by Toby Olson
Table of Contents
Dedication
ALSO BY TOBY OLSON:
Title Page
Epigraph
Introduction
Preface
One
Tea Dream
Night
Tucson
Rain
Richard
Melinda
The Game
Two
Day
First Tournament
Mood Music
Three
The Hive
Gerry
Seaview
Earth Light
About the author
Current Titles
Copyright Page
For
Morris and Smitty,
Dennis and Rich,
Julian and Ollie
The author wishes to thank Temple University, for its aid and support, and Lou Thibeault, PGA professional, for his golf tips.
Portions of this book first appeared in somewhat different form in Sun and Moon.
Epigraph quotation by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, from One Hundred Years of Solitude, translated by Gregory Rabassa (Translation ©1970 by Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc.), is reprinted by permission of Harper & Row.
The extract quotation from Cape Cod: Its People and Their History, by Henry C. Kittredge, 2nd edition, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1968 (Copyright 1930 by Henry C. Kittredge; Copyright renewed, 1958), is reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin.
ALSO BY TOBY OLSON:
NOVELS
The Life of Jesus
Seaview
POETRY
Maps
Worms into Nails
The Brand
Pig’s Book
Vectors
Fishing
The Wrestlers & Other Poems
Changing Appearances: Poems 1965 – 1970
Home
Doctor Miriam
Aesthetics
The Florence Poems
Birdsongs
The search for lost things is hindered by routine habits and that is why it is so difficult to find them.
—Gabriel Garcia Marquez
I am determined not to live until I have no country!
—King Philip (Wampanoag Sachem), 1675
Introduction
TO ENTER A TOBY OLSON FICTION IS TO ENTER AN UN – guarded borderland. Sometimes one finds oneself at an actual border—the Mexican-American one, for example, in such books as The Woman Who Escaped from Shame or The Blond Box—but even there, the encounter is felt to be emblematic of stranger, more enigmatic borders: that between the natural and the uncanny, for example, between notions of gender and between cultures, between the real and the surreal or the real and our perception of the real, between the mundane and the extraordinary, the probable and the improbable, between dreams and the waking life. In the opening “ Tea Dream” chapter of Seaview, the golfer Allen, dreaming of a great white horse on a golf course galloping down at him from green to tee, is awakened by his mortally ill wife, Melinda, blowing the steam off a cup of jasmine tea in his face, so gently bringing him to consciousness that the border between dream and waking life is dissolved: “And the dream and what he might have chosen to call reality had come together like a kind of smoke net to lift him up.” Allen later uses this border-less emergence from sleep to try to describe, while meditating upon Melinda’s looming death (which seems almost beyond the real, yet utterly of it), another kind of awakening, this time from everyday practical thought into an augmented “clarity that rendered most of the rest dreamlike.” Something like an epiphany.
This rise to clarity, with its “flavor of the dream transition,” he decides, “had to do with immediacy.” Except occasionally, when addressing a golf ball or surrendering to sex (of which, herein, some deliciously original passages), Allen rarely privileged to experience this immediacy, this uncomplicated immersion in the “here and now.” Even Allen’s reflection on his “ Tea Dream” opposes the immediacy he is trying to capture and define. Like the author, Allen is engaged with practical matters, organizing the journey that will take them from Tucson to Melinda’s childhood home on Cape Cod and the climaxes—to their stories, to their lives—that await them there. This is a creative task, but one that requires planning and reflection, the use of memory and judgment, and as much rethinking as thinking. If he were living purely in the here and now, they would probably never reach the Cape, and the author would never finish his tale.
This is the fate of most writers, the finding of words (and then the revising of words) always following upon that which they seek to describe, its original immediacy long lost, and it helps account for the writerly fascination with those enigmatic creatures who do live wholly in what Olson sometimes calls “the luminous present”—and who could therefore, of course, never write about it, nor would wish to. These almost magical beings can only be watched and listened to as they pass through the present, insouciantly yet often wisely, as vivid and as inscrutable as nature itself. Here, that role belongs to the compellingly appealing Bob White, a member of the Indian tribe known on the Cape, somewhat jocularly, as the Quahog People, who travels east with Allen and Melinda, sharing car and even bed with them, yet seeming somehow to exist on another plane. Not that writers don’t have their own epiphanic moments of course, happening most often when, as though from nowhere, the precisely right phrase arrives with all the power of a revelation, a phrase that, for all the author’s skillful preparations (Olson speaks of “the struggle to position a self ” in life and in writing, not a struggle creatures living wholly in the here and now are even likely to understand: the self? c’est moi ), is often remarkably simple—as when Bob White answers Melinda’s question about the bird they have rescued from the snake’s jaw on a very peculiar miniature golf course the night before. One merely sighs and says, oh yes, and wishes all one’s writing were like that.
This feeling of immediacy, or the illusion of it, is often achieved in Olson’s writing by the depiction of a character engaged to the exclusion of all else with a particular and often original skill—the giving of massages, let’s say, or the building and inaugurating of an outhouse, the art of the prostitute, or Jesus’ careful washing of the disciples’ feet in Jesus/Olson’s earthy yet fanciful “autobiography.” People, as Olson has said in praise (of golfers, in this case), “enthusiastically attentive to mastery.” Here, in Seaview , we have suchlike as Allen’s amazing golf strokes (his skill, once he has made his mystical connection, not only allows him to place his shots with uncanny accuracy and use his golf bag as an arsenal but also to read the minds of others, predict their behaviors, and influence them; otherwise he’s just an ordinary sort of fellow, give or take a crime or two); Bob White’s memorable snake hunting; Chip’s loving care of a golf green; or the curmudgeonly Chair’s ritualized act of donning his golf togs—which include a pair of white golf pants with sailing boats, whales, and dolphins printed or embroidered on them—all meticulously examined, reminding one of another of Olson’s writing characteristics: the surreal multilayered examination of an image in which something as simple as, say, a tattoo or a shirt logo can become as complex as a wall-sized epic painting, scale being another strange Olson borderland, easily transgressed. (Wait ’til you see what happens when duffer Eddie Costa starts poking around in his golf bag.)
These momentary captures of immediacy when time almost seems to stand still are sometimes referred to by Olson as “interludes,” as they are in life itself, or in music. If borderlands are by their nature somewhat amorphous and unmappable, structure can be imposed upon them by other means, and Olson’s means are often musical. There are these interludes and set pieces: solo riffs, like those of Chip or Bob White or Melinda’s “Integrity Sphere” story; staged duets; harsh d
issonances contrasted with sweet old-fashioned melodies, as in the astonishingly gratifying “Mood Music” chapter; recurrent motifs like emblematic drone tones; and a climactic, intricately orchestrated big-band finale.
Music draws one’s attention—writerly, readerly—to surface, to sensual beauty. I know of no other writer who so unabashedly loves the world as, right on its amazing surface, it sensuously is and yet with such a mischievous sense of humor toys so freely with it. Seaview’s Melinda, who as a child went to sea with her Portuguese fisherman father and grew up to be a painter and also, for a time, a successful writer, is seen in her flowering to exhibit “the joining of tenderness, sensitivity, and strength” with “intelligence and skill,” which describes as well as anything this masterful book and its tender, sensitive, and powerful author.
ROBERT COOVER
Summer 2006
Preface
IT ’S BEEN TWENTY-FIVE YEARS SINCE SEAVIEW FIRST saw the light of day, published in 1982 by New Directions. It must have been a cloudy day, for the book received little attention in that year, though things did pick up a little in the next. I was younger then, but old enough to have written an earlier book called The Life of Jesus, something that pulled together a few short stories, a couple of poems, and a number of fragments, and seemed to become itself before I knew what was happening.
At least it felt that way. I’d been writing only poetry, and now I had this book with the word novel on its cover. I was curious about this other way of writing, and I thought I’d give it a conscious attempt next time. That’s how Seaview began, but that was just the beginning.
I’d been playing a lot of golf in the summers on Cape Cod since the mid-seventies, and I was feeling a little guilty about this. Summer was writing time, and I was wasting my time on the links. Golf is a sport that requires a number of skills, none of which I had mastered, but even more than with most sports these skills seem untranslatable, of no use at all in the “real” world.
If they could have translated, let’s say into yardwork, house repair, or even writing, the time wasted playing the sport might have been of some significant use, and I wouldn’t have felt guilty. Of course I could write about golf, about the possible translation of those skills, and about guilt, and that’s what I did.
Seaview is a real place (though with another name), a golf course near my house, and many of the characters in parts two and three of this novel are real people, though with names traded and changed. The book becomes in part a roman á clef on that golf course, a sweet one I hope. I’m heartened by the fact that even 25 years later fellow players come up to me insisting that they cannot be so-and-so in that book. They’re much better players than that!
And the guilt? It seemed enough to be writing about time wasted, to somehow redeem that time by turning it into something of value, a novel, any story, something to be shared with others for their pleasure.
There isn’t much pleasure in cancer, of course, though there is plenty of waste, and at the center of this book is the relationship between Melinda and Allen, she close to an ending, he trying to find ways to come to terms with her imminent death. It wasn’t the psychological difficulties that I was interested in here so much as the ways these difficulties were displayed in thought, behavior and communication. What did the relationship between these two look like, not what did it mean. From the beginning, I’ve felt that I don’t want to know my characters any better than I know people in my own life, which isn’t very well at all. I haven’t wanted to look too deeply into characters’ minds, have imagined thought as just below the surface of talk, not something of deeper significance, just another surface. For me this leads to the kind of realism I’m after. The way people behave and the way they think is endlessly fascinating, and I don’t want to intrude on that, to presume to understand it. I just want to describe and present it as best I can.
And this leads to the impossible belief that most everything of significance can be found on the surface and that the richness of this surface is invariably limited by explanation, be it psychological, biological, or any other theoretical approach. “The surface of the world where all beauty resides,” is what I’ve written in another novel, and less portentously, “not the tales /but the details” in a poem.
In Seaview I set out to illuminate the present in the face of nostalgia, regret, and impending death, trusting that the details of this present might go a long way toward capturing the significance of life lived in the here and now. What an impossible idea that now seems to be, but impossible or not, it proceeded from a certain single-minded passion. Maybe a residual of that passion remains in the sentences of this book.
TOBY OLSON
North Truro, Massachusetts
Summer 2006
One
Tea Dream
HE NO LONGER WONDERED WHERE TO LAY DOWN BLAME or whose was the responsibility or what the responsibility was. Her body, finished with its rage, had settled in the cancer the way one slips into a tub in a dark bathroom, into hot water, and soon the skin is no longer a barrier, an integrity and definition; one becomes part of the water, the cancer. The skin goes in the way the breath does, out like a ripple of the surface of a still pool; part of a quota, it does not return. She lay in the tub, and under the water, crossing the rise of her belly, a place that was darker than water: a dark towel, taken from the blankets and pillows and towels in the backseat of the car, because it gave her some comfort. Her head rested on a rolled towel, placed where the tile and the porcelain met; chalk of the small hollow valley of her left cheek, her lips slightly parted, her shallow and stertorous breathing. The glass doors in the wall of the room beyond her were a field of light, reflection cast from the side of the rented car, up from the white gravel outside the motel room in Arizona. Occasional figures of yucca advanced, danced, and faded in the opaque field. He sat in a chair, in the dark in the side of the room, watching the gun.
The gun lay on the bed in the middle of a white towel.
She sighed in the distance. It was a small, blue-metal instrument with symmetrical indentations on its surface. He liked the romance of it, his privacy and her groggy sound. He reached out with a finger and touched the tip of the butt, better aligning the L – shape with the towel’s edge.
And then he thought of the two bags of cocaine, each pressed in a Diamond Kitchen matchbox that was taped shut, in the trunk of the car, under clubs, blankets, and clothing. He thought of the way Melinda would give it up, her body slipping as her quota of breaths left her: neck, chin, and upper lip, her nose blowing feeble air against the water’s surface (small indentations, minute waves), then going under. He lifted the gun up from the towel then and put the barrel between his teeth and pulled the trigger on the empty chamber.
“Melinda, are you okay in there?”
“Yes, I’m okay, honey, fine.”
He came back from the click as he had come back from the Tea Dream that time. In the Tea Dream, he was sitting on a bench to the side of the blue markers at the back of a narrow tee. The tee was long enough to accommodate all the markers, and from where he sat he could see the white ones halfway up, and near the foot of the tee, where it dropped off into rough and the slope started up to the high par-three green about a hundred and eighty yards away, the red, women’s markers, were set in. He had his cap and his glove on, and he was holding a seven-iron, the head resting in the grass to the side of his right foot. He looked from the club head, down the row of markers and up to the green. Beside the flagstick, gripping the shaft in her left hand, there was a woman standing in full view and facing down at him. She was wearing a white bathrobe, and she wore no jewelry.
Her hair was dark and uncombed, and she was holding hazy implements in her free hand at her waist. There was a smoky fog, a thick cloud that began coming up behind her, rolling over the green’s surface. It got to her, and her feet and legs were enveloped in the smoke, and he couldn’t see them clearly anymore. But he could see their changing bulks and her right foot ri
se a little and paw at the low, delicate carpet of grass.
The fog rose up around her; she seemed to recede back into the cloud. It cowled her head, and then she disappeared completely. He started to get up, to go and find her, though he feared her, but as he rose the smoke-fog began to clear. It gathered up from where her feet had been, and when he followed its path, he saw the place of the cowling shrink and the smoke gather and disappear into two rings, and as the final billows were sucked in, he saw the head of the horse appear where her head had been, and he realized that the rings were the horse’s nostrils, the smoke his breath blowing in the suddenly cold air. The horse was white and large, very stately and very powerful looking. There was a device attached to its side, a leather trussing, and the long stick with the small red flag with the white number 3 sewn into it was standing, straight up above the horse’s broad back, the little flag waving. The horse pawed at the green, scarring the surface, kicking little divots out. It blew its heavy steam. And then it dipped its head once and started down the hill toward him. It pranced a little, slowly selecting places for its hoofs as it came down through the rough. He fell back on the bench and waited for it. It was massive and getting larger in its coming, but he did not fear it, not in the way he had feared the woman. He had tightened his grip on the seven-iron when he had seen her, but now he released it, his knees parted a little, and he relaxed.
The horse reached the far end of the tee and started down between the markers as if they were running lights. He could hear the creak of the trussing, the hoof-thuds, and the sound of the nostrils blowing. It got to him, and he could smell its sweat and see the doe-leather look of its soft muzzle, its powerful grinding jaws. It stood for a moment over him, moving its head from side to side, looking around. Then its thick neck began to arch over, and it brought its huge head down to him. He sat very still. He could feel the blow of the nostril smoke on his cheek, and he could smell it at the same time. It had the smell of jasmine, slightly sweet and musky.