by John Irving
If at first Garp had thought she was one of Helen's students, wanting something, now he thought something else. He saw that she couldn't speak, and he saw the extreme self-consciousness of her handing him the note. Garp's experience with speechless women who handed out notes self-consciously was limited to Ellen Jamesians, and he suppressed a momentary flame of anger--that another creepy Ellen Jamesian was introducing herself to him. Or had she come to bait him about something--the reclusive son of the exciting Jenny Fields?
Hi! I'm Margie. I'm an Ellen Jamesian,
her stupid note would say.
Do You Know What an Ellen Jamesian Is?
The next thing you know, Garp thought, they'll be organized like the religious morons who bring those righteous pamphlets about Jesus to one's very door. It sickened him, for example, that the Ellen Jamesians were now reaching girls as young as this one; she was too young to know, he thought, whether she wanted a tongue in her life or not. He shook his head and waved the note away.
"Yes, yes, I know, I know," Garp said. "So what?"
Poor Margie Tallworth was unprepared for this. She had come like an avenging angel--her terrible duty, and what a burden it was to her!--to bring the bad news that somehow must be made known. But he knew already! And he didn't even care.
She clutched her note in both her hands, so tightly to her pretty, trembling breasts that more of the perfume was expressed from it--or from her--and a wave of her young-girl smell passed over Garp, who stood glaring at her.
"I said, 'So what?'" Garp said. "Do you actually expect me to have respect for someone who cuts her own tongue off?"
Margie forced a word out. "What?" she said; she was frightened now. Now she guessed why the poor man padded around his house all day, out of work: he was insane.
Garp had distinctly heard the word; it was not a gagged "Aaahhh" or even a little "Aaa"--it was not the word of an amputated tongue. It was a whole word.
"What?" he said.
"What?" she said, again.
He stared at the note she held against herself.
"You can talk?" he said.
"Of course," she croaked.
"What's that?" he asked, and pointed to her note. But now she was afraid of him--an insane cuckold. God knows what he might do. Murder the children, or murder her; he looked strong enough to murder Michael Milton with one arm. And every man looked evil when he was questioning you. She backed away from him, off the porch.
"Wait!" Garp cried. "Is that a note for me? What is that? Is it something for Helen? Who are you?"
Margie Tallworth shook her head. "It's a mistake," she whispered, and when she turned to flee, she collided with the wet mailman, spilling his bag and knocking herself back into Garp. Garp had a vision of Duna, the senile bear, bowling a mailman down a Viennese staircase--outlawed forever. But all that happened to Margie Tallworth was that she fell to the floor of the porch; her stockings tore and she skinned one knee.
The mailman, who assumed he'd arrived at an awkward moment, fumbled for Garp's mail among his strewn letters, but Garp was now only interested in what message the crying girl had for him. "What is it?" he asked her, gently; he tried to help her to her feet, but she wanted to sit where she was. She kept sobbing.
"I'm sorry," Margie Tallworth said. She had lost her nerve; she had spent a minute too long around Garp, and now that she thought she rather liked him, it was hard for her to imagine giving him this news.
"Your knee's not too bad," Garp said, "but let me get something to clean you up." He went inside for antiseptic for her cut, and bandages, but she took this opportunity to limp away. She could not face him with this news, but she could not withhold it from him, either. She left her note for him. The mailman watched her hobble down the side street toward the corner where the buses stopped; he wondered briefly what the Garps were up to. They seemed to get more mail than other families, too.
It was all those letters Garp wrote, which poor John Wolf, his editor, struggled to answer. And there were copies of books to review; Garp gave them to Helen, who at least read them. There were Helen's magazines; it seemed to Garp there were a great many. There were Garp's two magazines, his only subscriptions: Gourmet and Amateur Wrestling News. There were, of course, bills. And a letter rather frequently from Jenny; it was all she wrote these days. And a letter now and then, short and sweet, from Ernie Holm.
Sometimes Harry Fletcher wrote them both, and Alice still wrote with exquisite fluency, about nothing at all, to Garp.
And now among the usual was a note, reeking of perfume and wet with tears. Garp put down the bottle of antiseptic and the bandages; he did not bother to look for the girl. He held the crumpled note and thought he knew, more or less, what it would be about.
He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before, because there were so many things that pointed to it; now that he thought of it, he supposed he had thought of it before, only not quite this consciously. The slow unwrapping of the note--so it wouldn't tear--made sounds as crisp as autumn, though all around Garp it was a cold March, the hurt ground thawing to mud. The little note snapped like bones as he opened it. With the escaping perfume, Garp imagined he could still hear the girl's sharp little yelp: "What?"
He knew "what"; what he didn't know was "with whom"--that name, which had kicked around in his mind, one morning, but then was gone. The note, of course, would provide him with the name: Michael Milton. It sounded to Garp like a special kind of new ice cream at that shop he took the boys to. There was Strawberry Swirl, Chock-full of Chocolate, Mocha Madness, and Michael Milton. It was a disgusting name--a flavor Garp could taste--and Garp tramped to the storm sewer and wadded the vile-smelling note into pieces and stuffed them through the grate. Then he went inside the house and read the name in a phone book, over and over again.
It seemed to him now that Helen had been "involved with" someone for a long time; it seemed that he had known it for some time, too. But the name! Michael Milton! Garp had classified him--to Helen--at a party where Garp had been introduced to him. Garp had told Helen that Michael Milton was a "wimp"; they had discussed his mustache. Michael Milton! Garp read the name so many times, he was still peering into the phone book when Duncan got home from school and assumed that his father was once more searching a directory for his make-believe people.
"Didn't you get Walt yet?" Duncan asked.
Garp had forgotten. And Walt has a cold, too, Garp thought. The boy shouldn't have to wait for me, with a cold.
"Let's go get him together," Garp said to Duncan. To Duncan's surprise, Garp threw the phone book into the trash barrel. Then they walked to the bus stop.
Garp was still in his track clothes, and it was still raining; Duncan found this odd, too, but he didn't say anything about it. He said, "I got two goals today." For some reason, all they played at Duncan's school was soccer--fall, winter, and spring, they played only soccer. It was a small school, but there was another reason for all the soccer; Garp forgot what it was. He had never liked the reason, anyway. "Two goals," Duncan repeated.
"That's great," Garp said.
"One was a header," Duncan said.
"With your head?" Garp said. "That's wonderful."
"Ralph gave me a perfect pass," Duncan said.
"That's still wonderful," Garp said. "And good for Ralph." He put his arm around Duncan, but he knew Duncan would be embarrassed if he tried to kiss him; it is Walt who lets me kiss him, Garp thought. Then he thought of kissing Helen and almost stepped in front of the bus.
"Dad!" Duncan said. And in the bus he asked his father, "Are you okay?"
"Sure," Garp said.
"I thought you'd be up at the wrestling room," Duncan said. "It is raining."
From Walt's day care you could look across the river and Garp tried to place the exact location, there, of Michael Milton's address, which he had memorized from the phone book.
"Where were you?" Walt complained. He coughed; his nose dripped; he felt hot. He expected to go wrestling whenever
it rained.
"Why don't we all go to the wrestling room, as long as we're downtown?" Duncan said. He was increasingly logical, but Garp said no, he didn't want to wrestle today. "Why not?" Duncan wanted to know.
"Because he's got his running stuff on, dummy," Walt said.
"Oh, shut up, Walt," Duncan said. They more or less fought on the bus, until Garp told them they couldn't. Walt was sick, Garp reasoned, and fighting was bad for his cold.
"I'm not sick," Walt said.
"Yes, you are," Garp said.
"Yes, you are," Duncan teased.
"Shut up, Duncan," Garp said.
"Boy, you're in a great mood," Duncan said, and Garp wanted to kiss him; Garp wished to assure Duncan that he wasn't really in a bad mood, but kissing embarrassed Duncan, so Garp kissed Walt instead.
"Dad!" Walt complained. "You're all wet and sweaty."
"Because he's got his running stuff on, dummy," Duncan said.
"He called me a dummy," Walt told Garp.
"I heard him," Garp said.
"I'm not a dummy," Walt said.
"Yes, you are," Duncan said.
"Shut up, both of you," Garp said.
"Dad's in a great mood, isn't he, Walt?" Duncan asked his brother.
"Sure is," Walt said, and they decided to tease their father, instead of fight among themselves, until the bus deposited them--a few blocks from the house in the increasing rain. They were a soggy threesome when they were still a block from home, and a car that had been going too fast slowed suddenly beside them; the window was rolled down, after a struggle, and in the steamy interior Garp saw the frazzled, glistening face of Mrs. Ralph. She grinned at them.
"You seen Ralph?" she asked Duncan.
"Nope," Duncan said.
"The moron doesn't know enough to come out of the rain," she said. "I guess you don't, either," she said sweetly, to Garp; she was still grinning and Garp tried to smile back at her, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He must have had poor control of his expression, he suspected, because Mrs. Ralph wouldn't usually pass up the opportunity to go on teasing him in the rain. Yet, instead, she looked suddenly shocked by Garp's ghastly smile; she rolled her window back up.
"See ya," she called, and drove off. Slowly.
"See ya," Garp mumbled after her; he admired the woman but he was thinking that maybe even this horror would eventually come to pass: that he would see Mrs. Ralph.
In the house he gave Walt a hot bath, slipping into the tub with him--an excuse, which he often took, to wrestle with that little body. Duncan was too big for Garp to fit in the tub with him anymore.
"What's for supper?" Duncan called upstairs.
Garp realized he had forgotten supper.
"I forgot supper," Garp called.
"You forgot?" Walt asked him, but Garp dunked Walt in the tub, and tickled him, and Walt fought back and forgot about the issue.
"You forgot supper?" Duncan hollered from downstairs.
Garp decided he was not going to get out of the tub. He kept adding more hot water; the steam was good for Walt's lungs, he believed. He would try to keep the child in the tub with him as long as Walt was content to play.
They were still in the bath together when Helen got home.
"Dad forgot supper," Duncan told her immediately.
"He forgot supper?" Helen said.
"He forgot all about it," Duncan said.
"Where is he?" Helen asked.
"He's taking a bath with Walt," Duncan said. "They've been taking a bath for hours."
"Heavens," said Helen. "Maybe they've drowned."
"Wouldn't you love that?" Garp hollered from his bath, upstairs. Duncan laughed.
"He's in a great mood," Duncan told his mother.
"I can see that he is," Helen said. She put her hand softly on Duncan's shoulder, being careful not to let him know that she was actually leaning on him for support. She felt suddenly unsure of her balance. Poised at the bottom of the stairs, she called up to Garp, "Had a bad day?"
But Garp slipped underwater; it was a gesture of control, because he felt such hatred for her and he didn't want Walt to see it or hear it.
There was no answer and Helen tightened her grip on Duncan's shoulder. Please, not in front of the children, she thought. It was a new situation for her--that she should find herself in the defensive position in a matter of some contention with Garp--and she felt frightened.
"Shall I come up?" she called.
There was still no answer; Garp could hold his breath a long time.
Walt shouted back downstairs to her, "Dad's underwater!"
"Dad is so weird," Duncan said.
Garp came up for air just as Walt yelled again, "He's holding his breath!"
I hope so, Helen thought. She didn't know what to do, she couldn't move.
In a minute or so, Garp whispered to Walt, "Tell her I'm still underwater, Walt. Okay?"
Walt appeared to think this was a fiendishly clever trick and he yelled downstairs to Helen, "Dad's still underwater!"
"Wow," Duncan said. "We should time him. It must be a record."
But now Helen felt panicked. Duncan moved out from under her hand--he was starting up the stairs to see this breath-holding feat--and Helen felt that her legs were lead.
"He's still underwater!" Walt shrieked, though Garp was drying Walt with a towel and had already started to drain the tub; they stood naked on the bathmat by the big mirror together. When Duncan came into the bathroom, Garp silenced him by putting a finger to his lips.
"Now, say it together," Garp whispered. "On the count of three, 'He's still under!' One, two, three."
"He's still under!" Duncan and Walt howled together, and Helen felt her own lungs burst. She felt a scream escape her but no sound emerged, and she ran up the stairs thinking that only her husband could have conceived of such a plot to pay her back: drowning himself in front of their children and leaving her to explain to them why he did it.
She ran crying into the bathroom, so surprising Duncan and Walt that she had to recover almost immediately--in order not to frighten them. Garp was naked at the mirror, slowly drying between his toes and watching her in a way she remembered that Ernie Holm had taught his wrestlers how to look for openings.
"You're too late," he told her. "I already died. But it's touching, and a little surprising, to see that you care."
"We'll talk about this later?" she asked him, hopefully--and smiling, as if it had been a good joke.
"We fooled you!" Walt said, poking Helen on that sharp bone above her hip.
"Boy, if we'd pulled that on you," Duncan said to his father, "you'd have really been pissed at us."
"The children haven't eaten," Helen said.
"Nobody's eaten," Garp said. "Unless you have."
"I can wait," she told him.
"So can I," Garp told her.
"I'll get the kids something," Helen offered, pushing Walt out of the bathroom. "There must be eggs, and cereal."
"For supper?" Duncan said. "That sounds like a great supper," he said.
"I just forgot, Duncan," Garp said.
"I want toast," Walt said.
"You can have toast, too," Helen said.
"Are you sure you can handle this?" Garp asked Helen.
She just smiled at him.
"God, even I can handle toast," Duncan said. "I think even Walt can fix cereal."
"The eggs are tricky," Helen said; she tried to laugh.
Garp went on drying between his toes. When the kids were out of the bathroom, Helen poked her head back in. "I'm sorry, and I love you," Helen said, but he wouldn't look up from his deliberate procedure with the towel. "I never wanted to hurt you," she went on. "How did you find out? I have never once stopped thinking of you. Was it that girl?" Helen whispered, but Garp gave all his attention to his toes.
When she had set out food for the children (as if they were pets! she would think to herself, later), she went back upstairs to him. He was still in fr
ont of the mirror, sitting naked on the edge of the tub.
"He means nothing; he never took anything away from you," she told him. "It's all over now, really it is."
"Since when?" he asked her.
"As of now," she said to Garp. "I just have to tell him."
"Don't tell him," Garp said. "Let him guess."
"I can't do that," Helen said.
"There's shell in my egg!" Walt hollered from downstairs.
"My toast is burnt!" Duncan said. They were plotting together to distract their parents from each other--whether they knew it or not. Children, Garp thought, have some instinct for separating their parents when their parents ought to be separated.
"Just eat it!" Helen called to them. "It's not so bad."
She tried to touch Garp but he slipped past her, out of the bathroom; he started to dress.
"Eat up and I'll take you to a movie!" he called to the kids.
"What are you doing that for?" Helen asked him.
"I'm not staying here with you," he said. "We're going out. You call that wimpish asshole and say good-bye."
"He'll want to see me," Helen said, dully--the reality of having it over, now that Garp knew about it, was working on her like Novocain. If she had been sensitive to how much she'd hurt Garp, at first, now her feelings for him were deadening slightly and she was feeling for herself again.
"Tell him to eat his heart out," Garp said. "You won't see him. No last fucks for the road, Helen. Just tell him good-bye. On the phone."
"Nobody said anything about 'last fucks,'" Helen said.
"Use the phone," Garp said. "I'll take the kids out. We'll see a movie. Please have it over with before we come back. You won't see him again."
"I won't, I promise," Helen said. "But I should see him, just once--to tell him."
"I suppose you feel you've handled this very decently," Garp said.
Helen, to a point, did feel so; she didn't say anything. She felt she had never lost sight of Garp and the children during this indulgence; she felt justified in handling it her way, now.
"We should talk about this later," she said to him. "Some perspective will be possible, later."
He would have struck her if the children hadn't burst into the room.
"One, two, three," Duncan chanted to Walt.
"The cereal is stale!" Duncan and Walt hollered together.
"Please, boys," Helen said. "Your father and I are having a little fight. Go downstairs."