by Norman Rush
She was about to speak. He could preempt. “I have one more classic Rex example.”
“But not the enormous one you were talking about?”
“No, but classic. Classic in the sense it shows how consummate he was as a breeder of disequilibrium. I’ll make it short.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I love you. The background to this is that my father had decided we should belong to a real church, the whole family should. This was after he was out of Ethical Culture for good, which is another obscure matter I wish I knew more about. Anyway, he wanted us to join a rather snooty Episcopal church in Piedmont. A Marxist interpretation of why he wanted us to join would be that membership would do him no harm when it came to his antiques business. He’d just opened the shop in Piedmont and it was near the church. And he was also interested in moving to a house over there. North Oakland, where we lived, was in the process of turning black. He wanted to sell our house. Rex hated going to church and he put up an argument, but my father was adamant. We had to get into the car and drive forty minutes to get over there, which added to the lack of enjoyment. I wasn’t crazy about going but I didn’t say that much. I was becoming a fatalist. We all had to go to church and that was it. Rex was eleven.
“Why are we using that pitcher of tea as something to look at? Let me get some glasses.”
“No, I will.” She did. They served themselves.
“So, one Sunday we went as usual and sat through everything … this was for services, not Sunday school … and got on line the way they expect you to after the service. You line up to shake hands with the priest.
“We got up to the priest and I noticed that my brother seemed to be wearing a large rustic homemade-looking wooden crucifix around his neck. That in itself was startling enough.
“But as he’s standing in front of the priest he does something completely astonishing.
“He eats the crucifix.
“He eats it! Or rather he crams it into his mouth and starts chewing it up. What he’d done was take two big pretzel sticks and tie them together with string to make a crucifix, and then he’d threaded it on a string and put it on and covered it with his suit jacket until the right moment came.
“He just … ate the crucifix, with a staring expression on his face.
“It looked demonic, of course. Eating it insanely, with chunks and crumbs falling out of his mouth. I suppose people just thought Rex was a crazy person, but there was an electric pall cast over everyone. My father was stunned. There was terrible misery over it when we got home but Rex said he’d only done it because he thought everybody would think it was funny. He was full of apologies. Another one of his talents was that he could weep on cue.
“So he got exactly the outcome he wanted. My father was too ashamed to ever go back there. He knew that whatever he did he was going to be the father of the kid who ate the crucifix. Brilliant.”
They sat in silence.
Iris asked, “Isn’t it funny that I never met your brother? What does he look like? Like you?”
“Ask him for a snapshot. But no. He’s bald, must be by now. Shorter than I am. He has a very small mouth. He had a trick he could do when he wanted to show that he was hearing something that was incredibly stupid. One of his subtle things. He could flatten his nose, sort of, and flare his nostrils out and make his upper lip puff out, shelve out. He knew it cracked me up. Also … well, he looked sort of feminine. His skin was very pale. These areas under his eyes got bluish when he was tired or sick. He resembled my mother’s side of the family. Big extremities, big feet, big limp hands that look like paddles when they’re lying in his lap. He had hips.”
“So you’re physical opposites.”
“One other thing, because I think maybe it had some occult effect on the way he turned out. He had rather prominent, almost Dracula eye-teeth. I’ve wondered if maybe he was swimming in a sea of negative associations that people have for prominent incisors, thanks to the movies, and maybe he adapted to that. I don’t know. It’s a theory. He got them ground down before he went off to college. It should have been done sooner. It was never discussed. He was an awkward person. He looked awkward.”
“So, pretty much, you’re physical opposites.”
I hope so, Ray thought. He felt that he didn’t really know how he looked, though, or how he ranked rather. There was no question about his weight. He was lean. Iris kept telling him that he was handsome, that he was beautiful. But he was forty-eight. You have such great legs, give me your legs and take mine, she would still say. She thought her thighs were too soft. He couldn’t convince her she was judging herself by some unreal standard. They had been married for seventeen years and statements made in the context of marriage about how the other looks were statements of a certain kind, except that in his case he was telling her the absolute truth. When he’d had to start wearing glasses she’d said he reminded her of the distinguished types they choose for display portraits in opticians’ windows that show how glasses make no difference in the attractiveness of the truly handsome. You look like what you are, you look like a scholar, she’d said. He was used to the bush shorts and shortsleeved shirts and kneesocks he had to wear in Africa, but he didn’t love wearing them. His arms were average. His legs were a far cry from the mighty instruments you could see walking up and down the mall. It had been a while since she’d said Your hair must be German because it’s thick, blond, and obedient. Now he was going gray. No, what she had actually said was You look like what you are, a scholar and a fine person. Then she had tacked on that he was beautiful.
She said, “We can postpone talking about the main event until another time. I appreciate you, Ray. You’re being very open. This has been your secret, really. I love you. I know you don’t enjoy talking about these things. About Rex. I do appreciate you.
“I wish you could love your brother.”
She had brought things to a close.
She pulled the lap of her skirt free and smoothed it out across her thighs. She began slowly inching the hem up, looking steadily at him.
“You seem to be a whore tonight,” he said.
“Always,” she said.
4. Thank God This Isn’t the Only Thing I Do
Sometimes Ray started his patter for the occasional groups of overseas educators who visited St. James by saying Welcome to the only completely circular campus in the known world. It was true, so far as he knew, but he had noticed that lately the rector was showing a clear preference for not having the school described primarily in terms of the ways in which it was very unlike what the visitors were used to. And there were so many ways in which it was very unlike. But it truly was interesting that when the All Saints Trust had gotten permission to build whatever it liked in the broad, rock-ridden depression in the raw bush west of the capital, somebody had chosen to lay out the grounds in the shape of the ancient Greek world-serpent eating its tail, which happened to be his own private metaphor for the educational process when he was feeling down. But there was no one still around from the founding days in the sixties who could say why it had been done. His guess was that it had been an attempt to cohere symbolically with the universal preference for the circular in Tswana culture, as in the kraals and huts. He liked to point out the circularity of St. James because it was interesting, but the place was so extensive that its circularity was only noticeable from the air. The circle had been filled in solidly with distracting features—nethouses, rondavels, ovaldavels, completely rectilinear ablution blocks, sports fields, a chapel in the form of a rondavel with a bell tower stuck onto it, fig tree groves, the piggery … The most southerly baobab in Africa grew on the grounds.
The four people in the group waiting for him to begin were obviously impressed with his office. He had his own oversized rondavel entirely to himself. They liked the zebra skin on the wall behind him and the jennet kaross covering a good deal of the floor. His desk chair was thronelike. This group was from Cyprus, two men and two women. They were ver
y courteous. They spoke English, but hesitatingly. He had a circulating fan grinding out a breeze for them. It was trained directly at them and they were grateful. They had glanced uneasily up at a white spider pod the size of a doorknob clinging to the thatch directly above one of them. They probably liked, without knowing why, the pleasant dissonance between the associations they had for the primal versus the refined aspects of his office—the primal thatch smelling subtly like bread and the primal skins and the spider pod versus the refined glass-fronted bookcases and the orderly array of books and periodicals they displayed. When they were gone he would knock the spider’s nest down. The sad, comradely feeling he had for this group was real.
He began, “St. James College isn’t a college … nor is Moeding College in Otse a college, nor is the other one … Moeng College, in Moeng, of course. A college.” He heard himself sounding more British than usual. He’d just almost said And nor is. Sounding British happened to him at work if he didn’t watch himself. Four senior staff members and the rector were Brits.
“We’re a senior secondary school,” he said, and went on to explain that they might be considered a somewhat elite school because not all secondaries awarded the Cambridge certificate as they did. Beginning by saying St. James wasn’t a college always led to the temptation to tell about the Peace Corps volunteer teacher who’d taught for them for a year and then left after undergoing a breakdown and who in his terminal interview had said It looks like a bank but it isn’t a bank, It looks like a post office but it isn’t a post office, It looks like a restaurant but it isn’t a restaurant. That had been his explication of why he had never adjusted to Botswana. The discrepancy between what he thought institutions were supposed to be and what they were in Africa had been too much for him, among other things about the country. There were aspects of St. James that would fit into a litany about things not being what they seem. St. James was denominational but the All Saints Trust that sponsored it wasn’t a denomination. It was a peculiar institution. There were authentic religious involved in it, but a lot of the lay element in All Saints seemed to be ex–British military. The emissaries from the trust who came out to inspect every year all were. The trust was famously generous with bursaries in their schools in southern Africa, although he was picking up tremors and rumors that budget cuts were coming. Cuts would hurt. He would be all right. His position at St. James was good for as long as he wanted it. That had been arranged at a level far above the rector.
He handed out copies of the school brochure. There was a little conversation about the honors class he taught over at the university. They reported that Mr. Curwen the rector had told them how proud St. James was to have a scholar like him amidst their staff, a Miltonist! That was true. Curwen seemed genuinely glad he was there, culturally flattered, too, that an American seemed so interested in a poet he himself had been taught to revere but found unreadable. As the group left the office they could hardly miss the run of Milton Studies in which Ray’s two articles and four research notes were buried. It was displayed at eye level in the bookcase just to the right of the door.
The group was rising. They had been seated around a conference table set endwise against the front of his desk. The men were in coats and ties and the women in skirts and sleeveless blouses. The women’s forearms had left damp-prints in the finish of the table. He watched the damp-prints fade, annoyed because there was something he was forgetting to do. Curwen was outside, with an escort of Form Ten boys. One thing he had forgotten to mention was that the school was coeducational now, since a year ago. He heard Curwen’s enthusiasm.
At the last minute he remembered to present the cyclostyled handouts giving the last examination results for the school. He went out into the heat to watch them go, Curwen gesticulating. Curwen had put his robes on despite the fact that there were only four in this group. The man was endearing. They were headed for a tour of the ablution block.
Ray thought, How can he keep doing it?… But we all do and we all do it the same way, by not thinking about it. About half of the last graduating class at the university had failed to get placements with the government, which represented a severe public shock no one had gotten over. Batswana used the Boer term for the government of the day or reigning power, Domkrag, which meant lifting-jack. Some of us are doing our best, he thought, but Domkrag is broken, Domkrag isn’t working … But we do our best.
The other thing was to keep in mind what education was like not that far away, where the killing was still going on, Angola, students without limbs, from the land mines. He thought, Please raise your hands, Oh, sorry. He couldn’t think about it.
Thank God this isn’t the only thing I do, he thought.
5. Crimes by This Family of Finch
They were in bed together, naked under one sheet, sitting up and talking. It was late.
“I gather you want this to be about my brother again,” Ray said.
She nodded, and he said, “Fine, but before I forget, let me give you another example of his, what shall I call it? his drive to be irritating. This is the kind of thing he was always doing. He was continually annoying his classmates by acting like a completely innocent literalist in the way he pronounced their names. Two examples: A girl named Margot became Margott. And someone named Lloyd he called Luh-loyd, pronouncing both l’s. This is a small thing, but it’s Rex.”
“That sounds like someone who’s bored.”
“It was more than that. He got other people, other kids, to go along with it. That turns it into harassment. He had a claque. He created claques. Anyway.”
“By the way he’s starting up a new gay column. I think he said it’s going to be in a free newspaper. But he still gets paid.”
“His old columns weren’t that funny.”
“Yes they were. There were clever things in them.”
“Such as?”
“Come on, nobody can remember exactly what it was that made them laugh. But there were things. Joke definitions. One of them was, Man is the only animal that prefers brand-name items.”
“If that amuses you, okay. I think it’s routine. It’s patter.”
“And maybe he’ll get inspired and get more work with the patter service.”
“I thought he decided he was too far left for them.”
“You keep trying to say he’s so left. Why? He mocks everything. He thinks there is no left. In his old columns he even had a department called Life in the Afterleft. You want to think he’s so subversive. He makes fun of anyone. He makes fun of … that very famous … now I can’t remember his name. But he was famous in the sixties and went to France in 1968 during the student revolution and appeared at the Sorbonne at the height of everything and got up on the stage and shouted Le peuple au poivre! Rex makes fun of everybody.”
“He’s left. I know him.”
“You don’t know him now.”
“I know what he is. He’s culturally left.”
“I don’t even know what that means. I don’t think it means anything. You just let your animosity control you. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it because I love you both.”
“Good luck loving Rex.”
“Please, Ray! All right. Let’s be calm. Now. All right, tell me about this event he precipitated when you were children that was so titanic and let me just listen. Start where we stopped the other night.”
“May I put on the airconditioning?”
“Sure, but then you’ll have to shout.”
“So obviously I won’t put the airconditioning on. But if you don’t mind I’ll just rinse my face before I get into this.”
Ray went into the bathroom. He cooled his face with a wet washcloth. He thought, This may be for the best … it might help … it may help us: It won’t, I may cut my throat, which might help.
“I adore you,” she said as he got back into bed.
“Thanks.”
“I do, Ray. And you’re gorgeous.”
“I am? Hm. May I call you angel-tits, then?”
“Yes, the nonphysical reasons, if we could think of any. Yes indeed.”
“Don’t be so mocking. Anyway I realized something about you. This isn’t exactly nonphysical but I bet it had something to do with how I felt. What I realized is that you look like the actor who played Woodrow Wilson in that biographical movie they made about his life and I realize I have just uttered a redundancy, so don’t bother. But that was absolutely one of my favorite movies of all time. I saw it in high school and I thought it was wonderful. Woodrow Wilson, or the actor, rather, was extremely handsome in case you don’t know. The same actor played Wilson young and then older. I’m comparing you to the younger Wilson. Can that movie be as good as I remember?”
“I never saw it, but this is horrible news, isn’t it? You went for me because I reminded you of an authority figure you really loved? And I look like Woodrow Wilson? Didn’t he look like a bank president or a leading Presbyterian, something like that? I believe he looked very boring. Also wasn’t he a great failure, by any standard? War to end war and the League of Nations and all that? I’m not crazy about these associations, frankly.”