Gerald's Party

by Robert Coover

  ‘Jesus, he looks like he’s fucking had it!’ muttered Dolph.

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ I whispered. But he wasn’t talking about me, he was looking at someone across the room.

  ‘Whoo, all bets off on that one!’

  I twisted my head around. Steve the plumber and an older guy were hauling Vic in feet first through the crowd, Hilario and Daffie clearing the way. The older guy had his name stitched over his overalls pocket like Steve, but I couldn’t read it. He seemed to resent having to drag Vic in and bumped him along irritably, knocking his lolling head against the doorjamb and table leg, elbowing people (Fats was huffing out a nasal tune and bobbing about recklessly, making little Vachel duck and scowl, and Hoo-Sin, kneading Janny’s kidneys – ‘Ooh, that feels good, I was just itching there!’ – backheeled him deftly in the crotch just as Dolph popped a beer can open) out of the way. With every step, blood bubbled out of Vic’s chest wound, staining darkly his pale blue workshirt. ‘What … what are you doing—?!’ I gasped.

  ‘In drag?’ whimpered Fats, hobbling around, doubled over. ‘Hunh, Zack? Whaddaya say? And falsies?’

  ‘We breeng the chackass to the reever,’ Hilario smiled, helping the two workmen prop Vic up in the corner of sideboard and wall. He was still clutching the fork, but more like a standard than a weapon.

  ‘He was asking for a fresh drink every five minutes,’ Daffie panted, wiping the sweat off her breasts (‘With high heels? Eh? And striped longjohns? How ’bout it, Zack?’). ‘He was getting to be a goddamn nuisance.’

  Vic groaned and blood dribbled down his chin. ‘Looks like his valves are shot, Goldy,’ sighed Steve, digging at the blackened crotch of his overalls. ‘Yeah, well, for that I ain’t got the right tools.’

  ‘Who the hell did that?’ Dolph wanted to know.

  ‘I dunno. Gerry (‘Olga—?’) was there …’

  ‘Vic—?’ I tried to sit up but (‘Oh yah, annudder, bitte!’) I was too lightheaded.

  ‘Aw, Zack, c’mon – y’mean that lollypop who useta moon around Ros’s door?’ Vachel was whining. ‘You gotta be kidding!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gerry,’ Jim said. ‘The second bullet apparently (‘Dot’s enuff!’) ricocheted off a rib and lodged in his heart, there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘Whaddaya mean? It’s your kinda role, Vaych! Look at him, he’s a real downstage sorta guy! And you can interpret it any way you—’

  ‘In fact, probably lucky for you it did.’

  ‘Tank you.’

  ‘Wha—? That bushwah tinpot? That fashion-mag foof?’

  ‘That’s the guy there, Goldy, the one with the blue belly hanging out. It’s his spread.’

  ‘Cheez, Zack! Have a heart!’

  ‘All right, all right, I hear ya talking …’

  ‘Hey, mister, is there anything else?’ I opened my eyes again: it was the older plumber, standing over me, squat and jowly, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He had a wad of something in one cheek, which now he shifted.

  ‘I tell ya what, man, we’ll make it the main speaking part, whaddaya say?’

  ‘Come on, pal, I ain’t got all fucking night, you know.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ squeaked Vachel, ‘just so you don’t stick me in a robot suit like last time,’ and Steve said: ‘I think his wife said something about the dishwasher making a funny noise, Goldy.’

  ‘Yeah? Where is it then? Let’s get it over with, goddamn it – you took me out of a good movie on the box.’

  My head was a sieve, everything just came rattling in. It was like a frequency scan. White noise. My shoulder was beginning to hurt again, though, which was probably a good sign.

  ‘A drink!’ burbled Vic.

  ‘What do you think, Jim?’

  ‘Sure, what harm can it do?’

  ‘Poor Veek! He ees, how you say, crosseeng out, no?’

  ‘Yeah. Does his daughter know?’

  ‘What’s that? Vic goin’ out?’ asked Fats, lumbering over. ‘Don’t step on Gerry,’ someone said. ‘Hey, can he bring back some fresh coronas?’

  ‘I think Woody’s breaking it to her.’

  ‘No, no, Fats, I mean, he ees feenesh, all gone over, goode-uh-bahee!’

  ‘Okay, now the actual murder scene, we’re gonna do in the nude, so we need somebody who strips well.’

  ‘Finished?’ Fats, tottering above me, rocked back on his heels. ‘Who, Vic—?!’

  ‘Great idea! What about the Vagina?’

  ‘Oh no,’ at least two people said at once, and Daffie, pouring out a tumbler of bourbon, murmured: ‘That Woody’s a busy little boy.’ ‘She’s tripping over her bags these days and her goddamn cheeks (‘Bren! It’s Vic! Oh my god, Bren. He’s been shot!’) ’re hanging down behind her knees!’

  ‘Beautiful!’ rumbled Charley Trainer, hobbling up to the sideboard, as Fats staggered away. I seemed to hear people cheering in another room. ‘Hullo, Dollfish, Howard – hey, I like the bra, Howard!’ And booing. ‘ ’Ass cute!’ I rose up on my elbows (there was another burst of cheering) and stared down at my exposed navel, trying to get my bearings. There was a bruise there – had Sally Ann kicked me? No, that’s right, Roger … I fell back again. ‘Whatcha call keepin’ abreast a the times, hunh?’

  And more boos: seemed to be coming from the TV room. It was like a kind of voting. Jim propped the camel-saddle under my head.

  ‘Say, getcher paw outa Olga’s muu-muu for jussa sec, Dolph ole pal, ’n pour yer ole dad one, wudja?’

  ‘I got it, Zack! How about that ripe chunk in the yellow knittie?’

  ‘So dot’s vot it vass! I tot I haff vorms back dere!’

  ‘Chunk?’

  ‘Sock it to him, gimpy!’ someone shouted from the other room. ‘Put him on ice!’

  ‘You mean that suburban hausfrau of yours? C’mon, get serious!’

  ‘’Ass ole Dolfer, m’love – haw haw! – awways takin’ a backseat!’

  ‘Yay!’

  ‘We’re not doing farce here, Horn, we don’t want any goddamn travesty!’

  ‘Fartz?’

  ‘No, wait, Zack, think about it. Anybody here would be a travesty of Ros, am I right? So all right, you accept that and you push on through into something else! You dig?’

  ‘Make it a short one, Dolph,’ Jim cautioned. ‘Charley’s had too much already.’

  ‘Send him up the country!’

  ‘Boo!’

  ‘I mean, you’re not just tryin’ to give these people some cheap fantasy, are you?’

  ‘What are they yelling about in there?’

  ‘Okay, Horner, maybe you got something. Why not? See if she’ll do it.’

  ‘Hey! Wha’ happena ressa my drink, Dolf-ball? ’Ass oney half of it!’

  ‘They’re watching old videotapes. Weird stuff. Full of sex and violence.’

  ‘Sorry, Charley, Jim said—’

  ‘What’s weird about that?’

  ‘What? What?!’

  ‘It’s so fucking cold … my legs …’

  ‘I take ’iss drink as a insult, ole buddy!’

  ‘Easy, Vic.’

  ‘Did you catch the slow-mo sequence with the croquet mallets?’

  ‘Yeah, hairy, man! All that squosh and splat – really shook me up!’

  ‘Forshunately, bein’ a easy-goin’ fella, I can swallow a insult!’

  ‘I still can’t understand what caused them to break up,’ Jim was saying (‘But beautifully filmed!’), zipping up my fly. ‘After all this time …’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Daffie. ‘Maybe they thought people weren’t paying enough attention to them.’

  ‘Daddy—?!’

  ‘Woops, watch it, here she comes!’

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’ Sally Ann cried, her voice breaking. She stumbled over me, falling heavily into Vic’s arms. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Sally Ann? Is that … you?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy. Don’t try to talk … !’

  ‘I’ve had it … this time, kid! It’s the
– whoof! hack! – the end!’ He gasped for breath. (‘He’s not got much longer,’ someone said, and Olga asked: ‘Much longer don whoose?’) ‘I never really thought I’d … have to … have to die …’

  ‘Is that all you can do, Olga, talk funny?’

  ‘I – I’ve always known what life,’ Vic spluttered, ‘…what life was about …’

  ‘Yah, vell, it’s sum-ing.’

  ‘Mmm – goodness, what is this?’

  ‘And I never kidded myself about – oh damn! it hurts, baby … ! – about death …’

  ‘It’s a sort of pilaf. With yoghurt sauce.’

  ‘But I could never imagine … that moment …’

  ‘Gee, I don’t know,’ Teresa was saying (‘Well, it’s delicious! I don’t know how you do it!’), ‘in front of everybody?’

  ‘… In between …’

  ‘Don’t, Daddy. You scare me when you talk like that.’

  ‘Come on, sweetheart! This is your big chance!’

  ‘The truth’s …’

  ‘The break you been waiting for!’

  ‘Just leftovers, I’m afraid.’

  ‘… Always scary, girl …’

  ‘Well, if it’s art, I guess it’s all right.’

  ‘And in any case it’s about all I’ve got left …’

  ‘Atta girl!’

  ‘… To give you,’ Vic was mumbling (‘So get in there and tear it down, baby!’). He seemed to be fading again. ‘And what’s inside these fan-tas-tic eggs?’ ‘I’ll give you the recipe,’ my wife said, and Quagg shouted out: ‘Okay, all you lot, into the parlor! It’s time for the apotheosis of Ros!’

  ‘Tell Mom … I’m sorry, and …’

  ‘Oh oh,’ somebody cried out (‘I already called her, Dad, and she said she didn’t know who I was talking about …’), ‘here comes that lady guerrilla again!’ I felt someone’s hands in my armpits. ‘You’d better get out of her way, Gerry,’ Jim was saying somewhere behind my ear (‘And do me a favor, baby …’) as I rose, lifted, from the floor: ‘Could you – ngh! – give us a hand, please?’ It was Eileen: she was wearing a trenchcoat with the collar turned up, her hands stuffed in the pockets, a scarf around her head.

  ‘He’s weak … and frivolous … confused …’

  ‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I won’t …’

  ‘Well, we meet again,’ said Mr Waddilow. He was one of those holding me up. The other one (‘… Anyway he’s too old …’) was the older plumber, Goldy; Jim, letting go, was getting dragged away by Quagg’s set-builder Scarborough, who was explaining: ‘We’re using her as part of the scenery, you dig, and we need you to get her ready …’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘And hang on to the – kaff! huff! hoo … ! – present, baby! It’s all you’ve—’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, stop it! You’re spitting blood all over!’

  ‘No, listen—!’

  Eileen stepped up and kicked the glass out of his hands. ‘What are you carrying that fork around for, greedyguts? Nobody’s going to insist on good manners when you’re eating cold mud.’ Vic, grinning, wheezed appreciatively, his hand searching for the lost glass. I realized (‘I’ve never seen Eileen like this before!’) my whole right side had turned to stone. ‘You liked that? Try this one!’ She kicked him in the mouth: his head bounced off the wall, teeth flew.

  ‘Jesus, that hurt!’ Vic whimpered, laughing.

  ‘Don’t talk to her, Daddy.’

  ‘Way to go, sister!’ Goldy grinned, spitting thickly into a plastic cup he was holding in his free hand, and Charley, pushing out his thick soft mitt past my petrified elbow (‘When Jim told her Vic had a bullet in his heart, you know what she said? She said, “Then why don’t you just reach inside his asshole and pull it out!” ’), said: ‘Don’ believe I’ve hadda pleasure. Trainer here, Mushual Life.’

  ‘This is Mr Waddilow, Charley,’ I gasped, trying to stand alone. ‘New neighbors …’

  ‘The next one in the goolies, tough guy!’

  ‘Oh ha ha! Spare me!’ Vic groaned.

  ‘Neighbors, hunh?’

  ‘I left your bill on the dishwasher, mister,’ the plumber said around his chaw, squinting up at me. ‘Easy, Eileen, he’s dying,’ Daffie cautioned, touching her forearm. Eileen shook her off. ‘So? Who isn’t? Some just have more fun at it than others, that’s all.’ ‘Thank you,’ I said, gripping the sideboard. ‘You’re welcome to stay … have a drink or something …’ ‘No, thanks.’ He spat another oyster. ‘I got no time for this shit.’

  ‘In fact he looks good drooling blood like that – it’s like the mask’s finally off the bastard.’

  ‘Steve’s a young kid, it’s all new to him, he can hang around if he wants to. Me, I seen it all. I got a job to do, that’s it.’ He turned to go. ‘Can I give you a ride somewhere, sister?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll walk.’

  ‘Hey,’ Kitty asked, ‘where is everybody?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, girlie, it’s dangerous out there.’

  I looked around. Kitty was right (‘Anatole has written a play,’ Howard was explaining to her – he’d cleaned up some, wore Tania’s glasses on a chain around his neck now, his red tie and the bra, but no shirt, and my white boating cap, ‘you just missed the casting …’): the dining room had emptied out, there were only the few of us clustered around the drinks now like refugees, Mrs Waddilow alone over at the table, Mavis grinning up at us from the floor, Cynthia and Woody in the next room watching television.

  ‘And relax, sister, I’m off fucking for life. I mean it, I’m into beer, old movies, and model trains. When I’m not unplugging rich guys’ toilets.’ His partner Steve came in with Scarborough and Horner and they commenced to move the dining table out from under Mrs Waddilow. ‘’Scuse us, ma’am.’ ‘So whuzz your poison, Waterloo?’ Charley asked, slumping heavily against the sideboard. ‘You like model trains?’

  ‘Just a bit of tonic, thank you. Not a drinking man myself.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eileen said, staring down at Goldy, hands stuffed in her pockets, her face swollen and blue with bruises. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Gerry?’ It was Sally Ann, her voice anxious. ‘I think Dad’s getting worse!’

  ‘You oughta come and see my layout, I got everything, uses up half my basement, whole fucking county in miniature.’

  So he was: his head, eyes rolled back, had fallen to one side, blood dribbled down his chin still (‘Just like real life. Only without the horseshit …’), his breath was coming in hoarse erratic gasps. There was a tooth lying loose on his chin like a beached castaway. ‘Vic?’ His lips were moving (‘You’re as bad as this guy,’ Eileen was saying, ‘just another closet idealist!’ and Goldy said: ‘Hey, you like horseshit? I’ll put in horseshit!’), but only the odd word or two were getting out: ‘… nihilistic bastard … what? … and hope, shit … what I hate – kaff! foo! … so goddamn wet—’ ‘I’ll go get Jim,’ I said.

  ‘Hurry … !’

  It wasn’t easy to hurry. I seemed to be carrying a hundred pounds of dead weight on my right side, and my knees were like jelly. I heaved myself to the doorway and leaned dizzily against it, staring into Scarborough’s transformation of our living room. Nothing was in its place, except perhaps my wife, who was vacuuming the rug. It was like some kind of spectacular fusing of the familiar, the whole room tented in sheets, towels, bloody drapes and curtains, all meant to suggest some sort of cave, I supposed (‘I won’t be a moment, Zack,’ my wife shouted from inside it as Quagg flung his cape about in mimed protest, ‘I just want to get up this plaster dust before it gets tracked into the carpet!’), lit from behind – or rather from atop: Scarborough had drilled holes through the ceiling and mounted table and floor lamps up there above the sheeting. At the cavemouth, Teresa stood naked and frightened (‘I feel so stupid,’ she was complaining, trying to cover, not her breasts – which Gudrun was rouging – or her genitals, but the whitened rolls of fat on her tummy), while nearby Jim leaned over Ros
’s cadaver, laid out amid pilaf, cheese balls, and sliced salami on our dining room table, a butcher knife in his hand. He seemed shorter than usual. ‘No, no, I want the video camera inside the cave, looking out at the audience!’ Quagg shouted over the sweeper’s roar, and Scarborough cried: ‘Goddamn it, Fats, get outa here! You’re knockin’ everything over!’ ‘I’m just trying to help, Scar!’ ‘Well, go help Gudrun!’ Oddly, this was all reminiscent of something I’d seen before, as though – I was thinking about Inspector Pardew’s whimsical speculations about ‘the geography of time’ – I’d somehow got switched onto some kind of reverse loop (had I just heard Goldy say something about this to Eileen? Now certainly she said: ‘Sounds like the story of my life,’ but perhaps he’d been describing his shunting operations), such that though the space had changed and the approach was from an opposite angle, this was a point on time’s map I’d passed through before. I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head.

  ‘They said the dining room table was too high and wanted to saw the legs down,’ my wife said suddenly beside me, ‘but I talked them out of it.’

  ‘What—?!’ I lurched back, banging my head on the doorframe.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Gerald. It’s all right.’ What was happening? It was as though we’d jumped over something! One moment she’d been vacuuming the carpet and Quagg, prancing about in his white unitard, had been shouting over the noise, the next she was in front of me discussing the dining room table, Louise was carting the sweeper off, Fats was on his knees, smearing Teresa’s legs with clown white, and Quagg, wrapped up like a sleeping bat in his purple cape, was quietly explaining to Alison’s husband (‘In theater, dialogue is action, man!’) what the play was all about. What had happened to that moment in between? ‘I made up something off the top of my head about the proper height of altars, and luckily they accepted it.’ Behind her there was a reek of pot and incense. ‘No, no, no, Fats!’ Gudrun was exclaiming. ‘I said not in her bush – now go away, I’ll do it!’ ‘In fact, I overdid it, I’m afraid, and then the table turned out to be too low, so they had to raise it up on some of your records.’