“Is Man gonna come back?” Freddy inquires of the new philosopher.
“You’ll have to ask it louder,” Doc tells Freddy. “Speak up, so’s he can hear you.”
“Yes, Man will always come back,” Sam says without waiting for Freddy to repeat himself. “But that’s future tense.” Then, seeing that Doc looks astounded that he can hear, he adds, “Doc, you know, that grease from the mountings of a bell recently rung really works.”
INSTAR THE SIXTH:
The Convert
Chapter thirty-six
Though they do not exactly sleep together, Tish and Archy retire for the daylight hours in each other’s company to the inside of the vanity in Sharon’s bathroom, where they hide before the wrath of Squire Hank, who has banished the three deacons from Parthenon, has chased Chidiock Tichborne from one end of the house to the other without catching him, and has told Archy that he and his “bride” are welcome to spend the day but must vacate the premises at sunset. Tish has tried to protest to the Squire that she and Archy are not actually married; she has wanted to return to Holy House in search of Sam and her good friend Hoimin, but Squire Hank, in a foul mood, hasn’t listened to a word she has said. Now she and Archy, not before having a newlyweds’ quarrel that has virtually estranged them and left her in copious tears, are attempting to sleep inside this vanity, and Archy at least has been able to fall into fitful slumber. Archy has declared his intention to get them unmarried as soon as he can present the case to the Justice of the Peace, who is Doc Swain. As soon as he gets them unmarried, Archy intends to strike out alone for Mount Staymore or the world beyond. It has been his fondest wish to take Tish with him, but he does not want a nonvirgin even as a traveling companion. Now he feels no love for her. “I wouldn’t give ye a marble if you begged for it!” he has declared.
Did she err in telling him of her brief affair with Squire Sam? He had demanded the whole truth; she had had no choice, but stopped short of telling him she had borne an easteregg. She had had to explain how she knew the names of all the collectibles in Sam’s food treasury. Archy had already guessed that there was something going on between Sam and Tish, what with the way Sam had saved her life by spoiling Man’s aim of a bullet at her, the consequences of which had created all this turmoil in Stay More. Archy had even become friends with Sam during the nights they attempted to do something for Man, and, while Sam had told Archy nothing about his feelings for Tish, Archy guessed that they were “sweethearts.” Tish simply had to confess to what Archy already suspected, and Tish had never told a lie in her life.
She can understand Archy’s bitterness and it hurts her, for she really likes Archy. If Sam had not come into her life, she would have been thrilled at the prospect of being married to Archy. Any girl in Stay More would give her right sniffwhip to be Archy’s wife. Compared with Sam, Archy is so matter-of-fact, down to earth, commonsensical, not to mention much more handsome. Sam’s not bad-looking at all, but he just doesn’t have Archy’s big eyes and firm mandibles and sleek wings. And somehow Tish feels much more comfortable with Archy. Sam, even apart from his deafness, seems somehow remote, unnatural, not of this world. He is not “just folks,” the way Archy is. He is too different, even though it is unlikely that he will ever want to live again in that peculiar apartment inside the Clock, now that the Clock has stopped.
Will Sharon ever come home and wind the Clock? What would life be like for Tish if she stayed here in Parthenon when Sharon returns? Even if Sharon returns, and Tish doubts it as much as Archy does, Tish is not certain she would want to live with Sam in Parthenon (assuming, of course, he ever asked her to). She would get lonesome for the folks of Carlott and Holy House, for her brothers and sisters, her mother and f—. Tish thinks again of her westered father, and sheds another tear.
Unable to sleep, she climbs to the top of the vanity and explores it, half-blinded by daylight and stumbling among the paraphernalia that Woman uses to prettify Herself, although Tish cannot at first determine the function of each of the items: the brush and the comb are obviously for the hair, but what are all the plastic rollers for? And the board with thousands of grains of sand stuck to it? Is that for cleaning the teeth? The various bottles and jars, tubes and cylinders, vials and compacts intrigue her, and, although she can read, she can only guess at their contents and uses.
She is not alone. She turns and sees Archy approaching her, stiffly, his gitalongs moving strangely along the countertop, and, more strangely, her sniffwhips detect the unmistakable odor of his slumberscent. He is asleep, yet walking! His eyes are vacant. As he moves toward her, he murmurs in sad, despairing tones, “West! west! west!”
She is so startled she cannot speak, but she is not afraid of him. She waits. He comes up to her, and lifts her up in his strong touchers with the aid of his fore-gitalongs. He carries her.
“My wife—west, west!” he says.
He carries her toward the edge of the countertop. Does he intend to throw her off? Or, in his dream, does he imagine he can fly away with her? Is the “west” he keeps repeating the west of his intended directional destination, or is it the west of nonexistence? What is he doing with her? At the edge of the countertop he stops, holds her even higher for a moment above his head, and she has a panoramic view down below of an oval pond of water enclosed in a glistening white porcelain bowl elevated above the floor, a pool of crystal water framed in its wooden shore.
She tries to speak, but he silences her with a kiss, a profound, passionate, and yet anguished kiss. Then he heaves her out into the air! And she drifts down inexorably toward the waiting waters. She beats her nonexistent wings futilely and kicks with her gitalongs and manages to cry, “Oh, Archy, how could you?” but the last syllable and the question mark are strangled in the water.
Tish does not panic and drown. She treads water with her gitalongs and keeps her sniffwhips dry. The shore is too high, but the wall of the porcelain bowl, aglint in the afternoon sunlight, is not far, and she swims slowly toward it, reaches it, and seeks purchase with the tips of her gitalongs, but the wall is smooth and impervious; she cannot grip anywhere. She scrambles, she claws, she lunges and crawls, but cannot clutch hold of the wall. It is the same all the way around, an unbroken bank of mockingly white and pure enamel. “Archy!” she calls upward, hoping to wake him and summon his aid, although she cannot imagine what aid he might give her. But he has disappeared, he has gone back to wherever he had begun his dream, to finish it, or he has wandered sleepwalking into some other part of Parthenon.
She floats. She does not tire, yet, and she keeps as calm as she can, telling herself that the merest thought of despair might weaken her or unsettle her, and let her drown. Time passes, or, since time has ceased to exist, and it is only the present tense, the tense presence remains definite, suspended and endless. Daylight passes. Tish feels hunger and knows that it’s breakfasttime. If the Clock still worked, it would say “EGG,” but the Clock is west. Tish thinks of Egg, she thinks of Easteregg, she wonders how her sixteen babies are coming along, growing steadily in their capsule in the place where she and Hoimin hid it. Another long month or so will pass before the capsule hatches, cracks, and lets the sixteen out into this cruel world. Will any of them find their way back to Stay More and will anyone in Stay More tell them of their mother, drowned and westered in a—, in a—? Tish has been in this water so long, she has gradually fathomed its purpose: it is not a reservoir of drinking water, or washing water, but a water which has been forced from some subterranean source like a spring and will return to a subterranean location to carry away the wastes of Woman. It is therefore a water potty. Will anyone tell those sixteen poor babes that their poor mother westered in a water potty?
When will Sharon return to find a black bug, perhaps still alive, floating in Her water potty, and cause the water to flush the bug away? For that seems to be Tish’s only fate. Thinking of fate, she remembers her fairy godmother, the Fate-Thing, and wonders why that kind protectress wants to wester her in
this fashion. Perhaps, Tish reflects as night comes on, the Fate-Thing knows that everyone must wester eventually, and the Fate-Thing has chosen for Tish this dramatic, exceptional, extraordinary west.
From time to time, or, since there is no Time but only a sense of the necessity of repetition, Tish calls out, “HELP!” She cannot know that her father, presumed west himself, is also occasionally, between bites of lime peel and egg shell, summoning the strength to holler, “HELP!” In this same household, their cries go unheard, the father’s because his is encased and muffled by thick plastic bagging, the daughter’s because hers is confined within the solid walls of the porcelain bowl, which indeed serves as a megaphone directing the cries of “HELP” upward, if only there were someone to hear her….
There is someone to hear her. He appears, perched like a guardian angel on the edge of the round wooden seat, peering down at her. It is not Archy. Tish tries to sign “Help me,” with gestures, but she cannot work her gestures in the water. She tries to sniffwhipspell “H-E-L-P,” but her sniffwhips are too wet to spell. She can only moan, in exasperation and relief, “Oh, Sam!”
“Tish,” he says. “Mrs. Tish Tichborne. You know, it sounds like someone clucking.”
“I KNOW! I KNOW!” she yells, hoping he can hear her. “BUT I’M NOT! HONEST I’M NOT!” She sobs, and having used up the strength of her voice, can only sigh, “If you could get me out of here, I could explain it to you.” She talks to herself.
“Explain it to me now,” he says, as if he has heard her.
“You can’t hear me,” she declares, “and I’m too tired to holler or try to spell with my sniffwhips.”
“I can hear you,” he declares.
“You can?”
“Yes, Doc prescribed something for my prongs which apparently works. I can hear whatever you have to say.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she exclaims. “So listen careful.” And she begins to talk, as fast as she can. She relates to Sam the whole story of her recent dealings with Archy, and of sleepwalking Archy’s unconscious attempt to wester her by throwing her into the water potty. She is careful to explain that the wedding took place without her consent or active participation, that the marriage was practically decreed by the groom’s father. She is also careful to express her opinion that Archy did not deliberately intend to wester her, but was only acting unconsciously out of some deep-seated frustration or disappointment. She concludes the entire story by remarking, “I don’t really think we’re married. Do you?”
“Not if the officiant was a defrocked Frockroach, as it were,” Sam says. “Chid had no authority to perform the marriage.” Sam relates to Tish how his father, Squire Hank, is at this moment looking all over Stay More for Chid. Chid dare not return to Holy House, for the roosterroaches there feel that Chid has abandoned them, and they are in a mood to wester him if he ever shows up there again. “But as for Archy…”
“I think Archy has gone west,” Tish declares. “I mean westward west, I mean thataway.” She attempts to gesture. “In any case, I don’t care if I never see him again.”
And now, having said this, Tish is surprised to discover that Squire Gregor Samsa Ingledew is proposing to her. “Tish, will you marry me?” he has asked. Has she heard him correctly?
How can he propose to her in such an unromantic place as a toilet? “You’d have to get me out of here,” she replies. “And you can’t.”
“I’ll get you out of there,” he says, and for a moment he disappears from the wooden rim of the seat, but reappears beneath the seat, on the edge of the porcelain bowl, which he is scratching at with his gitalongs.
“Don’t try to climb down!” she cautions him. “You’ll get stuck yourself, and we’ll both drown.”
“Then I’ll drown with you, because I don’t want to live without you,” he says. “Listen. I’m going to try something. I don’t know if it will work, but we can try. I’m going to fly down there, see, and then you catch hold of my rear gitalongs, and I’ll fly you out of there!”
“But you can’t fly that long!” she protests. “No roosterroach has ever flown for more than three full seconds.”
“Time has stopped,” he says. “There are no seconds. But assuming there are: one second down, one second for you to grab hold, one second to get you out. Okay? Let’s try it. Here goes!”
And before she can further protest, dear Sam springs off the edge of the bowl, his wings fluttering frantically in the clumsy way that roosterroaches have of using their useless wings on rare occasions, and he comes steadily through the air down to her, until he yells, “Grab hold!” and she bites into one of his rear gitalongs, firmly enough to hang on but not so tight as to bite off his gitalong, and then she can actually hear the beat of his wings! He thrashes his wings, and she can feel herself being lifted, slowly, out of the water! But so slowly! Surely three seconds have passed already. He rises upward, beating his wings until it would seem his heart would give out, and she herself senses that the three seconds have expired. Time is up, Time is out, Time is over, and if she continues clinging to him she will wester him. And just in the instant before his heart can fail, she releases her bite on his gitalong, and drops, falls, back down into the water, and he has strength only to give his wings one last solid beat that lands him back on the edge of the wooden seat.
He collapses there. She collapses into the water, shaken and with only enough of her wits remaining to remember to keep herself afloat. She can hear Sam panting and wheezing, and it seems to take forever for him to regain his voice and ask her, “Why did you let go?”
“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have made it,” she says. “You know that.”
He seems to know that. “Well, let’s try it again,” he suggests.
“No,” she says firmly. “You’ve already used up your strength. You couldn’t possibly succeed on the second try.”
“Well,” he says, “I suppose I can just sit here and try to keep Sharon from flushing you away whenever She comes back.”
It takes Tish a while to realize that Sam is attempting to make a kind of half-serious joke. She does not laugh. “When do you think She’ll be coming back?” she asks.
“The question is not when but if,” Sam says. “There is some doubt that She will be coming back at all. But I for one know that She will, eventually.”
“And when She does, She’ll flush me.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Sam, Sam, listen, in case She flushes me, I want to tell you where my easteregg is hidden—our easteregg, because it’s yours too—I want you to find it, and make sure our babies get back home to Stay More, and then someday you can tell them about me.” The pathos of this declaration makes Tish begin to cry.
“Hoimin’s already told me how to find it,” Sam says. “We’ll find it. You and I will find it, and when our babies hatch we’ll give a party.”
The prospect of that almost comforts Tish; she snivels and tries to summon up the Fate-Thing to keep her company during the coming hours.
Chapter thirty-seven
Sam will always remember the toilet seat as the place where he got religion. It is of golden oak, with chrome hinges attaching it to the back of the bowl, and he has spent hours and hours on it, either perched at the edge, talking with Tish, or impatiently, anxiously, nervously walking around it, around and around and around it, as on a racetrack. He must keep talking to Tish, so she won’t fall asleep, because if she falls asleep she will drown.
“Funny,” she has remarked to him, once, trying to sound light, “all that time my house was floating down the creek, and so many of my brothers and sisters were drowning, it never occurred to me that I might ever wester by water. And now…”
He is desperate with worry, and it is precisely such states which drive some folks into religion, although this is not to say that there aren’t many deeply and truly religious persons who have never been worried, or frantic, or feeling so utterly helpless. Not once does it ever dawn on Sam to pray—no
t to Man, certainly, or to Woman, or even to God, although he is well aware of the presumed fact of God’s existence, a fact which all generations of Ingledews have steadfastly denied. And Sam is not about to become religious in the sense of accepting that fact, let alone praying to God. No, Sam is about to become religious in the sense of believing that there is not one Man, or one Woman, but many of Them, and They have not perished from this earth, and never will, and if we continue to worship Them, and honor Them, and love Them, They have the power to keep all of us staying more, forever and ever, amen. Call this religion polytheism or myriotheism; call it secular humanism, even; Sam is about to become a passionate convert to it, and eventually a preacher of it, and he will always remember (and relate to his audiences) that his conversion took place on the seat of a toilet wherein his true love floated in peril of drowning or being flushed away.
To pass the time while they wait for an outcome unknown, a fate unimagined, Sam even tells Tish of his conversion, his new belief, and his plan to preach it. Tish laughs, perhaps at the thought of him preaching. It is good, at least, to hear her laughing.
But now his tailprongs pick up a sound he has not heard since he first began to lose his hearing: the engine of an automobile. He runs to the front porch and sees a car driving into the yard. From the passenger seat, Sharon emerges, and, before closing Her door, speaks at length with the Driver, Her voice too distant for Sam to hear. Nor can he see the Driver. Sharon closes the door. The automobile leaves. Sharon turns and approaches Her house. She begins to climb the steps. Squire Sam rushes back into Her bedroom, telling himself to keep calm, at all costs. Do not panic, he says to himself, more than once. But think, he says to himself. Think. Think! There must be some way to keep the Woman out of Her bathroom, or keep Her from flushing the toilet.
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Page 150