J R

by William Gaddis

  —Jack? Wake up . . .

  —Wide awake who won.

  —Get up, you can’t stay on the train.

  —Amy?

  —You can’t stay on the train, get up.

  —No came in to take you to dinner . . . the papers went to the floor in a heap,—French restaurant said I’d take you to dinner never showed up . . .

  —You’re not taking me anywhere Jack but you’ve got to get off the train. Where are you going.

  —Take you to dinner little French . . .

  —And you can’t wander around like this with all that money, here come this way . . .

  —I see crowds of people walking round in a ring thank you? See dear Smyrna merchant Mister Eugenides pockets full of currants how’s that.

  —Please . . .

  —What? He had her arm, a half step behind.—Used to know every word . . .

  —Jack I’m, I’m going out this way and I simply can’t . . .

  —Raining?

  —It’s drizzling yes what are you going to do!

  —We won’t worry what to do, won’t have to catch any trains and we won’t go home when it . . .

  —Jack please be quiet, you can’t wander around in this with that throat don’t you know someone you, do you want to go to a hotel?

  —Think they’ll let us in without luggage?

  —Jack don’t you know someone in town? Here’s a cab I can drop you wherever you . . .

  —Can’t Amy. Can’t drive and I won’t ride.

  —Well you can’t just stand out here in the rain either.

  —Can’t drive and I . . .

  —You’re not going to drive just get in!

  —Window side see the natural . . . and they were swept past Girl-O-Rama Live plus Stagette Loops with a jolt that heaped him in the corner.

  —Driver? she leaned forward to the glass,—one ten east . . .

  —All go to the movies how’s that.

  —Now, she finished and sat back—you must know someone in town where you can . . .

  —Know Mister Eigen probably hates me though.

  —Hates you don’t be silly where does he live.

  —Opened that suitcase make him hate anybody.

  —No but you must have friends where you . . .

  —No friends Amy just you, sorry that your foot?

  And she drew them close, sitting away from him to look out the window until they stopped, released by a doorman in gaping livery.—All right Jack can you, here take my arm and please . . .

  —We’re here? Thought we’re going to a hotel have room service.

  —Well we’re not and please try to behave.

  He had her arm half a step behind into the elevator, half one ahead out and his weight against it pushed the door open at her turn of the key, into the foyer bright at her touch on the switch.—This my room?

  —No come along, please . . .

  —Nice little room put up print curtains get a hot plate . . .

  —Jack! Now please . . .!

  —Sorry . . . he came on toward the white expanse of sofa,—looks like Bloomingdale’s furniture department nobody live here?

  —It’s just a, a place . . . She dropped her bag on the sofa and sat on its arm slipping the dark glasses away from her face, her shoes from her feet.—Now will you just sit down and try to think of someone to call who can, Jack stop hopping around and sit down!

  —Wet shoe just trying to get off this wet . . .

  —Well then sit down and take it off! Jack I just, I’m just terribly nervous I want to take a hot bath and go to bed and you can’t just sit here in those awful wet clothes isn’t there someplace you, now stop what are you doing Jack you’re spilling money all, oh it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter!

  —Go out find a Chinese restaurant Amy bring in some . . .

  —There is no Chinese restaurant! Can’t you, I don’t care what you do, I’m . . .

  —Thought you might want something to . . .

  —If you want a delicatessen their number’s on a pad under the phone there, I don’t care what you do . . .!

  He got far enough up to look over the sofa’s back, down an empty hallway through an empty door.—Amy . . .? There was no sound but running water. Movements slowed, stalking the white telephone across white carpet, getting about the place uneven gaited with a kind of deliberate cunning as though outmaneuvering gravity, he finally answered the delivery at the door and came back with it cautiously down to hands and knees, flattening emptied bags under the sofa cushion.

  —Jack . . .? Where, what are you doing what is all this!

  —Egg roll pastrami macaroni salad salmon fruit jello . . .

  —But it’s, you can’t spread it out on the carpet it’s . . . She sank to the sofa’s edge drawing a robe tight at her knees.

  —Kind of déjeuner sur l’herbe slip your things off thought we could . . .

  —Oh and please look it’s something’s already spilled on the . . .

  —Stuffed that’s the what the hell is it something they stuffed, pickles, turkey roll, rice pudding wait this must be the Greek salad have mushrooms in it?

  —Why do you do things like this.

  —Just thought we’d . . .

  —Jack why do you do things like this!

  —What. I just thought we’d . . .

  —Behave this way! the way you’ve been behaving since we, behaving like a buffoon Jack I can’t stand to see someone I, someone like you Jack a man like you you’re too, you almost make me forget what you’re really like when you, when you want to be . . .

  He sat there hunched against the arm of the sofa with egg roll.—All right, he said without looking up, and bit into it,—if you want something to eat just . . .

  —And don’t sit there with your feelings hurt, you don’t . . .

  —I said all right!

  She bent down, dropped the hand holding the robe at her throat to reach out.—What’s this one . . .

  —Rice pudding . . . he glanced up, from it up the length of her arm into shadow where the weight of her breast hung free, cleared his throat and bit egg roll.

  —How’s the rice pudding.

  —It’s quite good really, Jack what about your throat, have you seen anyone for it?

  —Got a prescription for penicillin haven’t filled it.

  —Why not.

  —I just got it!

  —Yes all right, she said more quietly,—but you must, do you want me to call the drugstore down here delivers, I could . . .

  —No I can get it. He came forward between the peaks of his knees for salmon.—Do you want any?

  —What is it.

  —Smoked salmon.

  —No I don’t think so really, I’m afraid everything else here looks rather . . .

  —Stay away from the Greek salad.

  —Yes I wish you’d put it and, and that whatever that is, if you’d put them up here on the coffee table they look terribly oily. Jack do you think we might . . .

  —Here . . . he handed them up to her, getting to his feet.—Don’t happen to have any scotch? God damn it I forgot cigarettes . . .

  —No I’m afraid not, the place is quite . . .

  —Mind if I use the phone?

  —No of, of course . . .

  He stood slumped with the back of that suit to her, dialing, finally dropped it and turned wedging his foot into his shoe.—Friend downtown’s wife walked out, he said down working at the shoe,—apartment’s twice as empty with him in it probably can’t hear the phone.

  —You can try him later, Jack if you . . .

  —What shall I do with all this stuff? He was down for the fruit jello.

  —Just, on the coffee table, Jack if you want to wait and call your friend later you could go in and take a . . .

  —Don’t have to call him from here call him from anyplace . . . he was down again for a hundred dollar bill stuck to the macaroni salad and up looking, as though looking for a place to wipe it off.—Friend o
f ours lost in a White Rose bar somewhere and he’s probably out looking for him, probably go out and find them both in one, he said backed toward the foyer.

  —Jack don’t be silly it’s raining and your throat’s . . .

  —Raining and my throat do you think it’s the first time I’ve ever been out in the, do you think I’m eleven years old? One of your class six J eleven-year-old . . .

  —You’re behaving like one.

  —Well what! what do you, you tell me to call tell me not to call, tell me to find someplace for the night tell me not to go out in the rain I don’t even know where we are, that sofa must have cost two thousand dollars like camping out in Bloomingdale’s window where the hell are we, do you know? Whole place is empty, little room where we came in here with a bed in it do you want me to . . .

  —No no please close it it’s, it’s just a, just a cubby it’s . . .

  —Well then will you tell me what . . . he pulled the door to it closed, coming back to stand over her there,—what I, what, listen why tears what have I . . .

  —No they’re, they’re nothing to do with you . . . she pulled the robe loose catching it up to her face.

  —No but, Amy please what . . .

  —They’re nothing to do with you I said! and she stood that abruptly, caught the robe’s yellow to the full white spill of her breast without a look back—if you want to stay here stay or go out to your White Rose and look for your, for anybody but take off that perfectly ridiculous suit and take a hot shower before you get pneumonia.

  —All right he stood there and said, to no one,—all right . . . and came down on the sofa, got one shoe off again and found a plastic spoon down there, up looking for something to dig it into reached the macaroni salad and got down several bites before he turned to look back through the empty door and start for it, his uneven gait silent through it and down the empty hallway past a darkened door ajar toward the one lighted ahead which he pushed closed behind him, half closed, he turned to close it hard but paused, closing it slowly with the douche swinging there from the back of it, before he turned back to stand at the toilet, wrench off the other shoe, jacket, trousers shirt all in a heap and sodden with steam from the shower when he came out to find a lavender towel monagrammed EMJ to wrap around him into the lighted hall, one step silenced in the carpet as the next, as his pause at the darkened door, and his touch on it.

  —Jack?

  He caught the towel tight at his waist—just, a blanket thought I might need a . . .

  —Where are you going.

  —Going in to the sofa thought I might need a blanket, shall I get one from . . .

  —Don’t be silly.

  —What? Amy . . .? he shivered, pushed the door further on darkness,—Amy? Can’t see a thing . . .

  —Do you have to? And bedsprings strained abruptly as under her weight come up on one elbow, under his coming down.

  —God . . .

  —Not so, Jack not so tight I can’t breathe . . .

  —Amy God I, God . . . her head fell back to the pillow his buried in her throat, in her hair lips seeking the details of her ear, moving hands stilled and, stilled, moving again as though life had stopped threatened only to seize it where her breast yielded, to flee that and descend to climb the cradled rise of bone and over perfect smoothness cleave down where creviced fingertips engulfed in taste and smell and raising pinks to purple browns clawed at the confine of their single sense, sudden heat puckered tight against their plunge to depths come opened wide as her knee rose heavy over him, her own hand’s rake of nails brushing up from his without hurry, and back, and up to close without surprise where firmness ended, move there in flow all rhythm against the thrust of muscles elsewhere hard with tension and mounted toward her and away as though to force their tension and their strength and very size into her moving hand small as it was and still enveloping all it held, still moving with expectant calm when he went over on his back as though hurled there, hand seizing where hers failed as though to tear himself from his roots and she came up against his chest convulsed with its echo, breast crushed against the hard stiff length of his arm to reach his shoulder whispering—no it’s all right . . . holding him, his hand behind her burying a tremble in her hair to press her head down the rise and fall of his chest where her lips, brushing, kissed, but where his hand held firm, chest rising further with each breath until its hardnesses of bone gave way beneath her cheek to muscle drawn tight under hairs bristled at her lips unparted brushed suddenly by a warmth softer than the tongue they curbed and she came up torn away face buried in his neck to cling there, whisper—please . . . half on him as though to swallow up his shudders,—don’t please she whispered,—it happens to everyone . . . the weight of her leg warm over his gone rigid for his twist away leaving only his back to her where she kissed his shoulder in the darkness and clung as though for warmth until, as of its own weight, it eased away, and she caught breath at the stealth of springs across the gap, the desolate toss of covers on the bed there and then, for warmth, pulled up her own.

  When he waked it was empty, he’d sat up and looked over in shadow spread from the drawn shade and said—Amy . . .? but it was only a swirl of blankets, and he sank back hands drawn heavily down his face to leave his stare fixed on the ceiling. And then he was up all at once, pulled the closed door open half out in the hall listening, looked both ways before he reached the bathroom with long steps, found only shirt and shorts wilting from the shower rod and tore the seat in the haste of getting them on, coming out that way to find a silent kitchen, open the refrigerator on a jar of honey and opened can of tomato juice rusting at the puncture, a drawer on two lightbulbs, each step slower back up the hall to stop in the doorway and call—Amy . . .? He cleared his throat, crossed to open a closet door on an empty camera case, another on one patent leather evening pump, back to the closet in the bedroom where he found a soiled raincoat torn pocket to hem pulling it on coming up with a crushed Gitanes box from one pocket, matches from Sardi’s and two weightless five lira pieces from the other, out again down the hall to take the white telephone the length of its cord behind the white sofa where he sat on the floor and dialed.—Mister Eigen please, in . . . Can’t remember his extension he’s in public re . . . the Gitane he lit blazed up with dryness,—hello? Mister Eigen there . . .? Still out to what? Wait what do you mean he might be gone for the day for what day . . . But what time is it? Wait never mind listen this is sort of a, not really an emergency but . . . personal call yes it’s Butterfield eight, one wait . . . his voice dropped near a whisper,—I’ll call him later . . . he put down the phone and hunched there, blew to disperse the signal column of smoke rising over him.

  A door closed.—Jack . . .? He was up from his elbows.—Oh you frightened me! what are you doing there . . .

  —I was just, just making a call I . . .

  —But why are you making it hiding back there? and what, what on earth are you wearing . . .

  —I just woke up didn’t know what time it was look I don’t even know where I am, how the hell did I know who might walk in the door there and I couldn’t find my . . .

  —I had to go downtown, Jack I’m sorry it took me so long, she came on to drop all she’d been standing there holding to the sofa.—I was just so afraid you’d be gone . . .

  —Gone where! Where could I go like this! Couldn’t find my clothes I found this thing in a closet where’s my . . .

  —Not that suit you had on Jack I took it to be cleaned but it’s quite hopeless, and you really don’t . . .

  —Look I want to get out there and clear things up, tell Whiteback I’m wait where’s my money where’s my money!

  —It’s all in a drawer in the dressing table, Jack I called the school this morning and told them not to expect you and it’s too late to go out there now, I’m going in to fix some coffee please just sit down, I brought you the paper . . .

  —No but I, I can’t stay here . . . he turned,—Amy . . .? stood there for a moment and th
en sat down to reach for the paper. When she came in with a tray he was holding up the dry cleaner’s bag he’d found under it.

  —I’m afraid it will be quite tight on you, she said putting the tray down, sitting beside him—but I thought it might do to . . .

  —But whose where did it come from, whose . . .

  —They’ve had it since we took it in last summer and when I took yours in to be cleaned they . . .

  —But who’s, who took it in who’s we? Whose is it?

  —No one’s really now, it . . .

  —It can’t be no one’s how can it be no one’s?

  —It was just a suit of my husband’s, I’m afraid it’s just a poplin, for summer . . .

  —Fine and he’s going to walk in and join us for breakfast?

  —Don’t be silly he’s abroad, Jack you don’t have to drink all this juice I just brought it so you could . . .

  —He just cleaned the place out and left?

  —We’re not married anymore if that’s what you mean, there was nothing of mine here, I brought this juice so you could take these.

  He sank back, pulled the ripped skirt of the raincoat over a knee and muttered—what are they, testosterone?

  —Are they what? penicillin, I happened to find that prescription in a pocket of that awful suit you had on Jack I’ve honestly never, why do you carry so much trash around with you.

  —Not trash it’s, where is it you throw it out too?

  —No it’s all right here . . . he watched her back arch bending for the shelf under the coffee table,—honestly look at it, is this anything but trash? and this? and old newspaper clippings this one’s so smudged you can hardly read it.

  —Yes that’s, that’s nothing yes, this behaviorist B F Skinner just intrigued the way he’s parlayed all his infantile ideas into such a successful . . .

  She crumpled it,—and this one? about nature’s symmetry?

  —Yes well that’s . . . he came forward,—this report on the decay process of this eta particle’s challenged the whole idea of the, you see the . . .