The Work Is Innocent

by Rafael Yglesias

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning at breakfast, Betty told Richard that his sister had called, saying she was going to Europe in a week and would stop off in New York. He asked when they planned to move into the house in Vermont and was told in about a month. It occurred to him later on in the afternoon, while typing the final draft, that he could go up there ahead of time and have three weeks of pleasure with John. There was no fun to be had in the city.

  His parents agreed, provided John had no objection. When Richard called that evening, John urged him to come, and he decided to leave the next morning at seven. His father said, “My God, I had no idea we were boring you that much.” His mother was quiet. Later on, Richard overheard snatches of a conversation between them: they speculated that his date had caused his sudden desire to leave. Before going to bed his father tried to talk him into going by plane, but Richard insisted that he really was too scared to fly and preferred the scenery of the bus drive anyway.

  It was odd to return to his room and work on a novel about a situation that still engulfed him: his parents retained their sympathy for his cute problems; the trials of adolescence were either funny or exasperating for them; he could never behave with dignity or force.

  But writing had helped him. His father knew quickly that Richard was disgusted by his attempts to encourage him out of his desire to go by bus. “I’m really torturing you, eh kiddo?” Aaron said, and hugged him to his side.

  “It’s okay,” Richard said. “You can’t help yourself. But you’re getting me depressed.”

  Aaron stood back, shocked, and opened his expression in wonder. “Why? I don’t mean to.”

  Richard wanted to make his point without a fuss but still flash a glint of steel. “I heard you and Mom talking about my date.”

  “Oh no,” Betty said quickly. “You can’t blame us for anything you heard. That’s what you get for eavesdropping.”

  “No, no,” Richard said. “That’s not what bothers me. I thought my novel was so good that you’d never dare to guess at my motivations any more.” He meant them to laugh and they did—with the vigor of relief.

  It took over ten hours to reach Vermont by bus, Richard nearly going mad in his eagerness to arrive. When he stepped down from the bus and saw the trio approaching, he thought they looked like a schoolchildren’s book illustration of the future: John in a big, white woolen sweater, faded dungarees, and heavy rubber boots; Naomi in a gray poncho, jeans, and boots; and Nana in an amusingly scaled-down version of her father’s clothes. John greeted him in his self-conscious way—a big smile with his eyes looking beyond Richard into the distance with apparent fascination. But his sister was abandoned, saying, “It’s your uncle,” to Nana. And then she flung her arms open and cried, “Ah, brother, to see you again is good for these ancient eyes.” He hugged her and planted a kiss on a reddened, frozen cheek.

  They got into the truck and John, giving Richard a mischievous look, reached under the seat and came up with a can of beer. Richard laughed and took it. Naomi, her gaiety amazing Richard, said, “John’s decided to make a drunk of you. No,” she went on with an apologetic glance at John, “we’re celebrating your triumph.”

  “My triumph? What are you talking about?”

  “School. You don’t have to go to school. Don’t tell me you’re taking it for granted already.”

  It came as a shock. That struggle had ended with a whimper. He screamed, “That’s right! I forgot. I mean I didn’t realize. I won!”

  They laughed together and shared his first sense of victory and release.

  The five days before Naomi left were peaceful for Richard. John worked without a stop upstairs, Richard spent most of the day typing up the final draft, and Naomi took long walks, returning with her big shocked eyes, her body erect, making quick stiff movements. Richard was awed by the abstraction from life that she seemed able to achieve. He was convinced she had the soul of a poet and decided one afternoon to encourage her. He was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of tea when he spotted her coming up the long pine-covered driveway. When she came in he offered her some tea and she rubbed her hands together with excitement. “Goody,” she said. “I’ll make a little fire in the stove.”

  While he was busy making the tea, Naomi went outside to the woodbox and returned with split wood cut small to fit into the Franklin stove that had been connected into the kitchen fireplace. She poured a little kerosene onto the wood after stacking it in the stove and stood back with her face averted, tossing a match in. It went up with a roar.

  “It’s scary putting the kerosene in,” Richard said.

  “I know. But this is a badly made chimney. The wind blows the smoke back into the room. But if the fire starts quickly that doesn’t happen.”

  It annoyed Richard that she explained it to him. He had been there the day the house filled with smoke and also the day they tried using kerosene. John had put too much of it on and two streams of flame had leaped out of the stove’s drafts, nearly blinding Richard. Even though he had lived with her in the country she was still expounding on it, apparently thinking him ignorant. “So are you almost done?” she asked as he put her cup down.

  “No, I’m only half done. It’s exhausting typing it up. Going over it is fun, but I’m such a lousy typer that I’m forever erasing, typing over.” Silence fell as Naomi put milk and sugar in her tea. She stirred the cup and stared at the stove. Richard was used to conversations ending abruptly with her. For Naomi, it was not merely a mood that caused it, it was an ideology. She had often pointed out to Richard that a group of people in a room didn’t simply dislike silence, they were terrified of it. Whenever they discussed Samuel Beckett she extolled and impressed on him the significance of silence in his work and its healing aspects.

  “Naomi. Do you keep a notebook like you used to?” Her contempt for meaningless talk made him ask in a formal tone.

  She looked at him distantly with a quizzical tilt of her head. “When I was a kid,” Richard added, “you were always writing something. You’d write poems and—”

  “Yes, in my heyday. In my”—she paused dramatically—“youth!” Richard laughed. She charmed him when in this mood. “That’s all in the past,” she said. “We must not cling to it. Move on.”

  “No, seriously. Do you really feel that way about it?”

  Naomi looked at him with what was almost annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean when I was a kid I always thought you were going to write.”

  “You know, there are other ways of living.” Her eyes twinkled at him with a mixture of sarcasm and contempt. He didn’t understand what was going on and looked at her stupidly. “I’m very happy the way I am,” she went on with less sharpness.

  “I’m sure you are. I wasn’t saying you weren’t. Have I insulted you in some way?”

  “No, no,” she protested. “I write some things. But just for myself.”

  He said no more and she was also quiet. He felt as if he had been crass and foolish, though he didn’t know why. The conversation depressed him, and he was sullen for the rest of the afternoon, saying nothing during dinner. He watched Naomi’s movements and found them ugly and unbearable. They were sitting having coffee and ice cream when John said to him, “You worked today?”

  “Yeah, I did ten pages.”

  “You’re really rollin’.” Richard managed a half-hearted smile in response. John looked at him with pleasure and pride. “Did Aaron and Betty say anything about getting it published?”

  “Well, Mom said that she thought it was publishable, but that you can’t predict it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll publish it,” Naomi said.

  Richard couldn’t believe that they would. He realized that, sitting in the kitchen, his head in his hands, staring at the wooden floors. It was an appalling plan: he must be mad to bank his life on it. “Even if they do publish it, that may not be enough. I mean, you know, I’ll get fifteen hundred dollars and it’s over.”
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  Naomi looked at him with pity. “Richard, people live their whole lives without enough money. Particularly writers.” She looked at him and was greeted by a blank stare. “Right? Isn’t that true?”

  They both looked at him, their eyes and posture saying, don’t you see your dreams aren’t real? They were taking him for a fool. “I’m not settling for that, if you don’t mind.”

  Naomi stiffened. “Settling!” It was incredible to Richard that she was so self-righteous about his life. “I’m not talking about settling!” She spoke the words with contempt. “That’s life. There’s nothing to settle for.”

  “Oh boy,” John said.

  “Oh yeah, we’re all losers just like you, Naomi. We should all admit defeat, so you’ll feel comfortable.” Her expression changed rapidly from assured anger to bewilderment. “Fuck that bullshit. I’m not just entertaining myself, just deluding myself and everybody else.” He reached the instant that every argument contained: it would be dangerous to go on. And though he made the conscious internal statement that he would smash her, his rage was really uncontrollable. “Yeah, go ahead and let Richard play with his typewriter so he’ll feel good. Poor boy, he can’t be in mystical contact with defeat like you.” He yelled it in a deep throaty voice. Naomi had risen from the table as if burned. She was trembling.

  “Okay, okay, Richard,” she screamed to silence him. “I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was breaking as tears welled in her eyes. “You’re talking like I don’t care about your writing. And I do! That’s what I was trying—” She began to cry. “Oh, you’re crazy! Everybody’s crazy!” She walked out. Richard looked at John sheepishly as they listened to her bare feet bang on the floor. Her door squealed open and slammed shut in such a way that Richard couldn’t suppress a laugh. He felt ashamed that he had laughed when he looked at John. John apparently was more concerned about this fight than any of the others. He got up and listened. They heard Naomi complain loudly of humanity and then burst into tears. John went to their room.

  Richard didn’t want to hear their conversation so he went outside. He felt drowned by the remorse and shame that flooded his heart. It bored him: he always got into fights like this one and felt so horrified afterwards that he withdrew all his points in order to be loved again. He looked up at the awesome sky, sprayed with the unreal light of the stars, and tried to be comforted by them. How proud he would have been if his feelings had been transported into an ecstasy by Nature.

  But no, he just felt cold and angry that he had run out of the house. So he braced himself and returned, but they were both still inside their room, and he ended up eating six pieces of toast and butter while reading The New Yorker.

  Richard woke up late and found the kitchen deserted. He had coffee and went to work. The dreary job of reworking and retyping his novel was more interesting than usual. He felt vigorous and important, more confident that it would be published. Also he felt no weakness about his argument with Naomi. He understood that it meant something to him not to be cowed by her dislike for egotism: it kept him going and how could he question his mechanisms for survival?

  He was humming cheerfully when Naomi came into his room. She stood solemnly, her eyes puffed. He knew what her attitude would be—stern apology. “Hi, Naomi,” he said in a soft voice.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry we got into that fight.”

  “Me too.”

  “And I wanted to make sure, and I don’t want to get into a fight now, that you understand I wasn’t saying—”

  “Anything against my writing.” She searched his face but it was cool and unchallenging. “I understand that.”

  “Well,” she said with what was almost anger in her voice. She looked away and stopped herself. Then she sat down in a chair and turned back toward him with a sigh. “Tell me why you got angry then?”

  This was the crucial moment, because he felt the need to argue with her, to establish the difference in their perception of the world. But that gnawing desire to have it out seemed to him proof he wasn’t strong enough to live by his principles without the approval of others. He had to be that strong. So let her feel there was nothing behind it but neurosis.

  “Look, I was just upset. I’m under a lot of pressure.”

  “But I’ve—”

  “Let me finish. You’ve been very supportive, you know, I mean I’ve realized that. You know, what can I say? I just freaked out at the idea I wasn’t going to make more than fifteen hundred dollars.” Naomi relaxed into a laugh that was close to weeping. Richard was overcome now with love for her and he got up tentatively. She quickly left her chair and hugged him, saying, “Okay. We’re such a crazy family.” She let go and they went into the kitchen. They snacked and talked the day away, and Richard felt equal and carefree with her. He was amused all day by the thought that years of honesty with Naomi had yielded less love than one lie.

  Richard was made uneasy by the casual air John and Naomi affected during the drive to the airport for her flight to New York. He knew the rest of the family had deduced from hints Naomi dropped to Betty that they were on the brink of separating. Naomi had told her mother that she needed the trip to be away from John for a while. She was outraged when Betty asked if there was something wrong between them. Naomi said it was sick of people to think there was something dark and unhealthy about her wanting a few months away from marriage. She complained to Richard about the assumptions their parents and their brother were making. He agreed with her and ignored the hushed questions (as if they were in danger of being overheard on their end!) Betty or Leo would ask him over the phone. “How are Naomi and John doin’, man?” Leo asked every time in a desperate whisper.

  She had supported him totally about school and he returned the favor, hushing his tendency to gossip and speculate privately about his family’s life. So in the car he thought furtively, “I’m not buying this calm of theirs. They’re breaking up.” And was immediately ashamed of even so intimate an act of treachery.

  He was also disturbed by John’s seriousness for the week he’d been there. All he did was work upstairs, and if the next two weeks were the same, Richard wouldn’t have any fun.

  He was surprised, at the gate, by the sudden show of love between the couple. They hugged in big, white woolen sweaters and faded dungarees, Nana perched in their arms, Naomi blushing like a schoolgirl. Mother and daughter went off waving and yelling good-by, Richard and John standing breathlessly watching the plane taxi, take off, and then disappear.

  Richard felt very solemn, aware that John would probably be unhappy and industrious, and he didn’t wish to seem insensitive and frivolous.

  John wheeled about with a look of glee and said, “Well, Ricardo, let’s putter.”

  Richard took one look at him and was amazed. “You mean we’re travelin’?”

  He clicked his tongue. “Do our little numerino.” They walked rapidly through the airport, Richard laughing most of the way as John would slip him looks brimming with mischief.

  They jumped into the truck. John turned the radio and the car on almost simultaneously. They swerved out of their parking space, and Richard couldn’t contain his pleased surprise. “We’re movin’! We’re doin’ it. And I thought you’d be bummed out.”

  John glanced at him, puzzled. “Why?”

  Richard was embarrassed to say that he thought it would be unseemly to have a good time while one’s wife was away, and at that moment it became obvious how stupid—“Do you know what I was thinking? That for some reason you weren’t going to have a good time because it would be unfriendly to Naomi.”

  John laughed. “She’s goin’ to Europe man. She’s not gonna be mopin’.” He pointed to the glove compartment. “There are a couple of joints in there.”

  “Big time.” Richard got them out and lit one. He dragged deeply and passed it to John. “Naomi and I really haven’t been getting along.”

  John laughed silently to hold the smoke in. He passed the joint back to Richard a
nd exhaled. “No shit. How come?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” He passed the joint and began to feel its effects. The car’s warmth became very important to him and he started a long investigation of its operation, pushing red and green knobs and thrusting his hands in front of the vents. He found it hard to remember which knob he had just pushed that caused an icy wind to blow on his leg. “Well,” Richard said. “I’ve had a lot of talks with her about literary people. About Dad. You know he drove her crazy with his self-important manner. ‘So and so has no ideas. He’s just a reactionary shit.’ You know how he talks.”

  They stopped at a light and John solved Richard’s problem by pushing the green knobs down and the red ones up. “You wanted heat, right?” John asked.

  “Farout. That’s beautiful, man.” Richard laughed very loudly, but looking at John reminded him of his point. “What was I saying? Oh yeah. I think Naomi decided that thinking of yourself as an artist was pretentious.”

  “No,” John said very quietly. “I don’t think so.”

  “I mean that’s what she thinks.”

  “I know that. Boy, are you stoned. She doesn’t think that.”

  “Oh, she does! She does!”

  John let out a laugh. “Uh. Okay. Anything you say. Just don’t fall out of the car.”

  “I know she doesn’t think it consciously. But Dad’s soured her on being creative. He’s made her feel that writing is pretentious, because she thinks he’s pretentious and she can’t separate the two things.”

  “But she doesn’t feel that way about you. She thinks it’s great that you’re writing.” John shifted gears and looked at him inquisitively. He was obviously worried that Richard wouldn’t believe in his sister’s good will. And he didn’t. Sure she loved him, but Richard knew that they were going different ways and he needed to prove that to John.

  “I mean she’s got problems with Aaron,” John went on after a silence. “But, you know, I think she blanks out on certain”—he searched for the word—“phrases that remind her of him. But when you say those things she doesn’t think you really mean them.”