“Not till six, it’s on the West Coast. There’s a pre-game thing on at four-thirty but it’s all hoopla, you can only take so much. I wanted to watch the Phoenix Open at two-thirty, but you were so damn frantic to clean up just because your mother’s coming over.”
“You should have said something. I could have done it myself.”
While she goes off in the Mustang he goes upstairs, because there isn’t any place downstairs to lie down. He hopes to see the squirrel again, but the animal is gone. He thought squirrels hibernated, but maybe this winter is too mild. He holds his hands over a radiator, his, and with pride and satisfaction feels it breathing heat. He lies down on their new bed with the Amish quilt they brought from Mt. Judge and almost without transition falls asleep. In his dream he and Charlie are in trouble at the agency, some crucial papers with numbers on them are lost, and where the new cars should be in the showroom there are just ragged craters, carefully painted with stripes and stars, in the concrete floor. He awakes realizing he is running scared. There has been another explosion, muffled: Janice closing the door downstairs. It is after six. “I had to drive out almost to the ballpark before I found this MinitMart that was open. They didn’t have fresh anything of course, but I got four frozen Chinese dinners that the pictures of on the box looked good.”
“Isn’t crap like that loaded with chemicals? You don’t want to poison Pru’s milk.”
“And I bought you lots of baloney and eggs and cheese and crackers so stop your complaining.”
The nap, that at first waking had felt as if somebody had slugged him in the face with a ball of wet clothes, begins to sink into his bones and cheer him up. Darkness has erased the staring depth of day; the windows might be black photographic plates in their frames. Thelma and Nelson are out there circling, waiting to move in. Janice bought thirty dollars’ worth at the MinitMart and as she fills the bright refrigerator he sees in a comer there are two more beers that escaped the vultures last night. She even brought him a jar of salted peanuts for all of $1.29 to watch the game with. The first half sways back and forth. He is rooting for the Steelers to lose, he hates what they did to the Eagles and in any case doesn’t like overdogs; he pulls for the Rams the way he does for the Afghan rebels against the Soviet military machine.
At half-time a lot of girls in colored dresses and guys that look like fags in striped jerseys dance while about a thousand pieces of California brass imitate the old Big Bands with an off-key blare; these kids try to jitterbug but they don’t have the swing, that onebeat wait back on your heels and then the twirl. They do a lot of disco wiggling instead. Then some little piece of sunshine with an Andrews-sisters pageboy sings “Sentimental journey” but it doesn’t have that Doris Day wartime Forties soul, how could it? No war. These kids were all born, can you believe it, around 1960 at the earliest and, worse yet, are sexually mature. On the “a-all aboard” they snake together in what is supposed to be the Chattanooga Choo-choo and then produce, out there in cloudless California, flashing sheets like tinfoil that are supposed to be solar panels. “Energy is people,” they sing. “People are en-er-gy!” Who needs Khomeini and his oil? Who needs Afghanistan? Fuck the Russkis. Fuck the Japs, for that matter. We’ll go it alone, from sea to shining sea.
Tired of sitting in his den alone with a hundred million other boobs watching, Harry goes into the kitchen for that second beer, Janice sits at a card table her mother parted with as a loan grudgingly, even though she never plays cards except in the Poconos. “Where are our guests?” he asks.
Janice is sitting there helping the Chinese dinners warm up in the oven and reading a copy of House Beautiful she must have bought at the MinitMart. “They must have fallen asleep. They’re up a good deal of the night, in a way it’s a merry, Harry, we’re not there anymore.”
He trims his lips in upon a bitter taste in the beer. Grain gone bad. Men love their poison. “Well I guess living in this house with just you is the way for me to lose weight. I never get fed.”
“You’ll get fed,” she says, turning a slick page.
Jealous of the magazine, of the love for this house he feels growing in her, he complains, “It’s like waiting for a shoe to drop.”
She darts a dark, not quite hostile look up at him. “I’d think you’ve had enough shoes drop lately to last ten years.”
From her tone he supposes she means something about Thelma but that had been far from his mind, for now.
Their guests don’t arrive until early in the fourth quarter, just after Bradshaw, getting desperate, has thrown a bomb to Stallworth; receiver and defender go up together and the lucky stiff makes a circus catch. Rabbit still feels the Rams are going to win it. Janice calls that Ma and Pru are here. Ma Springer is all chattery in the front hall, taking off her mink, about the drive through Brewer, where hardly any cars were moving because she supposes of the game. She is teaching Pru to drive the Chrysler and Pru did very well once they figured out how to move the seat back: she hadn’t realized what long legs Pru has. Pru, pressing a pink-wrapped bundle tight to her chest out of the cold, looks worn and thin in the face but more aligned, like a bed tugged smooth. “We would have been here earlier but I was typing a letter to Nelson and wanted to finish,” she apologizes.
“It worries me,” Ma is going on, “they used to say it brought bad luck to take a baby out visiting before it was baptized.”
“Oh Mother,” Janice says; she is eager to show her mother the cleaned-up house and leads her upstairs, even though the only lights are some 40-watt neo-colonial wall sconces in which the previous owners had let many of the bulbs die.
As Harry resettles himself in one of his silvery-pink wing chairs -in front of the game, he can hear the old lady clumping on her painful legs directly above his head, inspecting, searching out the room where she might some day have to come and stay. He assumes Pru is with them, but the footsteps mingling on the ceiling are not that many, and Teresa comes softly down the one step into his den and deposits into his lap what he has been waiting for. Oblong cocooned little visitor, the baby shows her profile blindly in the shuddering flashes of color jerking from the Sony, the tiny stitchless seam of the closed eyelid aslant, lips bubbled forward beneath the whorled nose as if in delicate disdain, she knows she’s good. You can feel in the curve of the cranium she’s feminine, that shows from the first day. Through all this she has pushed to be here, in his lap, his hands, a real presence hardly weighing anything but alive. Fortune’s hostage, heart’s desire, a granddaughter. His. Another nail in his coffin. His.
The End
Table of Contents
Start
John Updike, Rabbit Is Rich
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends