A moist mouth is not a proper state for a man’s mouth. Joseph slit the tape down the length of the flap where the box was sealed. Suppose he carried a knife—Portho—suppose he carried a knife. A knife fashioned from razor blades, blades wedged in the crack of a stick. A sudden slash followed by a lifetime of disfigurement, a lifetime of sympathy, a lifetime of pity. Pity even from people passing on the street. Joseph withdrew a volume an inch and a half thick. It said it was a biography of Anton von Webern. The front of the dust jacket didn’t give him a clue to the nature of this person, though a picture showed an intense sharp-featured head with rimless glasses, thin lips, tight tie, lots of brow, an unashed cigarette, sour expression. In his other hand Joseph raised up a volume bound in lipstick-intense red cloth. It called itself An Introduction to Twentieth-Century Music. More rapidly, he pulled several volumes out until it became clear that this box was packed with books on modern music. Joseph began to feel an unpleasant physical excitement such as the apprehension that customarily preceded his first descent on a playground slide.
Could this be an old woman’s reading? Joseph selected a book about a musician named Boulez who was pictured on the cover conducting with his fingers. He could no longer breathe easily when the pages fell open at a passage on the composer—for it turned out Boulez composed as well as conducted—a passage that described the artist’s search for a father, a search that dominated his life. Moreover, he learned of the Frenchman’s admiration for the subject of another of these books—an Austrian—an Austrian, Anton von Webern. Joseph read with thirsty eyes. Names he had not known before streamed by as if celebrating his ignorance, and paragraphs debating the primacy if not the tyranny of technique alarmed him, he knew so little about it, had so little of it. How could a score appeal to the mind, yet outrage the ear? How could one consider singing an equation? A entire generation of artists and composers were quarreling about chance and order while agreeing that whatever resulted, all the old ways had to be cast aside the way you would a wife who has put on weight and shopped unwisely. Composers were advised to depart from the “tonal world,” as it was rather grandly put, by trashing all the old rules and regulations, seeking fresh sounds with special machines, and composing with rests rather than notes. A quote from the great man himself, which Joseph happened upon, indicated that Webern had once written a quartet in C major but bragged that the chosen key note was invisible and called the feat “suspended tonality.” Another writer blamed “the crisis” (Joseph knew only that it was “dire” and “severe” and “catastrophic”) on Abstract Expressionism, a combination of words that, to Joseph, created a label whose meanings went together like ornery dogs, and was, in any case, about painting, so let the painters keep their dogs from quarreling and let the composers pet their cats in peace.
But every few pages old friendships broke apart like snapping twigs: Stravinsky was praised past the passing clouds, or he was a treasonous reactionary fit only for shooting against a wall. Schoenberg was dead alas or a case of good riddance (though of course he was quite alive); no, he was dead because he couldn’t compete with music that was being made by jazz musicians and alone beloved by the people; no, he was dead because he was impure and neglectful of rhythm. How was that possible, Joseph wondered, trying to breathe unevenly.
So you have decided to use the library rather than work for it, the Major said, with a smile like a slice of lemon. Oh, I am so sorry Miss Bruss, I got caught up in these books and lost all sense of time. It’s “Miss Bruss” now, is it? Joey cowered by the boxes. I’m truly sorry. I didn’t realize. These boxes are full of amazing things. As far as I can see, Miss Bruss observed, you’ve only opened one in the time you lost, which has been two hours. Yes, sorry. These can’t be an old woman’s reading, though. Suddenly Miss Bruss endeavored to be jaunty: Why not, pray tell, pray tell me true? Well, they are all about modern music, and they look difficult to me. Older women do not have the wit of young men, the finer interests? she pursued. Well, it just seemed to me unlikely—here—in this town. You have spent much time in New York City then, more than two hours even, to see us as the dull tips of the sticks? Joey said nothing without meaning to. First Portho, now this, he thought. Caroline Lawrence came back to her hometown to live after her husband, who was a violist in the Philharmonic, died, Miss Bruss said tonelessly. So the Major probably knew what kind of donation she was getting, after all, Joseph thought, without then daring to pursue anything quicker than his own panic. He managed to remain as still, though, as a library lion. Miss Bruss went away when her shoes did. And Joseph went on with the boxes of books as if unpacking them were everyday business.
Joseph remained at his post two hours past his appointed time so the muted tones of twilight were beginning to sound in the woodwinds when he opened Miss Bruss’s front door. It occurred to him that he had a key, but he took small pleasure in it. On the left of the entry was a door for which he had no opener but its knob, and he went through this to the garage—his haven—like a cautiously driven car. Joseph threw his coat on the bed as if he were throwing himself there and said Wha … to a plate of cookies. Does this mean I have been forgiven? He bit into one. They were thin and wore pale yellow with a nice brown rim. Um. He let the crumble slowly sog. Buttered saliva. It also meant that the Webern biography his coat had been concealing could not safely stay in his possession. Why hadn’t he noticed that his own door had no lock? Marjorie might come and go like one of its numerous drafts. Joseph had debated the ethics of his theft while sorting the contents of the other cartons—all musical. Who would ever feel the cost of an unknown loss? he was needier and could give it a better home; he worked for so little the book was nearly his due; and he could take it back anytime if he changed his mind, as he very well might.
Standing next to the cookies like a sentry was a glass of milk. What was the matter with him? why hadn’t he seen it as soon as he saw the cookies? He had let Portho sneak up on him. And the Major, too. Had he grown dense as it seemed to him his sister had, so consumed with her own few plans, her body and her boyfriend, that she saw little else and cared even less for her loss. The milk was still cool. Good heavens the Major might pop in anytime then. And she would see how low the level of the milk was, and if any cookies remained, and the uncataloged volume that nevertheless belonged to the library wherever he hid it, thief of words that he was. Joseph looked around without any real confidence, crumbs in the corners of his mouth. He put the book back beneath his coat. He had been so eager to get to his room and read about Webern, said to be a innovative influence, and now the bio had to lie concealed like the lie it was a party to.
Joey swallowed rapidly and chewed the cookies furiously, possibly the way Portho might an uncommon tidbit, while sitting under the glow of his gooseneck to be interrogated by his conscience. Whom was he thinking about: Portho or himself? whom did he resemble? might the Major scream in his ear until afterward it echoed and ached?
Sure enough, shortly two knocks were sharply nailed to his door, and during the third beat the door opened for Marjorie in a puffy white robe. Oh …, Joseph responded. Then Oh …, said Joey. How do you like them cookies, Marjorie said, showing a sharp sliver of teeth. I love them. They go so well with milk. Milk and cookies for my baby. Joey laughed. After hilarity’s brief life allowed him, Joseph watched the robe as if it were a ghostly assailant. Marjorie said she was about to have a bath, just stopped by to see how things were going, to say she was sorry she had possibly sounded a bit sharp this morning, but she understood and saluted his desire to learn more about his enthusiasm. Music was a constant comfort, alone as she was so much of the time, even at the front desk, because Miss Moss was far away in the basement, just as well though because she really didn’t like Marjorie a bit after the incident of the twenty days and who could blame her, so a good good night to Joey then, she had just dropped in to see if the cookies had hit the spot, and she saw they had, so good night sleep tight don’t let the cymbals clash. The door shut firmly behind her gho
stly garment. And Joseph sat still as a library lion that has been frightened half out of its ferocity.
24
Howard Palfrey’s niece, Miss Gwynne Withers, hoped for a career as a serious singer. She went to her knees every night as she’d seen it done in pictures to pray for a solo recital in Carnegie Hall. However, at the moment, she was preparing for a small soirée at the president’s house, and, although she was hiring a highly regarded accompanist from Columbus for the affair, to practice properly she needed some suitable assistance nearly every day. By words of mouth that Joseph never heard, he had been recommended to her. Consequently a call to the cottage came while Miriam was in the yard unrolling wire mesh upon which her clematis might preen. (They were on a party line at last, though Miriam believed that she could ring anyone she wanted whether they had a phone or not and was miffed when Joseph explained that the only phone nearby his room belonged to Miss Bruss and that he was to be brought to it, or to the one at the library’s main desk, only by matters of the gravest import.) Miriam was endeavoring to flatten the mesh with her feet and was consequently unable to reach the instrument before the ringing went away out of all hearing like a disobedient child. She felt that anything that came by phone, as unaccustomed to its trivialities as she was, had to have a telegram’s vitality and, like it, bore bad news, so she fretted over having missed the message that could have been sent from Urichstown. From who else but her son? from where else but that town? If Joey had not taken a job in such a distant place, she wouldn’t have invited the phone into her home. Now that it was there she heard its sound as a command or an outcry and felt tethered to it like a dog. So Miriam was reluctant to return to her yard again and after a period of anxious waiting went regretfully to her shift (as she put it) in the rubber dishpan plant.
The following day, a Saturday, the instrument rang again, this time as she stood in her kitchen where it clung to the wall, she felt, like a big black bug. The jangle gave her such a fright a porridge spoon flew from her hand to do its own ringing. Miriam was quite baffled by the high fresh voice she heard when she answered with her own. It was a woman wanting to hire her son for something. This was suspicious. Miriam explained that her son worked in Uhrichsville, five or more miles away, and could not readily be reached, then wished she had not given up that information; she promised to pass on the woman’s inquiry and wrote down a number, then rued her promise the moment the phone was hung; she vowed to improve her ease with talking to a funnel, and considered making a number of calls just for practice—to friends who worked at the plastic plant and were familiar with the vocal manners of Americans; she debated whether she should really pass on such a seemingly innocent message to Joey who might not know how to handle it; she wondered whether the alarm clock might confuse and frighten her now that its rival in ringing had arrived in her home, and slept fitfully, as a boat bobs, in the direction of Sunday.
Monday morning Marjorie received the same call, and she beckoned Joseph to the instrument with raised eyebrows and a gruff wave to the row of new arrivals he was straightening. How did you get my name, he wanted to know but did not ask. This was especially puzzling because his caller wanted a library in Uhrichsville. They had reached Urichstown instead, Joseph explained. To the other end of the phone, this seemed not to matter. Miss Gwynne Withers needed an accompanist while she practiced for her recital. It could be done in the evening if that suited his schedule, but the need was urgent, the alumni board had been alerted and expected six songs at the very least. It was inconvenient indeed to have a different accompanist for practice and performance, most unwise, but it couldn’t be helped since Mr. Kleger was the best available before you got to Cleveland, and the well advised, of course, did not look south in this state for anything honorable. Her explanation passed Joseph like most cars on the highway. How did you learn where I worked, he wanted to know but did not ask. It had to be his mother. From whom else but his mother? where else than home?
Joseph began to explain that the only piano available to him was in a church basement that echoed like a range of hills, moreover the choir liked to practice on the floor above, though there was a woman with rather a nice contralto who sang … she might enjoy … but Miss Gwynne Withers was in too great a rush. They would have to use the piano in the president’s house … of Whittlebauer … where the recital would be … for the alumni board and various officers of the college’s vast … Classical of course, he would be given the music when he came and could practice it in his basement if he needed to practice before their practice. But I, Joseph said and then thought better of it. The fee was handsome enough to kiss. What kind of classical? lieder? Ah … no. Good, but he didn’t say that either. Mostly opera? good. What operas? Mostly Italian, of course. A few French. Joseph silently thanked the God he had forsaken and hung up. Bemused, going over the conversation, trying to understand it, Joseph drifted away from the front desk and Marjorie’s quizzical look, now cast in plaster, and disappeared down the stairs to the Catacomb Room without a word without a word without a word to the Major.
Joseph managed to persuade his Bumbler to climb the considerable hill to the college whose buildings stood around a leveled knob like tired towers, ivy covered and slovenly maintained. The institution was done up in gothic armor except for the gym, which had once been—still was—a Quonset hut. Otherwise, just over the knob, immured among a few trees, a stately Georgian mansion stood, where the president hung out, entertained, and shook local hands. It had a view of the far valley rather than the town. When Miss Gwynne Withers had given Joseph directions to his destination, she added that President Taft himself had given a speech from the West Porch concerning, she thought, the need to bust trust. Although at long distance, Joseph and Miss Gwynne agreed: Bust trust? whatever for?
In a large lounge where many armless chairs rested next to the walls stood a very glamorous piano, its lid latched like a candy box, and next to it, in perhaps the position she would assume at her recital, posed Miss Gwynne Withers, slim and decorous in brown hair and a long brown gown. The music he would need was already on the rack. The piano was frightfully imposing and shone in the late light like dark chocolate. Joseph strode. At least he tried, but his nervousness made it more a stumble and a grab. He raised the key cover, but it slipped back with a clack. I am wearing something long to proximate any dress suitable for the occasion that I may eventually choose, she explained. Joseph sat down at the nearest end of the piano bench. He slid slowly into position. What was the music? “The Bell Song” from Lakmé. It was vaguely familiar, but one glance at the score told him he would make a hash of it. He struck a few keys: A … C. The notes thudded against the piano’s closed lid. They sound like animals trying to escape. Miss Withers winced, whether at the comparison or the performance. He hit a few more. No. Tennis balls. Joseph propped the lid up, but to his considerable relief the piano remained disastrously out of tune. He couldn’t play it even for her warm-up. Nothing musical would ensue.
When the young lady began to sing a few scales anyway, Joseph heard a pleasant light soprano that at least knew how to tra-la-la. Her hands were one fist. A shiver of strain showed in her voice. Joseph felt sorry for her and her situation. Is there a tuner in town? Perhaps in some city nearby? Uhrichsville? It’s Urichstown. Anyway, he would try. She would try. Tomorrow it could be tuned. It would be. It had to be. Then they could proceed. They would take the necessary time, make the necessary effort. In the songbook, the chosen pieces were marked by torn strips of paper. Joseph made for the Bumbler. He would need to return to Urichstown immediately, although Miriam was expecting him. Perhaps the Major would know of a tuner, or perhaps Miss Moss might. He feared a flurry of phone calls. That would be inconvenient. And he had to practice that night in the basement of the church. When he left the lounge Miss Gwynne Withers was sitting in a side chair, her brown gown spilling down her thighs.
Miriam tried to be incensed while talking on the phone. Joseph apologized. He apologized for returning to Urichstown
. He apologized for not being able to talk further on the phone. He apologized to the Major for doing family business on library time by talking to his mother on the phone. He apologized to the janitor of the church for staying so late and for using its phone as well. Miss Moss knew a man who did piano tuning and said she would phone him; then she phoned Miriam to tell her to tell Joseph that the tuner would turn up at the time desired. When Joseph phoned his mother just to check in and apologize once again, he got Miss Moss’s message. Joseph then reached Miss Gwynne Withers with this information. Meanwhile, she had found someone in Woodbine by phoning everyone she knew to ask for help. Well, they thought, one of the tuners ought to make it. The next day. In the morning. It might take a while to get that whale to whistle. She would try to phone.
Neither of them showed up.
Two days of calling, begging, even beseeching by Miss Withers went for naught, and President Palfrey, now apprised of the situation, decided that the wise thing would be to call the recital off, since no one wished to have Miss Gwynne Withers be at less than her best, besides there would be other occasions, perhaps even more suitable, to showcase her lovely talent. The president was sure that the alumni board would be equally amused by some magic that Professor Rinse performed while employing in quite a unique way other instruments of the orchestra, even though many alumni might have witnessed a bit of it before because he was in considerable demand nearby—he would draw lengths of silk from his fist and use them to play something on the violin—well, the entertainments were scarcely at the same cultural level, and, yes, “amused” was not the right word for the effect of Miss Withers’s endeavors; still, the problem could be solved best by abandoning ship, although only Miss Withers’s father, Mr. Grayson Withers, put it that way, probably because he had served some time in the navy during the war.
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