Pricksongs & Descants (28 page)
Read Pricksongs & Descants Online
Authors: Robert Coover
No thanks, said Paul.
“
Can
’
t get it out, eh?
”
The doctor probed Paul
’
s neck.
“
Hm
m
m.
No, obviously not
”
He shrugged.
“
Just as well. What could you possibly have to say, eh?
”
He chuckled drily, then looked up at the policeman who still had not left to search out a blanket
“
Don
’
t just stand there, man! Get this lad a priest!
”
The police officer, clutching his mouth, hurried away, out of Paul
’
s eye-reach.
“
I know it
’
s not easy to accept death,
”
the doctor was saying. He finished wiping his hands, tossed the towel into his bla
c
k bag, snapped the bag shut.
“
We all struggle against it, boy, it
’
s part and parcel of being alive, this brawl, this meaningless gutterfight with death. In fact, let me tell you, son, it
’
s all there is to life.
”
He wagged his finger in punctuation, and ended by pressing the tip of it to Paul
’
s nose.
“
That
’
s the secret,
that
’
s
my happy paregoric! Hee hee
hee!”
KI, thought Paul KI and 14. What could it have been? Never know now. One of those things.
“
But death begets life, there
’
s
that
, my boy, and don
’
t you ever forget it
!
Survival and murder are synonyms, son, first flaw of the universe! Hee hee h—oh! Sorry, son! No time for puns! Forget I said it!
”
It
’
s okay, said Paul. Listening to the doctor had at least made him forget the tickle on his lip and it was gone.
“
New life burgeons out of r
ot, new mouths consume old orga
nisms, father dies at orgasm, mother dies at birth, only old Dame Mass with her twin dugs of Stuff and Tickle persists, suffering her long slow split into pure light and pure carbon! Hee hee hee! A tender thought! Don
’
t you agree, lad?
”
The doctor gazed off into space, happily contemplating
the
process.
I tell you what, said Paul. Let
’
s forget it.
Just then, the policeman returned with a big quilted comforter, and he and the doctor spread it gently over Paul
’
s body, leaving only his face exposed. The people pressed closer to watch.
“
Back! Back!
”
shouted the policeman.
“
Have you no respect for the dying
? Bac
k, I say!
”
“
Oh, come now,
”
chided the doctor.
“
Let them watch if they want to. It hardly matters to this poor fellow, and even if it does, it can
’
t matter for much longer. And it will help keep the flies off him.
”
“
Well, doctor, if you think ...
”
His voice faded away. Paul closed his eyes.
As he lay there among die curious, several odd questions plagued Paul
’
s mind. He knew there was no point to them, but he couldn
’
t rid himself of them. The book, for example: did he have a book? And if he did, what book, and what had happened to it? And what about the stoplight, that lost increment of what men call history, why had no one brought up the matter of the stoplight? And pure carbon he could understand, but as for light: what could its purity consist of? KI. 14. That impression that it had happened before. Yes, these were mysteries, all right
.
His head ached from
them
.
People approached Paul from time to time to look under the blanket Some only peeked, then turned away, while others stayed to poke around, dip their hands in the mutilations. There seemed to be more interest in them now that they were covered. There were some arguments and some occasional horseplay, but the doctor and police man kept things from getting out of hand. If someone arrogantly ventured a Latin phrase, the doctor always put him down with some toilet-wall barbarism; on die other hand, he reserved his purest, most mellifluous toponymy for small children and young girls. He made several medical appointments with the latter. The police officer, though queasy, stay
ed nearby. Once, when Paul hap
pened to open his eyes after having had them closed some while, the policeman smiled warmly down on him and said:
“
Don
’
t worry, good fellow. I
’
m still here. Take it as easy as you can. I
’
ll be here to the very end. You can count on me.
”
Bullshit, thought Paul, though not ungratefully, and he thought he remembered hearing the doctor echo him as he fell off to sleep.
When he awoke, the streets were empty. They had all wearied of it, as he had known they would. It had clouded over, the sky had darkened, it was probably night, and it had begun to rain lightly. He could now see the truck clearly, off to his left
.
Must have been people in the way before.
MAGIC KISS LIPSTICK
IN
14
DIFFERENT SHADES
Never would have guessed. Only in true life could such things happen.
When he glanced to his right, he was surprised to find an old man sitting near him. Priest, no doubt He had come after all... black hat, long grayish beard, sitting in the puddles now forming in the street, legs crossed. Go on, said Paul, don
’
t suffer on my account, don
’
t wait for me, but the old man remained, silent, drawn, rain glistening on his hat, face, beard, clothes: prosopopoeia of patience. The priest Yet, something about the clothes: well, they were in rags. Pieced together and hanging in tatters. The hat, too, now that he noticed. At short intervals, the old man
’
s head would nod, his eyes would cross, his body would tip, he would catch himself with a start, grunt, glance suspiciously about him, then back down at Paul, would finally relax again and recommence the cycle.
Paul
’
s eyes wearied, especially with the rain splashing into them, so he let them fall closed once more. But he began suffering discomforting visions of the old priest, so he opened them again, squinted off to the left, toward the truck. A small dog, wiry and yellow, padded along in the puddles, hair drooping and bunching up with the rain. It sniffed at the tires of the truck, lifted its legs by one of them, sniffed again, padded on. It circled around Paul, apparently not noticing him, but poking its nose at every object, narrowing the distance between them with every circle. It passed close by the old man, snarled, completed another half-circle, and approached
Paul from the left. It stopped near Paul
’
s head—the wet-dog odor was suffocating—and whimpered, licking Paul
’
s face. The old man did nothing, just sat, legs crossed, and passively watched. Of course ... not a priest at all: an old beggar. Waiting for the clothes when he died. If he still had any. Go ahead and take them now, Paul told him, I don
’
t care. But the beggar only sat and stared. Paul felt a tugging sensation from below, heard the dog growl. His whole body seemed to jerk upwards, sending another hot flash through his neck. The dog
’
s hind feet were planted alongside Paul
’
s head, and now and again the right paw would lose its footing, kick nervously at Paul
’
s face, a buffeting counterpoint to the waves of hot pain behind his throat and eyes. Finally, something gave way. The dog shook water out of its yellow coat, and padded away, a fresh piece of flesh between its jaws. The beggar
’
s eyes crossed, his head dipped to his chest, and he started to topple forward, but again he caught himself, took a deep breath, uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, but the opposite way, reached in his pocket and pulled out an old cigarette butt, molded it between his yellow fingers, put it in his mouth, but did not light it. For an instant, the earth upended again, and Paul found himself hung on the street, a target for the millions of raindarts somebody out in the night was throwing at him. There
’
s nobody out there, he reminded himself, and that set the earth right again. The beggar spat
.
Paul shielded
his eyes from the rain with his lids. He thought he heard other dogs. How much longer must this go on
?
he wondered. How much longer
?
THE BABYSITTER
She arrives at 7:40, ten minutes late, but the children, Jimmy and Bitsy, are still eating supper, and their parents are not ready to go yet From other rooms come the sounds of a baby screaming, water running, a television musical
(no words: probably a dance num
ber—patterns of gliding figures come to mind). Mrs. Tucker sweeps into die kitchen, fussing with her hair, and snatches a baby bottle full of milk out of a pan of warm water, rushes out again.
“
Harry
!
”
she calls.
“
The babysitter
’
s here already!
”
○ ○? ○
That
’
s My Desire?
I’ll
Be Around? He smiles toothily, beckons faintly with his head, rubs his fast balding pate. Bewitched, maybe?
Or, What
’
s the Reason? He pulls on his shorts, gives his hips a slap. The baby goes silent in mid-scream. Isn
’
t this the one who used their tub last time? Who
’
s Sorry Now, that
’
s it.
○ ○? ○
Jack is wandering around town, not knowing what to do. His girlfriend is babysitting at the Tuckers
’
, and later, when she
’
s got the kids in bed, maybe he
’
ll drop over there. Sometimes he watches TV with her when she
’
s babysitting, it
’
s about the only chance he gets to make out a little since he doesn
’
t own wheels, but they have to be careful because most people don
’
t like their sitters to have boyfriends over. Just kissing her makes her nervous. She won
’
t close her eyes because she has
to be watching the door all the time. Married people really have it good, he thinks.
○ ○ ○
“
Hi
,”
the babysitter says to the children, and puts her books on top of the refrigerator.
“
What
’
s for supper?
”
The little girl, Bitsy, only stares at her obliquely. She joins
them
at the end of the kitchen table.
I
don
’
t have to go to bed until nine,
”
the boy announces flatly, and stuffs his mouth full of potato chips. The babysitter catches a glimpse of Mr. Tucker hurrying out of the bathroom in his underwear.
○ ○ ○
Her tummy. Under her arms. And her feet
.
Those are the best places. She
’
ll spank him, she says sometimes. Let her.
○ ○ ○
That sweet odor that girls have. The softness of her blouse. He catches a glimpse of the gentle shadows amid her thighs, as she curls her legs up under her. He stares hard at her. He has a lot of meaning packed into that stare, but she
’
s not even looking. She
’
s popping her gum and watching television. She
’
s sitting right there, inches away, soft, fragrant, and ready: but what
’
s his next move? He notices his buddy Mark in the drugstore, playing the pinball machine, and joins him.
“
Hey, this mama
’
s cold, Jack baby
!
She needs your touch!
”
○ ○ ○