What Is All This? Read online

  Then I’ll simply explain that I never loved you and you’re not the father of my child. And that I lived with you only because you were emotionally ill and I was paid to be your nurse and cook.”

  They’re after the emotionally ill also. I read it in the papers before. The president’s going to sign the bill into law tomorrow. And one amending provision states that anyone living with the offender for two months or more will also be judged emotionally ill. Now come on, Jan, for your one chance of freedom is with me.”

  We got on the bus just as the other buses were pulling up, the passengers frustratedly banging their Books on the windows at us—acts of desecration, I thought, tertiary, maybe even secondary crimes that could also penalize their families. I drove on and in a few minutes they were nowhere behind us. Intercom could be close, but I knew these roads well, so I might be able to elude them. Suddenly on the Intercom band a man was speaking to us. “Haven’t a single chance, Mr. Piper. Your lines are tagged, Mrs. Piper. Lila, you awake? Seven minutes to capture, friends. Why resist any further? Stop now. Feel relieved. Better an authorized state Intercom officer than a mad state mob. Press button G to confirm message and detail pickup site.” I pressed G and roared obscenities till my breath gave out, though no doubt swearing on the state radio was another crime, maybe major. Then I told Intercom I was shutting them off because their mechanical dictums were distracting my in-flight skills, and smashed in the radio with the wrench and pulled out the wires.

  I drove out of the city, through suburbs and then suburbs of suburbs till we entered that part of the state where there was still some untouched land left. I saw a cow and pointed her out to Lila, who squealed with pleasure. Janet apologized to me, rested her head on my thigh and said she was scared but was glad I’d convinced her to come with me. Lila was on my lap, pretending to be the driver, laughing when I told her to pay more attention to the road.

  “Where we going?” she said.

  “As far to the state border as we can get.”

  “Drive carefully, darlings,” Janet said.

  Lila soon fell asleep, her hands still on the wheel. We drove most of the night, over backroads where I hoped Intercom wouldn’t be able to tail us in the dark. When the fuel gauge was nearing empty I turned into a dirt road and drove the bus another twenty miles before we were out of gas. I rested Lila on one of the back benches, covered her with my jacket, and in the middle of the bus we settled down ourselves. “Kiss me,” Janet said. We were in the mountains, close to the border of the adjoining state. This state also had a Book, though I’d been told by ex-lawyer friends that it had a very progressive policy regarding college-educated immigrants, substituting a few years of unpaid military service as punishment for major crimes committed in another state. In a few hours we’d make the journey by foot. We had to start over someplace, no matter how restrictive it might become there. I kissed Janet. We hugged each other and I told her what my driver had said about her ass and boobs, and she seemed pleased, became giddy and playful.

  “Touch my neat ass,” she said.

  “Don’t know if I can. It might be considered an act of desecration. We have to consult the Book of the State first.” I found the driver’s book, thumbed through the index and located the right passage. “It says here ‘All immediate family personal privileges, such as embraces, hand-locking, body-fondling, lip, nose or any sensory coupling such as flesh-conjoining, may be done solely in the privacy of the couple’s legally designated residence, or if permitted in writing by the state.’ Now, a legally designated residence is defined as—” but her frenzied tongue plugged up my mouth.

  GETTING LOST.

  Couple of minutes after she comes home from work she says “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to go.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to leave for good.”

  “It’s not that I didn’t understand you. Just that you’re not kidding, right? And for good?”

  “I know it sounds abrupt. But I didn’t want to talk about it. I only wanted to say ‘please leave’ and hoped you would know what I mean and get your things fast and go. That’s what I hoped.”

  “Okay, so I’ll leave.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m going. Just give me a second to catch my breath,”

  “Fine. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait upstairs.”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  “I mean, I just don’t want to be around. This is as bad a moment for me as it is for you.”

  “I know. Or I think I do. Sure it must be. It has to. After all, we’ve been together a long time. Almost three years.”

  That long? I guess so. I’m sorry. Though no hard feelings, all right?”

  “Right.”

  She goes upstairs. I start getting my things together downstairs. I’ve an apartment in the city but have spent four to five of every seven days here in her house upstate. So I get my things. Books first. Work materials. I put them all in the canvas carryall bag I’ve lugged from house to apartment to house and back again the past three years. My favorite coffee mug? Sure, why not? Why leave anything behind? But why not leave most of it? She’d see the mug and know it’s mine and my favorite and maybe one day return it with all the other things I’d leave behind and that day we might be able to get something going again. No, don’t think like that. It’s over, finished, done. Get lost, she essentially said. All right. What I’m doing. Fast as I can and forever. We’ve tried. We lost. Lot of bull. Then what? What went wrong? Why think about it now? Plenty of time later on. What will happen? I’ll pack, upstairs and down, take the bus home with all my junk. If she was nice she’d drive me, as this stuff’s going to weigh a ton.

  “You couldn’t by chance drive me to the city?” I yell upstairs.

  “I’d really prefer not to.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  Thanks. Especially for being so understanding.”

  She’s in her room. Probably lying on the bed. Feeling sad, no doubt. Gets very emotional sometimes. We’ve had these scenes before. They always worked out, though. I’d pack. Ready to go, I’d say goodbye. We’d be sad. Maybe cry. She’d say “I obviously can’t adjust.” I’d say “I of course wouldn’t expect you to do or give up anything you didn’t want to.” We’d kiss goodbye. I’d hold her. We’d hold each other. She’d say “Why are we being so silly?” “I don’t know,” I’d say. “If there’s anything really bothering us,” she’d say, “why can’t we just talk and work it out instead of always taking the worst extreme?” Then we’d make love. Or take a long walk. But be lovey-dovey, though. And later she’d help me unpack and maybe say “How many more times you think we can do this?” But this time it’s not going to be like that. I can see. We gave ourselves one last time. And before that, one last time. We really are two different persons as she’s said. I’m much more sensitive and creative than her. She’s more straightforward and practical than me. Other things. Maybe the way I described us just now isn’t true. But I can see why she wouldn’t want me around very much. I’m not jolly. I get on people’s nerves after a while. Maybe everybody does. But we don’t belong together. Ill-suited, poorly mated, mismatched. I think she’s superficial, really. Deep down I want a woman to really give herself to me. Not all the time. But deeply. As I think I did with her. Not all the time. But much more than her. To stick with me. By me. I need that confidence. I said I was sensitive. I’m also insecure. Maybe we all are. And she’s not superficial. But I have to know she’s there and sexually only for me. But she can’t. She likes to see other men. I get jealous. They like to see her. She says “I can understand your jealousy but it annoys me.” So she resents me for annoying her and I resent her for going out with other men. Those two to three nights a week I’m not here. Not for going out with them but sleeping with them. I had to ask. She said “You know I’m unable to lie to anyone, so I have to say I occasionally do.” But her not lying isn’t altogether the truth. If I didn’t resent her sleeping with other men, we could con
tinue as a couple. Those four to five days. But I do resent it. I’ve tried to sluff it off. Ho-hum. Who cares? What I don’t know doesn’t hurt me. But it does. It comes out. She’s told me to see other women. I can’t. “Sleep with them too.” But one’s enough. She is. I’ve even asked her to marry me. She really laughed when I asked that. Just a few weeks ago. I admitted it was funny. That I was actually proposing. Saying those words and for the first time too. This might sound funny, but will you marry me?” I thought marriage was what we both wanted and needed most. Or at least I did. But don’t go into it anymore. Just go. Get your things. Leave. Get lost. No goodbye. Take the bus. Go to your apartment. Drink a bottle of wine. Get drunk. Pass out. Do that for two days. Plenty of sleep. Then it’ll be over. Simple as that, really. Or I hope so.

  I pack all my things downstairs. Only the books I borrowed from her village library are left.

  “Could you return my library books here so I won’t have to pay a fine?” I yell upstairs.

  “Where are they?”

  “In the red bookcase, top shelf. About ten of them.”

  “If they’re overdue now, why not run then over yourself?”

  I look at the books. They are overdue. Ah, you’re so clever. I’ll take them there now.”

  “You’ve time to both pack your things upstairs and catch the next bus?”

  “It comes at five.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Library’s just a few doors down the road. Big pillars. Old baby blue colonial courthouse. Sarah the librarian’s there. “Returning these,” I say. I pay the fine.

  “I was going to call you. Two of the books you ordered came.”

  “Won’t be needing them now as I won’t be here to return.”

  Things not right?”

  “Right.”

  “Too bad. You’re our best customer. Hate to lose one of those. County gives us an additional stipend for each hundred books borrowed over what it’s set as our regular load. Why not take the books anyway and mail them back in a jiffy bag?”

  They don’t treat me like this in the city. I’ll miss you and your coffee urn and of course your books.” We shake hands. I kiss her cheek.

  “Very sweet,” she says. “Keep in touch.”

  I will miss this village. Didn’t think it before, but now do. Ribbon mill right on the river. Many of the villagers skating there in winter. Not swimming there in summer yet, but fishing and picnicking and watching the boats and ships. Lovely old houses. Winding bushy roads. Nice fall foliage. The springs here. Big snowfalls. Crazy Mr. McNally, the accepted peeping snoop. Better than the city. City’s grimy and stinks and rattles my ears. But can’t afford it here on my own. Soes it goes, as Mona and I made up a phrase. Her son. I’ll miss him too. Good kid. Likes me. And smart. Together we were like a family. Most times better than most families it seemed to me. She should have thought of that too. Pleasant Street. Three bars and a barber shop and a thrift and a liquor store and Millionaires Mart. Volunteer firemen’s parade every July 4th. Village Hall and its slide shows. Even the baying dogs late at night. Raccoons and rabbits and skunks, and a deer once, trying to climb over Mona’s garden fence. I’m no longer the confirmed urbanite. Not really knocking the city. Just had enough. But got to get moving to catch the five after five bus.

  I go back to her house. Really got all the things from downstairs? Mug? Take it. What else? Fancy supply of marmalades and jams? Take the unopened ones. Paring knife? Cost a lot and the one in my apartment is only good for buttering bread. Antique colander I bought at a lawn sale? Nah, leave them all. Now upstairs.

  She’s on her bed writing. Looks at me questioningly.

  The time?” I say; I show her my watch.

  “Good.”

  “Sure you want me to go?”

  “I do. I’m sure.”

  “What made you finally decide? Because I thought we were all having a good time.”

  “Reasons, reasons.”

  “For instance.”

  “For instance I already told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “All I’m asking for is one.”

  “Just that. That you won’t just drop it. Don’t persist. One of the reasons is that you persist too much.”

  “Oh, I see. Nothing I say now will be right. It’ll all fall under the category of persistence. Okay. I’m going to get my clothes.”

  “I’ll go downstairs,” and she gets off the bed.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to. I told you this isn’t easy for me either.”

  That’s right. I remember. Must be tough, my leaving. Oh yes. Very tough. So tough, then why the hell did you ask me to leave?”

  “Reason two. Cynicism. You can be very cynical. Believe me, it isn’t easy to take over long periods of time.”

  “Better over short periods?”

  “Cynicism. Persistence.”

  “Any other reasons?”

  “What do you want? I already gave you two.”

  That’s it? Just two? There’s got to be a third. If not a third, then at least a fourth. Or a sixth. Skip the third, fourth and fifth and just slip me the sixth.”

  That too. Reason three, or as you’ll have it, six, is your occasional crazy talk. And sometimes it’s not so occasional and seems truly crazy.”

  “Maybe you’re only saying it’s crazy because you can’t understand it. But I don’t know any other halfway intelligent adult who wouldn’t get it and might even think it slightly funny.”

  There’s another. Your arrogance. That you think you’re so funny and smart when you’re not.”

  “Me smart? Oh no. You’re the smart one. Me, I’m dumb. Dumb because I hung around so long. I thought of getting out a few times, but then thought we could work it out. Well, up yours now. I’m glad we’re through.”

  “Two more. That you lie. That you blow up so easily. And other reasons. Plenty. But especially the one I haven’t said yet.”

  “What? That I get jealous because you see other men?”

  That’s another. A very big one. Jealousy, which I can’t take. But it’s not the one I was going to give.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. What is it?”

  “Forget it.”

  “But I want to know the big reason of them all.”

  “Reason one. Persistence. Stop it. Leave me alone.”

  She goes downstairs. I follow her.

  “Reason ten or eleven. You hound me. Just what you’re doing. Following me, hounding me. Always on my back after I’ve said get off.”

  “And one I have against you is repetition. You repeat things too much. You say something and then repeat it till it’s dead.”

  “You don’t? You just did. Maybe it’s the one thing we have in common.” She looks around. “Good. You have all your things packed from downstairs. Now please get your clothes and bathroom things and catch the five o’clock bus.”

  “Five after five. And reason two for me is your inconsiderateness. For you couldn’t have driven me? The last thing I asked from you and you wouldn’t? Well, thanks.”

  “I’ve an appointment around that time, that’s why.”

  “You could’ve called to delay it. But that’s only part of your inconsiderateness. And maybe you’re a liar too. Because before you said it would’ve been too sad or disturbing for you to be with me during the trip.”

  That too.”

  “Bull.”

  She leaves the house. I follow her.

  “Damn you, will you get your things and leave?”

  “Right. One reason in my favor and which should maybe cancel out one of the twelve to fourteen negative ones is that I take orders well. Obedience. Yes, sir. At your command. Goodbye.” I salute her, go into the house, pack my things upstairs, stuff what I can’t get into the carryall into two shopping bags, and leave. She’s nowhere around. I walk up the hill and wait for the bus. It doesn’t come. I walk down the hill and knock on her door. She opens it. She’s been crying.


  “Bus never came.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Swear. Got there before five. Waited for more than a half hour. I didn’t want to come back. Honest. You’ve been crying.”

  “So?”

  “Not about us, of course.”

  “Don’t be reason number whatever it was before.”

  “I’ve been crying too. Why are we doing this? Not the crying, but just this.”

  “I’m not sure. Anyway, what we’re doing is right.”

  “Right. Can I come in and call the bus company to see what’s wrong?”

  “But be quick.”

  The bus company man says “Because of road construction the route’s been changed from Sunset Drive to River Road on weekdays from seven-thirty to half past six. We posted a notice on the post office and community bulletin boards of all the towns affected.”

  “You should’ve posted them at the libraries too, but thanks.” To Mona: “I’ve got to run if I’m to catch the five after six bus.”

  She sticks out her hand. We shake. “No goodbye kiss?” I say.

  “Wouldn’t do.” She goes upstairs.

  “Last chance to keep me?” I yell.

  “Bye.”

  I go to River Road and wait for the bus. It comes. I don’t wave it down. I go back to Mona’s and knock on the door. Her son opens it.

  “Oh, you got home,” I say.

  “What are you doing? I thought you were already here.”

  “Your mother and I had a little spat.”

  “For good this time?”

  “I think so.”

  Then what are you doing back with your bags?”

  “Burleigh, how can you be so insensitive? You’re supposed to feel relatively crumbled that I won’t be around anymore.”

  “I’ll miss you, don’t worry, but what can I do? I got to go.”

  He runs past me down the stairs. “Hey, what about a little kiss farewell from you, chump?”

  “I don’t mean to be mean but I’m in a hurry, Bo.” We wave and he goes.

  I call into the house “Mona? That changed schedule made me miss the bus again. Can I stay here till the next one comes?”