Honeymooners A Cautionary Tale (25 page)

Ralph sat at the dining-room
table smoking and sipping his drink, and he thumbed through one of
the beautiful books. He stopped at a random page and found a
favorite passage. Ralph imagined himself as his old buddy Jim
reading it. He imagined himself as Lindsay reading it, then
Buffalo, then each of the sharks in his old Iowa writing workshop
in turn reading it and weeping, then any writer of his generation
reading it and weeping. Ralph imagined that high-school English
teacher who had flunked him reading it, that sales manager who had
fired him, that poet who had refused to lend him emergency money,
the judges and creditors and asshole attorneys-at-law from his
bankruptcies who had witnessed his humiliations. Ralph imagined
Jackie O., Ann-Margret, Hanoi Jane, Susan Sontag reading it. He
imagined that beautiful barmaid down at O'Rourke's reading it and
getting hot to trot. He imagined John Cheever reading it. John
Gardner. Mailer. Roth. Hemingway, if he were alive. Faulkner,
Fitzgerald, if they weren't dead as doornails. Kafka. Chekhov.
Chekhov, yes, yes. If they hadn't long ago gone to their rewards in
that great library in the sky. Bill fucking Shakespeare. Move
over, Bill! Ralph imagined his dad reading it, if he, too, weren't
dead as a doornail.

Ralph fixed another drink
and began to push the vacuum cleaner around dutifully. He made his
way leisurely through the house, room to room, passing up only the
kids’ hovels. Ralph hummed and turned over in his mind the list of
people he intended to give the ten copies to. He had submitted a
list to his publisher of about everybody he had known in his life
who was remotely literate, supposedly for review copies, but the
list for the ten copies on hand was different. This list was of
folks he wanted to hand a book to personally and watch their faces.
Tops on his list were Jim and Jim’s blushing bride, which was like
bagging two birds with one book.

Ralph began turning over in
his mind what he would inscribe in the book he intended to give
Lindsay and Jim that very afternoon. He would sign the book in
front of them, with a flourish, as though whatever he made up to
inscribe had come to him in a brilliant flash, today when the four
of them were supposed to get together for the first time, to break
the old ice. They were to tie up at a roadhouse in the hills west
of Palo Alto. If things went smoothly, Ralph and Alice Ann planned
to invite Lindsay and Jim back to their place to celebrate the book
with several bottles of chilled Mumm’s and the costly cuisine Alice
Ann had slaved over the previous night. Ralph planned to give Jim’s
blushing bride a grand tour of the refurbished homestead, pointing
out the new drapes and rugs, the posters, prints, the flowering
plants, the lamps, and, most of all, that pyramid of glossy,
glorious white tickets to sail into the future, his own personal
booking for posterity.

2

In the living room Ralph
used the nozzle attachment to get at the mounds of cat hairs
between the couch cushions. He thought he heard the phone ring, and
stopped and listened, and then switched off the vacuum. Ralph lit a
cigarette and headed for the kitchen to freshen his drink. When he
turned into the hallway, Ralph saw a man standing in the open back
doorway. The man was a shadow against the bright light, and through
the sheen on the screen door Ralph could not see his
features.

Ralph could see a dark sedan
parked in the driveway behind the man. Ralph stood there at the far
end of the hallway, which was partially in shadow. Ralph held his
breath and took a step backward.

Hello there, the man called
out. —I rang the doorbell, but I didn’t hear any response. I
thought perhaps it was not functioning properly.

Yes, Ralph said. —Uh,
yes?

The man stepped back and
looked from a notebook he carried to the address numbers above the
door.

This is 1422, is it not? You
have a number missing. Your second 2 is missing. But this is 1422,
am I correct?

The 2 fell off, Ralph said.
—During a storm. I’ve asked my teenage son a dozen times to nail
that number back on. Kids. What is it you want?

So, good, 1422 then, the man
said, and closed his notebook.

Yes, Ralph said. —Yes, but
nobody is home. I mean, my wife is not at home at this time. My
wife is the one who handles these matters.

What matters?

Matters, Ralph said, and
waved a hand vaguely. —Whatever.

Actually, I am interested in
speaking with a Mr. Ralph Crawford of 1422 Wightman
Street.

Who? Ralph said.

Is that you, Mr.
Crawford?

What is it you said you
wanted? I’m afraid we really don’t need anything today. Maybe if
you would like to speak with my wife later.

You are Mr. Crawford,
then?

Perhaps you could leave a,
you know, card.

I think I recognize you now,
Mr. Crawford.

What is that?

Yes, indeedy. I heard you
read from your work once, Mr. Crawford. At Foothill College. Just
last June, as a matter of fact. My mother accompanied me that
evening. It was a splendid reading, Mr. Crawford.

Oh, Ralph said. —Oh. Well.
Yes. Yes.

Ralph hurried down the
hallway to open the screen door.

Why, it is you, Mr.
Crawford, the man said, and smiled. —I couldn’t be certain with
that screen door between us. But now I see that it is you in the
flesh. Just imagine. Here I am face-to-face with you, Mr. Crawford.
An American author to whom I owe so much. It was your voice that
gave you away. Yes, your speaking voice is so very like your
reading voice, Mr. Crawford. That is not always the case, you know.
And more’s the pity, if you ask me.

Well, yes, Ralph said. —Yes.
How are you today? I didn’t hear you drive up. I was . .. well, I
was busy.

Were you composing, Mr.
Crawford? I would hate to think I intruded while your creative
juices were flowing.

I was just taking a
breather. From, uh, yes, composing. I was running something. But
I’m afraid my breather is just about over, however. I’ll have to be
getting back there shortly. To my composing, I mean.

I have attempted on occasion
to evoke the muse myself, the man said. He wiped several strands of
graying hair from his damp forehead with the tips of his fingers, a
gesture Ralph found strangely graceful. He was a short, bulky man
who wore a rumpled plaid sportcoat and a red knit tie. —Poetry
mostly, the man said. —And that is where you come in, Mr. Crawford.
Your work has been an inspiration to me. The way you write about
such ordinary people simply going about the business of their
ordinary lives. You make it seem so simple. As though simply
anybody could do it. But of course they cannot, can they? I can’t,
for one. Yes, I have reconciled myself to my lack of expressive
gifts. My real life will have to remain forever buried, I suppose.
Unlike you, Mr. Crawford.

Yes. Yes, Ralph said, and
chuckled. —Yes. Well, thank you very much for your kind words.
Really, you are too kind.

Do you draw from your own
life experiences when you write, Mr. Crawford? the man asked. —The
characters in your stories, their desperation, their drinking, the
unfaithfulness, the low moral standards, do you know many such
people?

Not at all, Ralph said.
—They’re not people I know. A lot of the characters I write about,
most of them really, I make up from scratch. And most of them,
well, all of them probably, I wouldn’t give the time of day in real
life. Well, what can I say? I can’t tell you how pleased I am you
enjoy my work. You’ve made my day. Really. You’ve made me happy as
a clam. Well. Well, well, I hate to cut this short, but I’m a very
busy man, you understand. Just how can I help you?

I am very sorry, Mr.
Crawford, but I have been remiss. I am Mr. Bell. Aubrey Bell, the
man said, and took a wallet from his coat pocket. The man opened it
to show Ralph a plastic-encased identification card with his
picture on it.

That’s you, all right, Ralph
said, bending to study the picture.

Actually, it is not a very
good likeness. My mother says that I have always taken a poor
photograph. My weight fluctuates so dramatically, for one thing,
Aubrey Bell said, and chuckled. —Mr. Crawford, to get down to
cases, I am an investigator from the county prosecuting attorney’s
office. I need to ask you a few questions concerning a matter. Our
office sent you three letters concerning this, but upon receiving
no reply, well, here I am.

I’ve been away, Ralph said.
—Out of town. For weeks. I was out of the country.

The letters were certified,
Mr. Crawford.

It’s a mystery to me, Ralph
said. —Maybe my wife knows something about this. Maybe she signed
for them and just forgot to tell me. I don’t know. I don’t know a
thing about this.

I understand. Well, at least
this little mix-up permitted us to meet in person, Mr. Crawford.
Indeed, I asked for this assignment in hopes that you were the
Ralph Crawford whose work I so admire. At any rate, I have to ask
you a few questions about this matter. May I come in,
please?

Questions? Ralph said. —What
sort of questions? This really is a bad time for me, Mr.
Ball.

Mr. Bell.

Mr. Bell.

Mr. Crawford, there is some
confusion in our records. I am confident you can clear this little
matter up quite easily. If I could please come in.

My wife will be home in a
couple of hours, Ralph said. —She’s the one in this family who
takes care of these matters.

Mr. Crawford, according to
our records, it appears that for a period of several months while
you were being issued paychecks from the University of California
at Berkeley, you were also collecting unemployment
benefits.

What? That couldn’t be!
There must be some horrible mistake, Ralph said. —Some computer
error. Something like that. A foul-up somewhere in the system. This
whole matter is a mystery to me.

That is precisely the reason
I am here, Mr. Crawford. To clear this litde matter up as quickly
as possible. If I may come in, we will get to the bottom of this
mix-up in no time at all.

You know what, Ralph said,
and scratched his head, it’s not impossible I could have made some
sort of silly mistake myself. That’s not out of the realm of
possibility. I’ll admit it. I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to
things like money matters. Financial affairs aren’t my strongest
suit. I’ve never had a head for, you know, numbers. My wife handles
all the number business in our family. I’m always busy, uh,
composing, as it were. My art takes all my attention. And as I
said, I’ve been away for weeks. And things around this household,
through no fault of my own, have gone to the dogs. My father has
been ill also. That’s why I was away for so long. I had to be on
hand to handle matters. For my mother, you understand. Then Daddy
died. My mother just fell apart. She hasn’t been herself anyway for
a long time. Her eyesight is failing, you know. Mom will be
legally blind in a matter of weeks.

What painful news, Mr.
Crawford! Aubrey Bell exclaimed, and threw up his hands. —What
misfortune.

I don’t know where I’m going
to turn next, Ralph said.

I truly understand how
confusing the world can become. Especially for an artist such as
yourself, Mr. Crawford.

To me, Ralph said, my art is
all. After my blind mother, of course.

There were benefactors for
artists in bygone times, Aubrey Bell told Ralph. —Rilke lived in
one castle after another, all of his adult life. Benefactors. Rilke
seldom rode in motorcars. He preferred trains.

I've driven nothing but
clunkers all my life, Ralph said. —Breakdowns on the highway are a
routine part of my life.

Then look at Voltaire at
Cirey with Madame du Chitelet, Aubrey Bell said. —His death mask.
Such serenity, Aubrey Bell said, and raised his hands as though
Ralph were about to disagree. —No, no, it isn’t right, is it?
Don’t say it. But then, who knows. But one wonders if those great
artists of bygone days, if they had lived in our own times without
benefactors, would they have resorted to illegal means to secure
funds in order to continue their work. Would Rilke, or Voltaire,
for that matter, have risked going to jail, such as you may have,
Mr. Crawford, for the sake of their art?

Sisters from a Past
Life

1

On that day they were
supposed to break the ice with Ralph and Alice Ann, Lindsay was
nervous. Jim had never seen her so wired. He had packed a fancy
picnic lunch, and they had driven two hours south down the coastal
Great Highway to Pomponio Beach, where Jim figured they could hang
out, wade in the surf maybe, maybe explore some of the cliffside
caves, just relax before they drove on over the hills to tie up
with Ralph and Alice Ann at the Alpine Inn. It was a chilly,
drizzly day, though, and then when they were walking along the
beach hunting for a spot to spread their blanket, it had started to
really pour, so they made a run for a cave at the bottom of the
cliffs.