Theophilius Drinkwater lived in a tiny, tiny house because he was a tiny, tiny man. He escaped actual dwarfdom by an inch or two—inches never granted by nature, Joseph thought. Drinkwater’s boots appeared to have inordinately thick soles, but even given these Theophilius only managed to achieve the brink of normalcy. Drinkwater made up the difference by perpetually jumping up and down, lightly and rapidly. That’s what Drinkwater was doing when he met Joseph Hope at the door of his tiny, tiny house. “Ah, Mr. Hope!” shouted Theophilius. His voice was an operatic baritone, cultivated to further the illusion of height. “So pleased you could come!” Suddenly Theophilius bounced heavily on the balls of his feet, propelling himself upward so that he could grab hold of Hope’s shoulders. Thus suspended, Drinkwater planted a large, wet kiss directly on to Joseph’s lips. Then he dropped back to the earth.
Joseph drew the back of his sleeve across his lips.
Theophilius watched, bemused. “Hope!” he barked. “Don’t tell me that you put credence in those madmen who say that disease is caused by minuscule animals invisible to the naked eye?” Drinkwater laughed scornfully.
Joseph didn’t, in point of fact, but he shrugged as if the notion merited some thought.
“Disease,” shouted Drinkwater, even though his sole listener was inches away, “is an outward manifestation of inward discordance! If the soul is not complete and harmonious, the body will inflame with sores and pustules!” Theophilius Drinkwater nodded, agreeing with himself enthusiastically. “We must talk about that sometime,” he said to Hope.
Drinkwater was wearing a dress, or such had been Joseph’s first impression, although upon closer examination the garment would be better described as a “robe,” long and white, held together loosely with a length of hemp, as if Drinkwater had stepped out of a color plate in the old Testament. Theophilius’s beard was long, white and angry, falling almost to his knees. If Drinkwater was, say, sixty years old, then he would have had to have been growing his whiskers since age five. The top of his head, however, was hairless and pink; it reflected no perversity on Hope’s part that he was reminded of a female behind.
“Might I call you ‘Joseph?’ ” asked Theophilius.
Hope, staring blankly at Drinkwater’s face, nodded.
The odd thing about the face, even odder given Drinkwater’s near-midget stature, was that all of his features were grotesquely oversized. His nose was a huge vegetable-like thing, warted and twisted, his ears distinctly elephantine. And Drinkwater’s eyes looked bigger still, immense and perfectly round, like those of a nocturnal animal.
“Come in, Joe,” said Theophilius, bouncing up and down and waving his arms toward the interior of the house. “Come in and meet the family!”
Joseph took a hesitant step forward.
He had learned, prior to coming, who Polly was, who her father was. Martha Quinton had informed him, bluntly and petulantly, as if something angered her about Joseph’s dining elsewhere. “I’ve made your favorite dinner,” Martha had muttered. Joseph shrugged, trying to be apologetic, although he reflected that he had no favorite dinner, and even if he had it would be rendered nauseating, at best tasteless, by Martha Quinton. “Go have dinner with the great Theophilius,” she’d said. “You’ll be sorry.”
Joseph had dismissed all this as a manifestation of some obscure jealousy. In fact, Hope had a measure of respect for Drinkwater, if only because The Battle-Axe & Weapons of War published his articles. But as he stepped into the Drinkwater household, Joseph suspected that Martha may have been right.
Hope had expected to be greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Drinkwater, Polly and perhaps a brother or sister. Instead, Theophilius introduced Joseph to a mob. “Polly you are acquainted with. ‘Polly’ is the familiar for ‘Polyphilia,’ denoting an all-encompassing love. This young fellow is Jakeh, this is Caleb, this is Sarah, this is Manasseh—stop that Manasseh!—this is Ephraim …”
The young man indicated made some objection.
“Oh! This is Ephraim, that is Hebron, and this is the fair Jezreel …”
On and on Drinkwater went, pointing at the huge crowd that was his family.
The younger children were all naked, and the others wore Biblical robes like their father. The line of delineation seemed to be around the age of thirteen, and one of the daughters, Manasseh, was absolutely nude despite swelling breasts and a light sprinkling of pubic hair. It hardly mattered, as the robes were all of a light cotton material and very loose. Polly’s robe, for example, had opened in the front, and her bosom was spilling out, pink-nippled and bursting with dainty blue veins. Polly was either ignorant of this or simply didn’t care. She nodded shyly at Hope and bit at her thumbnail.
“And here is the fair matriarch, Rose!” shouted Theophilius.
Mrs. Drinkwater waddled forward, a fat and kindly woman. Her robe was likewise opened, the better to nurse a small newborn she held cradled in her arms. “Good of you to come, Reverend,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed your correspondence in The Battle-Axe.”
Hope bowed graciously.
“Yes,” nodded Theophilius, “you write very well. And it’s not absolute hogwash, that much I’ll grant you!” Hope realized that this was meant as a compliment, but he still bristled. He looked over at Polly and their eyes met. Joseph Benton Hope smiled, a quick smile that vanished from his lips in an instant.
“I have a spare robe,” said Theophilius, “if you’d be more comfortable.”
Hope was indeed uncomfortable. His clothes, black and heavy, had been tailored for him by Martha Quinton, who was no better a seamstress than she was a cook. They were uniformly too tight, always squeezing air from his body. Still, he declined the offer.
Joseph turned to look at his surroundings. Despite the size of the house, the great horde of Drinkwater offspring were all of normal stature and seemed crammed and cramped inside. The interior of the house had no partitions, and all of the household activities took place in the one room. The walls were lined solidly with books, stacked up until they met the ceiling. At the back of the room Hope saw a line of pallets on the floor, actually one very long pallet, and he imagined that at nightfall the family lay down all together and in no prescribed order. Also toward the back was a pot-bellied stove and a large tin bathtub (and, Joseph noted with small alarm, after the introductions had been made, one of the older Drinkwater daughters, Jezreel, had climbed into it and was soaping herself vigorously). The most prominent piece of furniture was a dining table that sat in the middle of the floor; in fact, other than the complementary chairs, this table was the only piece of furniture. Theophilius Drinkwater waved J. B. Hope toward it. “Come, Joseph,” he said, “let’s argue!”
The children disappeared on this cue, Joseph had no idea where. Polly went to aid her bathing sister, taking the soap and applying it to Jezreel’s back. They shared some soft laughter and Joseph felt himself turning red.
Theophilius jumped on to a chair and pointed at another for Joseph. From where he sat Joseph could view the bathtub. Polly was scrubbing her sister with such energy that she’d shaken the robe from her shoulders.
“Um,” said Theophilius, putting a long-stemmed pipe into his mouth, “here’s what I think. Um …” Drinkwater lit a match, crushing the white tube between his fingers so that it fizzled and exploded into flame. His arm was so short that he had to extend it to its length to suspend the fire over the pipebowl. “I think that man is intended to live in the water.” Drinkwater grinned craftily.
“Pardon me?” asked Joseph.
“Man,” said Theophilius. “In the water. Like a fish.”
At this point Polly stood up, letting the robe fall to her ankles. She got into the tin tub with Jezreel.
“Dumbfounded, eh?” shrieked Theophilius. “A bit nonplussed, are we?”
“Why,” asked Joseph quietly, “do you think that?”
“Because, was not man given dominion of the fish of the sea?”
Polly, her hands full of lather, began to soap herself.
“Man was likewise granted dominion over the fowl of the air,” muttered Joseph. “Do you therefore feel that he should be able to fly?”
Joseph didn’t pay attention to the old man’s answer. As she soaped the back of her neck, Polly was looking at Hope and smiling.
“What do you say, Hope?” shouted Drinkwater.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Man! Flight! Like a bird!”
Joseph shrugged indifferently. “I deem it a physical impossibility.”
“Then, sir,” Theophilius screamed, “you’re no better than the rest of them!”
“Do you sincerely believe that a man could fly?” asked Joseph, his eyes fastened on Polyphilia. She was lathering something below water level, her eyes still fastened to his.
“Yes indeedy-deedy-do!” returned Theophilius. “I’d be a damned fool if I didn’t! And stop staring at my daughter, man! She’s got nothing but bubs and a pranny like any other gal!”
Hope sheepishly turned his eyes downward.
“Now, Joseph,” said Theophilius, firing another match-tube because he’d yet to get the tobacco properly burning, “tell me why, in your opinion, flight is forever denied to mankind.”
Joseph stared at the patently insane old man. Drinkwater was fuming, smoke curling around his monstrous nose and ears, more smoke than could have been produced in the small pipe-bowl. “Well,” said Joseph, “a bird has certain physical attributes that make flight possible. Wings, for example, and tailfeathers.”
Theophilius Drinkwater jumped down from his chair and began to bounce up and down. “A man could fashion himself wings!” he hollered. “Wings and tailfeathers!”
Jezreel and Polyphilia splashed each other with water, rinsing the suds from their naked bodies. As they did, the two young girls screwed their eyes shut and turned their faces up, laughing.
Joseph muttered, “I suppose.”
“Here’s what I think,” said Theophilius Drinkwater. “There are no limitations placed upon man. He was granted dominion over the earth, sea and sky, and I believe that the Lord meant us to take our rightful place in all of those realms. We need air to breathe, surely, and cannot subsist on water like the fishes. But what is preventing us from taking air into the water with us, carrying it below the surface in bottles and Mason jars? And if, as you state, the Lord did not give us wings, did He not give us birds aplenty, thereby handing us detailed instructions of how such wings could be constructed?”
Joseph Hope realized that Theophilius was saying, or shrieking, all this off the top of his head. Hope was impressed, possibly even a bit exhilarated by the extempore creation of lunatic theory. Jezreel and Polyphilia, now rinsed and glistening, rose to their feet. Polly had a rump like a gazelle’s, thickly muscled and taut.
“If all flying wants is wings,” Theophilius said, the amplitude of his bounce increasing steadily, “then we are fools to have been so long earthbound. Man should be in the sky, in the clouds, near the stars! There is no heavenly body beyond our reach. We could live on the moon!”
Drinkwater giggled as if even he himself found this notion ludicrous. Possibly for that very reason, Theophilius began to defend it passionately. “We could do it, Hope! Start a new world, a new civilization, on the moon! A world dedicated to harmony, harmonious intercourse with our fellow men and women, and harmonious intercourse with our Lord! You and I, Joe!” Drinkwater was bouncing high into the air at this point. Hope half expected the old man to crash through the ceiling soon, to bounce up into the heavens. Jezreel and Polly were toweling themselves, bending this way and that, affording Joseph new and unique angles to view.
“We make ourselves wings,” Theophilius bellowed, “and, because I’ve heard there’s little air beyond the clouds, we get the missus to bottle us some air in Mason jars!”
Joseph realized, with a start, that Drinkwater was suggesting all this as a feasible and practical course of action.
“Then we go to the moon, you and I, and Polly and Jezreel, all of us, and we recreate the garden of Eden!”
Mrs. Drinkwater, who was seasoning some food over in the corner, laboring over the black pot-bellied stove, reminded her husband, “You’ve a meeting a week Thursday.”
“Quite right,” nodded Theophilius, “we must go a week Friday. Hope! What are you doing a week Friday?”
Jezreel and Polyphilia were putting their robes on again. Joseph answered, a bit stupidly, “Nothing in particular.”
“Let’s go to the moon!”
Joseph Hope answered, “I think not.”
Drinkwater’s bounces began to diminish in height, and in some moments he had stopped altogether. “I thought you were a man of vision,” he snarled. “All your talk of ‘perfection.’ Now I see you just wanted to make things simple, more easy to understand. You can’t see past the end of your own nose, unless it’s to stare at my daughters. What you need, boy, is a good shagging, make you realize that the world doesn’t spin because of twammies and justums!”
Theophilius spat, the stuff getting caught in the hairs of his mustache and beard. “J. B. Hope, the great religious innovator,” he muttered sarcastically, “sitting here and glowing like firewood because two young gals are taking a bath, which is a common daily occurrence, as well it should be.” Theophilius Drinkwater sternly crossed his arms. “You won’t do, Hope,” he decided. “You won’t do at all.”
Joseph rose to his feet. He enjoyed the sensation of towering over Drinkwater. “And you, sir,” he said, his voice almost inhuman when he spoke quietly, “you are quite mad.”
“I am the greatest religious thinker of our age,” responded Theophilius matter-of-factly. “I am a prophet, and have been chosen to write the next installment of the Bible. You, on the other hand, are a small, insignificant speck of dust, a little tiny ant with a great big thingummy!” Drinkwater gestured toward Joseph’s crotch.
Mrs. Drinkwater came over with a huge pot of soup. “Boys, boys,” she admonished them gently. “Let’s be friends.”
“I’ve no intention of being friends with this young, small-minded puppy!” barked Theophilius.
“And I,” countered Joseph, “have no intention of being friends with this old, crack-minded … dwarf!”
Theophilius launched himself at Joseph with tiny fingers fashioned into claws. Drinkwater raked his nails over Joseph’s face, tearing off the black eye-patch, raising long red welts on Hope’s pale skin. Joseph made no move to defend himself. Instead he began to search frantically for the covering to his empty eye socket. He ignored the weak little blows that Theophilius was administering.
“Dwarf!!?” screamed Drinkwater. “I’ll pummel you to a pound of horsemeat, then we’ll see who’s a dwarf!” Joseph found the patch and affixed it on his face even as his face was being slapped by Theophilius. Then Joseph simply shrugged, and Drinkwater flew away, crashing into the chairs and table.
“Get out!” screamed Theophilius Drinkwater.
Joseph decided that it was a bad time to ask for Polyphilia’s hand in marriage.
The Modern Novel: What Purpose Does It Serve?
Hope, Ontario, 1983
Wherein our Young Biographer takes part in a Conversation of Literary Interest, and his Friend Benson is Delighted.
You know you’ve progressed beyond the rudimentary, abecedarian levels of fucking-up when, at thirty years of age, you’re caught sitting on your bed, hunched over your own meat, grinning like Mr. Monkey, consumed by lust.
This is what happened to me.
Harvey Benson appeared in the bedroom doorway and exclaimed, “Aha! Having a tug at Wee Willie, are we?”
I had awoken with the sort of rock-hard erection that only multiple hours of drunken half-sleep can bestow. So I recalled making love to Elspeth and tried to deal with the thing as best I could, using said memories as accompaniment.
Our love-making, by the way, was of a very satisfying nature. After ten years of practice, Ellie and I were very good at getting each other off. “H
ow’s that?” one or the other of us would ask constantly. “That’s, um, fine.” “Okay?” “Sure, okay.” There was very little in the way of passionate grunting and gasping when Elspeth and I made love. There was instead a lot of conversation.
“Does that hurt?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.”
“Hold on. I think there’s some air trapped up there.”
“Right-oh.”
“Okay, go.”
“Is this good?”
“Not really.”
“How about more like this here?”
“Sure, okay.”
“Is that good?”
“Yeah, this is nice.”
“Okay. Then I’ll just get up on my knees.”
“Sure. Fine.”
“Here we are.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, go.”
Anyway, Harvey’s entrance into my bedroom had the effect of shriveling my boner to near nothingness, despite his admonitions of, “Don’t mind me. Just pretend I’m not here.” It struck me that this was a new attitude on the part of my dick, this throwing in the sponge and knuckling under at the slightest pressure. My dick, formerly a “Never Say Die” kind of guy, had become a quitter.
I’d noticed it the week before with Elspeth, when we were still happily married. I was making love to her. We’d maneuvered ourselves into the doggy position and I was on my knees and knuckles, merrily, obliviously, thrusting in and out of Ellie. Elspeth had begun a low humming, which meant that she was on the brink of orgasm, as was I. Suddenly, I was filled with this quick and awful foreboding. This had also been happening more frequently, this sudden dread invading my being, so much so that I’d considered getting one of those Medic Alert wrist bracelets that would clearly explain “Suffers acute fits of depressing epiphany and realizes that everything is overwhelmingly fucked: administer booze and any/all other available drugs.” My sweat turned clammy, and my knees gave out. My dick all but disappeared. “Return to Mothercraft!” I bellowed, and Elspeth and I collapsed, fortunately at the moment of her climax. I pretended to have come, too; I ran my fingers through Ellie’s hair. Elspeth, shuddering beneath me, asked, “Return to Mothercraft?” Ellie’s hair was everywhere, all over the bed, raven-black and smelling somehow of leaves in autumn. I wiped my tears away with her hair. “Sometimes you’re weird,” Elspeth noted with characteristic clarity.
The Life of Hope Page 8