Had I a Hundred Mouths
Page 4
Now the worm struck in vengeance at him. Crazed by the poison it whipped him to the ground. And he died rank green and foaming. People said that in the casket the body of Arthur Bond was in such a sudden trembling from time to time under the continued whippings of the worm that the casket holding Arthur Bond rocked and jumped so much funeral home had to fasten it down to the floor with strong ropes, man’d come in from the woods with his wife to pay his two dollars a month on his Funeral Layaway Plan that the Funeral Home gives, said now what’s Arthur Bond trying to do now, crazy drunk, trying to ascend up like the Savior so they have to tie him down? Man’d had a few drinks himself and said if Savior takes up Arthur Bond what’ll he do with the rest of us in Sands County tried to live like Christians? Must surely be end of the world, ‘s wife said, if violent men are taken. Worm had triumphed so and had shrunken the body of Arthur Bond so much to skin and bones looked like it’d sucked his flesh away. Twas like they was aburying the worm that was dressed up to look like a nightmare Arthur Bond, like they was aburyin a worm awearin Arthur Bond’s body like a costume for a man.
One more thing more and I’m done talkin about it. Often wondered if the worm lives on in the man’s grave or died with him; but didn’t matter did it? somebody said. If it’s not one worm in the grave it’s another, isn’t it? somebody said. And a thought’s been in my mind that won’t vanish, and tis the following, that worms in the grave are worms of death in the dark, and the worm in Arthur Bond was a wild live thing among us all, in the light, we all seen its workings in the daylight, now that I see more about it, oh a very special fearsome thing of our life, very unusual, can’t get the word for what it seems to me it twas, can’t get it out of my mind some days, and especially nights; in my mind come to me that maybe twas put in Arthur Bond by the very hand of God, it will seem to me in my thinking then when I can’t get it out of my mind almost like, my God, almost like the worm of Arthur Bond’s got into my mind, God help me a worm in your mind, worse ten times than one in your thigh, and I was one that lessened him the most and yet seems like am now the most taken over by thoughts of him, perplexed and restless and confounded; living power of Arthur Bond living on in my mind has begun to make me wonder something about him, something sweet about him, like he is a kind of a Saint in my mind, kind of an angel; maybe twas hand of God put a struggle in Arthur Bond to pull him and throw him and lay him down, to show His mighty works like the Scriptures say, and finally let him go on, free, finally, to a new life hereafter and a better one; had to be better, couldn’t be worse’n what he had, pore Arthur Bond, was kind of a Saint; was worm God’s worm? Did God put a worm in a man’s thigh to show me something, used a worm to show me something and to win eternal life for a man in the hereafter, to be a Saint, to be an Angel, my God the workings of Jehovah’s ways, a worm to make an Angel, oh Lord why is there so much darkness in this life before we see the light of things your ways are strange your ways are dark before we see the light.
WHERE’S ESTHER?
How could we know that was what it was? That we were losing a whole person? We were having a ball. While before our eyes Esther Haverton was having a downward plunge to—I don’t know what to call it. It began in the Fall, lasted most of the season, Easter saw it over and Esther at Greenfarm.
Well, she always bent the old elbow a lot—who doesn’t? But I mean lots when the onset of this started—whatever it is—coming last Fall (now, looking back, we know). Starting at 11 A.M., onze heures, that bejeweled hand went right for the Vodka Martini with a deadly grip, oh my dear!
Why didn’t somebody stop her? But how could they know? That she was on her way to—this? Anyway, what would things have been like if we’d stopped Esther? Dreary. Morbid. Too glum to think about. But once Esther Haverton started, you just couldn’t stop her. A whole party stopped for her. She was a real entertainer, you know; a natural performer. Oh she danced and she switched her bottom and just made everyone roar with laughter. She was here, there and everywhere, like a bird in a room. If she fell, she was up on her feet before you could help her up; and not one scratch! She was at all the parties, no one could wait until she got there and when she got there they wished she hadn’t come, within ten minutes. There were some who cursed her and accused her of insulting them, including the very host and hostess, who were finally upon each other like dog and cat. Because of Esther! She caused it, turned the closest friends and most devoted lovers upon each other. And how had she done it? No one could guess, could even notice signs of rupture—until suddenly there were these two intimates at each other’s throat.
Nevertheless, when Esther left, all followed. The night was young! Into a restaurant, which Esther at once commanded. She was at the waiters as if they had done something personal to her, and they had only asked for her order; called them names of rankest insult, which somehow prompted all her friends to beat on the table, stomp, the floor with delight, screaming “Esther!”; and even the waiters liked it.
What made Esther? Well, she had the laugh of all times, to begin with. It was so verbal. The things that laugh said! Then she just plain had the face for it: a huggable face, sweet-featured, like somebody feeding a baby—so sentimental but with the chic-est hairdo over it my dear, to let you know she meant business. What wrong could a face like that do? Until those lips started curling. They were preparing to emit foul cries, oh my dear! She had a body that rivaled the best, curving tight in various simple but exclusive creations—by somebody she had on West 55th Street, a personal designer—and topped off by a real pair of breasts. That I envied, considering my personal limitations. Still, as I told her, I come from a line of humble-breasted women of the Midwest. Never tell Esther Haverton anything. She’ll use it back on you literally as if she’d memorized it, at the most unscrupulous time. Why did she have to be so unscrupulous? But she was gay-hearted and didn’t mean it, I guess. Besides, as we know now, she was losing her poor—marbles? More coffee, please. I love this coffee shop. Never heard of Irish coffee in here, thank God! Black’s best, anyway.
Thirdly, Esther had the carelessness for it! Why she didn’t give a hoot. Why should she? She had all the money in the world. She just sawed her wood, and let it fall where it would, to use an old Midwestern expression. Still, nobody could care that little. I think the pills did it—made her tell the world to go peddle its apples. Sawed a lot of timber those pills—whatever they were—some were of colors not even in the rainbow. I got flashes of them when she opened her bag, glowing like a Tiffany lamp, my dear. Yet I never saw her take one as long as I went around with her. End with a dimpled shoulder, and a behind that went with her and not against her—you know, not fighting her—and there you have Esther!
How could anybody know that Esther was—well, I still can’t believe it. She was so gay—such a character, and just the best person in the world, would give you her right arm if you asked for it and with her diamond bracelet on it—that’s Esther! Yet, here she was, going rockers. We thought it was her natural wit. Anyway, her demeanor in public grew to such infamous proportions and resounded to such acclaim that she was the most vaunted guest. Her profanity increased to dazzling proportions. Esther would slap out a nasty word that would splatter all over a place like she’d thrown a messy pie. It was generally against somebody in our bunch—somebody she had apparently been good friends with, and then this—“You-----!” That person would storm out. A phone call the next day got the whole thing aright. People were so forgiving of Esther. Thank goodness, now that I think about it, sober, and see that she was going bonkers. But I don’t know how she got by with it, I swear. Anybody else would have had their heads knocked off, but not Esther. Of course they were all drunk, but even then! But thank goodness, we were all forgiving of her, knowing what we do now.
The next day on the phone: “Sugar, I don’t remember a word of it. If I said it, forget it. Come for a hair at six.” You’d be there at six. By eight you’d had your head knocked off again. Why was that? Why did we sanction that?
Esther, lying there drab in that room at Greenfarm and not herself at all. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d say she was a changeling—that somebody kidnapped Esther and replaced her with a blah stranger. Who wants that nothing person lying there? Another person, that’s all, could be anybody, why that’s an ordinary person lying there, not Esther. Where’s Esther? This calm person lying there is not Esther. As though she existed out of booze. Vodka made Esther! Pour several drinks into this person and out develops who we call Esther! Don’t pour the booze, you get this. I’m beginning to see. A sober view of Esther, you might say. The most boring conversations—Unity pamphlets strewn around. Why Esther doesn’t know Unity from Simplicity—the patterns, I mean. Sweetie, she’s an agnostic. Only two things she cares about are Dior and Majorska, and she’d cut that in half if she could wear a Vodka bottle designed by Dior; just dress in it, my dear. Well, they can have whoever that is. That’s not Esther! “Where’s Esther?” I kept wanting to say. “Who are you?” I kept wanting to say. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” You zombie! Oh, I need a laugh. Some drinks and a laugh. But with Esther.
Well, the whole thing has rather sobered me up. A week on the wagon, without Esther, during which time I’ve done me some thinking over coffee, as I am right now, and a change is coming over my mind. I’m going to say it. I don’t even feel like going back to Greenfarm to visit Esther. She’s beginning to shape up in my mind’s eye as something I can do without. Why, I’ve been thinking of some of the things she said about me in public. They’re beginning to come back to me, over coffee. I’m beginning to take them seriously (I mean I can be serious, too). God damn it. I mean, I’m not a fat-ass, like she called me several times, and once at a seated dinner. And perhaps I am a little flat—you know, like I said—but why did Esther bring that to the public eye by shouting it out at lunch at Maude Chez Elle? I feel like disliking Esther now. I feel like she wanted to hurt me. In vino Veritas, my dear. All the terrible things she did to us and said to us are dawning back over me after a week of black coffee, and now I’m going to say it: Who needs Esther Haverton? Screw her! Isn’t that right? I mean, to hell with Esther! I mean, good riddance.
Well, I guess I’m taking too sober a view. Thinking too much. A stiff drink does—may I add—keep you from taking too sober a view towards things, keeps you from thinking too much. Maybe I should just go on with the bunch. Heaven can wait. You only come around this way once. I mean, life is hard enough. This isn’t church! Why should I go on worrying about Esther Haverton! Maybe I should just go on with the bunch. But why go on with that bunch without Esther. Those creeps. I’m mixed up! Let’s face it: we need her. In the absence of Esther we are nothing—just about like what she is now, without booze. Jesus, it’s like we drank Esther. Oh I’m going crazy. When I go into a place where we used to go, with everybody calling, “Where’s Esther? Where’s Esther?” I feel like a damned ghost. As if nobody saw me. And I hear myself asking the same question. “Where’s Esther?”
I must admit that the other night, before I went on an alcohol-free diet, on one of our sans-Esther sprees, I found myself, in the absence of Esther, imitating her. Well, I was knocked on my backside within one minute! Do you know what? Only Esther can do it. I feel so drab, so dull, so dead, so plain. And I’m feeling crazy. Nerves jumping out of my skin; rattling the coffee cup. And who sleeps? Just can’t find that spot in the bed—and when I think I have, guess who’s in it? Old Sleeping Beauty, dozing sweet as a choirboy—which he definitely is not. I flee from that. Esther knows.
Last night I dreamt I went into the most beautiful bar, dark and cool, deep cushions, soft music: and who do you think was there, elbow on bar, Martini hoisted? Yep, Miss You-know-who: divine Esther! Tongue like a serpent’s, poised to strike. Life began! All afternoon we laughed and drank. We drank and we drank. And I was my old self again. Because of Esther. The bar was ours. We never fought, not once. We drank the world away, laughing and laughing. “I want Esther!” I cried when I woke up in the dark. “Esther, Esther! Come back!”
Who wants this life, without the old days? But I tell you they are surely gone. I can see that a mile a minute, now. All those good times, all that laughing—gone. Oh I think I need some help. I don’t know what to do. If I drink I’m like a bad Esther—and anyway, what’s a drink without her? If I don’t drink, I’m like Esther now, drab, dull, dead, plain. Will somebody please tell me what to do? Now that you’ve heard a little of it? To get over what’s happened to Esther?
PRECIOUS DOOR
For Reginald Gibbons
Somebody’s laying out in the field,” my little brother came to tell us. It was eight o’clock in the morning and already so hot that the weeds were steaming and the locusts calling. For a few days there had been word of a hurricane coming. Since yesterday we had felt signs of it—a stillness of air followed by an abrupt billowing of wind; and the sky seemed higher, and it was washed-looking.
“Must be a drunken mill man sleeping in the weeds, or a hobo. Could even be your Uncle Bud, God knows,” my father told me; “go see what it is.”
“Come with me,” I asked my father. “I’m scared.”
What we found was a poor beaten creature who did not answer my father’s calls. My father and I carried the unconscious person onto the back porch and laid him on the daybed.
“I wish you wouldn’t let the children see that,” my mother said, and drew back into the darkness of the house like her own shell.
“He may be dying,” my father said, “can’t rouse him. Call the doctor, son, then get me some warm water. Hey,” my father called loudly at first and then lowered his voice to a soft summons, “Hey, friend, hello; hello…”
The battered friend did not budge, but he was breathing, now quite heavily, almost gasping. The warm water cleaned away some of the blood that was like paste on his lips and cheeks, and then some cool water stroked back his dark hair from his brow; and we saw in that moment when his face and his look came clear to us what would have been called a beautiful young girl if it had been a girl; but it was a man. Something shining came through the damaged face and we knew we had brought a special person into our house out of the weeds of the field. When my father pulled back the stained shirt of the stranger and saw something, he told the children (I was twelve and the oldest) to go outside in the yard. I did not go far but hid under the yellow jasmine against the screen and listened.
“Pardner, you might not make it,” I heard my father say, “if the doctor don’t hurry up and get here. Because somebody’s cut you with a knife.” And in another moment I heard my father say, “Who did this to you? Cut you like this?” There was no sound from the wounded stranger. “Hanh?” my father murmured tenderly, “who hurt you like this? Hanh? He can’t hear me or he can’t talk. Well, you try to rest until the doctor comes,” I heard my father say softly. At that moment I felt so sorry for this stranger lying silent in our house that I suddenly cried, there under the yellow jasmine.