“Shut up,” Frank said—just like that, exactly as you’d speak to a three-year-old child, or a dog. “He knows the agreement.”
Mechanically, because it was time, according to the recipe in the book, Arnold took the dog out of the pot and laid it in the pan where Ellis had put the fruit and things, arranged it so the pawless feet were tucked under the body and the black cap of hair on the tail could be seen, then carried the whole thing to the oven. Ellis held open the oven door for him while he slid in the pan.
Then everybody just stood there. Arnold poured himself more whiskey.
“Well,” Arnold said, squinting his little pig-eyes and rubbing his hands on his apron, “there’s a lesson in this.” He didn’t go on. According to the clock over the counter it was 3 a.m.
Just then a knock came at the kitchen’s back door. We all jumped, and then after a minute Benny went over and opened the door a few inches to look out. He opened the door wider. Arnold’s three daughters stood there, homely and scared-looking, their skin the color of old ashes. The oldest one was eighteen, though she looked more like fourteen or fifteen. The youngest was ten. I knew her a little; she was in my sister Shannon’s class at school. All three of them looked like orphans—little glasses like Arnold’s and washed-out hand-me-down clothes—but if they looked pitiful it was mostly just the hour and their shyness, maybe a fear, not fully admitted, that their father had had some accident, or had shot himself. They came in sideways, like refugees, looking at Arnold and saying nothing, their expressions meek, timidly friendly, as if they were hoping no one would yell at them. I was aware again of the room’s thick blood smell. Arnold stared at the three girls, saying nothing, no doubt trying to figure out how he felt. At last he gave an abrupt nod, freeing them to smile and shyly nod back—they stretched out the nod to make it do for all of us—then they faded as well as they could into the walls.
Arnold began cleaning things up, putting condiments and spices away, carrying knives and pots and pans over to the sink, throwing out his waste. Angelina moved over closer to her grandfather, probably so that when she spoke Arnold’s daughters wouldn’t hear her.
“How can you fire him, Grandpa?” she asked. “He made us famous.”
She knew well enough why Frank could fire him. He’d challenged Joe; he’d made us steal the dog; he was crazy.
But the old man was too tired and impatient for the complicated reasons. “We had an agreement.”
We stood and waited. A strange, mysteriously sweet smell began to fill the kitchen. Tony Petrillo opened a bottle of wine from the bar, just walked in and got it. Awkwardly, spilling a little, he poured a glass for Arnold, leaning on the counter, standing with his feet crossed, big bags under his eyes. Arnold accepted the wine without even noticing, though he had whiskey in the other hand. Tony poured another glass of wine for Angelina, then one for me, one for Benny, one for Lenny, and one for each of the girls. When he held a glass up for Frank, the old man waved him away in disgust. He didn’t offer one to Joe.
The three daughters edged over to the sink where Ellis was washing pots and pans and stood watching as if it were fascinating work or he was unusually good at it. They still hadn’t said a word to anyone, even to ask what was happening. They put down their wineglasses and began stacking dishes from the dryer. The way they worked—smoothly, silently—you’d’ve thought they’d been there for hours. They were nice girls, it suddenly struck me. It was funny no one ever noticed them. Maybe the same thought occurred to Angelina. She went over and joined them. She looked the way she had in my father’s garage. Small and tired. I was reminded, watching her, that I was going to have to help eat that dog.
“Hey, Arnold,” I said, “how much you figure on charging for that dog?”
He looked at Joe, then me. “Two-fifty sound fair?”
“Hey,” Lenny the Shadow said, “I just had supper.” He put his hand on his stomach. The oldest of the daughters smiled, then looked puzzled.
“Me too,” Benny the Butcher said, and grinned.
Crazy Tony said, “How much for the child’s plate, Arnold?”
Angelina turned her face a little to glance at me.
“Child’s plate! That might change the picture,” Lenny said. He wrapped his hand around his jaw, thinking.
“Dollar-fifty?” Arnold asked.
So we did it.
We ate by candlelight, out in the restaurant, old man Dellapicallo at the end of the table leaning on his elbows, no plate in front of him. Joe had gone home. When he went out the door he looked smaller than Angelina. I was sorry for him. He was the one who’d been right—sane and civilized from the beginning. But also his walk was oddly mechanical, and the way he shook his head when he looked back at us from the door, it was as if under his hair he had springs and gears.
Angelina sat by me, the others spread around us, close enough to come to the rescue just in case, in this strange world where anything could happen, the dog should wake up. There was no sign of the thousands and thousands of dead Asians, or of Rinehart either, but it felt like they were there—maybe even more there if there’s no such thing in the world as ghosts, no life after death, no one there at the candlelit table but the few of us able to throw shadows on the wall. Say that being alive was the dinner candles, and say they burned forever over this everlasting meal of Imperial Dog. Then we were the diners there now, this instant, sent as distinguished representatives of all who couldn’t make it this evening, the dead and the unborn. Everybody was feeling it, the importance of what we were doing—though it wasn’t what we were doing that was important. We could’ve been, I don’t know, planting a tree. The dog was terrific, by the way, once you talked your stomach past the idea. The wine was also terrific. Angelina, as if by accident, put her hand on mine.
“To the future of Ancient China!” Benny the Butcher said, raising his wineglass.
“To the Kings of the Road,” Arnold said, and raised his.
“Hear, hear,” the three daughters said softly, smiling and blushing as if they understood.
Tony Petrillo said thoughtfully, almost so no one could hear him, “To grasshoppers and mice.”
“To Angelina!” Angelina cried, eyes sparkling.
We were all, even Arnold, a little shocked, but in the darkness beyond where the candles reached, Rinehart nodded, and a thousand thousand Asians bowed from the waist.
A Biography of John Gardner
John Gardner (1933–1982) was a bestselling and award-winning novelist and essayist, and one of the twentieth century’s most controversial literary authors. Gardner produced more than thirty works of fiction and nonfiction, consisting of novels, children’s stories, literary criticism, and a book of poetry. His books, which include the celebrated novels Grendel, The Sunlight Dialogues, and October Light, are noted for their intellectual depth and penetrating insight into human nature.
Gardner was born in Batavia, New York. His father, a preacher and dairy farmer, and mother, an English teacher, both possessed a love of literature and often recited Shakespeare during his childhood. When he was eleven years old, Gardner was involved in a tractor accident that resulted in the death of his younger brother, Gilbert. He carried the guilt from this accident with him for the rest of his life, and would incorporate this theme into a number of his works, among them the short story “Redemption” (1977). After graduating from high school, Gardner earned his undergraduate degree from Washington University in St. Louis, and he married his first wife, Joan Louise Patterson, in 1953. He earned his Master’s and Ph.D. in English from the University of Iowa in 1958, after which he entered into a career in academia that would last for the remainder of his life, including a period at Chico State College, where he taught writing to a young Raymond Carver.
Following the births of his son, Joel, in 1959 and daughter, Lucy, in 1962, Gardner published his first novel, The Resurrection (1966), followed by The Wreckage of Agathon (1970). It wasn’t until the release of Grendel (1971), however, that Gardner??
?s work began attracting significant attention. Critical praise for Grendel was universal and the book won Gardner a devoted following. His reputation as a preeminent figure in modern American literature was cemented upon the release of his New York Times bestselling novel The Sunlight Dialogues (1972). Throughout the 1970s, Gardner completed about two books per year, including October Light (1976), which won the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the controversial On Moral Fiction (1978), in which he argued that “true art is by its nature moral” and criticized such contemporaries as John Updike and John Barth. Backlash over On Moral Fiction continued for years after the book’s publication, though his subsequent books, including Freddy’s Book (1980) and Mickelsson’s Ghosts (1982), were largely praised by critics. He also wrote four successful children’s books, among them Dragon, Dragon and Other Tales (1975), which was named Outstanding Book of the Year by the New York Times.
In 1980, Gardner married his second wife, a former student of his named Liz Rosenberg. The couple divorced in 1982, and that same year he became engaged to Susan Thornton, another former student. One week before they were to be married, Gardner died in a motorcycle crash in Pennsylvania. He was forty-nine years old.
A two-year-old Gardner, shown here, in 1935. He went by the nickname “Buddy” throughout his childhood.
Gardner on a motorcycle in 1948, when he was about fifteen years old. He was a lifelong enthusiast of motorcycle and horseback riding, hobbies that resulted in multiple broken bones and other injuries throughout his life.
Gardner’s senior photo from Batavia High School, taken in 1950. Though he found most of his classes boring, he particularly enjoyed chemistry. One day in class, Gardner and some friends disbursed a malodorous concoction through the school’s ventilation system, causing the whole building to reek and classes to be dismissed early.
Gardner and Joan Patterson, his first wife, in the early 1950s. The couple were high school sweethearts and attended senior prom together in 1951.
John and Joan’s wedding photograph, taken on June 6, 1953.
A Gardner family photograph from 1957. From left to right: John Gardner, Priscilla (mother), John Sr. (father), Jim (brother), and Sandy (sister). John Sr. and Priscilla took in thirteen foster children after John and his siblings grew up and moved away.
Gardner at the University of Detroit in 1970. He was a distinguished visiting professor at the university.
Gardner’s children, Joel and Lucy, circa 1975. Joel is the founder of Camp Gardner Films, and Lucy works in publishing. Both currently live in Massachusetts.
Gardner playing the French horn around 1979. He began playing in high school and played in the Batavia Civic Orchestra.
Gardner and Liz Rosenberg at their wedding on Valentine’s Day, 1980. Liz’s dress was a wedding gift from John, who had it made in Kansas City by a woman he had met at a reading there. Liz later remembered that instead of following her specifications, the dressmaker made her “Cleopatra’s shroud.”
Gardner in the early 1980s. In the last years before his death, he had become much more interested in politics than in literature, declaring at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in 1982 that “if you’re not writing politically, you’re not writing.”
Selected images from The John Gardner Papers, Department of Rare Books/Special Collections, University of Rochester.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“The Joy of the Just” was originally published in The American Poetry Review; “Trumpeter” was originally published in Esquire; and “Stillness” was originally published in The Hudson Review.
copyright © 1974, 1976, 1977, 1979, and 1981 by John Gardner
cover design by Robin Bilardello
ISBN: 978-1-4532-0370-5
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John Gardner, The Art of Living and Other Stories
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