Lovers and Other Monsters

by Marvin Kaye (ed)

  We were well aware of it without his reminder; but still we were thrilled.

  “Look at her. She’ll be here directly,” suggested the baker.

  One of us cried out in a troubled voice, “Why! As though one could notice anything!”

  And again an eager, noisy discussion sprang up among us. Today we were about to prove how pure and spotless was the vessel into which we had poured all that was best in us, that we really were playing a great game; that we might, indeed, through the exaction of this proof of purity, lose our divinity altogether.

  During the whole of the intervening fortnight we had heard that Tanya was persistently followed by the soldier, but not one of us had thought of asking her how she had behaved toward him. And she came every morning to fetch her kringels, and was the same toward us as ever.

  This morning, too, we heard her voice outside: “You poor prisoners! Mere I am.”

  We opened the door, and when she came in we all remained, contrary to our usual custom, silent. Our eyes fixed on her, we did not know how to speak to her, what to ask her. And there we stood in front of her a gloomy, silent crowd. She seemed to be surprised at this unusual reception; and suddenly we saw her turn white and become uneasy, then she asked, in a choking voice:

  “Why are you—like this?”

  “And you?” the baker flung at her grimly, never taking his eyes off her.

  “What am I?”

  “N—nothing.”

  “Well, then, give me quickly the little kringels.”

  Never before had she bidden us hurry.

  “There’s plenty of time,” said the baker, and without stirring, not removing his eyes from her face.

  Then, suddenly, she turned round and disappeared through the door.

  The baker took his shovel and said, calmly turning away toward the oven:

  “Well, that settles it! But a soldier! a common beast like that—a low cur!”

  Like a flock of sheep we all pressed round the table, sat down silently, and began listlessly to work. Soon, however, one of us remarked:

  “Perhaps, after all—”

  “Shut up!” shouted the baker.

  We were all convinced that he was a man of judgment, a man who knew more than we did about things. And at the sound of his voice we were convinced of the soldier’s victory, and our spirits became sad and downcast.

  At twelve o’clock—while we were eating our dinners—the soldier came in. He was as clean and as smart as ever, and looked at us—as usual—straight in the eyes. But we were all awkward in looking at him.

  “Now then, honored sirs, would you let me show you a soldier’s quality?” he said, chuckling proudly.

  “Go out into the passage, and look through the crack—do you understand?”

  We went into the passage, and stood all pushing against one another, squeezed up to the cracks of the wooden partition of the passage that looked into the yard. We had not to wait long. Very soon Tanya, with hurried footsteps and a careworn face, walked across the yard, jumping over the puddles of melting snow and mud: she disappeared into the store cellar. Then whistling, and not hurrying himself, the soldier followed in the same direction. His hands were thrust in his pockets: his mustaches were quivering.

  Rain was falling; and we saw how its drops fell into the puddles, and the puddles were wrinkled by them. The day was damp and gray—a very dreary day. Snow still lay on the roofs, but on the ground dark patches of mud had begun to appear. And the snow on the roofs too was covered by a layer of brownish dirt. The rain fell slowly with a depressing sound. It was cold and disagreeable for us waiting.

  The first to come out of the store cellar was the soldier; he walked slowly across the yard, his mustaches twitching, his hands in his pockets—the same as always.

  Then—Tanya, too, came out. Her eyes—her eyes were radiant with joy and happiness, and her lips—were smiling. And she walked as though in a dream, staggering, with unsteady steps.

  We could not bear this quietly. All of us at once rushed to the door, dashed out into the yard and—hissed at her, reviled her viciously, loudly, wildly.

  She started at seeing us, and stood as though rooted in the mud underfoot. We formed a ring around her! and malignantly, without restraint, abused her with vile words, and said shameful things to her.

  We did this not loudly, not hurriedly, seeing that she could not get away, that she was hemmed in by us, and we could deride her to our hearts’ content. I don’t know why, but we did not beat her. She stood in the midst of us, and turned her head this way and that, as she heard our insults. And we—more and more violently flung at her the filth and venom of our words.

  The color had left her face. Her blue eyes, so happy a moment before, opened wide, her bosom heaved, and her lips quivered.

  We in a ring round her avenged ourselves on her as though she had robbed us. She belonged to us, we had lavished on her our best, and though that best was a beggar’s crumb, still we were twenty-six, she was one, and so there was no pain we could give her equal to her guilt! How we insulted her! She was still mute, still gazed at us with wild eyes, and a shiver ran all over her.

  We laughed, roared, yelled. Other people ran up from somewhere and joined us. One of us pulled Tanya by the sleeve of her blouse.

  Suddenly her eyes flashed; deliberately she raised her hands to her head and straightening her hair she said loudly but calmly, straight in our faces:

  “Ah, you miserable prisoners!”

  And she walked straight at us, walked as directly as though we had not been before her, as though we were not blocking her way.

  And hence it was that no one did actually prevent her passing.

  Walking out of our ring, without turning round, she said loudly and with indescribable contempt:

  “Ah, you scum—brutes.”

  And—was gone.

  We were left in the middle of the yard, in the rain, under the gray sky without the sun.

  Then we went mutely away to our damp stone cellar. As before—the sun never peeped in at our windows, and Tanya came no more!

  William S. Gilbert

  Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen

  William Schyvenck Gilbert (1836-1911) was the comic genius who, along with composer Arthur Sullivan, created England’s most enduring comic operas, including The Gondoliers, IT M.S. Pinafore, Iolanthe, Patience, The Pirates of Penzance, The Mikado, Trial by Jury, et cetera (times seven). His humorous verse contributions to Fun magazine, collectively published in 1869 as the Bab Ballads, includes the following tall tale of an industrious bagpiper and a comely bevy of pragmatically fickle lassies.

  Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus M’Clan

  Was the son of an elderly labouring man,

  You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,

  And p’raps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right.

  From the bonnie blue Forth to the hills of Deeside,

  Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,

  There wasn’t a child or a woman or man

  Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus M’Clan.

  No other could wake such detestable groans,

  With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:

  All day and all night he delighted the chiels

  With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

  He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,

  And the neighbouring maidens would gather around

  To list to his pipes and to gaze in his e’en,

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  All loved their M’Clan, save a Sassenach brute,

  Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;

  He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,

  Though his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.

  Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense

  To make him a Scotchman in every sense;

  But this is a matter, youil readily own,

  That isn’t a
question of tailors alone.

  A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,

  He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;

  Stick a skean in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—

  But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

  Clongclocketty’s pipings all night and all day

  Quite frenzied poor Pattison Corby Torbay;

  The girls were amused at his singular spleen,

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  “Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad,

  With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad;

  If you really must play on that cursed affair,

  My goodness! play something resembling an air.”

  Boiled over the blood of Macphairson M’Clan—

  The clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;

  For all were enraged at the insult, I ween—

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  “Let’s show,” said M’Clan, “to this Sassenach loon

  That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.

  “Let’s see,” said M’Clan, as he thoughtfully sat,

  “‘In My Cottage’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.”

  He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,

  For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until

  (You’ll hardly believe it) M’Clan, I declare,

  Elicited something resembling an air.

  It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—

  It wandered about into several keys;

  It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware,

  But still it distinctly suggested an air.

  The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced,

  He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced;

  And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene,

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  “Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;

  And fill a’ yer lugs wi’ the exquisite sound.

  An air frae the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!

  Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus M’Clan!”

  The fame of his piping spread over the land:

  Respectable widows proposed for his hand,

  And maidens came flocking to sit on the green—

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore

  He’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore,

  And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste),

  Divided Clonglocketty close to the waist.

  Oh! loud were the wailings for Angus M’Clan—

  Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man—

  The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene,

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  It sorrowed poor Pattison Corby Torbay

  To find them “take on” in this serious way,

  He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,

  And solaced their souls with the following words:—

  “Oh, maidens,” said Pattison, touching his hat,

  “Don’t snivel, my dears, for a fellow like that;

  Observe, I’m a very superior man,

  A much better fellow than Angus M’Clan.”

  They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears.”

  And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,

  A pleasanter gentleman never was seen—

  Especially Ellen M’Jones Aberdeen.

  Joan Andelman

  A Sunday in December

  It is not oxymoronic to call the following poignant tale an exercise in eloquent understatement. Joan Andelman, Marketing Communications Manager for a New Jersey health care firm, penned “A Sunday in December” for a New York University writing workshop “and when I read it in class, I was surprised and gratified to see the other students dabbing at their eyes”

  SHE PADDED HER WAY downstairs, and was surprised to see him sitting at the kitchen table, still in his bathrobe. It was 11:30 in the morning.

  “What’s the matter, Lou? Don’t you feel well?”

  “I don’t know—I’m tired this morning. I was supposed to make some deliveries earlier, but I just haven’t felt like moving.”

  She was looking at him more closely. He was awfully gray looking. That job, she thought, that damn job is killing him. Bastards. “Never mind, Louie. It’s Sunday—to hell with them! I’m going to make you brunch. I promised you a treat last night—what’ll it be?”

  He wanted French toast, with syrup. She hesitated, then: “Tell you what, you can have the French toast. But no syrup.”

  He watched her as she bustled about the kitchen, and she knew when he made no attempt to help her that he must be very tired. She was thinking how long it had been since she’d made a meal for the two of them. Along time. With no children around, somehow she never felt like cooking any more.

  The table was cluttered with the Sunday paper and yesterday’s mail. While the toast was frying, she cleared and set the table, using the china instead of the plastic plates. Reaching into the refrigerator for the milk carton, she decided suddenly to use the little china creamer, too. To the finished table she added the vase of Japanese paper flowers from the living room.

  “Hey, kid, what’s this? Company coming?” Lou said.

  “Nope, just us two old fogies. So why not? You only live once.”

  “Okay, then, Rosie Posie, so couldn’t I have just a little syrup?”

  She held firm. “Get out of here, you big fresser! Diabetics are not supposed to have maple syrup. The French toast is enough! Here, put a little jam on it—delicious.”

  When they’d finished, he looked much better to her.

  “Lou—”... she hesitated. “Why don’t you quit your job? Not a one of them, nothing, is worth this aggravation. We can manage, believe me, we’ll manage. I don’t mind going back to work. With all your contacts, we could form our own consulting business. Let’s talk about it?”

  “Okay, Rose. Okay. But not today. I have to make some phone calls this afternoon.”

  She couldn’t stop herself. “You’re still trying to collect from Brookfield Pharmacy, right? Did he pay you anything yet?”

  He shook his head, not looking at her.

  “I knew it. Fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise, on credit! It’s over six months—you can’t keep being such a nice guy. At least, don’t keep selling him more. Lou, he’ll bankrupt you.”

  It seemed to her as she spoke that he was graying before her eyes. She let it go. He was still sitting at the table when she went upstairs to finish the blanket she was crocheting for the baby. She heard the dishes clinking as Lou cleared the table, then his voice on the phone, his placating, easygoing salesman’s voice, that could sell anything, but didn’t know the tone to force someone to pay up. “Deadbeats,” she muttered, throwing the accumulation of towels, diapers and toys out of the crib, searching for the half-finished blanket. Her eye fell on her grandson’s picture, a blond, ecstatic little boy. “Chandler, your grandfather’s too good for them, that’s the trouble. Works like a dog—for what?” She had settled down by the window when Lou called from the bottom of the stairs:

  “Want any more coffee, Rose? Or should I pull the plug out?”

  “Pull it out,” she called back.

  The house was silent for a few moments, except for the sound of the bathroom door downstairs closing. Suddenly, there was an enormous thud.

  “Oh, Lou-ee,” she called in a singsong, “what did you do now?”

  No answer.

  “Lou!” she called more sharply. No answer. Her heart began to pound. She flew out of the chair and down the stairs.

  “Lou—” she started to say again, then saw him. He was lying across the threshold, his legs on the bathroom floor, his head and torso on the hallway carpet. For a half-second, she was frozen. Then she ran to bend down beside him. “Lou, what happene
d? Did you fall? Lou?” He didn’t speak to her—his eyes were full of surprise, and a gurgling sound was coming from his throat. She leaned closer over his face to catch what he was trying to say, but couldn’t make it out.

  “Don’t try to talk, Lou. Don’t worry. I’m calling the ambulance right away. I’m just going to call the ambulance now, it will be all right.”

  She rushed to the phone and dialed the policy emergency number pasted beside it. “I need an ambulance immediately—my husband just fell down and injured himself.” She gave her name and address, then hung up. Her mind was racing—stroke, was it a stroke? heart attack? what? A pool of blood was spreading under his head. She grabbed some dishtowels and propped them underneath, all the while murmuring nonstop, “Don’t worry, Lou. The ambulance is on the way, it’ll be all right.”

  The bleeding was not too bad—she realized he must have hit his head against the doorway when he fell. Not a hemorrhage. Thank God, not a hemorrhage. His pajama bottoms were around his knees—she took his bathrobe from the closet and covered him. Then, still talking to him, she rushed back upstairs. “I just have to throw on some clothes, Lou, I’ll be right back.”

  “My bag, I need my bag. The Blue Cross cards.” She was talking to herself as she pulled on an old pair of slacks and blouse, checked her pocketbook for keys, cash and the medical cards, and raced back down the stairs.

  She knelt beside him again. There was no sound from him any more. She wanted to straighten his legs, they were so twisted, but remembered that all first-aid books caution against moving an injured person. “Lou, I’m not going to try to move you. It might hurt you. They’ll be here in just a few seconds.”

  The doorbell rang. “They’re here, Lou—the ambulance is here.” She opened the door with relief. Two medics stood there with a stretcher.

  “Where’s the patient, ma’am?”

  She pointed to the hallway and as they moved toward him, she grabbed her coat and bag, ready to go. One bent down, his ear to Lou’s chest. She waited, switching her bag from hand to hand. They were saying something to each other.

  “What’s wrong? Why don’t you lift him? Let’s go!”

  “Ma’am,” one of the men said quietly, “why don’t you sit down?”

  She stared at him. “He’s dead. That’s why you’re not moving him, isn’t it? He’s dead.”