Middle C (62 page)

Ach du lieber
. He laughed as he supposed an Austrian would.
Ach du lieber
. What a funny phrase. Alas, he didn’t dare mention his—he supposed narrow—escape to Miriam: not his worries, not his success, because she hadn’t known of either. She had eyes only for her flock. And a few vague suspicions she didn’t want cleared up. As her flowers moved in a breeze, she moved. She found her future in these stems, in their transformations, their blooms, and, like them, burst into a celebration of petal color in her old age. Instead of receiving his good news as good news, she’d take it as bad. For her, it would be like hearing that a bridge she had just safely crossed was expected to fail, when she knew she’d have to go over the same bridge next day.

Oh but Joey was planning some picnics, no need to say why but simply to salute the autumn, she might like that, and, of course, he would have to facilitate visits to his sis and her lot, the pebbles, rocks, and boulders. It meant so much to … to his relatives. My God, he had relatives.

“I’m a careless potato, and care not a pin
How into existence I came;
If they planted me drill-wise or dibbled me in,
To me ’tis exactly the same.”

He’d never understood what families were for beyond bearing and raising babies. They carry you away from what you were hoping to become like leaking boats. Bail, boy, if you want to stay afloat. You’ll die with a can in your hand, family man.

Ah, there was a line worth working over: you’ll die with a can in your hand family man. Like Moore’s “If they planted me drill-wise or dibbled me in.” It had a lilt, as if it were asking for more of its music. Perhaps it wasn’t as strongly regimental as “this is how we wash our clothes,” but that might be an advantage. And it wasn’t quite as universally threatening as “Formerly I thought the world might go up in smoke, but now I’m forced to give up hope.”

His father had a dream: to keep his hands forever clean. Joey wasn’t clear whether his father had ever understood that it takes a lot of digging in the dirt to do that. But he knew his students were now actually his, and that what he was giving them was his own hard-won lie-soaked example of fathering. That strangely exhilarating roundelay was wrong about committees too. This very day Skizzen had participated in one that didn’t turn out so badly. Palfrey would probably do nothing and wait for the fat man to go away.

Joey was sorry he couldn’t share his happiness with anyone. The world should be sorry; but you didn’t burden friends with your own good luck. In no time, he would find himself relieved of his relief. Those bursts of celebratory energy he enjoyed would be replaced by the weariness left within their scorched shells. Already he felt his elation make a few farewell waves. As far as his mother went, silence was surely the better strategy. No need to know—that was the popular expression. He returned the songbook to its place on the bedside table. This time, reverently. Perhaps he would contest Miriam’s claim after all. What did she want with this dreary leftover room? It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her in … what? one, two, several days. She must be in the garden, digging like a dog, quite out of sight. He felt like a little piano practice, a return to more virtuous days. The museum had regained its voice, and also
demanded his presence. He knew a can that deserved kicking. Skizzen pled guilty of neglecting these duties. Newspapers were accumulating in sliding piles. He needed flypaper, and would have to go downtown in a day or two to fetch some. Last time, the kid in the hardware who served him exclaimed, “You must have a lot of flies.” You hadn’t noticed? Skizzen should have said. There
are
a lot of flies. The professor also had a few things to say to the assembled … Joey laughed—call them to quorum—Joseph winced—are there enough to have a hearing?—this is an assembled multitude? Be more forceful with your speaking. No more deliver a simple “say.” As for your vocal level, exhibit more gradients than a shout. He ought to instruct his imaginary multitude about the virtues of marching bands. Then they will understand what has here been achieved. No need to search, some late afternoon, Miriam might turn up of her own accord. She couldn’t cultivate her garden forever.

[– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –]

A Note About the Author

William H. Gass—essayist, novelist, literary critic—was born in Fargo, North Dakota. He is the author of six works of fiction and nine books of essays, including
Finding a Form, Tests of Time
, and
Life Sentences
. Gass is a former professor of philosophy at Washington University. He lives with his wife, the architect Mary Gass, in St. Louis.

Other titles by William H. Gass available in eBook format

Life Sentences
A Temple of Texts
978-0-307-49824-3
The World Within the Word
978-0-307-82429-5

For more information, please visit
www.aaknopf.com