by John Barth
June says Me!
Sure, you, says Katherine Sherritt before anyone else. Get your hands messed up. Agrees Lee It’s her oval responsibility.
It has to be done, the Swimmer says, but I feel like a traitor doing it.
Okay, says June. But could you sort of stand by?
The Swimmer gestures toward the bank. I’ll be right up there, where I can hear you if you call me. Let’s get rid of this one.
They push the First Interloper’s body out into the current. It drifts away, case still attached.
Peter half glances to see whether Frank Talbott appears troubled by suggestions of his drowned brother. If you can find you can’t manage it, he quotes the Swimmer, still speaking to June, or can’t stomach it . . .
It’s all right, Frank assures him.
Peter nods. The Swimmer pauses, about to climb the bank. On the other hand, he says, it goes without saying that if your Mister Right should swim past. . . .
Oh, him, sniffs Lee.
June frowns. I told you I don’t believe that stuff.
There is a splashing nearby. Uh-oh, she says.
Don’t be afraid, the Swimmer tells her. Climb up here and jump him.
June’s earlier self-confidence returns. I’m not afraid, she says. They both climb the bank. June stands poised to spring upon the newcomer; the Swimmer withdraws just behind her as the splashing comes nearer. But don’t go too far, she whispers. Can you hear me?
The Swimmer’s voice-off says I can hear you, June.
Now the Second Interloper hauls up into the shallows: a beefy, hairy fellow, rigged out in fancier motorcycle leathers than his predecessor’s in Act Two: reflector sunglasses, iron crosses on his crash helmet, even a studded black leather sheath for his tail. But he too is exhausted from the swim: He plops himself wearily down in the shallows, breathing hard, stroking his beard, looking back out to seaward. From a pouch somewhere he draws a can of beer, pops it open, guzzles, burps, sighs . . . and then begins to sniff the air.
We’re glad Marian’s not here, Lee Talbott observes. It was a guy like that in a van on Fenwick Island that messed her up.
June glances into the trees for reassurance, takes a breath, gathers herself, and, holding May’s envelope like a garotte, leaps upon the Interloper from behind, as the Swimmer did earlier, just as he rises to investigate what he has dimly sensed. With a grunt he topples face-forward into the water, holding his beer can high and dry. June straddles his back and throttles him with May’s envelope. To the end he holds the can aloft. She waits a few moments till the can, then the hand, fall; then she dismounts, drags the Interloper out into the current, and returns with the empty beer can and May’s envelope.
This is getting too violent to be the Saint Deniston senior class play, Katherine remarks. P reads on, undeterred: The Swimmer’s voice-off says Good work, June!
Good riddance, says June. She buries the beer can in the sand. That was for May.
You’re welcome, Kath says to May Jump. Frank Talbott commends the ecological tidiness of the violence so far: Drowned swimmers are biodegradable, but aluminum beer cans aren’t.
The Swimmer says appreciatively You were ferocious!
Says June I was terrified.
Get ready, he warns her: Here comes another one.
June scrambles back into position. This is no fun.
Fun or not, declares May Jump, where there’s two interlopers there’s got to be three. Predicts Frank Talbott But this one will be a seahorse of yet another color. A tellalong playscript, remarks Katherine: That’s pretty front-edge, no?
Says Peter If you want to risk letting them come ashore, the Swimmer says to June, it’s your choice. But I hope you won’t.
A Third Interloper appears, pulling himself up on the sandspit like his predecessors. But this one is a remarkably handsome fellow: a curly-headed young Adonis wearing only swimtrunks, who, once on his feet, stretches his splendid body and looks about with a radiant, wondering smile.
Good move, all hands agree. P holds up a forefinger:
Poised to leap upon him from her concealment, June is arrested by his beauty; she regards him with astonished admiration, pressing her knuckle against her teeth. Her Swimmer friend steps from the trees behind her; appraising the situation quickly, he tightens his lips and withdraws. The Interloper does a few leisurely, graceful exercises to loosen his tired muscles; he sniffs the air, puzzled, then with a sigh wades back into the shallows. Over his shoulder, he takes a last, quizzical look toward shore (June has stepped behind a tree trunk); then he shrugs and dives wearily back into the swim. June starts out as if to stop him. Her friend soberly watches her.
Mm hm, Frank Talbott says, and turns the boina in his hands. Lee gently puts it back upon his head. From the Mainstream, reads Peter, the sound of the Main Body is beginning to diminish. As June still stands in stricken wonderment, a Fourth Interloper staggers toward shore: a puny, obviously frightened fellow, alarmed by his own tail, which he mistakes for an attacker as he stumbles over it. June steps out before him, cries “Boo!” and snaps May’s envelope at him like a towel. He leaps back, trips over his tail, falls, and conveniently floats away. In the background, the Swimmer smiles grimly. Says Peter aside, not particularly to Frank, All these “smiling grimlys” and “watching soberlys” will have to come out: “astonished admiration,” all that dreck. I was working fast. Frank gestures for him to go on.
Against the fading sounds of the Main Body can be heard now the approach of what sounds like yet a Fifth Interloper. Sighing, June makes ready; but the splashing subsides, as does the background sound of the Main Body. In the silence, June sits pensive some moments on the bank, the Swimmer still observing her from behind and slightly above. Suddenly she makes a pained sound and springs down to the beach, where a drowned Swimmer is now seen floating ashore, faceup. It is the handsome Third Interloper. Grieving, June pulls him in. She cradles his head in her lap; touches his face and hair; closes his eyes; wipes his brow with May’s envelope. Her Swimmer friend moves nearer, to the edge of the bank.
Aloud to herself, June says Now I’m afraid. I’m afraid.
The Swimmer joins her, pushing up his glasses. Together they consider the beautiful drowned young man. The Swimmer squats beside June and puts his arm around her shoulders.
He’s . . . beautiful! June says (I want her voice to choke upon that line).
The Swimmer nods. Fine-looking chap.
June’s voice is thick: He’s magnificent! You’d think that if one of you were going to survive . . .
The Swimmer sighs. They just won’t learn to float with the current now and then. They swim till they sink.
June’s holding back tears now. He didn’t whistle for the others!
The Swimmer agrees: All he could think about was getting back into the swim.
June puts the drowned Interloper’s head gently down and stands. Whatever fittest means, it must not mean beautiful.
Lee Talbott says softly Ouch.
Realizing that this is no compliment to her companion, Peter reads in agreement, June looks at him now for the first time in this interlude. His arm is still loosely around her shoulders; she puts hers lightly around his waist. I’m sorry, she apologizes; I didn’t mean that you—
The Swimmer nods. Let’s ease this poor fellow out to join his teammates.
They do, and June casts May’s envelope after him. as a kind of tribute.
Odysseus! Lee exclaims, less softly. With Whatsername’s scarf—Iris’s? Ino’s! I’m sorry, she says to the group: Academic reflex. Her husband tells her Don’t apologize; you’re a professional. But Lee insists School’s out, and I’m getting interested in this pair. Let’s all try not to interrupt for a while.
Kath has removed her paisley headband: she draws it thoughtfully through her fingers.
Interrupt, bids Peter: You’re entitled. The Swimmer chap goes on to say There’ll be millions of drowned ones floating bac
k now: It’s not a pretty sight to watch. But it should be safe for us to build a fire and make some dinner. He smiles: No bananas up there, but I found us some apples. Look. He takes an apple from inside his wet-suit top, polishes it on his sleeve, and hands it to her. And maybe we can catch a fish somehow, or some softshell crabs.
June pensively examines the apple. And then what?
The Swimmer stretches. Then we’ll turn in. I shall, anyhow: it’s been one long night.
June still turns the apple in her hand and looks out sadly to where the beautiful Swimmer drifted off. You go ahead. I’ll stand watch.
The Swimmer smiles seriously. They’re all dead now. June. There’s nothing to watch for except the moonrise. He looks to the horizon. Half an hour or so. wouldn’t you say?
June clasps her arms distractedly about herself and says She’s rising right now. She points off, with the apple.
A huge, tawny, gorgeous moon begins to rise where she points, though June is still looking toward where she cast away May’s envelope. Ah, says the Swimmer: Incredible! He takes her hand. They sit on the beach, their backs to the embankment, and watch the moonrise. In her left hand June still holds the apple.
After a few moments the Swimmer says carefully Shall we review our options?
June nods thoughtfully. Sure. She bites into the apple and speaks around it: Mm. Red delicious.
It is Katherine Shorter Sherritt, not Lee Talbott, who says Oy veh. But pats Peter’s leg.
June offers the apple to her friend, reads unabashed P. He takes a bite. They pass the apple back and forth during the following:
Andrew Sherritt approaches with Story’s conch-shell horn, which he has fetched out to show Simon Silver, and asks in a whisper may he listen with us? Sy, we see, is with his grandmother and the Katydid ladies, apparently content. Says Peter Sure, but no questions till the end, okay? It’s that play by Frank Talbott called SEX EDUCATION, that I sketched this third-act scenario for yesterday. Frank’ll show you the front end sometime, if you’re interested. I’m interested, says Chip. Peter says The Swimmer says carefully I feel very . . . strongly for you, June.
It’s her turn at the apple. When you call me June, she says, it doesn’t sound right.
Oh? Sorry.
No, no, June says: I mean it’s as if June isn’t my right name any longer.
The Swimmer wants to get back to the subject. What shall I call you?
I don’t know yet. June glances at him sidelong. So let’s review our options, she says, as you suggested. She holds up the apple core. This is biodegradable, right? Not like that beer can.
Sure. More food for the fish and crabs, along with our friends out there.
June chucks the core out into the water. And us, too, eventually.
The Swimmer looks at her. Yup: We’re biodegradable too. And so’s this script, of course, Peter interjects, but everybody shushes him. June says to her Swimmer pal What about those options?
More businesslike now, the Swimmer says Well: Upstream is out, much as I’d like to meet your teachers and see where you grew up. Can’t be done.
June nods: What a shame. She laughs and boldly picks up his tail-tip. (These guys have wet-suits and tails, Chip.) Look what I brought for Show and Tell, Ms. R!
Ow! says the Swimmer: That’s still tender.
June touches his shoulder instead, still laughing. I’m sorry. The Swimmer puts his hand atop hers, on his shoulder. June regards their hands. So, she says: Upstream is out.
We could go our own ways, the Swimmer suggests: down and out, separately. . . .
No! cries Katherine Sherritt Sagamore, clutching her scarf in both hands.
June too is startled at the suggestion. No!
The Swimmer is pleased by her reaction. Or we could go down together, he says, once my dead colleagues are all flushed out. I think we could make it safely as far as the delta—unless another quarter-billion Swimmers happen to come along.
Could that really happen? June asks him. So soon after this batch?
I’ve heard of such things, the Swimmer says. But it’s not very likely.
June says thoughtfully I’d like to see where you come from, too, I guess. If it were safe.
The Swimmer laughs shortly (you’ll have to cut these adverbs, Frank): It wouldn’t be safe. But that can’t be done either, as we know. Bear with this next part, requests Peter Sagamore: The Swimmer says After the Whatsit—what was your name for it?
June smiles and blushes: La Rivière Rouge.
We called it the Wine-Dark Sea, says the Swimmer. After that, it’s anybody’s guess.
June leans back against the embankment, takes his hand, looks out to sea. It doesn’t sound so awful, actually, she says: floating along downstream together like . . . The name occurs to her: Huckleberry Finn and his friend. She looks at him. You wouldn’t miss swimming?
The Swimmer considers. It really is what I’m mainly designed for. But I could paddle us to one side or the other if we saw something to explore. That would be enough swimming for me. We could take our time; poke around the creeks and rivers; get to know the whole Night-Sea. And each other.
June sighs, shakes her head. But then it’s all over! You cruise along and cruise along . . . and then it’s over and done!
Well, says the Swimmer: You’re right about that. There’s no second ride down the river.
They consider this truth for some moments. So do the assembled aboard Reprise. After which the Swimmer says matter-of-factly Then there’s the other option.
Right, says June (same tone): Two options, actually.
Two?
I mean, it’s certainly not unpleasant right here, June says, just as we are.
The Swimmer agrees: Not bad at all.
Talking together, June says seriously. Exploring the differences between Floaters and Swimmers. Breaking down the walls between your kind and my kind.
Could we call it lifting the veils, the Swimmer wonders, instead of breaking down the walls? Anyhow, you’re quite right: We could just go on like this. . . .
You being you, says June, and me me.
Lee Talbott makes a small sound.
Pleased at that sound, the Swimmer repeats it: “Me me.” There’s a pretty name for you: Mimi!
June’s also pleased. You may call me that, if you like it.
I do like it: Mimi.
June laughs: It feels like my real name already! What shall I call you?
Bemused, the Swimmer shrugs. Let’s go ‘round, says Peter Sagamore.
Lee Talbott: Ishmael?
Frank Talbott: Man-o’-War?
Katherine Sherritt: Lieutenant Pinkerton?
May Jump: Rodolfo!
Chip Sherritt: Uh . . . Rin Tin Tin?
Okay, says Peter, and the Swimmer says Call me what you called me before, Mimi.
I didn’t call you anything before. I don’t know your name.
Peter glances again at Franklin Talbott. I don’t either, says the Swimmer: But on the beach a while ago, when you said you needed me . . . you called me Fred.
Fred? June’s puzzled. I called you Fred?
Frank frowns.
I liked the way you said it, says the Swimmer: “Ah Fred ... ah Fred ...”
June laughs and puts her hand on his leg, which is beside hers. Afraid! I said I was afraid!
The Swimmer holds her hand gravely there upon his thigh. From now on, my name is Fred.
June still smiles. Okay, she says: Fred it is. Fred.
Mimi.
Moved by the same impulse, they tentatively kiss; draw apart to regard each other’s faces; lightly kiss again.
Chip Sherritt examines the conch shell’s coral-pink mantle. Lee Talbott holds her husband’s hand. Peter pauses as if to check with him before proceeding. Grave-faced Frank Talbott nods.
Fred pulls his swim cap off, revealing a handsome head of hair, which Mimi admires, even touches, as he speaks: We really cou
ld just live out our time here in this cove, Mimi. Not a couple, exactly, but a sort of team.
Mimi says Not like Sun and Moon, though, right? Fred grins: No, no. Nor Sword and Scabbard, nor Plow and Furrow. (These are all metaphors from Act Two, May. You said it, says May Jump. Sounds like they’re naming your children.)
Plow and Furrow! says Mimi: I should say not! I hate those metaphors.
Fred shrugs his eyebrows. How about Bow and String, then? Or Finger and Thumb?
Our kiddies whirl: Chutes and Ladders! Dungeons and Dragons!
Those are better, Mimi says: I like Finger and Thumb. She makes a circle with hers.
What about Right Hand and Left? Fred takes her right hand in his left. Mimi squeezes it and nods as if to say Done.
Peter checks. Frank seconds Mimi’s nod.
Then there’s the other thing, Fred reminds her. Mimi looks down. The other option, yes. Now she looks full at him: Suppose we were to do the other thing, Fred?
Fred looks seaward: Merge. Fuse. Combine. He turns to Mimi. I’ve been thinking about that, Mimi.
So have I, Mimi admits. Plenty.
Coincidentia oppositorum, Fred says: the union of contraries.
We’re not contraries! Mimi objects: We’re partners. Fred says My late friend used to talk about the transcension of categories. (That was back in Act Two, Chip.) But I don’t think of you and me as categories, Mimi: You’re Mimi; I’m Fred.
That’s now, says Mimi. But if we were to Combine and Merge Identities . . . no more Mimi; no more Fred.
“Something both and neither . . .” Fred looks at her. What kind of thing would that be, Mimi? What would we become, that’s both of us and yet neither of us?
Mimi shrugs and says it straight out: A Baby, I guess. Then she laughs. But a baby what? Baby sea urchin? Baby prime minister?
How about a baby poet, Fred suggests, or a baby coloratura soprano? His voice goes grim: Baby dictator. Baby purse snatcher. Baby alcoholic, schizophrenic, drug addict . . .
Mimi takes his wrist, to stop him. Maybe we’d turn into Odysseus, Fred, striving home from Troy across your Wine-Dark Sea. Or Don Quixote, riding through Spain with Sancho Panza.