questions. Sometimes they seemed dumb, like who was more important to me, my mother or me? Except, you see, that’s not so dumb, because it’s my mother who really wants me to get married. Or she’d ask me things about Herbert, like did he have a good time when he got drunk, and what didn’t he want to talk about ever , and did he make love like it was fun or like he was trying to remember how he was supposed to do it, and did he seem to have a sense of humor about his underwear? Questions that made me look at him different. Wasted effort, the putz.”
“Is Sally married?”
“Sally? Sally married?” She picked up the screwdriver and took a long pull. “Golly, do you know, I don’t know.” She looked stricken. “Gee, isn’t that awful? That’s the kind of question Sally used to ask, something that made you realize something about yourself. Oh, my God, I’m ashamed of myself. I was so busy talking to her that I hardly ever listened.”
“In every relationship there’s a talker and a listener. You’re the talker, that’s all,” I said, trying to smooth her out. “Sally is the listener.” Then I shut up so I could register the little click in my brain. I looked at a morose knot of disc jockeys at the bar; ratings must have been down. “Rhoda. What’s Sally’s religion?”
“Religion? That she does talk about, in the last year or so, anyway. She keeps trying to get me to go with her. I’m not much into religion, you know, I’m supposed to be a Jew but I might just as well be a Chevrolet for all the attention I pay to it. But one thing I’ve got less than zero interest in is trendy California cults.”
“I’m sorry to do this,” I said, standing up, “but I’ve got to go. Listen, the meal, anything you want, it’s all on my credit card, and it’s already signed. Have another drink, have a burger, have whatever you like. Better still, call in sick and go home, skip the rest of the day. Wash your hair. Stop worrying about Sally. Maybe you did do all the talking, but you’re a terrific person and she was lucky to have you.”
She looked up at me with her mouth open.
“And when Herbert calls,” I said, “tell him to go fuck himself.”
Sally was a Listener. Listener Simpson’s mania for clarity had echoed Harker’s insistence on understanding. That had been the only part of my description of Harker that had brought Skippy down from his plateau of bliss. I had to get home and review my notes.
At the bottom of my unpaved driveway I caught a whiff of something sharp, sweet, old, and slightly sickening. I slowed down for a moment to check it out but didn’t see anything. Then, in a hurry, I slogged up through the mud at a forty-degree angle, slipping and falling to my knees only twice, not bad for a wet November afternoon on an unpaved driveway that asked nothing less from the world than that it should be beamed up Star Trek-style and then let down in Switzerland, where it could be pressed into service as an Olympic ski ramp.
That would be all right if the house at the top of it were worth getting to. It was slapped together in the twenties by an embittered alcoholic hermit who wanted to flee the madding crowd. He kept himself relatively sober long enough to build the thing—it couldn’t have taken more than a couple of months—and then went on a bourbon toot that ended a year later when he saw workers paving Old Topanga Canyon about a half-mile below. He promptly tied a rope around the living-room rafter and kicked a chair out from under him.
He hung there, mummified by the dry summer heat, like a big strip of bacon for a couple of years, sharing the house with a pair of red-tailed hawks, until he was discovered by a determined census taker. The house passed to the hermit’s sister, and then to her son, who went to the Balkans and took himself a Balkan bride during World War II. He then got himself killed in the war, and ownership of the house devolved upon the Balkan bride, Mrs.
“Is Sally married?”
“Sally? Sally married?” She picked up the screwdriver and took a long pull. “Golly, do you know, I don’t know.” She looked stricken. “Gee, isn’t that awful? That’s the kind of question Sally used to ask, something that made you realize something about yourself. Oh, my God, I’m ashamed of myself. I was so busy talking to her that I hardly ever listened.”
“In every relationship there’s a talker and a listener. You’re the talker, that’s all,” I said, trying to smooth her out. “Sally is the listener.” Then I shut up so I could register the little click in my brain. I looked at a morose knot of disc jockeys at the bar; ratings must have been down. “Rhoda. What’s Sally’s religion?”
“Religion? That she does talk about, in the last year or so, anyway. She keeps trying to get me to go with her. I’m not much into religion, you know, I’m supposed to be a Jew but I might just as well be a Chevrolet for all the attention I pay to it. But one thing I’ve got less than zero interest in is trendy California cults.”
“I’m sorry to do this,” I said, standing up, “but I’ve got to go. Listen, the meal, anything you want, it’s all on my credit card, and it’s already signed. Have another drink, have a burger, have whatever you like. Better still, call in sick and go home, skip the rest of the day. Wash your hair. Stop worrying about Sally. Maybe you did do all the talking, but you’re a terrific person and she was lucky to have you.”
She looked up at me with her mouth open.
“And when Herbert calls,” I said, “tell him to go fuck himself.”
Sally was a Listener. Listener Simpson’s mania for clarity had echoed Harker’s insistence on understanding. That had been the only part of my description of Harker that had brought Skippy down from his plateau of bliss. I had to get home and review my notes.
At the bottom of my unpaved driveway I caught a whiff of something sharp, sweet, old, and slightly sickening. I slowed down for a moment to check it out but didn’t see anything. Then, in a hurry, I slogged up through the mud at a forty-degree angle, slipping and falling to my knees only twice, not bad for a wet November afternoon on an unpaved driveway that asked nothing less from the world than that it should be beamed up Star Trek-style and then let down in Switzerland, where it could be pressed into service as an Olympic ski ramp.
That would be all right if the house at the top of it were worth getting to. It was slapped together in the twenties by an embittered alcoholic hermit who wanted to flee the madding crowd. He kept himself relatively sober long enough to build the thing—it couldn’t have taken more than a couple of months—and then went on a bourbon toot that ended a year later when he saw workers paving Old Topanga Canyon about a half-mile below. He promptly tied a rope around the living-room rafter and kicked a chair out from under him.
He hung there, mummified by the dry summer heat, like a big strip of bacon for a couple of years, sharing the house with a pair of red-tailed hawks, until he was discovered by a determined census taker. The house passed to the hermit’s sister, and then to her son, who went to the Balkans and took himself a Balkan bride during World War II. He then got himself killed in the war, and ownership of the house devolved upon the Balkan bride, Mrs.
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