Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine

by Diane Williams

  But the guest interrupted him, “I don’t agree that there is a comfortable space for each of us out there and we have to find it. I think this is so wrong. It assumes there is a little environment that you can slip into and be perfectly happy. My notion is you try to do all the things you’re comfortable with and eventually you will find your comfortable environment.”

  A man they called Mike smoked a maduro and he had a urine stain on his trouser fly. He was very attentive to the host and to his wife Melissa.

  “Stop!” his wife cried, but he’d done it already—tipped the ashtray he’d used—the dimpled copper bowl—into the grate behind the fire screen. The ashes fell down nicely, sparsely. There was still some dark, sticky stuff leftover in the bowl.

  The host called, “Kids! Mike! Dad and Mom!” He called these copulators to come in to dinner. In fact, this group represented a predictable array of vocations—including hard workers, worriers, travelers, and liars—defecators, of course, urinators and music makers.

  PEOPLE OF THE WEEK

  “She just can’t hop over the ocean. She has small children,” Petra said.

  “I didn’t think you even knew what Ethelind looked like.”

  “I saw her up front. I thought you saw her. Let’s go see Tim.”

  “I don’t want to see Tim. Why would I want to see Tim? Who is Anita? I want to thank Anita.”

  “Dale, is that you?” a woman called. It was Tim who turned, thinking that someone had mistaken him for Dale.

  The damage from that misunderstanding was irremeable and Tim felt that he was standing up only on his hind legs, shaking hands with a forepaw. It was kind of rough for Tim while wearing the pair of trousers, his belt, and the shirt with the collar.

  Anita took hold of Tim’s necktie. “Come on, tell me that bug story again,” she said. She was satisfied that nothing of much depth or subtlety would ever occur to her again.

  Tim pushed her hand off of his necktie. “Where do I know you from?” he said.

  Dale led the way into the dining room. He can’t stand the situation—this branch of the activity.

  Imogene inquired, “What was her name?”

  That was Jasmine, who deals sensibly with everyone.

  These are people who, owing to curious regularities, maintain high, trusted positions. They have acquired love, wealth, and fame, but they don’t think they’ve gotten enough reward for all that.

  THE ROMANTIC LIFE

  “Gunther should show up and act as if he’s learned something,” Rohana said. “But he has a very good situation where he is—I am sure. I don’t know why he’d want to come back here.”

  Gunther had died young and she thought he visited the house whenever she traveled. This was her explanation for why a five-hundred-pound mirror had fallen off of the wall when she was in Cannes. Gunther was to blame. And his pet dog Spark—long dead too—had trotted out of the boxwood to greet her upon her return. However, unlike Gunther, the ancient Airedale had chosen to stay on.

  Aunt Rohana offered me my favorite—her red porridge specialty—a compote made from berries and served with heavy cream. “You can always cheer me up!” she said.

  And, really—wasn’t this a lavish new world with new and possibly better rules?—so that I would no longer be sitting along the curbing. And, I thought Rohana loved me, whereas my own mother, her sister, did not.

  I tried not to pry my thoughts away from my new surroundings, because I had been left alone for a few hours—and I was almost successful.

  As I was a young woman without a sexual partner—awareness of the deprivation was not half the battle—I was thinking about sex and at the same time I was moving my attention to the furniture, the fireplace—the walls and all of the doors that bore oak carvings in art nouveau.

  Then I saw Gunther!—or he could have been a replica of the lost original. A small bent male figure was on the threshold of my room, close by a tripod table.

  He slouched toward me and there was something that was not eager in his eyes. But nevertheless, he looked determined.

  “Why don’t you speak?” he said.

  He was zipped into a fur-trimmed anorak—and not at all dressed properly for the hot summer season.

  He kicked the table.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Dead,” he said. He made his way into the kitchen and the dog Spark and I followed him.

  He put two hands on the sink rim to begin the maneuver and next he pivoted on his heels. He pushed in the upper dishwasher tray that had been left out and was overhanging.

  The dog gasped behind me. I turned—and when I turned back around Gunther was gone.

  My memory is that Rohana had run an errand that day to get a chicken to roast, a box of soap, and a ball of twine.

  “Oh, God! What do you want me to say?” she said, when I told her.

  I stayed at Rohana’s another day or two before I went home with a new backbone for my plodding along.

  Sudden sounds didn’t frighten me and I didn’t mind the sense of being stared at when I was alone.

  Rohana has a nerve condition now, such that if she sits still and doesn’t move her left foot, she is fine. Otherwise she needs to take a lot of pain medication.

  And as Gunther has done—I have shown up in certain places with a bang. And when I come into rooms, it’s surely a relief to one and all that I am helpful.

  I feel there is so much yet to explore about how people experience a “pull” toward anyone.

  THE GREAT PASSION AND ITS CONTEXT

  She bears the problems inherent in her circumstance that are not suddenly in short supply and she sways while guessing who really looks at her impatiently while she faces all of the faces—the multiple rows of the pairs of persons—the prime examples in the train aisle.

  She has her shoes back on, because she had to get up to dispose of her lunchtime detritus. But fortunately she did not fall onto the passenger next to her, that man, when she returned.

  They are passing through a city center with turn-of-the-century-style lanterns and ice skaters who put their feet down, somewhat decisively, all over a rink!

  Some of their legs are bowed and there are the curvilinear, stylized profiles of their legs exemplifying natural organic forms, but they’re none of them hobbling.

  This woman’s foot was recently injured and many weeks’ rest were required before she had the rapture of standing on it—in strict accordance with the doctor’s instructions.

  Oh, cover my mouth!—she thinks, as her wet nose, while she coughs, finds her forearm. And although she is usually an irate parent, she has her share of lovesick feelings, especially during intervals of freedom from her toddlers, such as this one.

  She feels the onset of arousal, of genital swelling that is triggered by no one in particular and she has the inability to think normally.

  What’s still to come?—a warm flat landscape?—a shallow swimming pool?—the complete ruin of her health?—her absolute devotion to anyone?

  The top of the woman’s foot is still puffy and she has had quarrels at home every day this week and she goes to sleep distraught.

  With dexterity, she had managed the bundling of her lunchtime cardboard tray, some cellophane and the napkin and a waxy cup.

  Children, who belong to another woman three rows up ahead, are singing a duet—two boys—in unison, and then in contrary motion. They offer their share of resistance to you name it!—in a remote and difficult key, and in poor taste artistically.

  SPECIALIST

  “For a blue sky, that blue’s a bit dark, don’t you think? And the sea’s a bit too choppy,” I said, “for that dog to be dashing into it.”

  “You mean the man threw something into the water?” my son said. “That’s why the dog jumped in?”

  An hour passed. Why not say twenty years?

  In the Green Room, I had fortunately ordered Frenched Chicken Breast—Chocolate Napoleon.

  And at a great height—up on a ba
lcony, as I readied to depart—a pianist began his version of Cole Porter’s “Katie Went to Haiti.” I waved to him.

  He nodded, likely pleased by the attention, but it was hard to tell—for only his radiant pate was made visible by a tiny ceiling light.

  To my surprise, the air in the street was too hot to give pleasure and a cyclist was mistakenly on the sidewalk.

  The cyclist hit me, and it’s vile after my life ends in the afterlife. Lots of incense, resin, apes, and giraffe-tails—all acquired tastes. I don’t like that kind of thing.

  THE POET

  She carves with a sharply scalloped steel blade, makes slices across the top of a long, broad loaf of yeasted bread for the dog who begs and there’s a cat there, too.

  She holds the loaf against her breast and presses it up under her chin. But this is no violin! Won’t she sever her head?

  AT A PERIOD OF EXCEPTIONAL DULLNESS

  The influence of the early evening’s sunset was much less bloody inside of the salon, spreading itself like red smoke or like a slowly moving red fog, unbounded.

  Yet, Mrs. Farquhar’s hair was nearly bloodred, and it behaved like dry hair.

  The hairdresser lifted a clump of it, dropped it. To soften it, she reached for her leave-in detangler.

  She looked for more signs of neglect, the thread connections that could come to light. She said, “It’s all broken. It’s much worse.”

  The haircut trickled along, and it would take a long time.

  But how terribly unhappy Mrs. Farquhar was. She must not have been adaptable to something else much more serious in particular.

  However, the tea she had been served had the tang of the dirty lake of her childhood that she remembered swallowing large amounts of while swimming, and she wore the shop’s black Betty Dain easy-to-wear client wrap robe.

  The full view of Mrs. Farquhar’s face and of her hair in the mirror was a trial for both of them.

  Nonetheless, the hairdresser preened. She wore an elite Betty Dain gown, too.

  Later she tidied up and by breakfast time, at home, the next morning—the hairdresser was alone, wedged between her chair and the table. There was a plastic plate in front of her and a ceramic mug. These both had glossy surfaces—impenetrable, opaque.

  She removed her solitaire pearl finger ring, put it onto the plate.

  Through the window she saw her pruned shrubbery, a narrow green lawn, no trees.

  She believed it was her duty to size these things up.

  What was it that she did or did not admire? It was a question of her upsetting something.

  HEAD OF THE BIG MAN

  The family was blessed with more self-confidence than most of us have and with a great lawn, with arbors and beds of flowers, and with a fountain in the shape of a sun at the south end. It is not our purpose to say anything imprecise about their scheme, how they had gotten on with tufted and fringed furniture, with their little tables, a parquet floor, a bean pot.

  The walls inside of this country house were amber-colored where they entertained quite formally—until the old mansion was destroyed.

  It was a shapely shingle-style house, with bulbous posts.

  But what kind of confident people behave poorly by not being confident enough?

  Let us examine the case.

  Eldrida Cupit had given birth to four children. Three of these and their father drowned trying to cross the Quesnel River in a boat. She later married Mr. Cupit and had many more children. “Imp,” as she was known, was famous for her fresh peach sour cream pie, her steak shortcake, and more significantly for her élan.

  People often saw her husband Blade on the street and he not only was polite, but he invited many personally to his home to hear about his rough riding days and his numerous good works.

  In her later years, Mrs. Cupit dressed slowly for dinner and did not intend nor want to see anyone, except for her husband at dinner.

  Frequently her husband left the table before she arrived and then edged himself up the back stairs.

  He began to drink and lost all of his money after his wife died.

  Often, as in this tale, a downpour with thunder and lightning is sufficiently full-bodied to get somebody’s whole attention. In one such storm Mr. Cupit had a vision of his wife. Her clothing was not exactly cut to fit and she showed no sign of affection. “Well, act like you’re not going up a hill,” his wife said, “but you’re still going to go up it!”

  For a while, after their deaths, their residence was open to tourists who were apt to get exhausted touring it.

  The diamond-shaped hall, placed in the center—its dimensions and spaciousness were rooted, were grounded as if the hall was growing as an ample area. It was finished in mahogany. The dominant message here being: “Looks like one of you splurged!”

  None of this would have been possible without the involvement of morally strong, intelligent people who were then spent.

  Young farmers and rural characters, obstetrical nurses, scholars, clergy—all the rest!—will have their great hopes realized more often than not—unless I decide to tell their stories.

  LIVING DELUXE

  True! Yes! Mother always gave me a tribute with a sigh.

  I was her favorite, and that was another reason I took money from her that rightfully belonged to my sister and my brother.

  My mother knew I needed to be a person with flair and I can be.

  It may require a little time.

  No lack of courage could have caused me to turn away from a day laborer on the foot pavement who sneezed a larger-than-life-size sneeze with an open mouth. Then he crossed himself multiple times, as I went by him.

  It pained me to hold my breath while outdistancing him, and I wondered how far I’d need to go to keep free of any noxious air. I thought briefly I might count out the accurate, necessary number of cubic feet or yards.

  But I was restful during a letup in the late afternoon, when my sister visited me. Her metal necklace caught at my shawl collar and it pulled loose a thread as I embraced her.

  Her appearance needed some repair, too.

  She is Liz Munson. She is a judge! She decides whether people live or die!

  She declined a drink but ate a few of the hemp seeds I’d left out in my hors d’oeuvre dish.

  “How is Maurice?” I said. “Did that one end?”

  “He’s with the boys,” she said, and then took a pause to round out her lungs to their capacity.

  Henry the cat put his paws up on me and called out a critical remark. Then he made his other noise that is tinged with bitterness. He is sand color in the style of the day with cement accents.

  Liz’s Henry is black chestnut.

  I’ll make no attempt to explain a cat’s problems that are basic to all cats—schemes that are unrealistic.

  I held tightly, for an instant, on to Henry’s tail, when he moved to go far afield, for his suffering and his sacrifice—although the cat’s tail is a branch that refuses to break.

  Henry had charm once upon a time. Now he wastes it stalking. “Stay and eat with me, Liz.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said.

  What had she come for?

  My sister picked up a piece of bric-a-brac that was on the console and put it into the unimpressive realm of her handbag.

  What I call a toy—what she took—was mine, never Mother’s: a leaden mammal of some sort, with horns.

  Oddly, Liz has never noticed here her ten-pounder da Vinci omnibus with its gravure illustrations, its spine sensationally exhibited on a shelf, that bears this inscription on the frontispiece: To Liz and Neville, with best wishes for a happy life in a world of friendship and guz. (That last was illegible.) Signed Stephen and Lil Cole.

  Leonardo may not have founded science, but I learned from him that genius does not bog down.

  I lit the stove top and put water on to boil and next poured in baby peas. I made parallel straight rules—incisions in the chunk of Gruyere. The water foamed in the pot and I filled a r
are antique potato basket with New York rye.

  “You are a wonder,” my sister said. “I am not after your food. I want to bring you bad luck.”

  “No harm done!” I said.

  The peas had cooked and cooled. I prepared a pea and cheese stuffed-tomato salad. Enough for two.

  My visitor was nagging at me, which was hurtful to the pride I intend to take along with me into my future.

  And just where am I now?

  I live near a dip in the suburbs. Some would call this a ravine—which I make visible at night with floodlights.

  I believe it demands cunning enterprise on my part to reveal the fancywork of bare winter poplar and oak, maple and ash. I saw a sycamore tree bent at more than fifteen degrees from vertical!

  My dining table is only nominally illuminated, so that our hands and our arms and Liz’s face became quickly—sickly. Unaccountably, she had sat herself right across from me.

  My sister sneezed and put her hand to her mouth in time.

  “God bless you,” I said.

  She sneezed again rather more sloppily and that reminded me of a joke. She underwent yet another sudden, spasmodic action—and this time she did not try to keep her bacteria back.

  My harrier removed two handmade beeswax candles from their brass serpent candleholders on her way out.

  She yelled my name—“Ola!”—and I turned away for relief—aiming to sit in my wingback rather than the lounge chair.

  I saw the downed sycamore through the pane, the suggestion of a sky far away, and some of the sharply peaked trees straining to bend or to unbend, or at least to shed their shapes, or to be somewhat more neatly executed.

  Very well. I took from my family one hundred thousand dollars—say fifty thousand. Say it was three million. It was thirty-five thousand!—forty. It was two hundred dollars.

  There was aggravated tapping near the tall wraparound window.