Jerry finished his beer and then mashed the can. He shrugged.
“You know,” he said.
Bill nodded.
Then Jerry said, “How about a little run?”
“Sounds good to me,” Bill said. “I’ll tell the women we’re going.”
They took the Naches River highway out to Gleed, Jerry driving. The day was sunny and warm, and air blew through the car.
“Where we headed?” Bill said.
“Let’s shoot a few balls.”
“Fine with me,” Bill said. He felt a whole lot better just seeing Jerry brighten up.
“Guy’s got to get out,” Jerry said. He looked at Bill. “You know what I mean?”
Bill understood. He liked to get out with the guys from the plant for the Friday-night bowling league. He liked to stop off twice a week after work to have a few beers with Jack Broderick. He knew a guy’s got to get out.
“Still standing,” Jerry said, as they pulled up onto the gravel in front of the Rec Center.
They went inside, Bill holding the door for Jerry, Jerry punching Bill lightly in the stomach as he went on by.
“Hey there!”
It was Riley.
“Hey, how you boys keeping?”
It was Riley coming around from behind the counter, grinning. He was a heavy man. He had on a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt that hung outside his jeans. Riley said, “So how you boys been keeping?”
“Ah, dry up and give us a couple of Olys,” Jerry said, winking at Bill. “So how you been, Riley?” Jerry said.
Riley said, “So how you boys doing? Where you been keeping yourselves? You boys getting any on the side? Jerry, the last time I seen you, your old lady was six months gone.”
Jerry stood a minute and blinked his eyes.
“So how about the Olys?” Bill said.
They took stools near the window. Jerry said, “What kind of place is this, Riley, that it don’t have any girls on a Sunday afternoon?”
Riley laughed. He said, “I guess they’re all in church praying for it.”
They each had five cans of beer and took two hours to play three racks of rotation and two racks of snooker, Riley sitting on a stool and talking and watching them play, Bill always looking at his watch and then looking at Jerry.
Bill said, “So what do you think, Jerry? I mean, what do you think?” Bill said.
Jerry drained his can, mashed it, then stood for a time turning the can in his hand.
Back on the highway, Jerry opened it up – little jumps of eighty-five and ninety. They’d just passed an old pickup loaded with furniture when they saw the two girls.
“Look at that!” Jerry said, slowing. “I could use some of that.”
Jerry drove another mile or so and then pulled off the road. “Let’s go back,” Jerry said. “Let’s try it.”
“Jesus,” Bill said. “I don’t know.”
“I could use some,” Jerry said.
Bill said, “Yeah, but I don’t know.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Jerry said.
Bill glanced at his watch and then looked all around. He said, “You do the talking. I’m rusty.”
Jerry hooted as he whipped the car around.
He slowed when he came nearly even with the girls. He pulled the Chevy onto the shoulder across from them. The girls kept on going on their bicycles, but they looked at each other and laughed. The one on the inside was dark-haired, tall, and willowy. The other was light-haired and smaller. They both wore shorts and halters.
“Bitches,” Jerry said. He waited for the cars to pass so he could pull a U.
“I’ll take the brunette,” he said. He said, “The little one’s yours.”
Bill moved his back against the front seat and touched the bridge of his sunglasses. “They’re not going to do anything,” Bill said.
“They’re going to be on your side,” Jerry said.
He pulled across the road and drove back. “Get ready,” Jerry said.
“Hi,” Bill said as the girls bicycled up. “My name’s Bill,” Bill said.
“That’s nice,” the brunette said.
“Where are you going?” Bill said.
The girls didn’t answer. The little one laughed. They kept bicycling and Jerry kept driving.
“Oh, come on now. Where you going?” Bill said.
“No place,” the little one said.
“Where’s no place?” Bill said.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the little one said.
“I told you my name,” Bill said. “What’s yours? My friend’s Jerry,” Bill said.
The girls looked at each other and laughed.
A car came up from behind. The driver hit his horn.
“Cram it!” Jerry shouted.
He pulled off a little and let the car go around. Then he pulled back up alongside the girls.
Bill said, “We’ll give you a lift. We’ll take you where you want. That’s a promise. You must be tired riding those bicycles. You look tired. Too much exercise isn’t good for a person. Especially for girls.”
The girls laughed.
“You see?” Bill said. “Now tell us your names.”
“I’m Barbara, she’s Sharon,” the little one said.
“All right!” Jerry said. “Now find out where they’re going.”
“Where you girls going?” Bill said. “Barb?”
She laughed. “No place,” she said. “Just down the road.”
“Where down the road?”
“Do you want me to tell them?” she said to the other girl.
“I don’t care,” the other girl said. “It doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “I’m not going to go anyplace with anybody anyway,” the one named Sharon said.
“Where you going?” Bill said. “Are you going to Picture Rock?”
The girls laughed.
“That’s where they’re going,” Jerry said.
He fed the Chevy gas and pulled up off onto the shoulder so that the girls had to come by on his side.
“Don’t be that way,” Jerry said. He said, “Come on.” He said, “We’re all introduced.”
The girls just rode on by.
“I won’t bite you!” Jerry shouted.
The brunette glanced back. It seemed to Jerry she was looking at him in the right kind of way. But with a girl you could never be sure.
Jerry gunned it back onto the highway, dirt and pebbles flying from under the tires.
“We’ll be seeing you!” Bill called as they went speeding by.
“It’s in the bag,” Jerry said. “You see the look that cunt gave me?”
“I don’t know,” Bill said. “Maybe we should cut for home.”
“We got it made!” Jerry said.
He pulled off the road under some trees. The highway forked here at Picture Rock, one road going on to Yakima, the other heading for Naches, Enumclaw, the Chinook Pass, Seattle.
A hundred yards off the road was a high, sloping, black mound of rock, part of a low range of hills, honeycombed with footpaths and small caves, Indian sign-painting here and there on the cave walls. The cliff side of the rock faced the highway and all over it were things like this: NACHES 67 – GLEED WILDCATS – JESUS SAVES – BEAT YAKIMA – REPENT NOW.
They sat in the car, smoking cigarettes. Mosquitoes came in and tried to get at their hands.
“Wish we had a beer now,” Jerry said. “I sure could go for a beer,” he said.
Bill said, “Me too,” and looked at his watch.
When the girls came into view, Jerry and Bill got out of the car. They leaned against the fender in front.
“Remember,” Jerry said, starting away from the car, “the dark one’s mine. You got the other one.”
The girls dropped their bicycles and started up one of the paths. They disappeared around a bend and then reappeared again, a little higher up. They were standing there and looking down.
“What’re you guys following us for?” the brunet
te called down.
Jerry just started up the path.
The girls turned away and went off again at a trot.
Jerry and Bill kept climbing at a walking pace. Bill was smoking a cigarette, stopping every so often to get a good drag. When the path turned, he looked back and caught a glimpse of the car.
“Move it!” Jerry said.
“I’m coming,” Bill said.
They kept climbing. But then Bill had to catch his breath. He couldn’t see the car now. He couldn’t see the highway, either. To his left and all the way down, he could see a strip of the Naches like a strip of aluminum foil.
Jerry said, “You go right and I’ll go straight. We’ll cut the cockteasers off.”
Bill nodded. He was too winded to speak.
He went higher for a while, and then the path began to drop, turning toward the valley. He looked and saw the girls. He saw them crouched behind an outcrop. Maybe they were smiling.
Bill took out a cigarette. But he could not get it lit. Then Jerry showed up. It did not matter after that.
Bill had just wanted to fuck. Or even to see them naked. On the other hand, it was okay with him if it didn’t work out.
He never knew what Jerry wanted. But it started and ended with a rock. Jerry used the same rock on both girls, first on the girl called Sharon and then on the one that was supposed to be Bill’s.
Lemonade
When he came to my house months ago to measure my walls for bookcases, Jim Sears didn’t look like a man who’d lose his only child to the high waters of the Elwha River. He was bushy-haired, confident, cracking his knuckles, alive with energy, as we discussed tiers, and brackets, and this oak stain compared to that. But it’s a small town, this town, a small world here. Six months later, after the bookcases have been built, delivered and installed, Jim’s father, a Mr. Howard Sears, who is “covering for his son” comes to paint our house. He tells me – when I ask, more out of small-town courtesy than anything, “How’s Jim?” – that his son lost Jim Jr. in the river last spring. Jim blames himself. “He can’t get over it, neither,” Mr. Sears adds. “Maybe he’s gone on to lose his mind a little too,” he adds, pulling on the bill of his Sherwin-Williams cap.
Jim had to stand and watch as the helicopter grappled with, then lifted, his son’s body from the river with tongs. “They used like a big pair of kitchen tongs for it, if you can imagine. Attached to a cable. But God always takes the sweetest ones, don’t He?” Mr. Sears says. “He has His own mysterious purposes.” “What do you think about it?” I want to know. “I don’t want to think,” he says. “We can’t ask or question His ways. It’s not for us to know. I just know He taken him home now, the little one.”
He goes on to tell me Jim Sr. ’s wife took him to thirteen foreign countries in Europe in hopes it’d help him get over it. But it didn’t. He couldn’t. “Mission unaccomplished,” Howard says. Jim’s come down with Parkinson’s disease. What next? He’s home from Europe now, but still blames himself for sending Jim Jr. back to the car that morning to look for that thermos of lemonade. They didn’t need any lemonade that day! Lord, lord, what was he thinking of, Jim Sr. has said a hundred – no, a thousand – times now, and to anyone who will still listen. If only he hadn’t made lemonade in the first place that morning! What could he have been thinking about? Further, if they hadn’t shopped the night before at Safeway, and if that bin of yellowy lemons hadn’t stood next to where they kept the oranges, apples, grapefruit and bananas. That’s what Jim Sr. had really wanted to buy, some oranges and apples, not lemons for lemonade, forget lemons, he hated lemons – at least now he did – but Jim Jr., he liked lemonade, always had. He wanted lemonade.
“Let’s look at it this way,” Jim Sr. would say, “those lemons had to come from someplace, didn’t they? The Imperial Valley, probably, or else over near Sacramento, they raise lemons there, right?” They had to be planted and irrigated and watched over and then pitched into sacks by field workers and weighed and then dumped into boxes and shipped by rail or truck to this god-forsaken place where a man can’t do anything but lose his children! Those boxes would’ve been off-loaded from the truck by boys not much older than Jim Jr. himself. Then they had to be uncrated and poured all yellow and lemony-smelling out of their crates by those boys, and washed and sprayed by some kid who was still living, walking around town, living an breathing, big as you please. Then they were carried into the store and placed in that bin under that eye-catching sign that said Have You Had Fresh Lemonade Lately? As Jim Sr.’s reckoning went, it harks all the way back to first causes, back to the first lemon cultivated on earth. If there hadn’t been any lemons on earth, and there hadn’t been any Safeway store, well, Jim would still have his son, right? And Howard Sears would still have his grandson, sure. You see, there were a lot of people involved in this tragedy. There were the farmers and the pickers of lemons, the truck drivers, the big Safeway store … Jim Sr., too, he was ready to assume his share of responsibility, of course. He was the most guilty of all. But he was still in his nosedive, Howard Scars told me. Still, he had to pull out of this somehow and go on. Everybody’s heart was broken, right. Even so.
Not long ago Jim Sr.’s wife got him started in a little wood-carving class here in town. Now he’s trying to whittle bears and seals, owls, eagles, seagulls, anything, but he can’t stick to any one creature long enough to finish the job, is Mr. Sears’s assessment. The trouble is, Howard Sears goes on, every time Jim Sr. looks up from his lathe, or his carving knife, he sees his son breaking out of the water downriver, and rising up – being reeled in, so to speak – beginning to turn and turn in circles until he was up, way up above the fir trees, tongs sticking out of his back, and then the copter turning and swinging upriver, accompanied by the roar and whap-whap of the chopper blades. Jim Jr. passing now over the searchers who line the bank of the river. His arms are stretched out from his sides, and drops of water fly out from him. He passes overhead once more, closer now, and then returns a minute later to be deposited, ever so gently laid down, directly at the feet of his father. A man who, having seen everything now – his dead son rise from the river in the grip of metal pinchers and turn and turn in circles flying above the tree line – would like nothing more now than to just die. But dying is for the sweetest ones. And he remembers sweetness, when life was sweet, and sweetly he was given that other lifetime.
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
The stories and poem in Short Cuts appear in the following Raymond Carver collections:
“Jerry and Molly and Sam” and “Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?” in Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?; “Collectors,” “Neighbors,” “A Small, Good Thing,” “So Much Water So Close to Home,” “They’re Not Your Husband” and “Vitamins” in Where I’m Calling from; “Tell the Women We’re Going” in What We Talk About When We Talk About Love; and “Lemonade” in A New Path to the Waterfall.
RAYMOND CARVER
Raymond Carver was born in Clatskanie, Oregon, in 1938. His first collection of stories, Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? (a National Book Award nominee in 1977), was followed by What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Cathedral (nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in 1984), and Where I’m Calling From in 1988, when he was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He died in August of that year, shortly after completing the poems of A New Path to the Waterfall.
ALSO BY
RAYMOND CARVER
CALL IF YOU NEED ME
Call If You Need Me traces the arc of Carver’s career, not in the widely anthologized stories that have become classics, but through his uncollected fiction and his essays. Here are the five “last” stories, discovered a decade after Carver’s death. Here also are Carver’s first published story, the fragment of an unfinished novel, and all his nonfiction—from a recollection of his father to reflections on writers as varied as Anton Chekhov and Donald Barthelme. Call If You Need Me invites us to travel with a singular artist, step by step, as he discovers what is
worth saying and how to say it so it pierces the heart.
Fiction/Literature
CATHEDRAL
“A dozen stories that overflow with the danger, excitement, mystery and possibility of life… . Carver is a writer of astonishing compassion and honesty … his eye set only on describing and revealing the world as he sees it. His eye is so clear, it almost breaks your heart” (Jonathan Yardley, The Washington Post Book World).
Fiction/Literature
FIRES
More than sixty stories, poems, and essays are included in this wide-ranging collection by the amazingly gifted and versatile Raymond Carver. Two of the stories—later revised for What We Talk About When We Talk About Love—are particularly notable in that between the first and final versions, we see clearly the astounding process of Carver’s literary development.
Fiction/Poetry/Essays
SHORT CUTS
The works of fiction—nine stories and one poem—collected in this volume form the basis of an astonishingly original film directed by Robert Altman. These now-classic stories, when read together, form a searing and indelible portrait of American innocence and loss. With deadpan humor and enormous tenderness, the film Short Cuts reinvents and dramatizes them as only an artist of Altman’s caliber could, giving new insight into the work of “one of the true contemporary masters” (The New York Review of Books).
Fiction/Literature
WHAT WE TALK ABOUT
WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE
In his second collection of stories, as in his first, Carver’s characters are peripheral people—people without education, insight, or prospects, people too unimaginative to even give up. Carver celebrates these men and women.
Fiction/Literature
WHERE I’M CALLING FROM
Carver’s last collection encompasses classic stories from Cathedral, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, and earlier Carver volumes, along with seven works previously unpublished in book form. Together, these thirty-seven stories give us a superb overview of Carver’s life work and show us why he was so widely imitated but never equaled.