start.”
Bech, shaken but sane, said, “Another medical fact exploded.”
Beatrice looked at him questioningly. Flirting her head, Bech thought, like Norma. Sisters. A stick refracted in water. Our biological mother.
He explained, “A, the little bastard tells me it won’t make me sick, and B, he solemnly swears it’s a sexual depressant.”
“You don’t think—they went back to his room?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
Beatrice nodded. “That’s how she is. That’s how she’s always been.”
Bech looked around him, and saw that the familiar objects—the jar of dried bayberry; the loose shell collections, sandy and ill-smelling; the damp stack of books on the sofa—still wore one final, gossamer thickness of the mystery inwhich marijuana had clothed them. He asked Bea, “How are you feeling? Do the windows still worry you?”
“I’ve been sitting here watching them,” she said. “I keep thinking they’re going to tip and fall into the room, but I guess they won’t really.”
“They might,” Bech advised her. “Don’t sell your intuitions short.”
“Please, could you sit down beside me and watch them with me? I know it’s silly, but it would be a help.”
He obeyed, moving Norma’s wicker chair close to Bea, and observed that indeed the window frames, painted white in unpainted plank walls, did have the potentiality of animation, and a disturbing pressingness. Their center of gravity seemed to shift from one corner to the other. He discovered he had taken Bea’s hand—limp, cool, less bony than Norma’s—into his. She gradually turned her head, and he turned his face away, embarrassed that the scent of vomit would be still on his breath. “Let’s go outside on the porch,” he suggested.
The stars overhead were close and ripe. What was that sentence in
Ulysses
? Bloom and Stephen emerging from the house to urinate, suddenly looking up—
The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit
. Bech felt a sadness, a terror, that he had not written it. And never would. A child whimpered and rustled in its sleep. Beatrice was wearing a loose pale dress luminous in the air of the dark porch. The night was moist, alive; lights along the horizon pulsed. The bell buoy clanged on a noiseless swell. She sat in a chair against the shingled wall and he took a chair facing her, his back to the sea. She asked, “Do you feel betrayed?”
He tried to think, scanned the scattered stars of his decaying brain for the answer. “Somewhat. But I’ve had it coming to me. I’ve been getting on her nerves deliberately.”
“Like me and Rodney.”
He didn’t answer, not comprehending and marveling instead how, when the woman crossed and recrossed her legs, it could have been Norma—a gentler, younger Norma.
She clarified, “I forced the divorce.”
The child who had whimpered now cried aloud; it was little Donald, pronouncing hollowly, “Owl!”
Beatrice, struggling for control against her body’s slowness, rose and went to the child, kneeled and woke him. “No owl,” she said. “Just Mommy.” With that ancient strange strength of mothers she pulled him from the sleeping bag and carried him back in her arms to her chair. “No owl,” she repeated, rocking gently, “just Mommy and Uncle Harry and the bell buoy.”
“You smell funny,” the child told her.
“Like what funny?”
“Like sort of candy.”
“Donald,” Bech said, “we’d never eat any candy without telling you. We’d never be so mean.”
There was no answer; he was asleep again.
“I admire you,” Beatrice said at last, the lulling rocking motion still in her voice, “for being yourself.”
“I’ve tried being other people,” Bech said, fending, “but nobody was convinced.”
“I love your book,” she went on. “I didn’t know how to tell you, but I always rather sneered at you, I thought of you as part of Norma’s phony crowd, but your writing, it’s terribly tender. There’s something in you that
Bech, shaken but sane, said, “Another medical fact exploded.”
Beatrice looked at him questioningly. Flirting her head, Bech thought, like Norma. Sisters. A stick refracted in water. Our biological mother.
He explained, “A, the little bastard tells me it won’t make me sick, and B, he solemnly swears it’s a sexual depressant.”
“You don’t think—they went back to his room?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
Beatrice nodded. “That’s how she is. That’s how she’s always been.”
Bech looked around him, and saw that the familiar objects—the jar of dried bayberry; the loose shell collections, sandy and ill-smelling; the damp stack of books on the sofa—still wore one final, gossamer thickness of the mystery inwhich marijuana had clothed them. He asked Bea, “How are you feeling? Do the windows still worry you?”
“I’ve been sitting here watching them,” she said. “I keep thinking they’re going to tip and fall into the room, but I guess they won’t really.”
“They might,” Bech advised her. “Don’t sell your intuitions short.”
“Please, could you sit down beside me and watch them with me? I know it’s silly, but it would be a help.”
He obeyed, moving Norma’s wicker chair close to Bea, and observed that indeed the window frames, painted white in unpainted plank walls, did have the potentiality of animation, and a disturbing pressingness. Their center of gravity seemed to shift from one corner to the other. He discovered he had taken Bea’s hand—limp, cool, less bony than Norma’s—into his. She gradually turned her head, and he turned his face away, embarrassed that the scent of vomit would be still on his breath. “Let’s go outside on the porch,” he suggested.
The stars overhead were close and ripe. What was that sentence in
Ulysses
? Bloom and Stephen emerging from the house to urinate, suddenly looking up—
The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit
. Bech felt a sadness, a terror, that he had not written it. And never would. A child whimpered and rustled in its sleep. Beatrice was wearing a loose pale dress luminous in the air of the dark porch. The night was moist, alive; lights along the horizon pulsed. The bell buoy clanged on a noiseless swell. She sat in a chair against the shingled wall and he took a chair facing her, his back to the sea. She asked, “Do you feel betrayed?”
He tried to think, scanned the scattered stars of his decaying brain for the answer. “Somewhat. But I’ve had it coming to me. I’ve been getting on her nerves deliberately.”
“Like me and Rodney.”
He didn’t answer, not comprehending and marveling instead how, when the woman crossed and recrossed her legs, it could have been Norma—a gentler, younger Norma.
She clarified, “I forced the divorce.”
The child who had whimpered now cried aloud; it was little Donald, pronouncing hollowly, “Owl!”
Beatrice, struggling for control against her body’s slowness, rose and went to the child, kneeled and woke him. “No owl,” she said. “Just Mommy.” With that ancient strange strength of mothers she pulled him from the sleeping bag and carried him back in her arms to her chair. “No owl,” she repeated, rocking gently, “just Mommy and Uncle Harry and the bell buoy.”
“You smell funny,” the child told her.
“Like what funny?”
“Like sort of candy.”
“Donald,” Bech said, “we’d never eat any candy without telling you. We’d never be so mean.”
There was no answer; he was asleep again.
“I admire you,” Beatrice said at last, the lulling rocking motion still in her voice, “for being yourself.”
“I’ve tried being other people,” Bech said, fending, “but nobody was convinced.”
“I love your book,” she went on. “I didn’t know how to tell you, but I always rather sneered at you, I thought of you as part of Norma’s phony crowd, but your writing, it’s terribly tender. There’s something in you that
Similar Books
