"Taught me the gypsy folks' bolee
Kind o' volcano she were
And she knifed me one night
'Cause I wished she was white
And I learned about women from 'er."
Bobby opened the front door with his key; since Roy's death, it had been kept locked most of the time. Which was odd, thought Bobby, since the killer came in through the library door in back.
"BOBBY!" said Lureen, hands on hips. "Where did you pick that one up?"
"Oh—It's Kipling—"The Ladies." Has lots of verses."
He smiled, and kissed her on the cheek.
"Well, Kipling may have been fine 100 years ago, but I don't think you should be walking down the street singing things like that."
"You should hear the first half of the verse," he said, laughing. "Momma?"
"Yes."
"When can we get married?" He meant, of course, when could he have enough money—of which his mother now had more than he cared to think about---to support a household and a wife. Bobby and Joe were both 19, so technically, they could marry whenever they wanted.
"Next summer." She picked up her cigarette from the ashtray on the coffee table, inhaled deeply, and replaced it. "If you can spare the time," she said, smiling. Bobby had gone to his grandfather's funeral in Wyoming, had been to the foothills of the Adirondacks, and had even spent a night in Brooklyn.. He had learned that he didn't need a side-view mirror, after all. The most amazing person he'd met was his grandmother…Her eyes had so followed him around, that he had finally said, "Guess I look a lot like my father, at my age, "No, you don't look exactly like your father; you look like his son," she had said, came over and looked him straight in the eyes until he dropped his gaze." "Huh," she had said, as she walked away. Later, the smile had appeared, but always tentatively.
It was already August; school would be starting the end of the month. During their second year, they would continue living in the same dorm, superficially but adequately co-ed: two floors of boys; two floors of girls. Room keys were easily duplicated in town, and they frequently studied and slept in each other's rooms. Since they spent most or their days and nights at home under Joe's parents' roof, this was hardly a change. This year, there would be more concentration on their prospective majors, Bobby's history and Joe's pre-med. Last year, they had both been offered, in the third week of class, an opportunity to stop writing 3 "shit essays" (the teacher's words) a week—apparently, they had both been assigned to freshman English in error—and Bobby had opted for 20th century English poetry, Joe for beginning French literature ("I guess it rubs off," said Bobby, as Joe's father was a scholar of French; he hadn't known she knew that much.) Mostly…having fun, their freshman years had been…
"So you guys had a summit conference, and decided, huh?"
"More or less. You know, Bobby, I don't approve of your---living—over there…"
"You never slept with dad before you were married?" asked Bobby, who knew his birth date and the date of his parents' marriage. It was kind of –iffy.
"As a matter of fact, you were the reason we did get married," she said.
"That's—different, and no, I never actually slept with him. Joe's parents are—really strange."
"They are—really wonderful, " he said, putting his arms around her in the soft chair she sat in, and resting his chin on her head. He looked down at the top of it. "Momma! You're letting your hair grow out," he said, all excited. He could remember his mother's dark brown hair, part of the reason for his own black locks. "But maybe you should dye it while you wait. Otherwise, it just looks careless."
"Yes, I should. Got tired of being a blonde," she smiled up at him. "Got tired of getting married, too, she added. "I don't seem to have much luck at it." After the smile, it was strange to see two tears making their way down her cheeks. They were real, 3-D tears, because he could see them from his on-top-of-her-head position. "People keep killin' 'em off, like I didn't deserve them."
"It isn't about you, momma," he said. "Who ever killed Roy probably hated him…not you. Hey, you're only 42. That's no age at all."
"Yeah. And just think of all that money I have," she said, angrily.
"Well, yeah, you have to be careful about that," agreed Bobby. "So did you go to their house, or did Elizabeth and Frederick come here?" These were Joe's parents: Elizabeth, a doctor of internal medicine, and Frederick, a scholar of French, as already mentioned.
"I invited them over. We had a very civilized chat. The thing we agreed on most was that we were sick of hearing each of you saying, "When can we get married?" She laughed...
"Water weareth away a stone," he said. "So—next year, we can live somewhere together in town—at school, I mean. We'll find a place here, too, and we'll be able to see all three of you pretty often. I wonder if they'll let us take Joe's pear wood wardrobe?" he thought out loud.
"Bobby…this house is—huge," she sighed. She didn't really see Joe and Bobby wanting to live with her, as much as she might like their company, most of the time. Her own child, she thought, was a little strange to her, as was the woman he'd chosen to share his life with. College professor? Doctor? Sleeping together at her parents' house? She sighed.
"I know momma, but we want a little house. Why don't you sell this place, anyway? It's too big for it's own good."
The doorbell rang. Lureen got up and opened the door. "Hi, Joe; Bobby's here."
"I know. Mom told me; dad's just left for out-of state, some conference. She also told me we were getting married next summer." Impulsively, Joe put her arms around Lureen, who, after a moment of hesitation, returned the embrace. Well, at least she knows who should be thanked, thought Lureen, though she knew Joe's parents had also been against the marriage before.
"Bobby was just saying I ought to sell this house, if I can, get something smaller. It's true, sometimes I feel like I'm rattling around with a couple of ghosts. "
'Ghosts?" said Bobby . They were sitting on the sofa, beside each other. Then Joe looked at Bobby, and shook her head, negative.
"I don't mean real ones…I mean, memories, I guess. Though you know, the other day, there was a real interestin' article in the paper-and I—I read it out loud, as if Roy was there, sitting across from me. Isn't that silly?"
"No," said Bobby and Joe together.
"No?" Bobby and Joe looked at each other; Bobby shrugged.
"Sometimes," Bobby said, slowly, "I…hear dad's voice." Lureen's eyes were as wide open as they could be. She reached in her pants pocket for her cigarettes, drew one out, and lit it with the silver lighter on the table. "It started…couple of years ago. "I was always saying, "Well, what should I do now?" out loud. And one day, he answered me. Then I had this thing with his old leather jacket; I'd lay it out on the bed, and wait for him to say something. Hey, Am I nuts?" Lureen smiled and looked worried at the same time.
"What does he think of Joe"?
"He likes her, momma. Sometimes…he has ways of expressing himself you wouldn't go for much."
"I can imagine," she said, smiling, and she undoubtedly could, from memory. "So…what was the last thing he said to you?" asked Lureen.
Bobby started laughing. "We were in Nieman-Marcus that day we went to Dallas, getting you that White Shoulders cologne you like so much," said Bobby.
"I sure do. My aunt wore it, as long as I can remember."
"…And right there, at the perfume counter, he says, "Don't NEVER wear cologne, Bobby. No woman in her right mind wants a man who smells like cologne and" he looked at Joe, who ignored him, figuring Bobby was smart enough to know where to cut a quote. "no man in his right mind, neither." He had gone on to say some men weren't in their right minds, but Bobby left that part out.
"That sounds…just like what he'd say to you, if he was alive," said Lureen. She wondered why he would have added the part about men not liking cologne, either, for Bobby's benefit, but it didn't seem like the right question to ask.
"Do you hear this Jack-ghost, too?" she asked Joe.
"No. I can usually tell when he's said something. The air gets real quiet—I know this really sounds weird," she apologized. " and I ask Bobby. He's…GOD, he's funny."
"Does he ever say anything important?"
"Yes. " Silence.
"What's the funniest thing he ever said?"
"Next question,"" said Joe.
"Yes. Next one, please," said Bobby.
"But...Joe knows."
"Of course. She knows everything about me."
"Goes both ways," said Joe.
"Otherwise," said Bobby, "how would we know our way around each other, and how to get along?"
"Well, that's a simple, if not always effective philosophy of life," said Lureen.
"We'll see, won't we?" said Bobby.
After they had left, Lureen decided to make fresh coffee. That in the Chemex had been sitting there for two days. She had just ground the beans and put them in the paper in the top of the freshly washed beaker, when a voice said:
"You're still pretty good with numbers aren't you?"
"As always, "she said, pleased as punch. Actually, she had people to do numbers for her, but—she could still hold her own.
"1452 Pierce Street," said Jack.
"Who lives there?"
"Joe McPherson. Real nice guy. Couple years older'n you—not as old as Roy was."
"So?"
"He likes nice women. You're nice women. His wife died 5 years ago."
" What does he do for fun?"
"Hasn't had much time. He owns that big groce4ry store downtown. The one that Safeway's going to put out of business, without some help.
"So I've got something he needs."
"You have a BUNCH of things he needs," said Jack, and she felt his arms go around her, and give her a squeeze. She saw nothing. The arms quickly withdrew; they had felt so good.
"What's the funniest thing you ever said to Bobby?" she asked; she was a little miffed at being put off about that one.
"Unm...how about "Time flies like the wind; fruit flies like a banana?"
She laughed out loud: 'You got that from me. Someone wrote it on the wall at that private school my father sent me to for 2 years."
"Won't cut it, huh?"
"No. Tell."
"I said—hey, it wasn't even true. I mean, generally."
"So. Funny. Not true. Occasion specific. Tell."
"No. Sorry. Personal."
"You were about to tell me!"
"I was about t' be an idiot, flapping my jaw... Frequently happens. Believe me, you don't want to hear it; too much for you to swallow in one little sentence…hey, didn't we always used to fight about Bobby? Isn't it about time we stopped…"
"So: it's something you said, and it's about Bobby, and it isn't true, except then, and I wouldn't want to hear it…and it's funny."
" Holy shit. Someday you're going to wake up and realize you're too smart for your own good. Believe me, there're a whole lotta things you don't want to know! That's probably the least of them…"
"If you get mad enough, will you tell me them?"
"No. You can ask Bobby. I can't tell you things I know because I'm Jack's ghost; that's not fair to the livin' or the dead. Oh; about Joe McPherson: run out of gas." And she suddenly felt alone again.
She filled the water kettle, put it on the lit burner, and sat down at the kitchen table. In all this talk of ghost, and what he had said, in the blank walls she had run into, and fishing for this funny thing Jack had said, (which she hadn't found, of course,) she somehow had hit upon the idea that Bobby had had sex with men as well as women, maybe more than one, even. But…he loves Joe; anybody can see that. And she—knows all about him. Lureen shook her head; life was even less black-and-white than she thought. Then: what were the "other things"? She shivered. Ask Bobby? "Hey, darlin' it's been brought to my attention that you're probably bisexual, and also, that you have a bunch of really deep, dark secrets you're keeping from me." She laughed.
She found herself humming the Kipling song that Bobby had been singing when he came in, and realized she knew the thing, from beginning to end. It was a poem in a reader she'd had in high school, and someone who knew the tune had called her attention to it, though the teacher hadn't taught it. All the verses ended "And I learned about women from 'er," until near the end:
I was a youngun at 'Oogli,
Shy as a girl to begin
Aggie de Castrer she myde me
'n Aggie was clever as sin.
Lureen laughed a little, at the way all songs have something to do with you, but then veer off in their own directions, beginning, middle or end…
Older'n me but me first'n
More like a mother she were
Showed me the way
To promotion and pay
And I learned about women from 'er.
The hell with men, anyway, she thought. Nevertheless, she took a sheet of paper from the pad on the kitchen table, and wrote down:
Joe McPherson
1452 Pierce Street
gas.
The kettle was whistling; as she stood up, she suddenly felt a little dizzy, and sat back down again for a moment; it passed.
Lureen sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, and alternately inhaling a cigarette which she picked up from the crystal ashtray to the left of the mirror. Her makeup was off; she was wearing a white cotton, low yoked nightgown, for a change; she usually preferred silk. She picked up the bottle of White Shoulders cologne Bobby and Joe had bought her, and took the glass stopper out; it made a delightful, slightly rough sound as it slid out of the bottle. She inverted the cologne onto her index finger, and put a drop behind each ear. 'Just for me," she said.
Jack, without a stitch of clothing on, and quite visible, sat in the swing on the front porch, his chin in his hand. He knew that the light at the front of the house was self-activating, and found it amusing that it hadn't gone on when he—materialized—in the swing. Even when he moved the swing back and forth with his right foot, no light went on. He found this non-accommodation to the laws of electronics increasingly funny, and even chuckled a little. "Shows how much I count for," he thought. This was all procrastination. He was trying to figure out whether he had a problem or not. There is a German quotation, which means, "The thing has changed itself." It doesn't really matter that Jack didn't know any German, and had never heard the quotation; that's what he was thinking. Above all, he did not want to say to Lureen how it had changed itself; that would queer the soup. Queer the soup? Jack sometimes wondered where in the universe he picked up things. "Fuck things up, Twist," he thought. He wondered if the vanity of women, which he had never considered to be worse than that of men, was enough to overcome all but her initial surprise at seeing him for the second time that day, and, eventually, decided that it was.
She had always loved the big bed: a big bed was convenient: for instance, when you were sleeping with someone, and you had had a serious or slight disagreement, you could get as far away from him as possible, without having to get out of bed, or leave the room. And, at the same time, it was equally convenient for making up, without getting out of bed, or returning from next door. She slid between the linen sheets; pale moon and starlight came through the window, and she looked up at the dormer ceiling, slanting over her head. It made her think of being a little girl again, sometimes. But not tonight. She was really tired, and lying on her back, she closed her eyes.
It seemed to her that the potential weight of a body, supported by two hands to either side of her, actually woke her out of a light sleep. She opened her eyes.
"Hello, pretty lady," said Jack.
"Jack! What are you doing here?" She reached up to touch his face, "and...what happened to your moustache?"
"First one's a little hard…I...forgot to say goodbye?" Please, he thought, let it be just a moment's idle curiosity…
"Oh…skin…" she said involuntarily, running her hand over his face,
He laughed, "Nice isn't it?"
Suddenly, she reached for the ends of her hair to look at them. "My hair's all grown out? No, I didn't dye it yet. Like you don't have a moustache yet. This is just a dream." She pulled out a hair from her head, and tried to look at it in the dim light.
"No dream. Prove it to you…" he lay down beside her, on top of the top sheet.
"Jack Twist, you're mother-naked!" she said.
"Well...I didn't think I'd be called on to give a formal speech here," he said.
"Oh!" she said. He kissed her, softly
" Jack…you've no idea how nice it is, running into you like this," she said, kissing him back.
He pulled the sheet out from under himself, and pulled the nightgown down from her shoulders. "Such as needy family I've developed," he said, settling his face between her breasts, one of which he began sucking on, eventually, running his tongue gently over the nipple. She had been about to question "family" but forgot. "You smell so good..." she whispered. He climbed quietly between her legs.
When someone gives you an orgasm, ( —and they do, it's not just your longing and some friction,) at the moment of ecstasy, they impart to you, along with all that physical joy, a bit of the essence of themselves, their sense of humor, their intelligence, their eyes, mouth, or other loved features. It is them, not God, you are fucking. And this is the reason so many people—not all, by any means, but many, cry out the name of their partner at this moment of climax (others—not many—who have been fantasizing about someone else may actually call out the name of—the person they have been fantasizing about. Most embarrassing…)
"Jack..." she cried. He stroked her cheek, and put his head down next to hers.
"Goddamn," he said.
"What?
"You smell good, too…" he said, at her left ear, behind which she had put the White Shoulders.
"See…cologne's not always so bad, she laughed at him. She closed, and then opened her eyes. "You gonna tell me all those things now?" she asked. But she was so tired, too tired to listen. She closed her eyes again, a little smile sitting at the corners of her mouth. The Man of my Life, she thought…GOD, he's so...no, that's what Joe said…God, THAT's so funny…They were the last conscious thoughts to go through her head.
"Tomorrow," he said, kissing her cheek, "you'll know all the awful things…about us, and all the not-so-awful ones, too." He put his fingers on her neck. :"Guess I don't have to tell you about the side view mirror, though, huh?" She neither moved nor responded in any way. He looked down at her, and brushed one eye with his fingers.
"See ya in the morning," and kissing her warm cheek again, was gone.
It was Bobby who came by early the next morning, and opened the front door with a key. "Momma?" he called. It wasn't that early. It was so quiet. Bobby walked up the stairs, and went to his mother's room. She still slept, a smile sitting at the corners of her mouth. She looked so peaceful, although a bit pale, but--such a tangle of sheets! She wore her cotton, low-yoked nightgown, but somehow, it had come off of her shoulders, and was bunched around her waist. "Hey momma," he said, smiling at her. No response.
He reached for her arm; it was stiff enough to indicate several hours of rigor mortis; he opened her right eye; it was almost entirely pupil. Still, he climbed onto the huge bed. He put his ear just above the bunched up nightgown, to the left of her breastbone. It was very quiet in there. For a moment, he was paralyzed with bereavement: so soon, no dad, no mom…Then, he lifted his head, and sniffed the air. He smelled two things, neither having to do with a dead body. He smiled, the briefest of smiles. He picked up telephone on the nightstand, and called Elizabeth at her office. When he gave his name, he was put through immediately.
"Hi Elizabeth. Momma's dead," he said. He told her what he had found. She said she'd be right over—which she was in no way obliged to do. There were plenty of doctors to certify death.
"Bobby, I'm so sorry…any odor, like—medication?"
"No, just White Shoulders and—wood smoke." He said, and put the phone down.
Author's notes: Title and two verses that appear in the story are from Rudyard Kipling's poem, "The Ladies," (Kipling: 1865-1936). bolee: lingo; 'Oogli: was a boy's school in England. The philosophy of the big bed is from "Bed" an essay in What Can A Man Do? By Milton Mayer, 1964