323.
Or maybe he did.
324.
He didn’t look happy.
325.
Wally could have gone for a scalp massage right about now, but Elsie was in Montana at the ranch of a client whose mule was apparently in pressing need of a perm. “Wish you were here,” she’d written on a postcard Wally received not long ago. “P.S. Do you know how to use bear spray?” “P.P.S. Answer asap.”
326.
It would not be something anyone could predict, but Wally showed more conscientiousness with regard to washing the dishes than Imogene did. On this particular night, however, Wally asked Imogene after dinner if it would be okay with her if he left the casserole dish in the sink overnight to soak. Yes, it would be okay.
“What would you have said if I’d said no?” said Imogene much later.
“I would have removed the dish from the sink,” said Wally, “because in this house, you come before pots and pans.” Imogene looked at Wally charitably. Wally continued. “But after neodymium magnets.”
327.
Let’s put it this way. Wally’s ex has had a baby. Let’s put it another way. Patty agrees with Wally and the rest of the world that Trench is not a felicitous name for a child. Or anything. Except possibly a trench. Or a disease of the mouth.
328.
Wally, who is, in general, happy for everyone, was not, in particular, happy for Gwen. Call it babyish, but Wally was jealous. Reproduction, as every scientist knows, is a fundamental feature of life. Not only that: offspring mean cartoons, Halloween candy, and little toes.
But Wally did not want anyone’s baby. He most trenchantly did not want Gwen’s.
“What do ounces have to do with it?” Wally whined to his intended when he read the birth announcement.
“Babies,” said Imogene. “They are the worst kind of houseguest.”
329.
Imogene was not convinced that propagating was the most affordable gift she could give society. Moreover, she was suspicious of her genes. Based on photographic albums and anecdotes from Pop Pop and Aunt Mimma, here is the way she pictured her forebears, the stock she took of her stock:
329a.
Wally’s pedigree needs no tree-ing, but fair is fair (sometimes):
330.
Breaking news: Ron de Jean and his missus split up. Imo-gene didn’t see it coming, but everyone else did. This is not one of those books where the author is surprised by what her characters do.
331.
When Imogene told Wally that she was going to a bistro that night with Ron de Jean, Wally remembered that, long ago, he had asked Imogene about Ron de Jean, and she had insisted the romance between them was kaput. Is that what she’d said? Can anyone be held accountable for what they said far back in chaplette 17?
“But the peak of the Perseids meteor shower is tonight,” Wally moaned. “The conditions for viewing may never be as optimal in our lifetime. I had my heart set on watching with you.”
“We’ll just have to live longer, Wal,” said Imogene, grabbing her jacket. “I’m late.”
332.
Ron de Jean did not see what was so wrong about it. He and Imogene were merely having a bite at a nice but not too nice café. There was less than one bottle of wine involved and the lighting was un-dim. They were not at a corner table. Nobody ordered oysters, truffles, or anything like that. There was no gazing into each other’s eyes. They confessed nothing, they promised nothing. When the waiter asked about dessert or coffee, neither Ron de Jean nor Imo-gene said, “Not for me, but why don’t you have something so that we can linger?” They split the check.
Another reason Ron de Jean saw nothing wrong: he had designs on a foot model whose most fetching physical features were situated above her pedal extremities.
333.
Imogene saw nothing wrong either. Leave Wally for Ron de Jean? She was not that enterprising. Nor was she in the mood for having a frank talk or putting things, hers or Wally’s, in cartons. Besides, Ron de Jean was just a guy she’d known forever, having met him one summer when, as a way of making money and staying cool, she posed as a model in a life-drawing class. Ron de Jean was the keenest of students.
334.
Wally could see things that others could not.
335.
In the middle of his turmoil, Wally, who had been fretting at home, decided to get right up and go to an all-night drugstore to shop for a pair of scissors. He studied all the scissors. “Can I give you a word of advice?” said a customer in the store, who’d gone for a heated pair. “Never skimp on a scissors.”
Obviously this man did not know Wally. Wally was many things, but he was not a skimper.
336.
Wüsthof Grand Prix Kitchen Shears, $50.95. Do not use on large poultry.
337.
Wally spent the better part of the next day trying to decide whether to go to a bachelor party that night (old friends, free whiskey, possible ride home) versus stay home (100 percent chance of precipitation, Celtics vs. Knicks, Imo-gene). “Tell me what to do,” Wally said to Imogene.
“Go,” she said, with no apparent reflection, not even looking up from her crocheting. Imogene had other things on her mind (rye toast, mmm).
“You’re not being helpful,” said Wally. “Helpful would be if you said don’t go—if you said, please, whatever you do, don’t go.”
“Really?” said Imogene. (What did he say?)
338.
The next night, Wally and Imogene were in bed when Wally said, “If I died, how sad would you be?” Imogene put down her sketchbook. “On a scale of five to eighteen,” said Wally.
“Are fractions allowed?” she said.
“Seriously,” said Wally. “What would you do?”
Imogene looked around the room. She said she would really throw herself into cleaning the apartment.
“Maybe that’s a good way to get the apartment cleaned,” said Wally.
(Is eighteen the most or least sad?)
(How sad would the reader be? Please express the answer in milligrams.)
339.
Tears dribbled down Wally’s face, but Imogene never knew it, for, at the same time, in the same bed, she was dropping artificial lubricant into her chronically dry eyes.
Imogene turned out the lights.
340.
Imogene closed her eyes and pretended she was at the eye doctor’s. To pass the time while she fake-waited to get her eyes fake-dilated, Imogene composed an alphabetic mental list of the friends of hers who’d never reciprocated with a gift equal to or better than the one she had given first.
She got up to her friend Lisa (paper napkins) before nodding off.
341.
Wally dreams about Imogene every night. Sometimes she turns into someone else and sometimes she takes a shuttle to a place where Wally knows she’s going to die. Usually, Wally’s dreams are nightmares. Tonight, he is on a mudslide being chased by zombies. Imogene tries to help him, but then it turns out she is trying to kill him. Then she accidentally—or not—kicks him, and he wakes up before he kills her.
342.
Imogene does not have time for dreams right now. Let us, then, look to her penmanship. Some say it is her most admirable attribute.
343.
A sample of Imogene’s handwriting, along with a graphological analysis.
Note the excessive straightness of the baseline, a sign that the writer is tense and overly disciplined. Pay attention as well to the verticality of the lettering—that is, no leftward or rightward slantitude. This suggests that the writer is self-sufficient, tries to keep her emotions in check, and may possibly be considered cold and uncaring. The darkness of the script indicates that great pressure was exerted, the mark of someone who has supreme vitality, is usually highly successful and/or berserk. Let us contrast Imogene’s cursive with Wally’s scribble (see below).
The writer forms strong loops in the lower zone, which shows a desire for sex, food, money, and shi
ny objects. The loop on the l is high and narrow—a sign of idealism. The open-topped o could mean that this person cannot keep a secret, whereas the shape of the crossbar on the t suggests that this person surely knows the meaning of mum’s the word. The high squiggly exclamation points show a vivid imagination or the influence of alcohol. We have never seen a k like this.
Only a single example of the author’s handwriting is said to exist. Unaccountably, her signature was found on a petition from May 1987, requisitioning the tearing down of an opera house.
If Patty’s signature were an EKG, the patient flatlined by the second syllable.
344.
When Beenish invited Wally to the launch of Dollar and Change Kabab, he went with honorable and hungry intentions. When Beenish bounded toward Wally and threw her arms around him, he got right to the point. “I’ve plighted my troth to Imogene,” he said, taking a step backward.
“Wow,” said Beenish, taking a step forward. “Really?”
“No, not exactly, but more or less,” said Wally. Beenish started to cry. “Less,” said Wally. They stood still.
Beenish took Wally’s arm and wiped her eyes on his sleeve. “I have an idea,” began Beenish.
Where was Imogene? She was at the co-op meeting, opining about water seepage on the north facade.
345.
Beenish Asif’s plan entailed no biotechnology. Biology, she was confident, would take care of everything.
Beenish already had a name picked out. If it were a boy, Yakub after her uncle; and if it were a girl, Doris Day after Doris Day. If, however, Wally had a suggestion, Beenish would be pleased to consider it.
It was a perfect plan, she thought, incorporating everything she desired: someone to eat for, followed in nine months by someone to play with (who has good toys).
346.
Plan B: see Plan A (above).
347.
When Wally returned home, he woke up Imogene. “Do you want a baby?” Wally said. She opened her eyes a peep and nodded no.
“How about part of one?” Wally said, but Imogene had already fallen back asleep. “I’ve made a decision,” he said nonetheless. “I’m not going to let you get rid of me.”
Imogene was dreaming of Wally’s socks.
348.
The next day, it was resolved by Wally and Imogene that the plan could never fly. Too rough on a child. Too avant-garde. Imogene wanted no role. She did not want to be called aunt or auntimo. She detested baby talk. The apartment would be a mess. Imogene had a nice carpet, don’t forget. She had her career, remember. What if the kid had problems or bad manners? What if it reached the third grade and read on a second-grade level? There was a possibility that it would never have a playmate. What if Wally didn’t feel like throwing around a ball? What if Beenish wanted to raise it as a creationist? Some teenagers murder their parents. Or worse—don’t clean up their rooms. We could never tolerate a bad report card. Would we be expected at PTA meetings? Would Beenish? Which one of us would be a volunteer crossing guard? Imogene thought she did not look good in yellow vinyl, and Wally slept late, but could they both shirk responsibility? What if we didn’t approve of the prom date? We couldn’t allow a minor to choose the college. How many guests would we be allowed to invite to the wedding? What would Imogene tell her mother? We’d need a spare room. We’d need a lawyer. There goes our trip to Istanbul. It would impinge on our bliss. It would cost a lot of money. Scads and scads.
“And besides,” said Wally, “I would never want an off-spring who did not remind me of you.”
“Thank you,” said Imogene. “But really, go ahead.”
“No,” said Wally. “I don’t think I want to be part of a threesome.”
“A foursome,” said Imogene.
349.
Wally and Imogene returned to their life.
350.
They had cereal for dinner.
351.
“But why aren’t you jealous?” Wally said, tapping the overturned box to coax out the last of the recalcitrant toasted wheat flakes. “I would be jealous,” Wally said.
“Please pass the milk,” said Imogene.
“I am jealous,” thought Wally.
352.
Wally gave Imogene a soulful look.
353.
Wally went to New Jersey for a conference entitled “Why Darwin Just Had to Naturally Select Emma Wedgwood.” When, after many days, Wally showed up at home again, Imogene looked up from her sewing and remembered how she’d felt about him in the days before she knew him intimately, if she really did.
She felt a frisson of je ne sais quoi.
354.
“So,” she said, “is it nature or nurture?”
“Norture,” said Wally, opening the refrigerator. “Leftover Mexican or leftover Indian?”
“Neither,” said Imogene. “Not even Indican.”
355.
That settled that.*
356.
While Wally was waiting for his dungarees to dry in the dryer, he took an online career aptitude test. “Guess my dream career!” he said, marching into Imogene’s office with the exciting news. His dungarees were still damp.
“Just a moment,” said Imogene. “I’m trying to write a memo.”
“But we were in the middle of a conversation,” said Wally.
357.
Imogene went back to writing her memo.*
358.
Wally kneaded Imogene’s shoulder. He did not tell her that according to métiermatch.com, he was a person who liked to go with the flow, act before thinking, live for the moment (but also for what will be), explain things with big words, and freeze, not burn, to death. Nor did he tell her that he, like Robert Oppenheimer and Joan of Arc, would find fulfillment, happiness, and reward as a shepherd in New Zealand. He did not tell Imogene that he’d also filled out the questionnaire on her behalf, and she should absolutely pursue a life of petty crime.
Instead, Wally said to Imogene, “Do you know how lucky you are to have someone who loves you as much as I do? That’s worth many hundreds of dollars a year.”
359.
Here’s the thing: Imogene did.
360.
The next time Wally asked Imogene to marry him, she polled a bunch of her girlfriends to find out how happy they were in their marriages. “It’s nice to have someone around who’ll get things off of the high shelves,” e-mailed a woman thrice married to increasingly taller men. “And you are never locked out of the house for long.”
“I’m content,” said another respondent. “But if Mark spontaneously incinerated, I wouldn’t marry again. Would I marry Mark again? You’re joking! Are you joking?”
“Happy?” a newlywed told Imogene. “That’s such a nondescriptive description. It’s more like miserable. I miss my lonely Saturday nights.”
Indeed, the results were not a hip-hip-hooray for wedlock, though there was emphatic support for the convenience of two people sharing entrées at Chinese restaurants.
361.
Mathematical psychologists have determined the marital bliss quotient to be uncannily close to π.
362.
Wally sent Imogene a postcard, enumerating her virtues (the usuals, plus spelling), declaring his everlasting love for her, and calling her attention to the fact that he could have handed her the epistle that morning in the kitchen, but felt that his gratuitous expenditure on postage would prove the degree of his amour.*
363.
One beautiful day, Wally told Imogene that he thought evaporation was overrated. Imogene was not aware that evaporation had been rated.
364.
“See that parking lot?” Wally said to Imogene one day while they were hurrying to get somewhere. “I parked there once.”
“That’s nice,” said Imogene, who was trying to remember if she liked clementines or was it tangelos.
“And now you know everything about me,” said Wally. “That’s all there is.”
“Clementines,” thought Im
ogene.
365.
There were times that Wally or Imogene would think, prior to replying to the other: What words does my beloved most want to hear? There were other times when each would think: What could I say that would result in the most vexation?
366.
But mostly there was the rest of the time.
367.
In the European Paintings and Sculpture wing, Wally and Imogene lost each other, though which had been the loser and which had been lost was never determined.
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