The Complete Short Stories

  “You don’t look very well,” she said and gave him a long clinical stare.

  “I don’t feel like talking,” he said at once. “I’ve had a bad trip.”

  Mrs. Fox observed that his left eye was bloodshot. He was puffy and pale and his hair had receded tragically for a boy of twenty-five. The thin reddish wedge of it left on top bore down in a point that seemed to lengthen his nose and give him an irritable expression that matched his tone of voice when he spoke to her. “It must have been cold up there,” she said. “Why don’t you take off your coat? It’s not cold down here.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what the temperature is!” he said in a high voice. “I’m old enough to know when I want to take my coat off!” The train glided silently away behind him, leaving a view of the twin blocks of dilapidated stores. He gazed after the aluminum speck disappearing into the woods. It seemed to him that his last connection with a larger world were vanishing forever. Then he turned and faced his mother grimly, irked that he had allowed himself, even for an instant, to see an imaginary temple in this collapsing country junction. He had become entirely accustomed to the thought of death, but he had not become accustomed to the thought of death here.

  He had felt the end coming on for nearly four months. Alone in his freezing flat, huddled under his two blankets and his overcoat and with three thicknesses of the New York Times between, he had had a chill one night, followed by a violent sweat that left the sheets soaking and removed all doubt from his mind about his true condition. Before this there had been a gradual slackening of his energy and vague inconsistent aches and headaches. He had been absent so many days from his part-time job in the bookstore that he had lost it. Since then he had been living, or just barely so, on his savings and these, diminishing day by day, had been all he had between him and home. Now there was nothing. He was here.

  “Where’s the car?” he muttered.

  “It’s over yonder,” his mother said. “And your sister is asleep in the back because I don’t like to come out this early by myself. There’s no need to wake her up.”

  “No,” he said, “let sleeping dogs lie,” and he picked up his two bulging suitcases and started across the road with them.

  They were too heavy for him and by the time he reached the car, his mother saw that he was exhausted. He had never come home with two suitcases before. Ever since he had first gone away to college, he had come back every time with nothing but the necessities for a two-week stay and with a wooden resigned expression that said he was prepared to endure the visit for exactly fourteen days. “You’ve brought more than usual,” she observed, but he did not answer.

  He opened the car door and hoisted the two bags in beside his sister’s upturned feet, giving first the feet—in Girl Scout shoes—and then the rest of her a revolted look of recognition. She was packed into a black suit and had a white rag around her head with metal curlers sticking out from under the edges. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open. He and she had the same features except that hers were bigger. She was eight years older than he was and was principal of the county elementary school. He shut the door softly so she wouldn’t wake up and then went around and got in the front seat and closed his eyes. His mother backed the car into the road and in a few minutes he felt it swerve into the highway. Then he opened his eyes. The road stretched between two open fields of yellow bitterweed.

  “Do you think Timberboro has improved?” his mother asked. This was her standard question, meant to be taken literally.

  “It’s still there, isn’t it?” he said in an ugly voice.

  “Two of the stores have new fronts,” she said. Then with a sudden ferocity, she said, “You did well to come home where you can get a good doctor! I’ll take you to Doctor Block this afternoon.”

  “I am not,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “going to Doctor Block. This afternoon or ever. Don’t you think if I’d wanted to go to a doctor I’d have gone up there where they have some good ones? Don’t you know they have better doctors in New York?”

  “He would take a personal interest in you,” she said. “None of those doctors up there would take a personal interest in you.”

  “I don’t want him taking a personal interest in me.” Then after a minute, staring out across a blurred purple-looking field, he said, “What’s wrong with me is way beyond Block,” and his voice trailed off into a frayed sound, almost a sob.

  He could not, as his friend Goetz had recommended, prepare to see it all as illusion, either what had gone before or the few weeks that were left to him. Goetz was certain that death was nothing at all. Goetz, whose whole face had always been purple-splotched with a million indignations, had returned from six months in Japan as dirty as ever but as bland as the Buddha himself. Goetz took the news of Asbury’s approaching end with a calm indifference. Quoting something or other he said, “Although the Bodhisattva leads an infinite number of creatures into nirvana, in reality there are neither any Bodhisattvas to do the leading nor any creatures to be led.” However, out of some feeling for his welfare, Goetz had put forth $4.50 to take him to a lecture on Vedanta. It had been a waste of his money. While Goetz had listened enthralled to the dark little man on the platform, Asbury’s bored gaze had roved among the audience. It had passed over the heads of several girls in saris, past a Japanese youth, a blue-black man with a fez, and several girls who looked like secretaries. Finally, at end of the row, it had rested on a lean spectacled figure in black, a priest. The priest’s expression was of a polite but strictly reserved interest. Asbury identified his own feelings immediately in the taciturn superior expression. When the lecture was over a few students met in Goetz’s flat, the priest among them, but he was equally reserved. He listened with a marked politeness to the discussion of Asbury’s approaching death, but he said little. A girl in a sari remarked that self-fulfillment was out of the question since it meant salvation and the word was meaningless. “Salvation,” quoted Goetz, “is the destruction of a simple prejudice, and no one is saved.”

  “And what do you say to that?” Asbury asked the priest and returned his reserved smile over the heads of the others. The borders of this smile seemed to touch on some icy clarity.

  “There is,” the priest said, “a real probability of the New Man, assisted, of course,” he added brittlely, “by the Third Person of the Trinity.”

  “Ridiculous!” the girl in the sari said, but the priest only brushed her with his smile, which was slightly amused now.

  When he got up to leave, he silently handed Asbury a small card on which he had written his name, Ignatius Vogle, S.J., and an address. Perhaps, Asbury thought now, he should have used it for the priest appealed to him as a man of the world, someone who would have understood the unique tragedy of his death, a death whose meaning had been far beyond the twittering group around them. And how much more beyond Block. “What’s wrong with me,” he repeated, “is way beyond Block.”

  His mother knew at once what he meant: he meant he was going to have a nervous breakdown. She did not say a word. She did not say that this was precisely what she could have told him would happen. When people think they are smart—even when they are smart—there is nothing anybody else can say to make them see things straight, and with Asbury, the trouble was that in addition to being smart, he had an artistic temperament. She did not know where he had got it from because his father, who was a lawyer and businessman and farmer and politician all rolled into one, had certainly had his feet on the ground; and she had certainly always had hers on it. She had managed after he died to get the two of them through college and beyond; but she had observed that the more education they got, the less they could do. Their father had gone to a one-room schoolhouse through the eighth grade and he could do anything.

  She could have told Asbury what would help him. She could have said, “If you would get out in the sunshine, or if you would work for a month in the dairy
, you’d be a different person!” but she knew exactly how that suggestion would be received. He would be a nuisance in the dairy but she would let him work in there if he wanted to. She had let him work in there last year when he had come home and was writing the play. He had been writing a play about Negroes (why anybody would want to write a play about Negroes was beyond her) and he had said he wanted to work in the dairy with them and find out what their interests were. Their interests were in doing as little as they could get by with, as she could have told him if anybody could have told him anything. The Negroes had put up with him and he had learned to put the milkers on and once he had washed all the cans and she thought that once he had mixed feed. Then a cow had kicked him and he had not gone back to the barn again. She knew that if he would get in there now, or get out and fix fences, or do any kind of work—real work, not writing—that he might avoid this nervous breakdown. “Whatever happened to that play you were writing about the Negroes?” she asked.

  “I am not writing plays,” he said. “And get this through your head: I am not working in any dairy. I am not getting out in the sunshine. I’m ill. I have fever and chills and I’m dizzy and all I want you to do is to leave me alone.”

  “Then if you are really ill, you should see Doctor Block.”

  “And I am not seeing Block,” he finished and ground himself down in the seat and stared intensely in front of him.

  She turned into their driveway, a red road that ran for a quarter of a mile through the two front pastures. The dry cows were on one side and the milk herd on the other. She slowed the car and then stopped altogether, her attention caught by a cow with a bad quarter. “They haven’t been attending to her,” she said. “Look at that bag!”

  Asbury turned his head abruptly in the opposite direction, but there a small, walleyed Guernsey was watching him steadily as if she sensed some bond between them. “Good God!” he cried in an agonized voice, “can’t we go on? It’s six o’clock in the morning!”

  “Yes yes,” his mother said and started the car quickly.

  “What’s that cry of deadly pain?” his sister drawled from the backseat. “Oh it’s you,” she said. “Well well, we have the artist with us again. How utterly utterly.” She had a decidedly nasal voice.

  He didn’t answer her or turn his head. He had learned that much. Never answer her.

  “Mary George!” his mother said sharply. “Asbury is sick. Leave him alone.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Mary George asked.

  “There’s the house!” his mother said as if they were all blind but her. It rose on the crest of the hill—a white two-story farmhouse with a wide porch and pleasant columns. She always approached it with a feeling of pride and she had said more than once to Asbury, “You have a home here that half those people up there would give their eyeteeth for!”

  She had been once to the terrible place he lived in New York. They had gone up five flights of dark stone steps, past open garbage cans on every landing, to arrive finally at two damp rooms and a closet with a toilet in it. “You wouldn’t live like this at home,” she had muttered.

  “No!” he’d said with an ecstatic look, “it wouldn’t be possible!”

  She supposed the truth was that she simply didn’t understand how it felt to be sensitive or how peculiar you were when you were an artist. His sister said he was not an artist and that he had no talent and that that was the trouble with him; but Mary George was not a happy girl herself. Asbury said she posed as an intellectual but that her I.Q. couldn’t be over seventy-five, that all she was really interested in was getting a man but that no sensible man would finish a first look at her. She had tried to tell him that Mary George could be very attractive when she put her mind to it and he had said that that much strain on her mind would break her down. If she were in any way attractive, he had said, she wouldn’t now be principal of a county elementary school, and Mary George had said that if Asbury had had any talent, he would by now have published something. What had he ever published, she wanted to know, and for that matter, what had he ever written?

  Mrs. Fox had pointed out that he was only twenty-five years old and Mary George had said that the age most people published something at was twenty-one, which made him exactly four years overdue. Mrs. Fox was not up on things like that but she suggested that he might be writing a very long book. Very long book, her eye, Mary George said, he would do well if he came up with so much as a poem. Mrs. Fox hoped it wasn’t going to be just a poem.

  She pulled the car into the side drive and a scattering of guineas exploded into the air and sailed screaming around the house. “Home again, home again jiggity jig!” she said.

  “Oh God,” Asbury groaned.

  “The artist arrives at the gas chamber,” Mary George said in her nasal voice.

  He leaned on the door and got out, and forgetting his bags he moved toward the front of the house as if he were in a daze. His sister got out and stood by the car door, squinting at his bent unsteady figure. As she watched him go up the front steps, her mouth fell slack in her astonished face. “Why,” she said, “there is something the matter with him. He looks a hundred years old.”

  “Didn’t I tell you so?” her mother hissed. “Now you keep your mouth shut and let him alone.”

  He went into the house, pausing in the hall only long enough to see his pale broken face glare at him for an instant from the pier mirror. Holding onto the banister, he pulled himself up the steep stairs, across the landing and then up the shorter second flight and into his room, a large open airy room with a faded blue rug and white curtains freshly put up for his arrival. He looked at nothing, but fell face down on his own bed. It was a narrow antique bed with a high ornamental headboard on which was carved a garlanded basket overflowing with wooden fruit.

  While he was still in New York, he had written a letter to his mother which filled two notebooks. He did not mean it to be read until after his death. It was such a letter as Kafka had addressed to his father. Asbury’s father had died twenty years ago and Asbury considered this a great blessing. The old man, he felt sure, had been one of the courthouse gang, a rural worthy with a dirty finger in every pie and he knew he would not have been able to stomach him. He had read some of his correspondence and had been appalled by its stupidity.

  He knew, of course, that his mother would not understand the letter at once. Her literal mind would require some time to discover the significance of it, but he thought she would be able to see that he forgave her for all she had done to him. For that matter, he supposed that she would realize what she had done to him only through the letter. He didn’t think she was conscious of it at all. Her self-satisfaction itself was barely conscious, but because of the letter, she might experience a painful realization and this would be the only thing of value he had to leave her.

  If reading it would be painful to her, writing it had sometimes been unbearable to him—for in order to face her, he had had to face himself. “I came here to escape the slave’s atmosphere of home,” he had written, “to find freedom, to liberate my imagination, to take it like a hawk from its cage and set it ‘whirling off into the widening gyre’ (Yeats) and what did I find? It was incapable of flight. It was some bird you had domesticated, sitting huffy in its pen, refusing to come out!” The next words were underscored twice. “I have no imagination. I have no talent. I can’t create. I have nothing but the desire for these things. Why didn’t you kill that too? Woman, why did you pinion me?”

  Writing this, he had reached the pit of despair and he thought that reading it, she would at least begin to sense his tragedy and her part in it. It was not that she had ever forced her way on him. That had never been necessary. Her way had simply been the air he breathed and when at last he had found other air, he couldn’t survive in it. He felt that even if she didn’t understand at once, the letter would leave her with an enduring chill and perhaps in time lead her to se
e herself as she was.

  He had destroyed everything else he had ever written—his two lifeless novels, his half-dozen stationary plays, his prosy poems, his sketchy short stories—and kept only the two notebooks that contained the letter. They were in the black suitcase that his sister, huffing and blowing, was now dragging up the second flight of stairs. His mother was carrying the smaller bag and came on ahead. He turned over as she entered the room.

  “I’ll open this and get out your things,” she said, “and you can go right to bed and in a few minutes I’ll bring your breakfast.”

  He sat up and said in a fretful voice, “I don’t want any breakfast and I can open my own suitcase. Leave that alone.”

  His sister arrived in the door, her face full of curiosity, and let the black bag fall with a thud over the doorsill. Then she began to push it across the room with her foot until she was close enough to get a good look at him. “If I looked as bad as you do,” she said, “I’d go to the hospital.”

  Her mother cut her eyes sharply at her and she left. Then Mrs. Fox closed the door and came to the bed and sat down on it beside him. “Now this time I want you to make a long visit and rest,” she said.

  “This visit,” he said, “will be permanent.”

  “Wonderful!” she cried. “You can have a little studio in your room and in the mornings you can write plays and in the afternoons you can help in the dairy!”

  He turned a white wooden face to her. “Close the blinds and let me sleep,” he said.

  When she was gone, he lay for some time staring at the water stains on the gray walls. Descending from the top molding, long icicle shapes had been etched by leaks and, directly over his bed on the ceiling, another leak had made a fierce bird with spread wings. It had an icicle crosswise in its beak and there were smaller icicles depending from its wings and tail. It had been there since his childhood and had always irritated him and sometimes had frightened him. He had often had the illusion that it was in motion and about to descend mysteriously and set the icicle on his head. He closed his eyes and thought: I won’t have to look at it for many more days. And presently he went to sleep.