Self-Help (Vintage Contemporaries) (16 page)

About the last you write nothing. There are no words for this. Your typewriter hums. You can find no words.

At undergraduate cocktail parties, people say, “Oh, you write? What do you write about?” Your roommate, who has consumed too much wine, too little cheese, and no crackers at all, blurts: “Oh, my god, she always writes about her dumb boyfriend.”

Later on in life you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real understanding of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them. You, however, have not yet reached this stage of literary criticism. You stiffen and say, “I do not,” the same way you said it when someone in the fourth grade accused you of really liking oboe lessons and your parents really weren’t just making you take them.

Insist you are not very interested in any one subject at all, that you are interested in the music of language, that you are interested in—in—syllables, because they are the atoms of poetry, the cells of the mind, the breath of the soul. Begin to feel woozy. Stare into your plastic wine cup.

“Syllables?” you will hear someone ask, voice trailing off, as they glide slowly toward the reassuring white of the dip.

Begin to wonder what you do write about. Or if you have anything to say. Or if there even is such a thing as a thing to say. Limit these thoughts to no more than ten minutes a day; like sit-ups, they can make you thin.

You will read somewhere that all writing has to do with one’s genitals. Don’t dwell on this. It will make you nervous.

Your mother will come visit you. She will look at the circles under your eyes and hand you a brown book with a brown
briefcase on the cover. It is entitled:
How to Become a Business Executive
. She has also brought the
Names for Baby
encyclopedia you asked for; one of your characters, the aging clown-schoolteacher, needs a new name. Your mother will shake her head and say: “Francie, Francie, remember when you were going to be a child psychology major?”

Say: “Mom, I like to write.”

She’ll say: “Sure you like to write. Of course. Sure you like to write.”

Write a story about a confused music student and title it: “Schubert Was the One with the Glasses, Right?” It’s not a big hit, although your roommate likes the part where the two violinists accidentally blow themselves up in a recital room. “I went out with a violinist once,” she says, snapping her gum.

Thank god you are taking other courses. You can find sanctuary in nineteenth-century ontological snags and invertebrate courting rituals. Certain globular mollusks have what is called “Sex by the Arm.” The male octopus, for instance, loses the end of one arm when placing it inside the female body during intercourse. Marine biologists call it “Seven Heaven.” Be glad you know these things. Be glad you are not just a writer. Apply to law school.

From here on in, many things can happen. But the main one will be this: you decide not to go to law school after all, and, instead, you spend a good, big chunk of your adult life telling people how you decided not to go to law school after all. Somehow you end up writing again. Perhaps you go to graduate school. Perhaps you work odd jobs and take writing courses at night. Perhaps you are working on a novel and writing down all the clever remarks and intimate personal confessions you hear during the day. Perhaps you are losing your pals, your acquaintances, your balance.

You have broken up with your boyfriend. You now go out with men who, instead of whispering “I love you,” shout: “Do it to me, baby.” This is good for your writing.

Sooner or later you have a finished manuscript more or less. People look at it in a vaguely troubled sort of way and say, “I’ll bet becoming a writer was always a fantasy of yours, wasn’t it?” Your lips dry to salt. Say that of all the fantasies possible in the world, you can’t imagine being a writer even making the top twenty. Tell them you were going to be a child psychology major. “I bet,” they always sigh, “you’d be great with kids.” Scowl fiercely. Tell them you’re a walking blade.

Quit classes. Quit jobs. Cash in old savings bonds. Now you have time like warts on your hands. Slowly copy all of your friends’ addresses into a new address book.

Vacuum. Chew cough drops. Keep a folder full of fragments.

An eyelid darkening sideways
.

World as conspiracy
.

Possible plot? A woman gets on a bus
.

Suppose you threw a love affair and nobody came
.

At home drink a lot of coffee. At Howard Johnson’s order the cole slaw. Consider how it looks like the soggy confetti of a map: where you’ve been, where you’re going—“You Are Here,” says the red star on the back of the menu.

Occasionally a date with a face blank as a sheet of paper asks you whether writers often become discouraged. Say that sometimes they do and sometimes they do. Say it’s a lot like having polio.

“Interesting,” smiles your date, and then he looks down at his arm hairs and starts to smooth them, all, always, in the same direction.

T
here is no dignity in appetites. That blanched pathetic look at salad bars, those scramblers for some endless consumption I am no exception. I was raised on Ward’s catalogs god those toys and shorts sets everything, everything, wonderfully turquoise. I moaned for the large black olives of restaurants, the fancy chunky dressings. I pined like a toad at gumball machines. And now, at thirty-five, I have stolen money, for no other reason than this nameless, bullying ache. A blistery rash has crept up out of my mouth, red and slick, making my face look vaguely genital, out of control. I have a recent tic at the eye, at the outer corner, something fluttering, trying to scamper away.

My mother has convinced herself she is physically and mentally ill and has checked into St. Veronica’s, although the doctors don’t know what to do with her. With my stolen money I buy her things, I buy me things. In stores, in front of nuns, embarrassingly, I twitch and perspire with a sort of jazz, an improvised rhythm, unpredictable, hungry.

In the cool arterial corridors of St. Veronica’s, doors swing open and shut, open and shut like valves. I am big, an overweight, natural dirt blonde with a nervous rash and think somehow this will keep nuns from harassing me I am a bit afraid of them. Out of deference, I wear a bra and no eyeshadow.

As I pass Sister Mary Marian at reception I nod and smile and then feel my face contort: the stench is worse than yesterday, an acrid medley of something like ether and old cantaloupe good god Mother how can you stand it here.

I am intent on getting her out. I have brought her a new Chinese cookbook and a wok and carry them wrapped in orange
paper in a huge box in front of me. Yesterday I brought her a deep violet evening gown. You have a whole life ahead of you, I said, holding it up and dancing it around, and she stared at me acidly from her pillow, unblinking, quietly chewing gum.

Again today I head for the swinging doors. Open and shut. That’s what the store detectives will say good god I must really stop this. Excuse me, I say to a brigade of wheelchairers trundling by, groggy and pale with mobile IV’s. Excuse me oh god pardon me. I am awkward in the elevator. Everywhere there are nuns. I am not Catholic, but I have been to too many Baptist potlucks.

My mother sits up briskly, unsmiling. Now, what the devil is this? she asks. She has been lying on her back, clipping coupons from the
Inquirer
, a good sign, practicality.

How are you feeling today, Mother? I set the wok down by her bed. My eye begins to fidget.

What the devil is this now? she asks again. Another gift?

Ma, I just wanted you to see—

Can’t keep these things here, Riva, she interrupts curtly. Can’t keep all these things.

Well bring them home, Ma. Come on. You really don’t need to be in this hospital anymore. The doctors all agree. It’s up to you.

She looks away, then with scissors begins retrimming the coupons more closely along the dotted lines. Slivers of newsprint fall to her sheets. She says nothing.

Look, I say, if you don’t want to go back to your apartment, you can come stay with Tom and me for a few weeks or so. I pause.

She stops cutting, glares up at me, and scowls: Who is this Tom guy anyway?

Tom, my husband of six years, has lately been a frequent casualty of her feigned senility. Mother, I say calmly. Tom has been my husband for six years, now you know that, and I wish you would just cut all of this out.

At this she grows especially dotty and waves her scissors at me, making little snips in the air.

You don’t need to be here, I sniff, unconvinced. Besides, it smells in this place.

The scissors freeze solemnly, dramatically, in front of her face.

Riva, that’s no way to talk about a good Catholic hospital. She looks away again, histrionic. I hate it, I hate it when she does this.

Whatever happened to that Phillip someone you were seeing all those years why, she sighs, we thought for sure you’d settle down and have us over for fondue on Thursdays my he was a sweet boy.

I cannot, cannot go through this again. Not today. I grab my bag and start for the door. When did my mother become such a loon?

There’s a great recipe for Garlic Snow Peas in there, I say. You should take a look. A silver-toothed redhead who also shares the room, whips back her bed curtain, grins, and blows me a kiss good-bye. Gaga. They’re all gaga here. My mother is shouting after me: Damn it who is this Tom guy anyway? Two nuns arrive, always, always in pairs, to calm her down.

I drive home. I drive the car home and think of you, Phil, faraway and invisible, even my mother speaking of you, as does this sad ache, thoughts of you, you are thoughts, springing up everywhere. The French for
plateful
also means state of mind—you wrote that on a postcard from Provence. I have it in a box somewhere. O Riva, you are a woman of whims and cravings, you said that of me, calling me expansive. You live, you said, you live from the twinges in your hips
.

I have stolen money. I have stolen money from the Leigenbaum’s department store where I am manager of Scarves and Handbags. I do it with the returns. The inventory count is always
clumsy, so I can take one return on a bag or scarf and double it, there are perforated receipts for both, and I can make the amount of the return and still refund the customer his money. The registers come out even, the books balance. I often stay late and alone to make sure. In a week I can make from two hundred to four hundred dollars, depending on the returns, depending on the twinges in my hips. It has been three weeks now. Ever since Mardi Gras. No one knows. I get ravenous. I buy things.

Tom is in insurance. He also likes to buy policies for himself. We have many, many policies. I have three lifes and two autos. He has four lifes, two autos, two fire and thefts, three hospital and accidents, and two mutilated limb and/or organs. One eye equals three right fingers and a thumb, says the policy. We also have something yellow with a diamond and fur clause. We sleep well at night. Unless it is raining or we’ve had a fight or Jeffrey is sick—then we toss like dinghies.

Why is Tom looking at me funny this evening does he suspect?

He says: How was work?

I say: Fine. How about you?

He says: Fine. Baker’s coming in from Pittsburgh tomorrow to discuss the sectional meeting.

I say: Well, that will be nice. Shall I expect him for dinner?

He says: Nah, ’sgotta fly back right away. We’ll grab something in Center City.

I say: Fine.

He says: What’s bugging Jeffrey? Is it nursery school?

I say: I think it’s his dancing class. No big deal. He’s just getting behind or lost or something.

He says: Is that what his teacher told you?

I say: No, Jeffrey mentioned it. For no reason I add: He’s a good honest kid.

He says: Well, what’s the problem? Has he missed classes or what?

I say: Look, he’s just a little frustrated trying to remember some of the steps. I really think that’s all it is.

He says: Hell, why’s a kid his age gotta take a goddamn pre-school dance class, anyway?

And I say: Because it’s a fucking international law, why do you think?

And that’s when Tom calls me hostile and says I’ve been snapping at him for weeks and I say, look, he’s your son and if you don’t encourage him early in some sort of meaningful aesthetic endeavor, he’ll end up on the streets killing hubcaps and stealing prostitutes and Tom smiles slightly and says don’t you have that backwards and I say Tom sometimes you really just miss the point of life sometimes you are an inexpressibly hollow, hollow man, you don’t know a damn about what’s important in this world and that’s when he looks at me aghast and I realize I have sprung a leak somewhere and as he calls Riva please come back here I run upstairs to the bay window and hide behind my new floor-length half-silk drapes I bought just last week with the money, the money, breathing into the smooth seamless backing they smell new, new, because I really don’t know myself now what it is I’m talking about, but it must be something, this jittery pang, this space, this hole must have a name I wonder what it is who is this Tom guy anyway?

A dream. A dream is like a church, cool and dark and wood and brass, the jeweled jelly-jar windows a place to scurry into from off the street in the night I dreamed of you, Phil. You stood before me and undressed, then sinking into me nuzzling with the perfect bone of your chin, the perfect
O
of your mouth, humming to the Bruckner or the Mahler, I didn’t know, it was a name that made me think of the Bronx, and your face beneath me, close and closed and traveling briefly opened, smiling up at me, huge trembling me, and whispered: Oh the largeness
.

How we loved each other with forks
.