Frolic of His Own

by William Gaddis

  —I think you’ve got your wish, Oscar.

  —Somebody just came up on the porch, shall I . . .

  —That’s what I mean. He looks sufficiently brokendown to play the part, will you see what he wants Lily?

  —No, I’ll go.

  —I better not, if they find me here they could . . .

  —I said I’ll go! lurching upright, steadying against the sideboard and down the hall to clatter the glass doors open, —Well?

  —Mister Crease?

  —I am Mister Crease. What do you want.

  —Hard time finding you back here. This is for you.

  —Well what is it. Who are you.

  —Process server, Mister Crease. It’s a subpoena.

  —It’s, I don’t want it! The envelope fell to the floor, —I don’t . . .

  —You’ve been served, Mister Crease. Nice place you’ve got, never know it was tucked away back here in the . . .

  —Get out of here! Didn’t you see the sign? This is private property, can’t you read?

  —One more word, get this porch fixed before it falls on somebody’s head and you’ll see me right back here again now I know the way, let’s part better strangers as the Bard says? Have a nice . . .

  —Go away! He stooped for the envelope, dropped it, caught it again and came up slowly, muttering back down the hall —God, what some people will do for a living. Here, he held it out unsteadily, —throw it away.

  —People will do anything, what is it.

  —I said throw it away!

  —It’s a, you’re summoned as a witness for the trial in an action between Sosumi Motor Co. and the following defendants. Fan Tan Ltd., Productos Porqueria S.A., Wydawniczy I can’t pronounce it, there’s quite a list.

  —Ridiculous, will you throw it away!

  —Failure to appear may subject you to a fine or imprisonment, or both. Bring this summons to court with you, it sounds . . .

  —Will you, here. Just give it to me, send it to the lawyers that’s what they’re paid for isn’t it? I can’t bother with it now, take all morning to get these pages back in order and try to read through the first act before lunch, just something light. An omelette? Consommé and a plain omelette, there must be thyme out there, tarragon, she’d have to show her, parsley? chives? a simple omelette fines herbes then, a little water beaten in with the eggs but cold water, it must be cold but she supposed she’d have to stand over her after that last milksop like something you’d get at a truck-stop, and, when the time came —a little wine? It helped bring on the nap before he got back down to work, the pages sorted, squared, murmuring through them line by line broken by faint moans of pleasure, word by word shaping his lips and even escaping aloud —when we came back from France like beggars looking for a new exile and you sent me up there to see him? dropping to a whisper hoarse with indignation —Coming in here in your fine French clothes demanding your rights he said to me, when I asked him for the money that he owed my father, when I’d spent the morning trimming frayed cuffs and pinning the hem on my father’s coat to, pinning up the hem, with a pause for the pencil, —pinning up the hem on my father’s coat, on my father’s threadbare coat to try to look fit to call. Five hundred dollars! in a gasp of outrage subsiding to a murmur, to muttering —for myself and those in my keeping Thomas, to know the Lord’s will, and submit. To lay up treasures in heaven Thomas, treasures even for you, while you seek here below, on a sharp intake of breath —Only justice! falling away aggrieved —when my spirit was almost broken . . .

  —Oscar? You want some tea or something before I do this laundry?

  —What?

  —I said do you want . . .

  —I heard you. Don’t you see I’m working? Do you have to interrupt me to talk about the laundry?

  —I didn’t mean . . .

  —What time is it. I’ve got to make some calls, the thread’s broken anyway. There’s a shirt on the floor in the library, you can put that in, and will you make me some tea? The card table shuddered with his weight getting to his feet, getting to the phone with a torn envelope dialing the number scribbled there, —This is Mister Crease, may I speak with Mister Mohlenhoff? listening intent, clicking his teeth, slamming it down, and again —This is Mister Crease, may I speak to Sam? No, Sam Lepidus, don’t you know your own . . . clicking his teeth, listening, slamming it down, thumbing the pages of the directory for —the Royal Court theatre? clearing his throat —yes, this is Mister Crease, Oscar Crease. I’m trying to reach Sir John . . . what? Oh. Thank you, may I try later? setting it down gently and lingering there over it as though fearful of leaving it untended till his vacant gaze settled on the vacant screen both of them, a minute later, asparkle with the flashy hues and fleshy petals of the promiscuous farflung family Orchidaceae, its wiles arrayed in every deceitful variation of shape and odour, colour and design to target randy insects with spurious promises of sex and nectar provoking frenzies of pseudocopulation and the consequent deposit of their pollen elsewhere it would do the most good, rearing up with —was that the phone?

  —What? No I just brought your tea Oscar, I . . .

  —Here, put it right here, sit down.

  —I can’t, I have to do the . . .

  —Will you simply sit down? heaving aside to allow her room enough there for his arm to fall over her shoulders as a male wasp harassed an orchid artfully fashioned after his female counterpart, inadvertently picking up its pollen sacs for delivery to the ovarylike repository of the petaled temptress down the way, a hand slipping under the yoke of her blouse as the heady aroma of rotting meat exuding from another floral dissembler brought eager carrion flies on a similar skewed mission, bees stung with desire by the meretricious scent of female bees and bees elsewhere drunk with the fragrant promise of nectar staggering aloft so laden with pollen stuck to their backs they could barely complete their appointed rounds, his fingers parting a button, and another, delving deeper to pluck at the blossoming pink cresting to their touch, eliciting a moan mingling pleasure and distress as the screen swelled with the veined purple pouch of the lady’s slipper —though it looks more like the Greeks’ word for it, orkhis, for testicle, doesn’t it? eliciting a giggle, —here, put your hand . . .

  —No don’t Oscar, please.

  —It’s all right, the laundry can wait.

  —No but somebody might come peeking in the window.

  —Christina’s having a nap and nobody’s peeking in the window.

  —Like that man that came before? and he was peeking in before we even saw him out there? and if they’re looking for me and saw me in here doing this with you that’s all they’d . . .

  —Doing what! Listen, nobody’s looking for you, don’t . . .

  —They are too! That’s why I’m staying here isn’t it? and if Al’s trying to find me he’ll look everyplace. You don’t know Al.

  —Thank God. Who’s Al.

  —I told you, he’s this husband I had that wants to get me in court with a summons like you just got to be a witness for screwing that sleazeball lawyer and if he saw me in here with your hand down my . . .

  —Oscar?

  —See? She squirmed free.

  —I thought you were working. I’ve been doing the crossword upstairs trying not to disturb you. Are you watching this thing?

  —It was my nature program, listen Christina. I’m not doing crossword puzzles down here, you can work for just so long with this creative tension I need and once the thread is broken you don’t just sit there trying to think of a five letter word for . . .

  —I think I just heard it. Now where are you going.

  —I told you. I have to get together my notes for this talk on Shiloh, the battle at Shiloh, it was the second great battle of the war he went on, covering his wavering retreat from this hostile incursion with the haphazard deployment of Grant’s forces in the face of the surprise Confederate advance on Pittsburg Landing in an April dawn near Shiloh church till he gained the redoubt of cardboard cartons still sta
cked there in the hall where he pawed through folders, loose notes, exam books, raw troops on both sides fueled by the exuberance of battle as disorder mounted among the Confederates under the howl of indiscriminate shells from Union gunboats on the Tennessee in two days of carnage leaving each side with ten thousand casualties and neither the winner, straightening up at last arms laden with folders spilling notes over the cartons like Grant brooding over the abandoned camps of the enemy, a carnival of bloodshed resumed elsewhere later and on a more modest scale on the evening news where religion seized the headline with an assault on the Babri Masjid mosque in far off Uttar Pradesh, exhausting its allotted news slot to make way for a moribund procession of sheer naked misery in the bulging eyes and distended bellies of a famine in the far away Sudan hastened to its destinationless close by good news nearer home for sufferers from athlete’s foot, overweight, gas, and the spectacle of a two foot deep river of molten cheese, butter and lard issuing from a warehouse fire in the Midwest destroying thousands of tons of government surplus food, prompting no more than a reminder to put butter on the shopping list when suppertime came round, another night of winds vexing slates and shutters and the day bringing a show cause order from the Historical Society demanding an explanation for his failure to surrender those certain documents pertaining to Captain (later Justice) Thomas Crease which properly belonged to the ages —just daring to use those words it’s, it’s plain impudence.

  —Well? Call your lawyers.

  —I’ve called them, Christina. I called Mohlenhoff, they said he was in court. I called Sam and he was in court and I just called them again. They said Mohlenhoff would get back to me, they said Mister Lepidus said to tell me these things take time and I’ve been calling the theatre trying to reach . . .

  —Calling the zoo and asking for Mister Fox, are you ten years old all over again? calling the drugstore to ask if they have Prince Albert in the can so you can tell them to let him out? Can’t you think of better ways to waste your time?

  —I can’t send this script to an important director like this can I? It just needs a final polish, a fresh copy before he sees it, now will you . . .

  —I thought you were polishing your great speech on Shiloh.

  —I’m trying to do both! Now will you let me get back to work? his voice a minute later feigning the honeyed pomposity of the Old South with —the proper idea of these things, now didn’t they? Aristotle, he was the Greek philosopher, I can show you somewhere what he had to say about, and the pencil again, —what he said about natural slaves. That there’s some just naturally meant to be slaves? Ah . . . dropping to a rich baritone, —but to let a man’s colour decide it, sir?

  —And if you’re going to light another of those things for God’s sake do it outside, you smoked one in here last night after I went to bed and my eyes are still watering. Lunch? A sandwich, anything, right here at the card table so he could keep working, one day fading to the next on the repetitious drone of his voice dulled as the sky out there lowering over the pond where it might have been any daylight hour, to burst without warning like a break in the weather radiant in the surge of a brogue with —When men behave like savages, after all, with no respect for law and order, how must they be treated? Why, like savages! paused crossing through a line —but get them together they’ll rise up and go wild with their brawling and drink and howling for justice, with no respect for decent people like ourselves. You must knock a bit of justice into them now and again, is the mail here yet?

  —It’s right there on the sideboard, something from your friends at Mohlenhoff Shransky and look out! You’ll break your . . .

  —Why didn’t you tell me!

  —Well don’t smash the furniture, you didn’t want to be interrupted did you?

  Dear Sir.

  In examining the situation surrounding your recent automobile accident we find Ace Worldwide Fidelity as the vehicle’s insurers to have claimed immunity from any further participation in the matter pursuant to renunciation of the prevailing No Fault coverage by the former attorney for the vehicle’s owner who remains, nonetheless, the attorney of record in that capacity having sequestered the file pertinent thereto pending settlement of allegedly unpaid billings to his client. We have, therefore, in the interest of expediting this matter to your satisfaction and to ensure that the controversy to be adjudicated will take place in an adversary context, moved to sever your claim for extensive personal injuries suffered as the accident victim, and are proceeding on these grounds with an action on your behalf for recovery of substantial damages against the parties referred to above.

  Please be confident that our long experience in these matters assures you of full protection of your rights. We advise you to refrain from discussing this matter with anyone and should you be approached regarding any aspect of it that you promptly refer such inquiries directly to us. We urge you to feel free to call us at any time with any questions that may occur to you in the course of these proceedings.

  Sincerely yours,

  —Jack Preswig. Look at that. Sincerely yours, Jack Preswig. They’ve put the whole case in the hands of some flunky who’s probably not even . . .

  —You find your lawyers on matchbook covers what do you expect.

  —That’s got nothing to do with it Christina. They all do it, these white shoe firms and all of them, look at Harry, a senior partner will bill you three or four hundred dollars an hour, look at Swyne & Dour, they put an associate on it and only bill you maybe one fifty. Look at Mister Mudpye.

  —And look at Mister Basie. You’re simply not making any sense Oscar, I don’t know what in God’s name you’re complaining about. You want them to save you money don’t you? Now where are you going.

  —To get back to work! couldn’t she see? spending all day here trying to capture these voices of men a hundred years ago swept by the tide of events toward the end of innocence? to bring them to life caught up in the toils of history, struggling vainly with the great riddles of human existence, justice and slavery, war, destiny, things are in the saddle and ride mankind in Emerson’s voice cut short by the tin trivial interruption of Jack Preswig? It mightn’t sound so trivial when he got their bill she prompted him, and it had sounded to her like he’d spent most of the morning that way on the phone himself, calling the zoo and asking for —But that’s exactly what I mean! he broke out, calling hotels, he’d been calling hotels in the theatre district, he’d been calling the theatre he’d tried calling the Directors Guild he’d even called the newspaper, he couldn’t make an appointment and just send this script off if he didn’t know where to send it could he? If he had somebody to help him, if he had a secretary like everybody else to handle these miserable chores but he was the one who ended up talking to their secretaries who were paid to be devoured by trivia, his indignation swerving back to the lilt of a brogue from the pages he’d picked up again struggling to recapture a voice from a hundred and more years ago, to bring it to life —now the word is out that it’s no more than a war to free the naygers?

  —Is Lily in the kitchen? I forgot to ask her to peel those carrots for supper, and one of these days might it occur to you to shave.

  —Yes, preserve the Union! he came on in a burst that brought him back to his feet —with four million naygers running around free? Why, the woods is full of them right now, and do you expect a nayger to go back into slavery once he’s been as free to come and go as yourself? The phone’s ring caught him off balance. By the time he got there it had stopped ringing; by the time he was back out of reach it rang again, stumbling over a wastebasket —hello? Well who is it . . . Well who are you calling! what . . . hello? hello? He slammed it down, —Idiot! his hand straying down to the bulge in his trousers, was she out there in the kitchen? her nimble fingers stripping the hard length of a carrot? but all he found was the wilted package of Home Runs down there distending his pocket and he had one out down the hall before he reached the door.

  —Oscar? Who was that on the phone. Well where
is he.

  —I heard something fall down before. I thought maybe it was him.

  —You’d hear more than that if it had been, my God it was simpler when he was in his little cart at least you knew where he was, like a baby. You can’t wait for them to learn to walk, the minute they learn there’s not a minute’s peace you wish they’d never, what was that.

  —Christina! The doors crashed closed down the hall —the car’s gone!

  —It’s right out by the porch Oscar, I can . . .

  —Not yours, mine! The one that was in the accident, it’s gone!

  —Well it can’t be, it’s practically dark you can hardly . . .

  —It’s gone Christina, it was right out there beside the shed it’s gone.

  —Why in God’s name would anyone, well call the police.

  —That’s what I’m doing! Where the . . .

  —The number’s right there stuck to the, will you put that thing out! What were you doing out there anyhow.

  —That’s what I was doing! You don’t want me to smoke in here so I, hello? Yes, yes I want to report a stolen car, it’s . . . what? It’s a red . . . No, my name? Yes it’s . . .

  —Take that thing away from him will you Lily? Throw it in the, not in the fireplace no and open a window before he gives us all cancer. They probably drove it away when we’d gone shopping and he was sitting right here gaping at his odious nature program, God knows who would want it. Oscar? when he’d hung up, —who was that on the phone.

  —Well who do you think it was! I just called the police didn’t I?