The Collected Stories of Diane Williams

by Diane Williams

  They handed out sheets with the lyrics to the song we’d written as a farewell for Uncle Chew. A part was missing.

  When we arrived at this reunion it was chilly. The next day warmer. The next day chilly. The day after, I had a speech to make. We had hiked a certain distance past the church doorway, the hearth, the courtyard, along the village lane, the rough brick wall. I saw the same backdrop more than once so that I got my bearings. I was a woman in a fur collar and false hair, reminiscing.

  They handed out lunch-box sandwiches as I came slowly down the length of my time, which I have become very at­tached to, and my memories and my remarks—hurt my pride.

  Expectant Motherhood

  I don’t like them or my brother. My children don’t like me.

  I count the affronts, mindful not to give up all my views. I’d rather contort my guts. Conditions are somewhat unfa­vorable, despite strengths. I’d feel so much better if Brucie influenced me.

  There is a side to me they have not been exposed to. I men­tion this. They take up their tasks. In short, my daughter told me to wait a minute, that she’d join me.

  I said, “No!”

  She put her head back and closed her coat at the neck. “I wonder if you realize . . .” she said. It took me a moment to.

  Everyone else was hurrying. We stood. She was leaning against the mantelpiece. “Why are you so unpleasant?”

  I answered, “I don’t wish you well.”

  I threw my gloves on the floor and my hat. I had been wear­ing my dark blue coat. Drops of moisture were on our win­dows, and fog. We are a family. There’s a point to it and to the dimmer switch in the foyer. The next thing—my daughter was stepping along the corridor and out the door. I seriously did not think I was in the state I describe as reserved for me.

  Comfort

  She made assurances that satisfied her ambitions—saw the body interred, spent the rest of the week asking questions, suggesting action. She visited with her family and reminisced.

  Getting routine matters out of the way, she headed home after buying a grounding plug and ankle wrist weights.

  She fed the dog and put the boys to bed. Allen didn’t go to work.

  She received a call from a woman whose sister had died.

  She made some of those unequaled assurances, was es­corted with the family to the grave. People seem to respond to her. She talked with them, gave a woman a played-out peck on the cheek.

  Getting routine matters out of the way, she attained riches, social position, power, studied for an hour or so, cleaned up, took the family to a movie, after which she forecasted her own death with a lively narration that gave her gooseflesh.

  She felt raw, pink and so fresh!

  The Strength

  “I am going to cough,” I said. “Cough, cough.”

  I left Mary, my mother, to experience that by herself and went to get the dish—a lion couchant—with a slew of nuts in it, and I served us wine, and I coughed.

  Mary put her hand on the top of her head, as if she could not rightly rest it there.

  “Mary, how are you, Mary?” I said. “Now, Mary.”

  “Not so good,” she replied. “I’ve just been lying around.”

  Then she changed into the shape she pleased—an upright, independent person.

  My father, her husband—we were surprised—walked in, buttoning himself to depart. I had thought he was dead. His bad foot had killed him.

  My mother and my dead father provide strength for me. They recklessly challenge their competency.

  It is senseless to prevent them.

  This Has to Be the Best

  It isn’t until a Bengal cat comes by—the Sheepshanks’ cat Andy—that I can see my way in the dark so to speak.

  This flame design decorates almost all of his body and the brilliancy demonstrates exceptional technique.

  When I pet the cat, I rough up too much of the detail, and the cat is yelling at me.

  I went to the sex shop after. I know the saleswoman there very well.

  And yet Brenda said, “I have never seen you before in my whole life!”

  This must be on account of the harsh light.

  A Man, An Animal

  At the cinema I watched closely the camels, the horses, the young actor taking his stance for the sexual act.

  He started up with a pretty girl we had a general view of.

  I felt the girl’s pallor stick into me.

  Another girl, in pink swirls alternating with yellow swirls, intruded.

  The girls were like the women who will one day have to have round-the-clock duty at weddings, at birthdays, at days for the feasts.

  Unaccountably, I hesitated on the last step of the cinema’s escalator when we were on our way out, and several persons bumped into me.

  An ugly day today—I didn’t mention that, with fifty mile per hour winds.

  But here is one of the more fortunate facts: We were Mr. and Mrs. Gray heading home.

  It has been said—the doors of a house should always swing into a room. They should open easily to give the im­pression to those entering that everything experienced in­side will be just as easy.

  A servant girl was whipping something up when we ar­rived, and she carried around the bowl with her head bowed.

  We’ve been told not to grab at breasts.

  Before leaving for Indiana in the morning—where I had to clean up arrangements for a convention—I stood near my wife to hear her speak. So, who is she and what can I expect further from her?

  What she did, what she said in the next days, weeks and years, addresses the questions Americans are insistently, even obsessively asking—but what sorts of pains in the neck have I got?

  Please forgive our confusion and our failures. We make our petitions—say our prayers. It’s like our falling against a wall, in a sense.

  On a recent day, my wife gave me a new scarf to wear as a present. It’s chrome green. Her mother Della, on that same day, had helped her to adjust to her hatred of me.

  I’d have to say, I’ve given my wife a few very pleasant shocks, too.

  Shelter

  Derek is somebody everybody loves because everybody loves what Derek loves and he is handsome. I’ve left Derek behind on the veranda, in the vestibule, in the passage. He is fifty-two years old and behaving properly. Every day he thinks of what to do and wonderfully he tries to do it. I can make out his force, his shape. He sits at a shrewd distance from the dining parlor, now.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee (none for Derek), bad tast­ing, that satisfies my hunger.

  Oh fine—pretty rooms, opening out on either side. I am refreshed, filled with sweet feelings, enjoying a revival, long and looping, and I pull a door shut and take slower steps, as if walking to my bus stop.

  I’ll be unmanageable at the back stair’s spiral.

  Not a correct use of this residence.

  But how odd it is—I recorked a bottle and stowed a jar of mayonnaise and Derek came in here for a particular reason.

  Derek’s task is to provide continuity room to room—thoughtfully—consistent with ensuring that no violent breaks occur and shouldn’t I appreciate this?

  Also, the recent calming wave of walls and ceilings has helped me very much.

  However, the shovel and tongs, upright against the mantel­piece, you could argue that they just don’t belong!

  I make every effort not to crack or to split and to fit in, albeit, fitfully.

  Enormously Pleased

  Like this—leaning forward—she spit into a tulip bed within a block of Capital One—with her head like this.

  Passing Rudi’s, she saw the barbers in their barber chairs—four, five of them—in royal blue smocks—they had fallen asleep.

  There are so many more things like
that. She had spent the morning with the problem of sex.

  Now she was making her progress into town. The sun was low. In any case, the weather—there are so many more things like that.

  The woman made her progress as if she were an ordinary woman who was not aware of all her good fortune. The pear trees in bloom looked to her like clusters or fluff. She saw more things like that, that were complete successes.

  She had spit into the tulip bed, as so often happens in life, with verve, and that was fun. Neither was the sun too low or too cold.

  The documents she signed at Capital One glittered like cer­tain leaves, like some flowers. That bending, that signing had hurt her back. She had more money as of today in her every­day life and she was tucking her hair and bending her hair as she had so often planned.

  When she awakened that morning, she had smoothed her hair—when semi-alert—but she was still capable of adven­tures and their central thrust and with some encouragement, the penis of her husband had been leaning its head forward and plucking at her.

  The barbers in their smocks, in the town, had awakened and were busy with their customers. And, she’s a doctor!—or a lawyer!—with only a few griefs to her name. She’s great!

  If we trace the early years of her life, the intricacies, the dark years, the large middle zone, the wide-spacing between the fluctuations, as between her progress and her verve—the balanced tension—we see that the woman turns everyday life into daydreams, trusts in the future, is gullible and has some emotional immaturity.

  Hello! Hi! Hello!

  My association with Moffat was the luxury of my life or a dec­orative keynote—a postage stamp.

  On Moffat’s recommendation I took a meal alone at Chei-ro’s Café. I drank ginger ale with my black cherry linzer. I ate one fried egg and that felt as if I was eating a postage stamp—with its flat ridges.

  I had begged Moffat, to be completely fair, to keep on with having what he called fun with me. Although, I have a respect­ful attitude toward the public status of the person addressed, he had become, he said, disentranced.

  There is a reasonable code of conduct concerning Moffat.

  I found I was a bit cold-pigged—drained, not dried entirely.

  I came to rest in front of the elegant Blue Tree.

  I had on a gather skirt—steeped in red—a blouse with a series of buttons, hair combed. I noted my showy, stylish ap­proach in the shop window glass with relieved surprise.

  Once inside, I bought a simulated coral and onyx necklace, colorless beads, another necklace with swiftly flowing floral decorations, with ruby and gold glints that gives me a liberally watered shine.

  When exiting, I studied trifling clouds stacked deliberately.

  By and by, Moffat came along, popping out his fingers bouquet-style and calling my name.

  He made a simultaneous outward swipe, with both his hands, with his fingers spread.

  What a darling! No bad side. He has a strong activity level and a good sense of presentation and he’s tentatively changed his mind—about me!

  He’s added, throughout his life, quite a rare group of us to his collection.

  Penelope, for one, has a coiffure with a small, japanned bun and she’s very neatly sweet.

  My intention, with my own flourishes, is to create an im­pression of frankness and ambition.

  I am prepared to be examined again.

  I should be observed strongly and for a long time, so they can see the changes of my colors during the goings-on.

  As the World Turned Out

  There’s usually a side table in the story—a place to put a vase of flowers—or a potted plant—a clock, a book. A late-blooming flower may show up in the story—a swimming pool, a carefully groomed garden, pheasants touring the grounds (I mean peasants), Bella Donnelly, the Fraser fam­ily, one-on-one meetings with people enthusiastic about work, laughter and companionship, the great tragedy in­flicted when people go under, the notion that even a woman can thrust herself forward and up and so-to-speak out from under on the first step down.

  Lord of the Face

  The fact that she’s backlit makes her look ambitious and she tickles my funny bone.

  First I thought that her blue eyes on a pink and yellow background looked a bit purblind, but then their general dimension intrigued me. They have a nice design—glare—and they’re not generous.

  It’s hard to slot him in. He seemed novicelike, uncertain of himself, but he was efficient.

  She said, “I am Diane Williams.”

  They went out to the terrace for a cigarette.

  Italy itself is very lovely, but as the brightness of the sun hit the terrace, the figure of a six-legged star—a sign for sure—was produced on the bluestone.

  All six legs of the star were fairly straight. One leg of the star was not exactly the same length as the others. One leg was perfectly straight.

  Their housekeeper grabbed at her own leg and at the top side of her foot.

  Their cat was yanked up off of the terrace by a bird of prey and then dropped!

  For the cat’s recovery there were five thousand dollars worth of veterinarian bills and for the housekeeper—a premo­nition she’d be hit by a car.

  The star! The cross! The square!

  A single sign shows the tendency. Can people avoid disas­ter? Yes. I leave my readers to draw their own conclusions.

  Some years ago, I was satisfied.

  Stop!

  Diane! So many things are clear. Diane was blushing. Her yellow fuzz shows in the sun. She no longer has words of her own and so chooses grunting. Diane! Open! Contribute! In­form! The place!—her brown fuzz, a yellow fuzz over it. The curtains are original. A room contains medical equipment. Diane’s an early type who before arriving in Siena had a day planned for her departure. She had made the arrangements so she’d stay during the spring in Italy as an imaginary character with hope.

  FINE, FINE, FINE, FINE, FINE

  (2016)

  How long will Harry Doe live? . . . Who will win the war? . . .

  Will Mary Jane Brown ultimately find a husband . . . ?

  —leo markun

  Beauty, Love, and Vanity Itself

  As usual I’d hung myself with snappy necklaces, but other­wise had given my appearance no further thought, even though I anticipated the love of a dark person who will be my source of prosperity and emotional pleasure.

  Mr. Morton arrived about 7 p.m. and I said, “I owe you an explanation.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. But when my little explanation was completed, he refused the meal I offered, saying, “You proba­bly don’t like the way I drink my soda or how I eat my olives with my fingers.”

  He exited at a good clip and nothing further developed from that affiliation.

  The real thing did come along. Bob—Tom spent several days in June with me and I keep up with books and magazines and go forward on the funny path pursuing my vocation.

  I also went outside to enjoy the fragrant odor in an Illinois town and kept to the thoroughfare that swerved near the fence where yellow roses on a tawny background are always faded out at the end of the season.

  I never thought a big cloud hanging in the air would be crooked, but it was up there—gray and deranged.

  Happily, in the near distance, the fence was making the most of its colonial post caps.

  And isn’t looking into the near distance sometimes so quaint?—as if I am re-embarking on a large number of relations or recurrent jealousies.

  Poolside at the Marriott Courtyard, I was wearing what oth­ers may laugh at—the knee-length black swimsuit and the black canvas shoes—but I don’t have actual belly fat, that’s just my stomach muscles gone slack.

  I saw three women go into the pool and when they got to the rope, they kept on walking. One woman disap
peared. The other two flapped their hands.

  “They don’t know what the rope is,” the lifeguard said. “I mean everybody knows what a rope means.”

  I said, “Why didn’t you tell them?” and he said, “I don’t speak Chinese.”

  I said, “They are drowning,” and the lifeguard said, “You know, I think you’re right.”

  Our eyes were on the surface of the water—the wobbling patterns of diagonals. It was a hash—nothing to look at—much like my situation—if you’re not going to do anything about it.

  A Gray Pottery Head

  How tenderly she had arranged the gray pottery head of a woman on her mantel—the subtly revealed head of an archaic woman. It exhibits some bumps and some splits.

  This was a gift from the Danish gentleman who had also given her a Georg Jensen necklace in the original box.

  She had been lucky in love as she understood it.

  And that night—some progress to report. Something excit­ing afoot. She has a quarter hour more to live.

  Even if she only gets to the lower roadway, she’ll have to manage somehow.

  Her boiled woolen cloak was wrapped around her tilting body and she was driving her car as if it were being blown away by the wind.

  She had gone down this particular road to go home for years. This time she also arrived close by the familiar place, dying.

  A tulip tree, tucked into a right angle formed by two planes, was brought into her view.

  The police officer who inspected her dead body saw one area of damage and the pretty mother-of-pearl, gold and enamel Jensen ornament that was around her neck.