The Maples Stories
Read The Maples Stories Online
Authors: John Updike
THE MAPLES PRESENTED
themselves to the writer in New York City in 1956, dropped from his sight for seven years, and reappeared in the suburbs of Boston in 1963, giving blood. They figured in a dozen stories since, until the couple’s divorce in 1976. Their name, bestowed by a young man who had grown up in a small town shaded by Norway maples, and who then moved to the New England of sugar maples and flame-bright swamp maples, retained for him an arboreal innocence, a straightforward and cooling leafiness. Though the Maples stories trace the decline and fall of a marriage, they also illumine a history in many ways happy, of growing children and a million mundane moments shared. That a marriage ends is less than ideal; but all things end under heaven, and if temporality is held to be invalidating, then nothing real succeeds. The moral of these stories is that all blessings are mixed. Also, that people are incorrigibly themselves. The musical pattern, the advance and retreat, of the Maples’ duet is repeated over and over, ever more harshly transposed. They are shy, cheerful, and dissatisfied. They like one another, and are mysteries to one another. One of them is usually feeling slightly unwell, and the seesaw of their erotic interest rarely balances. Yet they talk, more easily than any other characters the author has acted as agent for. A tribe segregated in a valley develops an accent, then a dialect, and then a language all
its own; so does a couple. Let this collection preserve one particular dead tongue, no easier to parse than Latin. To the fourteen Maples stories I have added two that from the internal evidence appear to take place in Richard Maple’s mind, and a fragment that cried off completion.
*
In the thirty years since the above preface was written, this collection of linked stories, quickly assembled to coincide with a made-for-television movie called
Too Far to Go
, has had a gratifying career in paperback: in England as a Penguin book titled
Your Lover Just Called
, and in translations into, by my reckoning, German, French, Spanish, Dutch, Serbian, Japanese, and Hebrew. Some of the German editions of
Der weite Weg zu zweit
were in hardcover, but this is the first hardbound edition in English. I was delighted to be told of it, and have availed myself of the opportunity to revise a few words and phrases, and to include one more Maples story, ‘Grandparenting.’ The couple surprised me, in the mid-Eighties, by reappearing in a wintry Hartford, married to others but brought together by the birth of their first grandchild. I have not encountered them since, though mutual friends assure me that they are both still alive and look well, considering.
J.U.
THE MAPLES HAD
moved just the day before to West Thirteenth Street, and that evening they had Rebecca Cune over, because now they were so close. A tall, always slightly smiling girl with an absent-minded manner, she allowed Richard Maple to slip off her coat and scarf even as she stood gently greeting Joan. Richard, moving with an extra precision and grace because of the smoothness with which the business had been managed – though he and Joan had been married nearly two years, he was still so young-looking that people did not instinctively lay upon him hostly duties; their reluctance worked in him a corresponding hesitancy so that often it was his wife who poured the drinks, while he sprawled on the sofa in the attitude of a favored and wholly delightful guest – entered the dark bedroom, entrusted the bed with Rebecca’s clothes, and returned to the living room. Her coat had seemed weightless.
Rebecca, seated beneath the lamp, on the floor, one leg tucked under her, one arm up on the Hide-a-Bed that the previous tenants had not as yet removed, was saying, ‘I had known her, you know, just for the day she taught me the job, but I said O.K. I was living in an awful place called a hotel for ladies. In the halls they had typewriters you put a quarter in.’
Joan, straight-backed on a Hitchcock chair from her parents’ home in Amherst, a damp handkerchief balled in her hand, turned to Richard and explained, ‘Before her apartment now, Becky lived with this girl and her boyfriend.’
‘Yes, his name was Jacques,’ Rebecca said.
Richard asked, ‘You lived with them?’ The arch composure of his tone was left over from the mood aroused in him by his successful and, in the dim bedroom, somewhat poignant – as if he were with great tact delivering a disappointing message – disposal of their guest’s coat.
‘Yes, and he insisted on having his name on the mailbox. He was terribly afraid of missing a letter. When my brother was in the Navy and came to see me and saw on the mailbox’ – with three parallel movements of her fingers she set the names beneath one another –
‘Georgene Clyde,
Rebecca Cune,
Jacques Zimmerman,
he told me I had always been such a nice girl. Jacques wouldn’t even move out so my brother would have a place to sleep. He had to sleep on the floor.’ She lowered her lids and looked in her purse for a cigarette.
‘Isn’t that wonderful?’ Joan said, her smile broadening helplessly as she realized what an inane thing it had been to say. Her cold worried Richard. It had lasted seven days without improving. Her face was pale, mottled pink and yellow; this accentuated the Modiglianiesque quality established by her oval blue eyes and her habit of sitting to her full height, her head quizzically tilted and her hands palm upward in her lap.
Rebecca, too, was pale, but in the consistent way of a drawing, perhaps – the weight of her lids and a certain virtuosity about the mouth suggested it – by da Vinci.
‘Who would like some sherry?’ Richard asked in a deep voice, from a standing position.
‘We have some hard stuff if you’d rather,’ Joan said to
Rebecca; from Richard’s viewpoint the remark, like those advertisements which from varying angles read differently, contained the quite legible declaration that this time
he
would have to mix the old-fashioneds.
‘The sherry sounds fine,’ Rebecca said. She enunciated her words distinctly, but in a faint, thin voice that disclaimed for them any consequence.
‘I think, too,’ Joan said.
‘Good.’ Richard took from the mantel the eight-dollar bottle of Tio Pepe that the second man on the Spanish-sherry account had stolen for him. So all could share in the drama of it, he uncorked the bottle in the living room. He posingly poured out three glasses, half full, passed them around, and leaned against the mantel (the Maples had never had a mantel before), swirling the liquid, as the agency’s wine expert had told him to do, thus liberating the esters and ethers, until his wife said, as she always did, it being the standard toast in her parents’ home, ‘Cheers, dears!’
Rebecca continued the story of her first apartment. Jacques had never worked. Georgene never held a job more than three weeks. The three of them contributed to a kitty, to which all enjoyed equal access. Rebecca had a separate bedroom. Jacques and Georgene sometimes worked on television scripts; they pinned the bulk of their hopes onto a serial titled
The IBI – I
for Intergalactic, or Interplanetary, or something –
in Space and Time
. One of their friends was a young Communist who never washed and always had money because his father owned half of the West Side. During the day, when the two girls were off working, Jacques flirted with a young Swede upstairs who kept dropping her mop onto the tiny balcony outside their window. ‘A real bombardier,’ Rebecca said. When Rebecca moved
into a single apartment for herself and was all settled and happy, Georgene and Jacques offered to bring a mattress and sleep on her floor. Rebecca felt that the time had come for her to put her foot down. She said no. Later, Jacques married a girl other than Georgene.
‘Cashews, anybody?’ Richard said. He had bought a can at the corner delicatessen, expressly for this visit, though if Rebecca had not been coming he would have bought something else there on some other excuse, just for the pleasure of buying his first thing at the store where in the coming years he would purchase so much and become so familiar.
‘No thank you,’ Rebecca said. Richard was so far from expecting refusal that out of momentum he pressed them on her again, exclaiming, ‘Please! They’re so good for you.’ She took two and bit one in half.
He offered the dish, a silver porringer given to the Maples as a wedding present, to his wife, who took a greedy handful of cashews and looked so pale and mottled that he asked, ‘How do you feel?’, not so much forgetting the presence of their guest as parading his concern, quite genuine at that, before her.
‘Fine,’ Joan said edgily, and perhaps she did.
Though the Maples told some stories – how they had lived in a log cabin in a YMCA camp for the first three months of their married life; how Bitsy Flaner, a mutual friend, was the only girl enrolled in Bentham Divinity School; how Richard’s advertising work brought him into glancing contact with Yogi Berra, who was just as funny as the papers said – they did not regard themselves (that is, each other) as raconteurs, and Rebecca’s slight voice dominated the talk. She had a gift for odd things.
Her rich uncle lived in a metal house, furnished with
auditorium chairs. He was terribly afraid of fire. Right before the Depression he had built an enormous boat to take himself and some friends to Polynesia. All his friends lost their money in the crash. He did not. He made money. He made money out of everything. But he couldn’t go on the trip alone, so the boat was still waiting in Oyster Bay, a huge thing, rising thirty feet out of the water. The uncle was a vegetarian. Rebecca had not eaten turkey for Thanksgiving until she was thirteen years old because it was the family custom to go to the uncle’s house on that holiday. The custom was dropped during the war, when the children’s synthetic heels made black marks all over his asbestos floor. Rebecca’s family had not spoken to the uncle since. ‘Yes, what got me,’ Rebecca said, ‘was the way each new wave of vegetables would come in as if it were a different course.’
Richard poured the sherry around again and, because this made him the center of attention anyway, said, ‘Don’t some vegetarians have turkeys molded out of crushed nuts for Thanksgiving?’
After a stretch of silence, Joan said, ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice, unused for ten minutes, cracked on the last syllable. She cleared her throat, scraping Richard’s heart.
‘What would they stuff them with?’ Rebecca asked, dropping an ash into the saucer beside her.
Beyond and beneath the window there arose a clatter. Joan reached the windows first, Richard next, and lastly Rebecca, standing on tiptoe, elongating her neck. Six mounted police, standing in their stirrups, were galloping two abreast down Thirteenth Street. When the Maples’ exclamations had subsided, Rebecca remarked, ‘They do it every night at this time. They seem awfully jolly, for policemen.’
‘Oh, and it’s snowing!’ Joan cried. She was pathetic about
snow; she loved it so much, and in these last years had seen so little. ‘On our first night here! Our first
real
night.’ Forgetting herself, she put her arms around Richard, and Rebecca, where another guest might have turned away, or smiled too broadly, too encouragingly, retained without modification her sweet, absent look and studied, through the embracing couple, the scene outdoors. The snow was not taking on the wet street; only the hoods and tops of parked automobiles showed an accumulation.