Going For a Beer

by Robert Coover

  She carries him, fighting all the way, to the tub, Bitsy pummeling her in the back and kicking her ankles. She can’t hang on to him and undress him at the same time. “I’ll throw you in, clothes and all, Jimmy Tucker!” she gasps. “You better not!” he cries. She sits on the toilet seat, locks her legs around him, whips his shirt up over his head before he knows what’s happening. The pants are easier. Like all little boys his age, he has almost no hips at all. He hangs on desperately to his underpants, but when she succeeds in snapping these down out of his grip, too, he gives up, starts to bawl, and beats her wildly in the face with his fists. She ducks her head, laughing hysterically, oddly entranced by the spectacle of that pale little thing down there, bobbing and bouncing rubberily about with the boy’s helpless fury and anguish.

  “Aspirin? Whaddaya want aspirin for, Harry? I’m sure they got aspirin here, if you—” “Did I say aspirin? I meant, uh, my glasses. And, you know, I thought, well, I’d sorta check to see if everything was okay at home.” Why the hell is it his mouth feels like it’s got about six sets of teeth packed in there, and a tongue the size of that liverwurst his host’s wife is passing around? “Whaddaya want your glasses for, Harry? I don’t understand you at all!” “Aw, well, honey, I was feeling kind of dizzy or something, and I thought—” “Dizzy is right. If you want to check on the kids, why don’t you just call on the phone?”

  They can tell she’s naked and about to get into the tub, but the bathroom window is frosted glass, and they can’t see anything clearly. “I got an idea,” Mark whispers. “One of us goes and calls her on the phone, and the other watches when she comes out.” “Okay, but who calls?” “Both of us, we’ll do it twice. Or more.”

  Down forbidden alleys. Into secret passageways. Unlocking the world’s terrible secrets. Sudden shocks: a trapdoor! a fall! or the stunning report of a rifle shot, the whaaii-ii-iing! of the bullet biting concrete by your ear! Careful! Then edge forward once more, avoiding the light, inch at a time, now a quick dash for an open doorway—look out! there’s a knife! a struggle! no! the long blade glistens! jerks! thrusts! stabbed! No, no, it missed! The assailant’s down, yes! the spy’s on top, pinning him, a terrific thrashing about, the spy rips off the assailant’s mask: a woman!

  Fumbling behind her, she finds it, wraps her hand around it, tugs. “Oh!” she gasps, pulling her hand back quickly, her ears turning crimson. “I . . . I thought it was the soap!” He squeezes her close between his thighs, pulls her back toward him, one hand sliding down her tummy between her legs. I Dream of Jeannie— “I have to go to the bathroom!” says someone outside the door.

  She’s combing her hair in the bathroom when the phone rings. She hurries to answer it before it wakes the baby. “Hello, Tuckers.” There’s no answer. “Hello?” A soft click. Strange. She feels suddenly alone in the big house, and goes in to watch TV with the children.

  “Stop it!” she screams. “Please, stop!” She’s on her hands and knees, trying to get up, but they’re too strong for her. Mark holds her head down. “Now, baby, we’re gonna teach you how to be a nice girl,” he says coldly, and nods at Jack. When she’s doubled over like that, her skirt rides up her thighs to the leg bands of her panties. “C’mon, man, go! This baby’s cold! She needs your touch!”

  Parks the car a couple blocks away. Slips up to the house, glances in his window. Just like he’s expected. Her blouse is off and the kid’s shirt is unbuttoned. He watches, while slowly, clumsily, childishly, they fumble with each other’s clothes. My God, it takes them forever. “Some party!” “You said it!” When they’re more or less naked, he walks in. “Hey! What’s going on here?” They go white as bleu cheese. Haw haw! “What’s the little thing you got sticking out there, boy?” “Harry, behave yourself!” No, he doesn’t let the kid get dressed, he sends him home bareassed. “Bareassed!” He drinks to that. “Promises, promises,” says his host’s wife. “I’ll mail you your clothes, son!” He gazes down on the naked little girl on his couch. “Looks like you and me, we got a little secret to keep, honey,” he says coolly. “Less you wanna go home the same way your boyfriend did!” He chuckles at his easy wit, leans down over her, and unbuckles his belt. “Might as well make it two secrets, right?” “What in God’s name are you talking about, Harry?” He staggers out of there, drink in hand, and goes to look for his car.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?” They huddle half-naked under the blanket, caught utterly unawares. On television: the clickety-click of frightened running feet on foreign pavements. Jack is fumbling for his shorts, tangled somehow around his ankles. The blanket is snatched away. “On your feet there!” Mr. Tucker, Mrs. Tucker, Mark’s mom and dad, the police, the neighbors, everybody comes crowding in. Hopelessly, he has a terrific erection. So hard it hurts. Everybody stares down at it.

  Bitsy’s sleeping on the floor. The babysitter is taking a bath. For more than an hour now, he’s had to use the bathroom. He doesn’t know how much longer he can wait. Finally, he goes to knock on the bathroom door. “I have to use the bathroom.” “Well, come ahead, if you have to.” “Not while you’re in there.” She sighs loudly. “Okay, okay, just a minute,” she says, “but you’re a real nuisance, Jimmy!” He’s holding on, pinching it as tight as he can. “Hurry!” He holds his breath, squeezing shut his eyes. No. Too late. At last, she opens the door. “Jimmy!” “I told you to hurry!” he sobs. She drags him into the bathroom and pulls his pants down.

  He arrives just in time to see her emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to answer the phone. His two kids sneak up behind her and pull the towel away. She’s trying to hang on to the phone and get the towel back at the same time. It’s quite a picture. She’s got a sweet ass. Standing there in the bushes, pawing himself with one hand, he lifts his glass with the other and toasts her sweet ass, which his son now swats. Haw haw, maybe that boy’s gonna shape up, after all.

  They’re in the bushes, arguing about their next move, when she comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. They can hear the baby crying. Then it stops. They see her running, naked, back to the bathroom like she’s scared or something. “I’m going in after her, man, whether you’re with me or not!” Mark whispers, and he starts out of the bushes. But just then, a light comes sweeping up through the yard, as a car swings in the drive. They hit the dirt, hearts pounding. “Is it the cops?” “I don’t know!” “Do you think they saw us?” “Sshh!” A man comes staggering up the walk from the drive, a drink in his hand, stumbles on in the kitchen door and then straight into the bathroom. “It’s Mr. Tucker!” Mark whispers. A scream. “Let’s get outa here, man!”

  9:00. Having missed most of the spy show anyway and having little else to do, the babysitter has washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen up a little. The books on the refrigerator remind her of her better intentions, but she decides that first she’ll see what’s next on TV. In the livingroom, she finds little Bitsy sound asleep on the floor. She lifts her gently, carries her into her bed, and tucks her in. “Okay, Jimmy, it’s nine o’clock, I’ve let you stay up, now be a good boy.” Sullenly, his sleepy eyes glued still to the set, the boy backs out of the room toward his bedroom. A drama comes on. She switches channels. A ballgame and a murder mystery. She switches back to the drama. It’s a love story of some kind. A man married to an aging invalid wife, but in love with a younger girl. “Use the bathroom and brush your teeth before going to bed, Jimmy!” she calls, but as quickly regrets it, for she hears the baby stir in its crib.

  Two of them are talking about mothers they’ve salted away in rest homes. Oh boy, that’s just wonderful, this is one helluva party. She leaves them to use the john, takes advantage of the retreat to ease her girdle down awhile, get a few good deep breaths. She has this picture of her three kids carting her off to a rest home. In a wheelbarrow. That sure is something to look forward to, all right. When she pulls her girdle back up, she can’t seem to squeeze into it. The host looks in. “Hey, Dolly, are you all right?” “Yeah, I just can’t g
et into my damn girdle, that’s all.” “Here, let me help.”

  She pulls them on, over her own, standing in front of the bedroom mirror, holding her skirt bundled up around the waist. About twenty sizes too big for her, of course. She pulls them tight from behind, runs her hand inside the opening in front, pulls out her thumb. “And what a good boy am I!” She giggles: how funny it must feel! Then, in the mirror, she sees him: in the doorway behind her, sullenly watching. “Jimmy! You’re supposed to be in bed!” “Those are my daddy’s!” the boy says. “I’m gonna tell!”

  “Jimmy!” She drags him into the bathroom and pulls his pants down. “Even your shoes are wet! Get them off!” She soaps up a warm washcloth she’s had with her in the bathtub, scrubs him from the waist down with it. Bitsy stands in the doorway, staring. “Get out! Get out!” the boy screams at his sister. “Go back to bed, Bitsy. It’s just an accident.” “Get out!” The baby wakes and starts to howl.

  The young lover feels sorry for her rival, the invalid wife; she believes the man has a duty toward the poor woman and insists she is willing to wait. But the man argues that he also has a duty toward himself: his life, too, is short, and he could not love his wife now even were she well. He embraces the young girl feverishly; she twists away in anguish. The door opens. They stand there grinning, looking devilish, but pretty silly at the same time. “Jack! I thought I told you not to come!” She’s angry, but she’s also glad in a way: she was beginning to feel a little too alone in the big house, with the children all sleeping. She should have taken that bath, after all. “We just came by to see if you were being a good girl,” Jack says and blushes. The boys glance at each other nervously.

  She’s just sunk down into the tubful of warm fragrant suds, ready for a nice long soaking, when the phone rings. Wrapping a towel around her, she goes to answer: no one there. But now the baby’s awake and bawling. She wonders if that’s Jack bothering her all the time. If it is, brother, that’s the end. Maybe it’s the end anyway. She tries to calm the baby with the half-empty bottle, not wanting to change it until she’s finished her bath. The bathroom’s where the diapers go dirty, and they make it stink to high heaven. “Shush, shush!” she whispers, rocking the crib. The towel slips away, leaving an airy empty tingle up and down her backside. Even before she stoops for the towel, even before she turns around, she knows there’s somebody behind her.

  “We just came by to see if you were being a good girl,” Jack says, grinning down at her. She’s flushed and silent, her mouth half open. “Lean over,” says Mark amiably. “We’ll soap your back, as long as we’re here.” But she just huddles there, down in the suds, staring up at them with big eyes.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?” It’s Mr. Tucker, stumbling through the door with a drink in his hand. She looks up from the TV. “What’s the matter, Mr. Tucker?” “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, I got lost—no, I mean, I had to get some aspirin. Excuse me!” And he rushes past her into the bathroom, caroming off the livingroom door jamb on the way. The baby wakes.

  “Okay, get off her, Mr. Tucker!” “Jack!” she cries, “what are you doing here?” He stares hard at them a moment: so that’s where it goes. Then, as Mr. Tucker swings heavily off, he leans into the bastard with a hard right to the belly. Next thing he knows, though, he’s got a face full of an old man’s fist. He’s not sure, as the lights go out, if that’s his girlfriend screaming or the baby . . .

  Her host pushes down on her fat fanny and tugs with all his might on her girdle, while she bawls on his shoulder: “I don’t wanna go to a rest home!” “Now, now, take it easy, Dolly, nobody’s gonna make you—” “Ouch! Hey, you’re hurting!” “You should buy a bigger girdle, Dolly.” “You’re telling me?” Some other guy pokes his head in. “Whatsamatter? Dolly fall in?” “No, she fell out. Give me a hand.”

  By the time she’s chased Jack and Mark out of there, she’s lost track of the program she’s been watching on television. There’s another woman in the story now for some reason. That guy lives a very complicated life. Impatiently, she switches channels. She hates ballgames, so she settles for the murder mystery. She switches just in time, too: there’s a dead man sprawled out on the floor of what looks like an office or a study or something. A heavyset detective gazes up from his crouch over the body: “He’s been strangled.” Maybe she’ll take that bath, after all.

  She drags him into the bathroom and pulls his pants down. She soaps up a warm washcloth she’s had in the tub with her, but just as she reaches between his legs, it starts to spurt, spraying her arms and hands. “Oh, Jimmy! I thought you were done!” she cries, pulling him toward the toilet and aiming it into the bowl. How moist and rubbery it is! And you can turn it every which way. How funny it must feel!

  “Stop it!” she screams. “Please stop!” She’s on her hands and knees and Jack is holding her head down. “Now we’re gonna teach you how to be a nice girl,” Mark says and lifts her skirt. “Well, I’ll be damned!” “What’s the matter?” asks Jack, his heart pounding. “Look at this big pair of men’s underpants she’s got on!” “Those are my daddy’s!” says Jimmy, watching them from the doorway. “I’m gonna tell!”

  People are shooting at each other in the murder mystery, but she’s so mixed up, she doesn’t know which ones are the good guys. She switches back to the love story. Something seems to have happened, because now the man is kissing his invalid wife tenderly. Maybe she’s finally dying. The baby wakes, begins to scream. Let it. She turns up the volume on the TV.

  Leaning down over her, unbuckling his belt. It’s all happening just like he’s known it would. Beautiful! The kid is gone, though his pants, poor lad, remain. “Looks like you and me, we got a secret to keep, child!” But he’s cramped on the couch and everything is too slippery and small. “Lift your legs up, honey. Put them around my back.” But instead, she screams. He rolls off, crashing to the floor. There they all come, through the front door. On television, somebody is saying: “Am I a burden to you, darling?” “Dolly! My God! Dolly, I can explain . . . !”

  The game of the night is Get Dolly Tucker Back in Her Girdle Again. They’ve got her down on her belly in the livingroom and the whole damn crowd is working on her. Several of them are stretching the girdle, while others try to jam the fat inside. “I think we made a couple inches on this side! Roll her over!” Harry?

  She’s just stepped into the tub, when the phone rings, waking the baby. She sinks down in the suds, trying not to hear. But that baby doesn’t cry, it screams. Angrily, she wraps a towel around herself, stamps peevishly into the baby’s room, just letting the phone jangle. She tosses the baby down on its back, unpins its diapers hastily, and gets yellowish baby stool all over her hands. Her towel drops away. She turns to find Jimmy staring at her like a little idiot. She slaps him in the face with her dirty hand, while the baby screams, the phone rings, and nagging voices argue on the TV. There are better things she might be doing.

  What’s happening? Now there’s a young guy in it. Is he after the young girl or the old invalid? To tell the truth, it looks like he’s after the same man the women are. In disgust, she switches channels. “The strangler again,” growls the fat detective, hands on hips, staring down at the body of a half-naked girl. She’s considering either switching back to the love story or taking a quick bath, when a hand suddenly clutches her mouth.

  “You’re both chicken,” she says, staring up at them. “But what if Mr. Tucker comes home?” Mark asks nervously.

  How did he get here? He’s standing pissing in his own goddamn bathroom, his wife is still back at the party, the three of them are, like good kids, sitting in there in the livingroom watching TV. One of them is his host’s boy Mark. “It’s a good murder mystery, Mr. Tucker,” Mark said, when he came staggering in on them a minute ago. “Sit still” he shouted, “I’m just home for a moment!” Then whump thump on into the bathroom. Long hike for a weewee, Mister. But something keeps bothering him. Then it hits him: the girl’s panties, hanging like a broken ball
oon from the rabbit-ear antennae on the TV! He barges back in there, giving his shoulder a helluva crack on the livingroom door jamb on the way—but they’re not hanging there any more. Maybe he’s only imagined it. “Hey, Mr. Tucker,” Mark says flatly. “Your fly’s open.”

  The baby’s dirty. Stinks to high heaven. She hurries back to the livingroom, hearing sirens and gunshots. The detective is crouched outside a house, peering in. Already, she’s completely lost. The baby screams at the top of its lungs. She turns up the volume. But it’s all confused. She hurries back in there, claps an angry hand to the baby’s mouth. “Shut up!” she cries. She throws the baby down on its back, starts to unpin the diaper, as the baby tunes up again. The phone rings. She answers it, one eye on the TV. “What?” The baby cries so hard it starts to choke. Let it. “I said, hi, this is Jack!” Then it hits her: oh no! the diaper pin!

  “The aspirin . . .” But she’s already in the tub. Way down in the tub. Staring at him through the water. Her tummy looks pale and ripply. He hears sirens, people on the porch.

  Jimmy gets up to go to the bathroom and gets his face slapped and smeared with baby poop. Then she hauls him off to the bathroom, yanks off his pajamas, and throws him into the tub. That’s okay, but next she gets naked and acts like she’s gonna get in the tub, too. The baby’s screaming and the phone’s ringing like crazy and in walks his dad. Saved! he thinks, but, no, his dad grabs him right back out of the tub and whales the dickens out of him, no questions asked, while she watches, then sends him—whack!—back to bed. So he’s lying there, wet and dirty and naked and sore, and he still has to go to the bathroom, and outside his window he hears two older guys talking. “Listen, you know where to do it if we get her pinned?” “No! Don’t you?”