Thank You and Good Night

by Ray Succre

  “I’m not so needy as all that.”

  “Are.”

  “I just want to keep moving, but I suppose you’re right. I hear it from Beth, too. I suck all the air out of a room.”

  “You see? Listen to your wife. You have to play it cool, now. Slick, like the kids.”

  “Easy for you to say. You inherited father’s patience, but I ended up with our mother’s lust for involvement. I have her social-function soul but only the one party.”

  “There’s a million parties. They’re all boring.”

  “Well, you can sit for a week straight and not speak. That’s like black magic to me.”

  “Patience is a virtue. So outside of the book and programs, how’s the family, little brother?”

  At first with understanding, Beth had now begun leaving him be even when he did not wish to be left alone. She was thoughtful and loved him much, but that care had begun to scald him. He found himself hoping she might interrupt him, here and there. His daughters were full of love and need for his attention, his play and frivolity, but he gave this less and less. The work was arrogating not only his schedule, but much of his mind. How long until they did as their mother? How long until his little girls found him unapproachable? Perhaps most troubling, women in New York noticed him and made their availability known. They did not care that he was married, and many of the men he met cheated often. They saw no wrong in it, considered the behavior a simple imperative of nature. Emery was at odds with this thinking, but knew that cheating would be so easy if he were to entertain it, especially with Beth being distant both in proximity and mood.

  “Fine,” Emery said, possibly lying, “We’re all doing swell. The money coming in has helped tremendously and we’re keen for fun. I think... maybe I’m working too hard, though. I need to make more time for my girls.”

  He had no sensation of talent, but the tough and stringy matter of skill. He had never thought himself in a state of being gifted, but had a tenacious grip on the things that concerned him. He felt he operated on hard work, not raw talent, and that his collar was assuredly blue. That these things, his skill and grip, could alter themselves to the very hour was unnerving. The success of two teleplays had dwarfed all of his others, and worse, there were new teleplays coming from his typewriter by the week, all of which he thought better than that old work for which he was known. Emery had made light of this in his introduction, blathered about this being the nature of writing. What did he know about the nature of writing? He had been a shill turned on his head and called a prince for a short while, a dull mule that some had mistaken for a thoroughbred.

  “Always make time for those girls, Em. They’re the best thing, you know. I don’t want sad nieces, so keep ‘em jumping. And Beth should smile somewhere around fourteen or fifteen times an hour. Aim for that.”

  “Oh, I try as much as I can. It’s not that easy, however. You know how work is.”

  The letter felt to have its own temperature, heated in his breast pocket, knowing him there. His confusion and urge to keep the letter private for a time worsened when the hours began to drag. Most of a day had gone, and he still had not told his wife about the letter. He had thought to, and with immediacy, but then he didn’t have quite the correct smile for it. Empty. The letter had been opened and read and then simply slipped into his pocket without so much as a grunt. Words on paper. They were unceasing. He did not want them to have much importance or power over him, but the letter felt to weigh as much as the daughter he held.

  Vivian invoked in her sleep a series of light mumbles and then stilled as her father held her. He was entertaining a dream or else had fallen to reactions over some hidden process. Emery tilted back, readjusting in the uncomfortable chair. She was getting too heavy. His proper place at this time of night was beside Beth in bed, with this little one between them, for another year or so. Rebecca, the older daughter, had been in her own room for two years now, and adjusting to her absence at night had been difficult for Beth. Worse was that Emery did not often accompany her to bed, having a work-deranged schedule and troubles with falling asleep. He used this unfortunate time of unwanted wakefulness to watch television, a thing he did in study, not leisure. The pleasures of television had been robbed from him several years now. The flicker of the set was as the clamor of a bell indicating it was time to return to class. He wrote at night, studied at night, and at times, these late nights were conversations with his brother. These were all useful activities, but his proper and often unobtainable place was beside Beth, and that he knew this and did not go to bed brought him certain guilt.

  William mentioned he had taken to hunting in recent months, and had managed to kill a stag in the process. Along with the stag, the meat from which he professed to like much, he had also expended an unwieldy amount of time in the woods. William could be quite solitary. He did not mind being alone for long durations, and could wait out an animal without problem, but this became somewhat of a curse, as he might wait far too long in a quarry-less place, and had on many occasions. As William spoke, Emery leaned his head down to the little girl and quietly smelled her hair. A purity. A creaturely scent that rode warmth and quiet. How could a smell be thick and thin, heavy and light, all at the same instant? He kissed her head and closed his eyes.

  “…possibly a truck, to haul my catch back myself,” William continued, “I haven’t decided yet, but Helen has been hinting in an obvious way that she wants a coupe. I just don’t see the point in that. Not a useful automobile, if you ask me.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Say, how’s that Molden Roadster holding up?” Emery opened his eyes and caught his breath. He had begun to drift for a moment. Lieutenant Merrill had entered the room and taken residence on the couch, watching television after eyeing Emery and Vivian in the chair with a touch of admiration.

  “Steady as the pyramids,” Emery said then, returning quick to thought, which was a busy affair to him, at any hour.

  “Ah. Good.”

  “I have to say, that’s a car,” Emery went on, revived into subject again, “A real, honest-to-God, solid automobile. Only big thing I’ve bought. And more than worth it.”

  “You’ll have to let me drive her this summer at the lake.”

  “Sure, I’ll supply the Roadster if you do all the driving.”

  “I’ll do most of it, how about that?” William offered.

  “It’s a deal.”

  His daughter’s small lips parted then and she grunted, twisted a bit. His fondness for her escalated for several seconds and then relaxed into the usual domesticity he had found in fatherhood. That was child-rearing at its clearest: Strands of common behavior that brought a child nurture, punctuated in short yet unmistakable moments of either trouble or infrangible bliss. Merrill yawned, stood, and exited to the bedroom to sleep beside Beth, his medals clinking as he tiredly walked.

  The clinking sound changed, however. Emery was drifting again. He listened to the sound as it entered his house. The tinkling came in off the street, entered his ears, or rather, called his attention up from his world as the sound often did. Those damned chimes. The Cully family had recently purchased a wind chime in Brazil, a noisemaker that was fond of perpetuity. What had seemed a quaint and nearly tranquil emanation of middling chimes and the comfort of in-key tones had become an aggravating, never-ending collision of broken metal bones. The wind in Cincinnati was never just a visitor, and that chime up the street never shut up. This harping of sound over the neighborhood bothered him most when trying to sleep and during those rounds of writing when he was barely to the page, looming over a more furtive work and trying to snap an idea, any idea, into being. They were louder in the bedroom, of course.

  “Em, you there?”

  “Yes, sorry. I drifted off for a second. I’m holding Vivian and she’s very warm. Makes me nod a little.”

  How nice Cayuga would be. Taughannock and walnut trees, the soothing lake and its place in his past... this would help to calm his present. The
annual vacation would channel him away from producers and clattering keys and obnoxious chimes and ringing telephones, away from the drudging commutes and his fervor for the mail. The lake cabin was a sort of domesticity away from the domestic, and striking for its sheer, solacing qualities. Every person had one, a favorite place in the world, and Cayuga Lake had become his own. There was a high likelihood that Cayuga had been his favorite place for many years. The family met there and relaxed or adventured. In either manner, they were a family economized pleasantly and sustained for a time while away from their busy lives. The girls were inches taller with every visit, yet so young, so open to see what was around them. Rebecca was nearing five, the age at which Emery, himself, could recall his first memory of Cayuga Lake: There had been a bee sting, short and abrupt, like the memory it would form and that he would horde in his mind as if a small, burnished sapphire. A memory of a good place always needed to be kept in one’s mind like an exhibit, and returning to that place was the only way to dust off the mental showcase for future viewing.

  “You should get some sleep. I’ll hang up,” William offered.

  “Soon, sure. Speaking of kids, though, when are you going to procreate, big brother? You need to have kids so they can swim in the lake with my girls,” Emery said then.

  “We’ll get to it. We’re waiting a while.”

  “If you wait too long, you’ll forget what it was like to be a kid, and then you won’t be able to identify with your own.”

  “Keep off me, Freud. When Helen and I are ready, your girls will have a cousin or two.”

  “Kids center you.”

  “Says you. Hey, Beth mentioned to Helen that you two bought a boat for the lake?”

  “For whatever body of water we please, but probably mostly Cayuga. Yes, and you can drive that, too. Beer on the lake. No better place on this green Earth. We’ve gone every year for the past four. You should, too.”

  “We did; we came last year.”

  “And it was fun. You should do it every year with us. We should make it a big family thing; each year we all meet there. Use the cabin.”

  “Well, now that you’ve got a boat, we might just do that.”

  “We’ll get loaded on the water, just the two of us.”

  “What for? Helen is hilarious when she’s pickled. I say we all go out and drink to the point we can’t see the water. Say, I thought you said the only big thing you’ve bought was that Roadster. A boat would qualify as another big thing, wouldn’t it?”

  “No, it’s a pretty small boat, and I bought it used. It was cheap.”

  “Do we have to row it ourselves?”

  “Well, not quite that cheap.”

  The answer was to write more. That was what an Emery did when he felt washed under. Write more. The next thing. Keep moving. He was that certain breed of gambler who moved from machine to machine until he found a fiery one, claimed his much deserved payout, and then quickly shuffled off toward the next row. Toad in Toad Hall was right to lose his interest in past articles for the favor of some next shiny activity. This kept him from descending into a life of prolonged backsliding, and instead peppered his days in lesser failures, small troubles that could be swept aside as fast as he had found them, bankrupt moments that could be overcome with but the exercise of excitement and trial. Productive and slick could function as one. Energetic and patient. These could co-exist in one thing, couldn’t they? If he kept moving? Emery thought of a land mine. Patient. Until triggered. Then explosive. Perhaps he could be like that.

  After another refusal on Emery’s part to go to sleep, the two brothers discussed their respective fields, the differences in their forms of writing, the money, how far the discus was thrown that represented their debt and general station. Rain in D.C., wind in Ohio. A general agreement was made on the troubles with New York. Then the brothers discussed their wives, Helen and Beth, the differences, backgrounds, and especially the mannerisms. The slight difficulties of varied perceptions, especially involving time and money, never seemed to outweigh the happiness of being loyally married.

  William mentioned his gout and the increase in trouble it had been causing him.

  “I had to see a doctor, too,” Emery said, “Pretty recent. We’re gaining years of age like a windshield gains spatters of bug.”

  “That’s dumb. We’re saplings still. What was wrong?”

  “The fingers in my right hand kept going numb.”

  “Are you typing that much? That’s crazy.”

  “No, the doctor says it’s from smoking too much.”

  “And it makes your fingers numb? I’ve never heard of that. How much are you smoking?”

  “Four a day.”

  “Em, that’s less than I smoke. Your doctor’s a buffoon. I smoke with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A few between, and a few throughout the night. Of course, there’s the special occasion smoke, too. Yeah, and one before bed, usually. It’s nice. Oh, and driving. Helen and I love to smoke while driving.”

  “Packs. Four packs a day.”

  “…are you joking?”

  “No. That’s how many I go through. Not every day, but most. It’s stressful here, Will. More than anything I could describe about television writing… it’s stressful. I don’t stop moving ever. I’m getting antsy just sitting here with the phone to my ear. After this conversation, I’m going to red-line through a script I wrote mostly yesterday. A couple of more hours in me before I can go to bed. I don’t actually smoke them all. Most go up in waste sitting in the ashtray because I forget about them when I’m writing and they just burn away.”

  “Cut back on the cigarettes, little brother. I’m serious. Cut back a lot.”

  “That’s what DeGan said. And I am.”

  “Who’s DeGan? Your doctor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s right. You’re on your way to an iron lung.”

  “It’s bizarre even thinking about iron lungs. Can you imagine?”

  Smoking. Everywhere. Everyone. Commercials for Castleberry Cigarettes wedged into the last slot of airtime on a show, so that when the credits came, you wanted to smoke, to pleasure yourself with nicotine, thus cementing the show in your mind as favorable and of good feel. Timing. Addiction was somewhat like a television program. Slots and acts and a very cognizant system of time. Every smoker had his own rate. Every commercial for cigarettes had a certain timing as well. Emery’s addiction had built over the years, more and more. Cigarettes had seized his anger mechanisms. He could no longer relax or keep calm without smoking. This was a control switch. When Chet Wilkes threatened to close a production, it was time to smoke. After the cigarette, Emery was bright of mind and ready to approach. To talk it out. To use diplomacy instead of insult. Smoking had become a portion of his work ethic and regimen, and it functioned incredibly well in this. He needed his mind sturdy, and he needed the sense of pacing nicotine offered more than ever.

  The subjects came and went between the two brothers. Late night was easy with this form of talk, two people away from the world, and without the stress of proximity, distant from each other but for dialogue and nattering through long, lonely wires. This was deep talk of a sort, light where it traveled, but penetrating when it dove. Invariably the conversation would shimmy into that particular muse for which they had both been bitten.

  “I had a scene where some dusters are getting ready to ford a river,” Emery explained, “right in the middle of the second act. And a lot’s been leading up to it. But so Dick Lees, one of the producers of the show, he comes up and tells me I have to change the dialogue so the characters say they’re ‘crossing’ the river, not ‘fording’ it. Can you guess why?”

  “Uh-uh. Didn’t sound right?”

  “No, it’s because the show is sponsored by Chevrolet, and Dick didn’t think they’d be comfortable with the word ‘ford’.”

  “Huh! Are sponsors that uptight?”

  “Some. As are a good portion of the producers I know.”

  �
��That’s ridiculous.”

  “It is.”

  “Seems we’re both working in politics, after all. Just a different sort. I wish I could say it was any different in journalism. It’s only marginally better.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ve had to do a little rewriting here and there for certain interests. Everything out here is written with a squinty eye on someone, and a pleased eye on someone else. It’s like moving opinions around to make new ones. Gets you feeling like a hack, at times.”

  “We are hacks. I said so in that introduction. It’s the same for me, too. With getting stories cut to bits so no one gets troubled. Watering things down to fit every sort of person who might be watching. I don’t know that it just makes one feel like a hack, but that it slowly transforms you into one.”

  “Hey, I’m really not one of those.”

  “Me neither. But we aren’t the ones who decide that. They are.”

  “Huh. Odd point. You might have some truth in there somewhere.”

  CUT TO:

  Old newsprint. Blank, no words, just faded, textured paper, yellowed with age and filling the frame.

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