by T. C. Boyle
“Mama,” he’d said to her then, “Mama, they want Ruth down here.”
“Ruthie?” she repeated, and he could almost hear the tumblers clicking in her head. “Certainly they don’t think—?”
“They think everything, Mama. They want her down here to go out in the swamp with a megaphone or something and call out his name—they say she’s the one he knows, the only one he’ll listen to—”
“But that’s absurd.”
“That’s what I told them.” He thought of Abercorn, cold ridiculous Abercorn, and what he’d said: You’d be surprised at the power of the human voice. “But they’re not asking, Mama. They want her down here tomorrow morning or they’re going to lock her up too.” He paused. He was in a big room with lazy fans and wanted posters on the walls. The deputy was watching him. “You tell her that.”
Septima told her. And she didn’t like it. Not a bit. Ruth felt suddenly that she was losing her grip on Saxby, on Septima and Thanatopsis House and the whole wide brilliant world of celebrity and accomplishment that radiated out from it, felt as if she were clinging to a ledge above a yawning gulf while Jane Shine and Detlef Abercorn and even Septima herself beat at her fingers with their microphones and the hard flat unyielding plank of the law. She had no choice in the matter. In the morning Owen was going to drive her down to the Okefenokee Swamp and she was going to go out in a boat with Detlef Abercorn and Lewis Turco and anybody else they wanted to include and she was going to cry out Hiro’s name and beg him to surrender. That was what she was going to do—for Saxby and for Septima too. And maybe even for Hiro himself.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight she was going to read.
At nine o’clock the colonists gathered in the front parlor and settled themselves into the familiar easy chairs, loveseats and sofas in the glow of the subdued and very ordinary light that emanated from the reading lamps stationed round the room. There were no spotlights and there was no microphone. Ruth appeared promptly at nine, dressed as if she were going to an outdoor barbecue. She’d spent some time on her face, her nails and her hair, but the clothes she kept simple—the T-shirt, jeans and heels she’d first envisioned. She was determined that every detail of this reading would stand in opposition to the one that preceded it. There would be no cheap thrills tonight, no Swedish accents and maudlin histrionics—just work, honest work, presented in an honest voice.
The first thing Ruth noticed as she took her seat in the big armchair beneath the chandelier was that Septima hadn’t done her hair. She was wearing the same coif she’d worn for Jane’s reading, and though she looked elegant, always looked elegant, her hairdo was a bit ragged round the edges, as if she’d slept on it. The next thing Ruth noticed was Jane. La Shine was ensconced on the damask couch between Irving and Mignonette Teitelbaum, with Seezers, in his wheelchair, perched at the far end. She’d let down her hair, the great frozen shako of last night’s pelage combed out like a rug, its Medusan tendrils involved with Irving and Teitelbaum, woven into the fabric of the couch, providing cover for the icy glittering inhuman eyes. White silk pajamas—Ruth caught a glimpse of them beneath the typhoon of hair. Jane was relaxed, all right—she looked as if she’d been dropped into the couch from a passing jet. She was watching Ruth, a perfect little smirk of contempt ironed across her lips.
Ruth tried to ignore her, tried to ignore them all—but no, that wasn’t right. She had to be warm, personable, overflowing with camaraderie and joy in their shared and collective talents. She forced herself to look round the room, smiling into each pair of eyes. And then Septima stood, put her hands together, and said, simply, “Ruth Dershowitz.”
Ruth rose to a murmur of polite applause, and then she sat down again—she wouldn’t stand, she wouldn’t dominate them, she steadfastly refused to perform. This was the lesson of the reading, this was the corrective, the return to proper form, the example that would put Jane Shine in her place once and for all.
She began with “Two Toes,” introducing the selection in a voice that was hushed, barely inflected, the voice of one-on-one conversation, easy and intimate. As she spoke she began to warm to the moment and she looked out into the faces of her fellow colonists and felt something swelling inside her, something like love. She told them the genesis of the story—perhaps in too much detail, perhaps she erred there—told them of little Jessica McClure, whom they all remembered from the news accounts of her heroic infantine battle for survival in that dark Texas well shaft, described the process by which she, Ruth, had attempted in her humble and modest way to transmute the bare facts into art. And then she began to read, investing all her strength and the strange tingle inside her that was a kind of love for them all, even Jane, in the quiet authority of the human voice—the naked, unassisted, uninflected human voice.
She began with the section that showed little Jessica grown into a recalcitrant teenager unable to reconcile her soulless Texas life with the climactic hours spent in that Freudian tunnel deep underground. There was sex in this section, plenty of it—here she’d out-Shine Shine—and a kind of fierce negativity that was sure to electrify the Thalamuses and Grobians. Then she read a longish section that took the well-shaft girl, the little heroine of the nation, and put her into a brutal marriage with a tattooed drifter fifteen years her senior. She looked up from the page when she’d finished and gave her audience the most spontaneous and heartfelt smile of her life. The only thing was, they didn’t look exactly electrified—more the opposite. Their faces were noncommittal, withdrawn, lifeless: the term “stupefied” came to her. Or no, she was misreading them—they were stunned, that was all. She held the smile and there was a flutter of applause.
“Thank you,” she whispered, grinning blissfully, and she stirred her legs luxuriously, a cat waking from a nap in the sun. She could hardly believe it—here she was, La Dershowitz, holding them all, playing the role of the true and unpretentious artist, nearly drowning in the joy of it. “Next,” she said, her voice small and modest and thankful, “I’d like to share with you a section of a work in progress called ’Sebastopol’ “—and here she paused to irradiate Irving Thalamus with her smile—“a piece Irving has been generous enough to—how shall I say it?—to coach me on, for which I’m eternally grateful. Thank you, Irving.”
Irving briefly extricated himself from the explosion of Jane’s hair and gave her in return the great gleaming toothy Thalamus grin and said something that got them all laughing—Ruth didn’t quite catch it, but she knew from the tone that it was something winning, small tribute to the modesty and humility of La Dershowitz, the artist, the sharer, the humble organ of her work. She went on—at length, too much length, she would see that in retrospect—with an introduction to this piece as well, and then she read a lengthy section that consisted in its entirety of an interior monologue. The wife of the second couple—Babe, her name was and she was thir-tyish and delicately beautiful—was peeling shrimp and pounding octopus for a bouillabaisse and examining her unfulfilled life with Dexter, her lawyer husband, and the as yet unconsummated passion she felt for Marvel, the lawyer husband of her best friend Clarice, who together constituted the first couple. It was a story that featured more than a soupçon of sex—the story the Atlantic had turned down for its steaminess, in fact—but Ruth steered clear of it, selecting the section she did precisely because it was the only part of the piece that was relatively free of it. Jane had given them nothing but sex and Ruth had responded with her selection from “Two Toes”—no reason for overkill. Besides, the last piece, the tour de force and climax of the evening, was saturated with it.
She found herself drifting a bit during the “Sebastopol” selection—she was right there, reading carefully and with the proper lack of animation—but her mind took off on her, sailing back to the early evening when she was getting ready and Sax had called from Ciceroville. “Sax,” she’d gasped into the phone, “are you all right?” Brie and Sandy—were they a thing?—had been sitting there on the window seat in the foyer, chatting about
editors, astrological signs and writers they knew mutually who’d gone to fat, baldness and loss of affect, and they raised their voices to give her some privacy. It was the quintessential La Dershowitz moment, audience and all—this was real drama, real life, her lover in jail, a manhunt going on, the press beating at the windows (she’d had calls from six newspapers already that afternoon).
“I’m fine,” he said. “Stratton had me out of here in two minutes and he’s slapping a false-arrest suit on them, all of them”—he paused to draw a long disgusted breath—“but still he thinks we ought in good faith to deal with them, you know, cooperate. They’ve got nothing on us—Jesus, I’m talking like somebody in a movie or something—we didn’t do anything wrong, and they’re sure to drop the charges and beg us to withdraw the suit and all that, but still Stratton says we’ve got to cooperate.”
“But Sax”—her voice was butter, honey, frankincense and myrrh—“why you? You’re totally innocent, they know that.”
“Abercorn’s just being a prick, is all. He thinks we—you and I—have something going with this Japanese kid and that somehow we got him out of that old cell out back of Patsy’s studio and hustled him into the Mercedes—and we didn’t, did we, Ruth?”
“I love you, Sax,” she whispered. It was a signal. When someone says “I love you,” you say: “I love you too.” It’s like hello and goodbye, how are you and what’s happening? Saxby didn’t respond. “Sax,” she repeated, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said finally, but there was no conviction in it and that scared her.
“I told you, Sax,” she said, “I swear it: I had nothing to do with it. All I want to see is Hiro Tanaka in jail and this whole ordeal over with.”
That seemed to mollify him. He was going to stay down there at the motel—he was worried about his fish: yes—and the spark leaped back into his voice, he was her Sax, boyish and enthused—he’d got them! They were out on Billy’s Island in a couple of buckets and he hadn’t had time to set up the oxygenator and he was going back out there first thing in the morning. After he met her, of course. She was coming, wasn’t she?
“Yes, Sax,” she whispered, “of course. I’d do anything for you.” And then her voice had faded away almost to nothing. “You know that.”
And so for a moment—a long moment, two or three pages at least—she was reading, but she wasn’t focused, not fully. She came back to herself on the final page and took the story out with a muted, unpretentious, nontheatrical flair. She looked up. Smiled. The applause was like the faintest spatter of rain in the desert. Her fellow colonists looked grim, haggard. Laura Grobian might have been the survivor of a train wreck, Orlando Seezers was making some sort of peculiar clucking or humming noise deep in his throat, Sandy looked as if he’d just woken up. Had she gone on too long? The thought flitted into her head and she dismissed it—after all, the main event, the pièce de résistance, was yet to come. They’d had their cake, and now it was time for the icing.
Ruth trod delicately with “Of Tears and the Tide,” trying to walk the fine line between capitalizing on the dramatic events on the patio two nights ago (and her attendant seduction of Hiro, Abercorn and the sheriff and her victory over them all), and emphasizing in her every phrase and gesture that she, unlike the histrionic Shine, was an artist toiling away at the deep stuff of fiction. Her introduction was like a chat with a sick friend. It was warm, intimate, unassuming, and it alluded to the events of the past few days (and the preceding weeks too) without directly mentioning Hiro or Saxby or the ceaselessly ringing phone in the foyer or the Clinch County Jail. She mentioned the Japanese, though, mentioned them repeatedly. Was she an expert? Did she have direct, hands-on knowledge? She gave them her mysterious smile, just as she’d planned, and then she began to read.
Halfway through the story Orlando Seezers began to snore. It was nothing outrageous, no tromboning of the breath through constricted nostrils, no deep flatulent blasts from the bellows of the lungs, but snoring nonetheless. Ruth glanced up from the page. Seezers was flung back in the wheelchair as if he’d been shot, his wiry goatee thrust to the heavens, the little plaid cap he never removed clinging to his scalp in defiance of gravity. His snores were soft, almost polite, but audible for all that—and everyone was aware of them.
Everyone who was awake, that is. When Ruth looked up she was shocked. Septima was nodding in her chair. Laura Grobian had snapped off the light beside her and drawn a thin comforter up over her shoulders, the famous haunted eyes staring out on nothing. Brie’s head had come to rest on Sandy’s shoulder; Sandy seemed to be having trouble with his lower lip; Ina and Regina looked terminally bored. In front, on the sofa, Irving was struggling, Teitelbaum looked embarrassed—should she poke Orlando or not?—and Jane, Jane looked triumphant.
Ruth caught herself. She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner—no, it couldn’t be—and realized with dawning horror that she’d been reading for something like two and a half hours. “My god,” she gasped, and for the first time that night her voice achieved some animation. “I’m so—I didn’t realize how long I’ve gone on …” A few of the colonists, sniffing change, sniffing blood, struggled up in their seats. “Well,” Ruth murmured, covering herself as best she could but already hearing the new billiard room shtik—Ruth’s reading? Yeah, it was like three months on the chain gang— “you’ve been very patient and I thank you all.”
Dazed, the colonists shook themselves, shuffled their feet, rubbed their blasted eyes. Irving started up the applause—she couldn’t believe it, the love she’d felt for them earlier, the joy, and now all she felt was shame and mortification and hate: she hadn’t even finished—and a feeble stunned sort of involuntary applause startled the room into wakefulness. She could read it in their eyes—cocktails, they were thinking, or maybe just one, and then bed. Irving rose to congratulate her; Septima’s head jerked up and the milky gray eyes struggled to come into focus.
“Hey, La D., Ruthie,” Irving boomed, enfolding her in his arms, “that was some stuff. You’re great, babes.” She could see Sandy standing behind him, smiling weakly, a preambulatory Brie clutching at him for support. And beyond them, she saw Jane Shine rise from the couch to stretch and yawn theatrically, yawing the mass of her hair this way and that and exchanging some nasty little witticism with Mignonette Teitelbaum and the gaping, blinking, eye-rubbing, nose-blowing form of Orlando Seezers. The three of them shared a laugh that was like shredding metal and then Jane swept back her hair so Ruth could get a look at her pajamas.
Ruth felt a sudden hot stab at her insides. These weren’t lounging pajamas, this wasn’t a tunic or a djellabah, this was no fashion statement—no, Jane Shine was wearing a put-down, a slap in the face, the decisive killing counterthrust to Ruth’s feeble parry: she was in her nightdress. It was that simple: Jane had come prepared for bed.
Ruth looked away, but the damage was done. The night was a disaster, she was careening from the Thanatopsian heavens, burned to a cinder like a poor extinguished meteor, and all she could think of was the billiard room and how they would slaughter her over this.
Haha
They left, the jeffcoats, the way they had come, on a shimmer of light. Hiro watched them till they were out of sight, till the moving paddles, the glistening hull and the strong square rhythmically working shoulders were swallowed up in the merciless bank of green. They were heading back to the dock, back to where the flame-faced hakujin crouched over their catch and the sheriffs and park rangers fingered their weapons beneath the wide brims of their hats. They were on a mission of mercy, violating the sanctity of their itinerary and scrapping their schedule for him, Seiji Chiba, the Chinese tourist attacked by crocodiles.
Hiro felt light-headed. He sat heavily on the platform beside the bundle of food they’d left him and languished a doleful look on the bend round which they’d disappeared. In an hour they would hate him. They would glide into the dock with their wide-open faces and confident eyes, gee-whizzing and
gollying at the sheriff’s convention awaiting them, at the baying dogs, revving engines and jaws set with hate. There’s a man in trouble out there, they’d say. Where? the sheriffs would bark, where is be? Red trail platform, Jeff Jeffcoat would answer, but what’s the problem? Jail break, the sheriffs would spit. A Jap, and a arsonist into the bargain. Assaulted some people, migbta killed a poor innocent old black man. But no, Jeff Jeffcoat would say, you’ve got it all wrong, this man’s a tourist, be lost his boat. For Christ’s sake, Jeff Jeffcoat would say, he’s Chinese.
They’d be after him soon, homing in on this very platform like heat-seeking missiles, like avenging angels. He had to get up. Had to slosh back off into the muck and neck-deep water, had to crawl back up the orifice of America the Primitive. But he felt enervated, weak, felt as if all the fight had been drained out of him and Jōchō reduced to the mad gibbering irrelevant monk he was. He was sick, that’s what it was. He raised a hand to his brow and felt the fever burning there. And then it was in his guts, tearing at him like Mishima’s sword, and he doubled over and vomited up the corned beef hash, the ketchup and coffee and eggs, the Cup O’Noodles, the potato chips and pound cake, vomited till he tasted the deep bitter purple-black berries and the gall of his bile. For a long while he lay there, unable to move, tiny iridescent flies settling on the mess even as it dripped through the slats of the platform to feed the massed and waiting mouths below. But then the pain tore at him again and he rose shakily and fumbled his way into the rough-wood cubicle of the toilet.
The flies greeted him. They rose from the chemical mouth of the thing, the crapper, in a miasma of dancing gnats and the reek of chemicals and human waste. He tore down his pants, the knife in his guts, the black steaming odor of shit—American shit, Julie Jeffcoat’s shit—stabbing at his nostrils. “Amerikajin” he cursed aloud as his guts exploded beneath him, the filth of them, flinging themselves down on plastic seats where a thousand others have flung themselves down before them, taking the dirt of the bowels to the table with them, sitting there over their food, as bland as stones, their buttocks and shoes reeking from the toilet. God, he thought, clutching at himself to keep from passing out with the pain of it, they were beasts, they were, and he hated them.