a sports addict, she has explained, and to communicate with him she followed all this stuff and now can’t break the habit.
“Yeah,” Rabbit says, he feels weakly, taking some steps toward her desk. “But still, it took a lot of style. Just a week ago, did you see, there was this interview in some Philadelphia paper where he said how great he felt and he was only in a slump like any overeager kid? Then he was man enough to change his mind. When all he had to do was hang around to collect a million and a half total. I like the way he went out,” Rabbit says, “quick, and on his own nickel.”
Elvira, not looking up from her paperwork, her pendulous gold earrings bobbing as she writes, says, “They would have cut him by August, the way he was going. He spared himself the humiliation.”
“Exactly,” Harry says, still weakly, torn between a desire to strike an alliance with this female and an itch to conquer her, to put her in her place. Not that she and Benny have been difficult to deal with. Docile, rather, as if anxious that they not be swept out of the lot along with Lyle and Nelson. It was easiest for Harry to accept them as innocents and not rock the agency worse than it was being rocked. Both of them have connections in Brewer and move Toyotas, and if the conversations during idle time “down” time, young people called it now - weren’t as satisfying, as clarifying, as those he used to have with Charlie Stavros, perhaps the times were less easy to clarify. Reagan left everybody in a daze, and now the Communists were acting confused too. “How about those elections in Poland?” he says. “Voting the Party out - who ever would have thought we’d live to see the day? And Gorby telling all the world the contractors who put up those sand castles in Armenia were crooks? And in China, what’s amazing isn’t the crackdown but that the kids were allowed to run the show for a month and nobody knew what to do about it! It’s like nobody’s in charge of the other side any more. I miss it,” he says. “The cold war. It gave you a reason to get up in the morning.”
He says these things to be provocative, to get a rise out of Benny or Elvira, but his words drift away like the speech of old people on the porches when he was a boy. Not for the first time since returning to the lot does he feel he is not really there, but is a ghost being humored. His words are just noises. In Nelson’s old of
fice, and the office next to it where Mildred used to be, the accountant Janice has hired on Charlie’s advice is going through the books, a task so extensive he has brought a full-time assistant. These two youngish men, who dress in gray suits of which they hang up the jackets when arriving, putting them on again when they depart, feel like the real management of the firm.