Cartesian Sonata: And Other Novellas

by Gass, William H.

  Oh dear. What he’d said, how he’d let on. Oh dear. His bed was fitted with white sheets trimmed with ruffled eyelet. There were two bolsters matching the eyelet but decorated with a pink crocheted ribbon containing another oval in rose velvet with an oval panel inset and on its ivory ground, trimmed in gold braid, a tiny pink needlepoint rose like a gift at the end of a journey. His second set of pillows was embroidered with a multicolored flower pattern—spring things, hyacinths and crocuses. Did he dare climb in? Layer after layer like cake: an ivory woven coverlet with puffy balls at bottom, then between sheet and coverlet a rose-colored knit blanket, and under the sheet, he could see where it hung down, the dust cover with still more ruffles. You didn’t want to dent it.

  You have a family, Mister Riffytear? what do you do when you’re not fixing figures? It was just an expression but he felt chilled, so held his teacup with both hands. He hoped for another helping. The gravy was thin and clear and pure and perfectly delicious. He’d never cared for spinach much but he cared for this spinach as if the plants were plants of his own. Nutmeg, she answered when he asked. Ah. Where did you learn to fix figures?… cook?… They laughed at the way their questions had run together. But had she said fix? My mother. My mother was a minister’s daughter. Did socials and picnics most her life. Could cook for a company. I bet she could. She stood by her stove like a sentry. I bet she did. No children, then, Mister Riffytear, love’s gift to life? No, sorry, no, no wife. Yes, if it’s so, then you should be sorry, oh, I too am left at the end of my line, though there must be a meaning, mustn’t there be, Mister Riffytear, a meaning to being barren? I always wanted a boy, Walter confessed, to take— Not hunting, I hope, not killing in the leftover fields, Bettie said sharply. Oh, no … ah … bowling, he answered with a stupidity which made him blush, but she seemed not to have heard him, staring into the dark remainder of the room, speaking as though to a corner.

  We must bear up under much, Mister Riffytear, she was saying. We are barely here, so short a time, yet there is much to endure while we are here. For if you’re spared the pain of children—the pain of their appearance, the pain of their growing up, the pain of their pains, the pain of their going away, the pain of their eventual indifference—well, you must, it’s only fair, now, isn’t it, Mister Riffytear, fair that you should have another burden, because what would we do if we had no burden, no weight upon our chests, we’d fly, wouldn’t we? fly like fluff, up and away to nowhere, for we’re nothing but our burdens, so that’s why, one way or other, we were meant to labor.

  And make things, Walter added, with our hands. Like all these lovely things you have here, and have taken such loving care of, as though they were your children. Oh, as if the house, she said in a melt, were.

  Bettie held her hand to her mouth, Walter supposed, to stifle a sob, and got up swiftly, turning her back to him. You’ll be staying another night then? His yes ma’am ran after her disappearing ears.

  Walter thought he might as well toss a shirt and a sock in his dresser if he was going to stay another night. Settle in, even somewhat. And see what he could see in all these things, learn what he could of their names, he stumbled so, as if they were ahead of him, running away nimbly over rough stones. There was a circular doily on its oak top in the center of which stood still another candle—this one pink—in a glass tray. Around the circumference of the cloth like a crowd Bettie had collected was a decorative vase in gold and ivory shaped like a slim and elegant pitcher, a long low dish full of po … that porry flakey stuff, and a huddle of white bone china: sugar bowl—he found out when he lifted its lid—chock-full of fresh peanuts, such a nifty touch, then a soup-sized bowl which was empty, and another with a round hole in the middle of its cover, what was that for? He had this need for names. His eye, when it had finally begun to look at things, had become literal.

  Two harp-shaped arms embraced the mirror, which, he supposed, was supposed to make the dresser into a dressing table. On either side, the crocheted outline of two hearts. Next to the dresser, but leaning against the wall, as so many things had to, was a satiny white hatbox topped by a wreath of what looked like pale gray weeds and tied on with a wide white bow.

  Pulling out a drawer, Walter found it lined with embroidered white linen the size of the space and held down at the front and most observable corners by two cherubs cut out of soft white stone. Maybe he’d leave well enough alone.

  But even this modest bit of embroidery … a loop of thread which looks nothing like a rose … and this loop, too, which is like another loop, another and another, anonymous all … each thread pulled through and started over … with the patience of the spider … nothing shows, yet, moment by moment, and in another minute—wait—one more loop or two indistinguishable from the others … and suddenly a small pink petal, the first of the rose, lines up on the canvas of the cloth. This accumulation was a miracle. Such work required (Walter was awed) … it was a sign of (he ransacked his head for a simile) … care, concern, devotion, a considerable degree of skill … gained over how many years of application? and what for? that was what was most amazing … after all, did tatting or carving or sanding or shellacking abolish war? did framing some of our often foolish, former faces in windows made of twigs or bark or knotwood boards redeem past time? All this, he waved his arm with histrionic vigor, was clutter unless you saw the composition. Without much ardent uncompromising dedication, there wouldn’t be this comfort.

  The nervous excitement which had sustained him most of the day, and carried him through his tasks at The Wooden Soldier in record time—a few sums here, a few charges there, a little loss, some creative debt, nothing to it—was finally gone, and though he felt full and good he also felt weary, weak, stupid; for instance, that chair in the corner—what kind was it? all he knew to say was Windsor, and if you just said chair—hell—the kiddiest kid knew that much—dog, cat, table, chair—he’d sat in a memorable pool of light with Bettie, fending off her questions with his famished fork, and dipping the tip of his reluctant tongue into her tea, while she wondered what sort of man he was, he was sure, with his silly western shirt and buckle, geez, buttons and belt would have to go, yet feeling no real fear from the quiz like one day he’d be frightened when they caught him—couldn’t he quit?—how would he live?—go back to school? on what? at his age?—could he recover himself and rest in a room like this, in a house full of fine things, things and images and signs you could obey, enjoy, respect? no … not when he was a bottom dealer and low roller and only a guy who made the vacancy sign go off. Good chicken. God. That too.

  The chair, which he couldn’t call a Windsor even if it was the only name he knew, was … well … sumptuous … upholstered in gold velvet with a braided trim. On its seat a cotton pillow, printed with narcissus and tulips, lay in a cuddle like a cat. Between it and the bed was a small round table with a long green skirt, the green cloth overlaid by white linen like a snowflake on grass. A symphony of green, Walter marveled. Small white matching napkins were fanned like a neatly folded hand of cards. Then on a metal tray shaped like a leaf floated a glass coaster, green plastic clock and flashlight, and a stack of four candies wrapped in silver paper, objects which might have looked as out of place as workers at a social function if it were not for Bettie’s thoughtfulness about every detail. The tray’s metal edge nudged a milk glass candlestick out of which a bright red candle erupted.

  If, for instance, he were to move, say, the stuffed long-tailed bird from its place on the coffee table next to the basket filled with pohpuff and petals and put it on top of the glass-enclosed cabinet on the other side of his bed by the desk, it would dwarf the male and female figurines already there, as well as the miniature porcelain boat and little glass coaster. Even the coaster, if it were shifted, would find competition everywhere; besides, such a thing belongs by the bed, where you might want to set a drinking glass. No higgle-piggle in this house—thoughtful planning, care—for instance, the linen hand towel draped over the back rail of the glass
cabinet. Four small shelves were sheltered behind the cabinet doors, the only doors or drawers he’d found which were locked. Inside he’d seen three souvenir teacups and two mugs stuffed with dried weeds. Walt only for a moment remembered and rejected the use of his knife.

  At last, Walter slid naked between the cool sheets, as careful as if he were a layer himself, and felt their cool calming touch, the touch of an other who wanted nothing from him but would grow warm when he relaxed and went to sleep in his skin. It seemed a shame to be asleep so many of the hours he’d have in this room, though all these things would quietly remain for him to realize again come morning. When he shifted his bolster to settle his head, Walter discovered another pillow, shorter, flatter, heavily embroidered—he could feel it—from which came a subtle sweet scent as if from long loose hair. In a bed like this he would never need to curl or clench—not beneath his rose-colored knit blanket. On and on it goes … each season in its glory …

  6

  Walter drew a bath a Roman would have waded in, and lay in it pretending to be at the end of his day, and that he was about to put on a warm robe and go down to the kitchen for a light snack. His belly button stared up through swirling suds, its eye half shut with pleasure, and warm steam scented with something unfamiliar moistened his military hair. It was fortunate he habitually shaved with a throwaway piece of plastic, because he hadn’t seen a proper plug for anything electric. He even enjoyed brushing his teeth and, with twin brushes, his hair. He’d wear his best shirt, a proper tie, a thin brown belt, as modest as small change. And he had a choice of mirrors. Nothing could be done about his accounting books or the cowboy cut of his trousers. Not just now. And Ruth would be blazing on the landing. But—think a moment—would she? because—he had to persuade himself to remember—it was morning, and the morning sun would be on the other side of the house, coming in the dining room windows like Niagara Falls.

  The room was full of light, and a place had been set for him facing the garden: a napkin in a numbered silver hoop, which meant he was expected to stay, an etched juice glass and a plate for fruit, his own jam pot, covered with little green leaves and little red strawberries, cup and saucer for coffee in a pattern so fancy the saucer’s rim was as full of holes as lace, then silver that seemed to smile, knife and fork gleaming with greetings, tiny spoon for the jam, he supposed, cut-glass bowl of butter cooled by cubes of ice, a napkin’d breadbasket, cloth white as white, so all was well, and here he was: Walter cleared his throat, sat as softly as a cat.

  Mister Riffytear, is it? Be right out. Sleep tight did you? He heard a knife go chop. Yes … well … very well … yes, he called back. Good. In a moment. And in a moment she put a plate of fruit upon his plate, fluted rounds of orange and kiwi, geez, its face like a peppered flower. Juice? In her other hand, a pitcher, poised. Please. He smiled at Bettie as only happiness can, but saw her face get stern as he lay a fork against a slice of orange. Oh … he knew, put down his knife, withdrew the fork, looked apprehensively solemn. We like to have a little prayer before the duties of the day begin, Mister Riffytear, if that’s not displeasing to you, Bettie said, in tones that had never heard another answer than the one he gratefully gave her.

  Normally, had Walter been asked this question in the abstract, he would have answered in words short and coarse, because displays of belief always made him uncomfortable, whether it was his father railing against the Republicans, or his mother rebuking the flower children, or his sister standing to sing hymns in that soprano of which she was so proud. Right now, he would have had to admit he was apprehensive, but not entirely disconcerted; after all, when had anyone ever prayed over him? except when he imagined he was dead.

  Lord, I want to welcome Mister Riffytear, here, to our bed and breakfast, a stranger who’s come a ways from Virginia to stay in a home where every dish we own, and stick that makes our walls, and swatch of cloth that clothes, and bite of toast that warms us to our tasks, is dedicated to your cause, and where your name is praised not merely mouthed the way they do down the street. And I’d like to ask for you to bless this—I believe—dear man as he goes about today’s work, because, although he hasn’t really told us what he does, it’s righteous service I’m sure that he’s about. Bettie seemed to glow with goodwill and Walter went warm, though he would have said it was the morning sun.

  Bettie flipped a corner of the napkin. Scones, she said, fresh. Warm as my cheek, I promise, Mister Riffytear. Ah, so nice, I’m sure, your cheek, too. Bettie’s short mouth tried a wide smile. Her small eyes drew her skin into a pucker. We know, she then said to the ceiling so that Walter’s finger had to scuttle from his fork, that it doesn’t matter how you come to God. And any road which leads here is a good one. Coffee? Will you be wanting eggs, a bit of bacon?

  Walter ate slowly, which wasn’t his way, cutting the scones carefully in half, buttering their centers with even swipes, taking a mannerly modest bite, and then letting the cake melt away from its currants. The coffee had a dark rich hearty zing, and his eggs were like suns beneath soft clouds. Bettie mostly stayed out of his way and let Walter seem to sleep inside sensation.

  Only as he started up the stairs, returning to his room, his appreciation in a wake behind him, did Walter realize that Bettie had asked the Lord to bless him, but had neglected to ask for God’s approval of the food. It would be all right. A natural oversight. You could take it as asked. Mister Ambrose puffed into view on the landing, suitcases lengthening his arms, breathless and in apparent pain. Walter bounded up the stairs and unburdened him. Here, let me help, Walter said to Emery’s fallen face. And was immediately away, even out through the screen, which he unhooked with the fore edge of a bag, stopping only at the steps to the front porch. A young man and woman were murmuring about their bill. Walter bet Bettie accepted only cash, which certainly suited Walter … to a T, he thought, drinking in the early fall sky, blue as new jeans. Bye bye, said Bettie, now on the scene and following the couple out. Where’s your car, Walter asked. Next to the red wagon in back, the man replied. That was Walter’s car. Walter shot away and put the bags down by their tailpipe. Many thanks, the man said when the couple arrived, having said their farewells and made their thank yous. Not to mention, Walter said, helping him load the trunk. Safe journey. Bye. Bye bye.

  Walter was actually pleased that Bettie and Emery were nowhere to be seen when he returned to the house. He had dawdled. The path along the west side of the house was lined with cheeky yellow pansies: thirty-seven blooms. Among his forms, there were no receipts for thanks. Nor did he wish to put his present impulses on parade. Come to think of it, he had a few yellow tablets but their yellow was paler than beer, no match for the egg-yolk yellow of the pansies. Walter thought Bettie must find it hard to live alongside such noisy ill health. It might have been the beginning of fall, but Walter had spring in his step, so if he was dawdling, he was dawdling at high speed. He also had to consider what he’d need for his trip to Mendota, a chastening thought. Most of his equipment was in the car: a few calculators, files in boxes, pads of forms, records and other books in the trunk. The drive would eat up hours. Walter drove carefully because his license had expired. At least he knew what to expect. He had cleaned up a mess or two for that Karmel Korn Kompany in years past. They weren’t krooks, they were just klumsy, and were feeding too much popcorn to the birds. That kute KKK on their box didn’t help either. He told them as much. Kan it, he said. We already do, and showed him a tin. All concerned had what used to be called a good laugh.

  What would he need? damn near just his jacket. Which he’d put away like a gent. A porcelain orange studded with cloves hung from a string in the closet where a row of wooden hangers swayed and clicked like some Eastern musical instrument. A sachet a day keeps Bee Oh away, he hummed, glancing about his bedroom and its possessions with a fondness he knew was a little sappy, before closing the door quietly on his domain. It seemed a shame to leave them here alone, to lose a whole day … They will be here when you get back, his fa
ther always promised when he pulled him from his play to do chores. Bettie was beneath, stirring the stagnant parlor. Her long face sure had plenty of space for cheeks. And when he went away she waved out a window.

  7

  Mr. Vest was there to greet him again and to fumble with the hook. It was nearly seven and shadows followed Walter in. His day had been long and arduously dull. Through every moment, he had yearned to be away from where he was, an enamel-topped table at the back of the Karmel Korn Kompany, more sugar than oxygen in an atmosphere jittery with poppety pop, a box like a trash can full of loose papers, and an absence of records so complete the Kompany might as well not exist. Later in the day, while he was putting the triple-K popcorn people back on the map, Walter made the comparison: these rosy-cheeked happy-haired young weirdos might as well have been selling lemonade from a card table on the corner. They bought corn and corn syrup and sugar and popped it and cooked it and colored it and put the poppings in plastic packages and then in pasteboard boxes and shipped some and sold some over the counter under names like Hawaiian Pineapple Surprise, hired an old man to sweep up at day’s end, and paid kids about their age and education to answer the phone and collect money from customers, while managing to meet the rent each month; yet nobody knew how much of Cinnamon Sensation had been bought or sold or barely where and certainly not why; all they knew was they were still in business—hadn’t run out of lemons or the strength to squeeze them—but of what their business had been and done or might do tomorrow, there was scarcely a hint, only the faintest trace like a puff of distant dust … dust of the sort Walter’s red wagon made going fast on fineline back roads.