Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine

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Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine, Fine Page 4

by Diane Williams


  Here’s how it is—he had just gotten as far as Childs & Son Excavation Company, which has a colonnaded façade.

  His wife, back at home, sat in front of their hole-in-the-wall fireplace.

  If her husband is delayed, she’ll prepare for herself a nice shirred egg.

  Has he anything in mind when he nears Mitchell’s Sheet Metal and the Nelson Fuel Company?

  You have got a lot of nerve! comes to mind. Somebody in his childhood said that frequently, but who was it who said it?

  His wife is thinking, I am usually in a rush, but I am not in a rush today.

  She stows a spool of thread and a needle threaded with the thread. And didn’t she put away her ring? It had been prized and placid on the bureau top, with its many little rough points—the prongs—that in the course of time had never gone and worn themselves down smoothly.

  This is how her husband’s feet move his body—it’s a spring-like action.

  His wife hunts for more objects to put away. Many are made of cheap metal—boat-shaped or cube-shaped.

  She enjoys their real fireplace, sitting by it, studying the in-and-out curve of it and the projecting stub of its mantel.

  She tells herself, “Take all the time to clean up that you need.”

  By chance, her husband has not yet come up against the bridge he seeks—but he has seen many towers and domes, porches and arches and doors, and he always enjoys the step-gabled buildings in the old town.

  Then at last, he sees the bridge that seems to him to be sinking. The bridge has become a boob, or a drunk, or a bum.

  His wife puts an egg into a greased custard cup, dots it with butter, salt and pepper, and a drop of milk. She slides the egg—which had spent nearly the entirety of its life stone-cold and refrigerated—into the hot oven.

  Her husband is now uncomprehending. The road he’d been on was pointing toward the bridge, so now how did the road suddenly take a sharp turn away from the bridge and head over toward this warehouse?

  His wife begins to eat, but she cannot swallow.

  You blockhead, you ass!

  And her husband is back at the business of piling up the sights that have been left lying around.

  Typically, her husband has had an air of daring while he attempts—at each important stage of the trek—to take everything in.

  LAMB CHOPS, COD

  She had stopped insisting that they have heart-to-heart conversations, but for stranded people, they had these nice moments together, and he had his professional enjoyment at the newspaper. He approved the issues there with a scientific mind and he made quite a contribution. He was a consultant in the field of efficiency.

  She should have appreciated that, I guess. I don’t know—she felt lonely.

  After dinner, he would go into his room and sometimes read or do his engraving or follow up on his stamp collection or solve math problems from that year’s baccalaureate examination. Once he told me that once a year he reread Our Man in Havana. It had something to do with Havana. You know—petty things—I guess my mother wanted full attention, not for him to have private time by himself. I don’t know what my mother did when she was in her room. She was working. She was working a lot. She devoted herself to family matters, making trouble. But I am convinced that she did love him extremely and after he died she said that that was the fact.

  Then they had golf together and they did trips. There was a French newspaper that would invite him to solve a technical problem. He was amazing that way.

  They would playact around the occasion of having dinner. I’m not sure, but I’m afraid that they did it for every dinner. She would put on her best gown and wear the diamond ornament, which she felt free to pin anywhere on her garment if it was necessary for the brooch to cover up a soiled spot.

  He wore black lacquer pumps, silk stockings that went up under the knees. His breeches were tied under the knees and he would have tails and white tie on. My mother would provide the basic meal—cod or lamb chops. He would provide—he loved to go to the store that was similar to Fortnum and Mason and buy smoked salmon, cheese, fruit in season, asparagus. They had cocktails at five o’clock. They would listen to the news and then they’d sit down to the table, light the candles. They would have their little feast together. Then after the meal, he’d sit down and do work in his room. His French was very good, so sometimes he translated manuals from French or the other way around. And before bedtime, they’d have a cup of tea together with a cookie.

  He loved an existence of this kind and to eat food.

  He died while he was still glossy and smooth at the dinner table between the fish with dill—a great favorite—outstanding with butter—and the boiled blue plum dumplings.

  OF THE TRUE AND FINAL GOOD

  The gimcracks were set out on a jutting surface and the woman listened to the indoor crowd that made the sound of a storm in a dry forest.

  Upon entering the mansion—referred to as “the castle” by the locals at that time—she saw the carvings in wood and in stone—and among them a white wolf with an open mouth, made from white limestone.

  There was a broad blown cry from the woman that expressed her satisfaction.

  By contrast, a man and a boy found the air inside difficult to breathe and they did not view the staircase or the urns in the niches as among the finest in the world. Nor had they walked in there with the notion that this will do.

  But other people arrived who could be benefited by observing the luxury—so that the big place didn’t rub them the wrong way.

  The woman eyed swords and sabers hung on the wall, all exceptional. Next to these was an oil painting in a bulky frame featuring a copper pot and eucalyptus leaves.

  The woman stayed briefly in a location close by it.

  The true state of things inside of the painting was unclear. The painting needed cleaning. The woman could not sufficiently experience either the fragrance of the leaves or the copper pot’s heavenly glow.

  “Oh, sorry!” the man with his boy said to the woman.

  Something had startled him also. He was a thin little man who held his face in his hands. “I don’t like this place do you?” he said.

  He didn’t approach too closely. But the woman reached out and laid a hand on his arm and she gripped it.

  Then both of her hands were pulling at his sleeve.

  People who saw her putting a lot of effort into it wondered why.

  She was carefully fashioned, vivid and polished, but should her desired result fail to be obtained—she’ll fade.

  GLIMPSES OF MRS. WILLIAMS

  I admired her that she withdrew herself before her presence became annoying, but she was definitely putting herself forward to be available and friendly.

  She remembered our names and our aggravations and she gently rapped on my husband’s shoulder to inquire if his rotator cuff problem had been remedied.

  Well, I was impressed by that. This is my mother we are talking about!

  But on a personal note, how shall I say?—she carried herself with grace.

  She liked to wear this loosely knotted scarf, with a loop forward and with a knot, and with the ends of it drooping down her back.

  I especially admired her odd selection of teacups and coffee cups and, I think, only once did I have a repeat presentation of a certain Denby Monsoon Veronica.

  They were all very attractive—the cups—very flowerful, and the best of them had rims that would turn outward slightly in order to appear more than willing to release the tea.

  There were plenty of pitchers and bowls and artwork, but their abundance never reached the level of hemming us in.

  And oh, yes, there was one especially unusual amenity in the bedroom that we used—the tiny background noisemaker—that amongst its many other promises pledged it could sedate babies.

  So you can understand, then, what we were doing—we were expecting benefits while visiting Mrs. Williams—my mother—for a few weeks.

  She said, “Now we can walk a
nd hold our coffee—” as she guided us to our room one Sunday, where there was the cross-eyed Sphinx that I love to get to see, with a ground-down nose, framed in gold.

  Only she did keep saying, “I am so happy about that!”

  Because I couldn’t be happy about any of the things she said she was so happy about and now I don’t remember what those things were.

  But the fact that her citrus plant, when I watered it for her, had seemed to pull up its skirt to expose its private parts—does seem worth the mention.

  We heard her go into her own room.

  Then she opened and came through our bedroom’s louvered door with her complaint and where he could, my husband sat my mother down.

  “What can we do?” we said.

  “Call Jim! Hope for the best!” she said. “Do you have Jim’s number?”

  We summoned Jim who wore a long black coat when he arrived, and Mother went crazy, but just as soon as Jim took the coat off, she was fine.

  “Oh, she’s so worried!” Jim said. But Jim had had to plead with her, “What kind of calculation is this?”

  “Now, you’re going?” Mother said. “Write it down!”

  In large, over-styled lettering, Jim offered his instructions that were sound.

  There were other local personalities who, however, never showed up—Janis Schlitz, Marilyn Issidorides, and the Dufferins—Mother’s neighbors.

  I find I have an all-around vigilance. All of the time, I expect to be reached out to, by a particular person, at a particular time.

  Today, a small woman—built like a small, strong man with pitted skin—said, “Gimme a cigarette. I doan like to ask.”

  I was on foot on my way to the food mart. The woman was folding her hands over her belly, not just clasping her hands—she was braiding her arms, terminating them in the hand clasp with some energy and leaning over to accommodate the weight of her arms and of her hands, and at the same time attempting a dainty pose by placing her legs in a dancer’s position—in which the two legs were close to one another.

  I was impressed by that. And when she came over to me I hoped that she would withdraw her presence before it became annoying, but she was definitely putting herself forward to be friendly and she was definitely in full progress. Perhaps she was having a mild attack—expecting me to be genial and gentle—well—at least well behaved.

  It seemed to me as if there was an excellent impression I had made here in my favor.

  GIRL WITH A PENCIL

  The girl’s predilection is to trace her hand with a pencil on a piece of paper.

  The mother made a rule that her daughter was responsible for something. And what could that be?—to be sulky and disappointed?—to be heavy and club-like? To be backward?

  When the child finished her early education, she drew a picture of her future that consisted of a pair of legs, column-shaped, and just above them, the hem of a skirt in bright orange. The legs were decorated—as if wrapped in wallpaper—in pastel blue with red posies and their green leaves. The shoes were clumpy, earthy.

  But about the child’s later life, how did she fare?

  The child showed her picture to her mother.

  “And where is her head?” her mother said. “I see legs!” she pointed. “Shoes.”

  It was just a few words, but more than the child needed to consider.

  The child was handed more paper.

  And so was invented a kind of brute—a brunette with longish hair, who must love her enemies—who acts responsibly.

  PERFORM SMALL TASKS

  “One second!” I said—for everything can go cold in a day or hot. For a man like me, there’s an on-and-off bulb that does the deciding.

  I had to find a red, little glowing button—that I was able to find—that was on a timer switch, to get more light on. The furniture—like worn-out stumps sticking up—had turned into shadows.

  I could then see her better—the woman I had settled upon to have intermittent leisure with—Evangeline. How clean she was and how calm. I saw clearly the receptacle for logs by the fireplace filled with firewood that I knew to be far too fine for a fire.

  It takes some ability to get close to the extraordinary in life, and I was at the peak of my ability back then.

  Back then, Evangeline had informed me that her eldest son, having survived into adulthood, had returned to the States.

  I heard the click upon his entry and saw the jump of the flat door.

  The boy’s girlish mother—who could look secretive with plans wherever you put her—withdrew and then she reappeared.

  She glanced affectionately at the boy.

  Why was I afraid? Earlier she had informed me he was one of the kindest and one of the most thoughtful boys in all the world.

  She carried an appliance in from the kitchen that I did not recognize, and she put it on the credenza.

  Such an omen. I have asked myself what darker purpose is being served when a magician pulls his rabbit out of the hat.

  I felt a tap on my back, in the middle of my back, as I hurried away, past the woman and her son, with apologies.

  I had the long, uneven road to drive.

  Evangeline showed up in her sporty car, where I live, on the morning of the following day.

  There was something wonderful in this—it’s the whole point of the story.

  And we had become good friends, occasionally, for normally about an hour and a half at a time.

  She said, “I am not blaming you.”

  My father came down the stairs, my mother, too.

  Evangeline was addressing me lovingly.

  Mother said, “She was married to Jerry! She’s talking nonsense.”

  Dad said, “I didn’t think you wanted us to see her.”

  My kitchen, where I went off to, has an island range and the beauty of this island is difficult to convey, but pesty problems can seem irrelevant when I am in the vicinity of my Viking.

  I was thinking Evangeline had had her say, that she could depart now with a light heart.

  When I returned to the foyer, my father was holding the newel-post, my mother—in her short, striped robe with her bare legs—was going back up the stairs.

  Evangeline—and I was very moved by this—was still waiting for me and I wondered if I would rise to my own occasion.

  Then my mother shouted, “They’re going to clean the air conditioners first!” The Best Air van had arrived.

  Eventually, Evangeline gave up with some hostility and she drove herself home.

  In the meantime, I got a few payments recorded, made out bank deposits, and checked cash accounts. I think I’ll be an ideal ally for somebody someday. This belief is borne in magic.

  Am I not like the vanishing bead? Presto!

  Place me inside of any paper cup. In due course I am in my own pocket, when I cap—carry through, or when I conclude.

  WITH RED CHAIR

  In the words of people who frequently repeat themselves—he is told fair words of devotion, sitting in a room decked out in antique red velvet.

  Then he is miles away, say—getting a kick out of a pleasant night in a boat on sea water.

  He is eating Vienna rolls with a member of the opposite sex near a roadside chapel, having a flirtation.

  His recovery of an old debt reverses a disappointment. He will buy a new V-necked cardigan!

  There must be something in fortune-telling. He will get tickets to the theater and only mildly suffer the experience.

  This good luck was not the last, but the lucky are not always wise and he can well stand some more of it.

  TRY

  “Is this what you don’t want?” Miss Natchez asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  “Pam!” a man said. “I have this here, if you’d like to look at it.”

  Pursuing him into the next room, the woman saw some other shoppers tipped into their places.

  The man attended to Pam, and Miss Natchez helped out with Pam also.

  They
recommended something they talked her into.

  * * *

  Pam washed her face and her upper body at her bathroom sink when she returned home.

  Better to have a full tub bath.

  She unlocked the chain around her neck, disengaged herself from it, and its links spilled and then stacked themselves inside of a dish.

  She gave out one of her short-hand, pitched yells when she fell short of the tub, much like a tossed child, flying through space, because of the fact that somebody didn’t prefer her.

  REMOVAL MEN

  You have people nowadays—the men in general, who were helping the woman—and that which they should not disturb, she had put into a crate.

  She put a yellow-flowered plant into the crate.

  The men’s names were embroidered on their shirt pockets, but truly, there was no need to address one or another of them. A question could just be asked of one—without use of a name.

  The pockets of their garments were needleworks with thread in bright white. But for Marwood, somebody had devised an orange and mustard-yellow embroidery.

  The woman was standing a step aside and didn’t have much to contribute, but she looked at a man—at what he was making ready to take—and she held her hands with her palms turned away from her body with her fingers spread, as if she had dirtied herself.

  At the curb, the woman’s car was an Opel, and the hood was up, and the door to the car was out, and what was its color? It was a butterscotch and a man, up to his elbows, was under the hood. Now and again he’d go back into the car and try the starter engine. Ted—that was that one.

  It could be lovely, the woman was thinking. It was already lonely and there were mountains and mosses and grasses and violent deaths nowadays, and injuries and punishments, and the woman finds the merest suggestion of cheerful companionship and carousal—a bit too dramatic.

  A MERE FLASK POURED OUT

  The heavily colored area—it became a shade dingier—after I knocked over her decanter and there was the sourish smell of the wine.

 

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