Dekker.
Moira is saying:
“Well, my brother’s in jail now, but I’m keeping his things for him whenever he gets out, but we don’t know when he’s getting out because he got himself in quite a bit of trouble and he never told us what. Like, million-dollar trouble, he said. So he’s in jail down in the States and there’s nothing we can do about it—don’t know why he’s there or what he did. But anyway, he sends me all his things, so God knows what all’s in there, but I write him and I tell him I’m gonna sell half this crap because we’re dead broke and if you’re in million-dollar trouble, why don’t you send us some? But he’s in jail, right, so he can’t do nothing one way or the other. And he’s just: whatever you do, don’t sell my dragon blade. And I would never, ever do that because I know how much that thing means to him. It’s like this blade that you throw, he got it from Thailand, like ancient Thailand fighters used it or something and—you should see this thing. I don’t know what the hell it’s made of but it’s perfectly balanced. It justfeels, like, powerful in your hand—you can feel the power coming off it. I threw it into an oak tree once, this huge, thousand-year-old oak, and you know what? Tree died. Dead. So this thing, you know, if I were to sell it we’d probably be set for life, but I’d never do that to him, it’s all he’s got left.”
Chew, chew, gnaw, masticate—the whole time her fist is practically in her mouth, she’s got some kind of oral fixation—I wish she’d have a smoke. I stare at her and slurp at my wine and try to feel some kind of attraction, but Moira is nothing like I imagined. She doesn’t have the welcoming cushiness of Brenda L. to her. She’s all edges and angles—pointy shoulders, jutting collarbone—with epic circles under her eyes. Jim describes her in his poems as having a face like the Madonna, a moonface, radiating bliss and wisdom like you see in paintings. Similarly, I seem to recall, he describes her as silent. That’s also how the virgin is depicted—smiling, close-mouthed like the Mona Lisa. Soft and round.
The other thing is, Moira’s talk is crazy talk.
Tree died. Dragon blade
. Or perhaps there is some kind of secret profundity behind it all that I am too drunk to detect. What did Jim call it?
The muse’s antique lying language
.
I’m sitting on the floor trying to tell Jim two things. One, that I read and enjoyed his review of Dermot Schofield’s chapbook in
Atlantica
. Two, that I am sorry not to have brought the bottle of wine I purchased specifically for this evening, and I would have to bring it to him at a later date.
“Don’t worry about it, Larry, we’re not hurting for booze around here.”
“—left it sitting on my kitchen table—don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Ah, you can have it yourself when you get home.”
“Can I have a glass of water?” I say, but my question gets lost in the conversation. Jim has brought out a bottle of whisky, handed out glasses, and plunked it into the centre of the room along with the basket of uneaten buns from dinner. I’m finding the whisky strong, but it isn’t so bad if I take a bite of bun with every sip. All of us are sitting on the floor except Slaughter and Moira. She’s still up on the chesterfield, and Slaughter hasn’t left his throne.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with that cocksucker when he gets here,” Jim is saying to Dekker.
“Just go through the motions,” Dekker replies. “Let him do his reading, put him up for the night.”
“I’ll be damned if I’m putting him up here.”
“I doubt the department will spring for a hotel room.”
“I’ll pay out of my own pocket if I have to.”
I figure out they’re talking about Schofield. When I babbled his name earlier, Jim went off on a bit of a tangent, and now, I realize, he’s still on it.
“Schofield’s coming here?” I ask.
Jim twists his mouth. “I invited
Moira is saying:
“Well, my brother’s in jail now, but I’m keeping his things for him whenever he gets out, but we don’t know when he’s getting out because he got himself in quite a bit of trouble and he never told us what. Like, million-dollar trouble, he said. So he’s in jail down in the States and there’s nothing we can do about it—don’t know why he’s there or what he did. But anyway, he sends me all his things, so God knows what all’s in there, but I write him and I tell him I’m gonna sell half this crap because we’re dead broke and if you’re in million-dollar trouble, why don’t you send us some? But he’s in jail, right, so he can’t do nothing one way or the other. And he’s just: whatever you do, don’t sell my dragon blade. And I would never, ever do that because I know how much that thing means to him. It’s like this blade that you throw, he got it from Thailand, like ancient Thailand fighters used it or something and—you should see this thing. I don’t know what the hell it’s made of but it’s perfectly balanced. It justfeels, like, powerful in your hand—you can feel the power coming off it. I threw it into an oak tree once, this huge, thousand-year-old oak, and you know what? Tree died. Dead. So this thing, you know, if I were to sell it we’d probably be set for life, but I’d never do that to him, it’s all he’s got left.”
Chew, chew, gnaw, masticate—the whole time her fist is practically in her mouth, she’s got some kind of oral fixation—I wish she’d have a smoke. I stare at her and slurp at my wine and try to feel some kind of attraction, but Moira is nothing like I imagined. She doesn’t have the welcoming cushiness of Brenda L. to her. She’s all edges and angles—pointy shoulders, jutting collarbone—with epic circles under her eyes. Jim describes her in his poems as having a face like the Madonna, a moonface, radiating bliss and wisdom like you see in paintings. Similarly, I seem to recall, he describes her as silent. That’s also how the virgin is depicted—smiling, close-mouthed like the Mona Lisa. Soft and round.
The other thing is, Moira’s talk is crazy talk.
Tree died. Dragon blade
. Or perhaps there is some kind of secret profundity behind it all that I am too drunk to detect. What did Jim call it?
The muse’s antique lying language
.
I’m sitting on the floor trying to tell Jim two things. One, that I read and enjoyed his review of Dermot Schofield’s chapbook in
Atlantica
. Two, that I am sorry not to have brought the bottle of wine I purchased specifically for this evening, and I would have to bring it to him at a later date.
“Don’t worry about it, Larry, we’re not hurting for booze around here.”
“—left it sitting on my kitchen table—don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Ah, you can have it yourself when you get home.”
“Can I have a glass of water?” I say, but my question gets lost in the conversation. Jim has brought out a bottle of whisky, handed out glasses, and plunked it into the centre of the room along with the basket of uneaten buns from dinner. I’m finding the whisky strong, but it isn’t so bad if I take a bite of bun with every sip. All of us are sitting on the floor except Slaughter and Moira. She’s still up on the chesterfield, and Slaughter hasn’t left his throne.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with that cocksucker when he gets here,” Jim is saying to Dekker.
“Just go through the motions,” Dekker replies. “Let him do his reading, put him up for the night.”
“I’ll be damned if I’m putting him up here.”
“I doubt the department will spring for a hotel room.”
“I’ll pay out of my own pocket if I have to.”
I figure out they’re talking about Schofield. When I babbled his name earlier, Jim went off on a bit of a tangent, and now, I realize, he’s still on it.
“Schofield’s coming here?” I ask.
Jim twists his mouth. “I invited
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