The Complete Short Stories of James Purdy

by John Waters

  The Cuban bent down over to him now and as though exacting his own price began to kiss the coach’s mouth, which the coach surrendered to him in totality.

  “I was your first,” the boy wept, “your first.”

  The coach kissed the words as the boy said them.

  FINAL STORIES

  Written during his lifetime with the aim of putting together a final collection of short stories, these texts were approved for publication by the author before his death. This is their first time in print.

  VERA’S STORY

  Vera had hopes of course, though her life had few hints of her ever coming into better fortune. “When my ship comes in,” she whispered, or let out a cry of despair.

  She often laid all her bad luck on her former husband Will Patterson, but maybe who knows it was all in the realm of Destiny. Her boys usually remembered her as she toiled over the dishpan or stood behind the ironing board tending to their countless shirts and underwear. She loved her housework for as she told her close friend Ada Coe, “What would there be for me had I not my domestic housework?” Once however she did take a job selling dresses located within walking distance of her home. She was popular with the salesmen and the customers as well as the store owner, Bud Turley, who advised her to give up housework and become the first lady of gowns and dresses. But Vera was not cut out for selling dresses.

  “The thing about boys,” she opined, “is even when hardly half grown they up and leave you.” And so no more shirts to mend, no more socks to darn. And so the ironing board was seldom in use, and the kitchen had no more gas for cooking. Her house inherited from a great-uncle had at the very least 30 rooms, and so Vera took in lodgers who did not require their shirts to be mended or their missing buttons to be replaced.

  Then there were the evenings when elderly suitors dropped in, perhaps because she dwelt in such a mammoth mansion. These gents were too old for Vera but she loved to be admired even by oldsters. And they always came with a gift or bouquet or a box of Irish linen handkerchiefs, “For me to cry on,” Vera would joke. “But marriage with an elderly bloke? Not on your life! Remember your last marriage, Vera Cowick.” They enjoyed her cooking too, and her witty conversation, but even they sensed they bored her after a stint. They smelled rejections from her yawning and the endless lapses in the conversation.

  Her life was slow now like molasses in January or sort of sleepy like watching the woodbine spinneth—sayings she had heard from her great grandma. For since long ago Vera could boast she came from quality.

  NOT A DAY went by that Vera did not hear from her mother Minnie Mae and her stepfather Ab Nisley who had married Minnie after the death of her first husband Judson Otis. Minnie Mae had grudgingly supported Vera’s divorcing her husband Will Patterson who had been the cause by his bad investments of ruining the fortunes of Minnie and Ab Nisley.

  But as a grass widow, Vera had found there was no other path open to her but to take in boarders and roomers in her mansion. As Vera toiled now in her kitchen she dreamed of the dim possibility that there was somewhere the right fellow who would rescue her. When she heard a young man whistle the sound revived all her dreams of romance. A man’s whistle made her feel that life was after all worth living.

  Life would maybe not be a bowl of cherries but maybe the zephyrs of a June day. But the sounds of whistling had got scarcer with the war. She often herself tried to whistle as she did the dishes or ironed one of the young roomers’ shirts. In vain nothing came from her sad pipes. The sound resembled a bird that has no mate. “Silence is a loud voice,” she told a neighbor woman. “And puts a pallor to your cheeks. Silence is meaner than a slammed door, or a wet firecracker. Life is no picnic and the worst is perhaps to come.”

  “Such depressing thoughts,” Minnie would tell her daughter.

  “But what can a grass widow do with not one red cent in the bank, Mother? You tell me.”

  “Well you said a while ago, Vera, you read the tea leaves and they give you a good reading.”

  “Yes, I know dear that often when I have taken a nap or snooze in my chair a bit I feel better, that good fortune is on its way.”

  “Yes, I know, I know.” Minnie now appeared to look on the gloomy side.

  “Yes, fortune telling will say the moon is made of green cheese. Or you will win the lottery, just you see. No darling,” and now she called her mother by her first name as she often did, “no Minnie what I’ve got to do is work even harder, roll up my sleeves and quit this sniveling.”

  “Very well, Vera.” Minnie spoke now of something that had troubled her with Vera for some time. “I’d lay off those imported cigarettes if I was you,” Minnie said. “If I was you I would chew some Juicy Fruit gum. At least it will sweeten your breath and not stain your teeth as do the tobacco leaves.”

  “Let me have some little pleasure no matter how harmful in the long run. Or let me have my dreams or the tea leaves why don’t you. Or let my heart beat a little faster when I hear some young guy who knows how to whistle. You can have your Juicy Fruit gum, Minnie. But hearing a whistler or smoking a cigarette ain’t going to make me have to pay the piper.”

  THERE WAS ONE subject on which mother and daughter did not agree. Did not agree at all. That subject was Vera’s former spouse, Will Patterson, or as Minnie insisted on the appellation, Billy. The very sound of “Billy” made Vera nauseous. But even more than her ex-husband Vera loathed and hated Will’s own mother, Kate Patterson. She had opposed Vera’s divorce suit against her son Will and had even written to the judge of Common Pleas Court to give him more reasons not to grant Vera a divorce. Kate Patterson must have known that her son had caused nothing but sorrow and had destroyed her own fortune not to mention the ruin of the fortune of Minnie Cowick. But Kate continued lauding her son anyway whilst blackening the name of her daughter-in-law. And Minnie to Vera’s mind, yes, Minnie was ever too lenient with regard to Will.

  “Mother, Mother,” Vera would often say, “now how can you defend a man and his insolent mother Kate when you know Will brought your own daughter to such misery and sorrow.”

  “Vera, Vera.” Minnie would smile. “I will defend you to the last breath I draw. But see here, Kate is aware of her son Will’s follies in business. She blames herself for having spoiled her youngest boy.”

  “Very well, Mother, have it your way, but for pity’s sake don’t call him Billy instead of Will in my presence.”

  Minnie laughed outright then at such a remark until Vera lit one of her imported cigarettes. Then Minnie, sniffing the pestiferous air, would again level her criticism of the terrible weed nicotine. Then both mother and daughter would smile, and Vera would bend down and kiss her mother.

  “A mother will always love her own flesh and blood.” Minnie would turn now to crocheting a doily. The two women would then turn their attention to Vera’s eldest son who had run off to the great Babylon New York City to become an actor, and later a star on Broadway, and all thought of Kate Patterson and her spoiled son, Will, was laid aside.

  “You always say, Mother,” Vera began, “that I did not put my foot down on Rick’s stage ambitions. You must know that there was no pressure I did not exert to keep him at home until he was ready to brave the Metropolis and ruin his health, his mind, and his self-respect. An actor, Mother. Do you not know the kind of lives those madcaps lead?”

  Minnie had to agree with Vera on this matter though she knew much less about “thespians” than she did about Kate Patterson’s having spoiled Will for his own business follies and stubborn misjudgments.

  “Rick has inherited his father’s temperament,” Vera concluded. “It’s in the Patterson blood.”

  Minnie nodded and proceeded with her crocheting.

  IN HER REVERIES Vera often went back to her own early girlhood when Will was courting her. It was the age of cuspidors also called spittoons. They were everywhere: private homes, banks, restaurants, wherever. She remembered them now because Will was known as a Mama’s boy. He did not smok
e, drink, and certainly never chewed tobacco. He also was fond of manicuring his own nails. His one masculine pastime was his love of guns. Rifles especially. Yet he did not like to kill bird or beasts. He shot at targets only.

  “Did your divorce lead you to smoke?” Minnie once said. Sometimes when Vera lit a cigarette she recalled the expensive cuspidors.

  “Somehow, if I had one of those gold spittoons I’d be in the money,” she would think. “No, I haven’t any cuspidors to sell and be rich.”

  She would remember Mrs. Hennings, a lovely housekeeper, but her spouse was a mean old German fellow who couldn’t keep his mouth without a plug of tobacco. The whole downstairs was full of spittoons. How did dear Mrs. Hennings stand it or stand her hubby?

  She would then go back to her own husband. “I wonder what got into Will to squander all those fortunes. How long ago it all was, our loss of fortune. Yes as long ago as spittoons and corsets and bloomers. And gold toothpicks.”

  CLIFFORD SHRADER, THE youngest son of old Dr. Shrader and the last of his line, his father, mother, and eldest brother Jack all having passed into the “Great Beyond,” to use Clifford’s expression for it, Cliff then could find nothing more entertaining than to listen as he stretched out in a hammock to the goings on in the Patterson ménage. Cliff was very much on the side of the besmirched divorcée, Vera. He adored her. He winced and coughed (he was a heavy drinker) as he heard his heroine being burned at the stake by mother Patterson and her unmarried daughter, Cora. They spared no calumny against Cliff’s favorite gal, Vera. Cora, whom Cliff once called “that withering blasted remains of last year’s bittersweet,” was especially vindictive against Vera. It was actually Vera’s beauty which galled Cora the most—she, who was plainer than a warmed over tea. Cora would have given anything, Cliff chuckled, to have half the good looks of maligned Vera. And in the fray against their sister and daughter-in-law one could hear a hidden but strong admiration and jealousy. There was no sign or shortcoming the Patterson women could level against Vera. She was as guilty as an adulteress, a loose woman and perhaps a would-be murderess.

  After listening for an hour or so Cliff would saunter back into his ancestral digs and help himself to a brandy or some special French wine. He would then laugh until the tears streamed down his once handsome face. “If only I could have Vera for my sister,” he would chortle. “And were I fetching enough myself could be her sweetheart.” But gradually mother and daughter would run out of ammunition to level against the already nearly consumed Vera Cowick, for the two ladies refused now to give Vera her married name, since married to Will she was no longer thanks to Judge Duncan who had granted her a divorce because the silly old Justice to quote the Patterson ladies had himself fallen under her spell and thus had broken the highest legal sanctuary by giving Vera her freedom. And what freedom! She was now said to operate a rooming and boardinghouse where the most outrageous carrying on was nightly in progress. How many young men or older gents had lost their reputation spending a night under the roof of the temptress and siren that was Vera Cowick, the grass widow?

  Now that Will was “no longer a married man,” in the phraseology of Clifford Shrader, Will had dropped in very often to chat with his neighbor of so many years. Will, however, disapproved of Clifford’s drinking. Will himself had never indulged in the habit of drink or even cigarettes. Clifford on the other hand not only had grown to be a heavy drinker but he had never cared much for Will’s impeccable lifestyle. Or rather he at this time had never known about Will’s own womanizing. Furthermore Clifford had always cared deeply for Vera. They often spent hours together when Vera was still married to Will, and Clifford could see she had made a mistake in her marriage.

  When he was not drinking Clifford acted as house detective in a nearby city. Once while on duty there and when he was not in his cups Clifford had been astonished to run into Vera accompanied by a rather suspiciously good looking young man. Vera however acted as the great innocent when she ran into Clifford. She introduced her male companion without any bashfulness. Clifford launched into a conversation with them. The young man turned out to be not as bad as Clifford had first thought, and Vera’s pleasure in knowing someone so much more to Vera’s taste made Clifford happy he had happened upon him. He promised Vera by winking and clasping her hands that he would never tell Will of the occurrence even though Vera was no longer his wife. For Will still tried to see her and learn about her and hoped one day to—who knows?—remarry her.

  But now the years had passed and Clifford was seeing Will more than he cared to, but in such a small town who could Clifford know as easily as he could his next door neighbor Will Patterson? On this occasion Clifford had been drinking more than usual and Will had never seemed such a bore. Without Cliff’s meaning to, he let the “cat out of the bag,” in his kind of phrase: he told Will he had seen Vera while about his work as a house detective, seen her with a man as handsome as a movie star. Immediately Clifford regretted he had said this.

  Will lapsed into a fit of sour displeasure. “You drink too much, Cliff,” he finally managed to say.

  Irritated by this remark Cliff said, “And you were hardly the gentleman dear Vera could ever have been happy with.”

  Will suddenly broke into tears. Without asking Will’s invitation, Cliff brought him a small glass of brandy. But Will, ever the Sir Galahad, refused the drink. This angered Clifford even more and the two engaged in angry and inexcusable badinage, as Cliff later realized, which almost ended their shaky relationship. But Will never forgave Cliff and Cliff never forgave Will for refusing a brandy. “A drink might take some of the holier than thou manner you show the world. I think Will you must be hiding something from us. No one could be as pure as you.”

  CLIFFORD HAD MADE a beeline to Vera’s rooming and boardinghouse shortly after his visit with Will. Clifford was more than welcome at Vera’s. A short while ago he had defended Vera against the calumnies of Ruth K. Stevens, head of the W.C.T.U. and a friend of the local mayor Jeff Groves. Mrs. Stevens had reported to the mayor that Vera was operating a house of ill fame. Although the Mayor did not believe a word of the old harridan Ruth K., he nonetheless sent one of his subalterns to scold and revile Vera. Vera had told of her fear of scandal and had called on Clifford to see the Mayor. Clifford, despite his being known more as a heavy drinker than one of the city’s front families, at once had a conference with the Mayor, who actually despised Mistress Stevens. The affair was settled. The Mayor happened to know that both Ruth K. and her husband had been involved in some shady financial deals. When the Mayor summoned the old Stevens woman he had threatened her with the thought that a lawsuit might be instituted against her despite her piety in the W.C.T.U. She never again brought problems against Vera.

  As a result of this rescue and Vera possibly owning the right to operate a rooming house, Clifford was a constant caller at Vera’s. Not without some uneasiness on Vera’s part, but drink had so debilitated poor Clifford he could be no problem to Vera no matter how many visits he was now allowed. In fact Vera loved being adored and even worshipped by Clifford. Nothing pleased Vera more than someone who could burn a candle at her shrine and yet expect nothing in return.

  Today Clifford brought news of his visit with Will. “I am afraid,” he began his recital of the visit with her former spouse, “I was a bit under the weather when I sat down with Will.”

  Vera knew that the reference to weather was of course inebriation. She patted Clifford’s hand gently which made him shed a few grateful tears. Then “the beautiful charmer,” in Clifford’s phrase, prepared him some delicious tea and home made sweets. Again Clifford wept, and Vera herself was in a kind of Seventh Heaven at being cherished so greatly and at no cost to her own safety.

  “Why can’t I take you away from this?” Clifford motioned to the walls and frayed furniture of her rooming house.

  “Clifford, dear friend,” she answered him, “You would soon like everybody else tire of me.”

  “Tire of you!” He
wiped away a fresh number of tears. “I would sooner die than give up my love for you.”

  To be loved, to be worshipped. Vera thought over Clifford’s plea to her. But if Vera was beautiful she was also a sharp student of men. She knew marriage with Clifford would be an even greater shipwreck than her marriage with Will had been. No, the situation the way it was pleased her more than marriage. To be caressed and flattered, laughed with and worshipped, with always the gift of an envelope of money.

  TO MANY PEOPLE’S surprise Clifford Shrader became a frequent visitor to Vera’s house. Everyone wondered what this meant. There were many suitors she could certainly have chosen instead of Clifford. Of course he was very wealthy, but then there was no one who did not know of his drinking to excess. What no one knew is that Clifford had learned enough from Doctor Jack Shrader, his brilliant brother whom he often assisted in his medical practice. But was Clifford’s knowledge of medicine the cause of his frequent visits to Vera?

  Due to her growing uneasiness over her own health Vera had gone to several local physicians. She had no idea until then that her malaise was her going through menopause. Vera had never dreamed she would ever grow old. People who did not know her often mistook her for a lost teenager. Eternal youth was what Vera expected. To her added horror one young MD gave her some medicine which she discovered contained the urine of mares!

  Drinking a wee bit of brandy one day with Clifford her tongue became loosened. Her state of health and her sorrow that she might be facing if not old age gloomy middle age let her confide in Clifford. On this special visit he was a sober judge. “If only Dr. Ray still had his practice,” she almost wailed. “He also paid special house calls for me. He has retired to his old country home in Gilboa.”

  “But, Vera,” Clifford spoke brightly, “I happen to know he sees his patients there in Gilboa.”