Part 23 (2/2)
”Just rethinking what I gave you. I think I'll take back John Cheever.”
”Christ! What gives? I take this this, you grab that that? Put Cheever back. Here's Pushkin. Boring, Robbe-Grillet, French boring. Knut Hamsun. Scandinavian boring.”
”Cut the critiques. You make me feel like I just foiled my lit. exam. You think you're taking all the good books and leaving me the dimwits?”
”Could be. All those Connecticut writers picking lint out of each other's navels, logrolling down Fifth Avenue, firing blanks all the way!”
”I don't suppose you find Charlie d.i.c.kens a dud?”
”d.i.c.kens!? We haven't had anyone like him in this century century!”
”Thank G.o.d! You'll notice I gave you all the Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k novels. Asimov's science fiction. Kafka? Ba.n.a.l.”
”Now who's busy burning books?” He bent furiously to study first her stack, then his. ”Peac.o.c.k, by G.o.d, one of the great humorists of all time. Kafka? Deep. Crazy, brilliant. Asimov? A genius!” who's busy burning books?” He bent furiously to study first her stack, then his. ”Peac.o.c.k, by G.o.d, one of the great humorists of all time. Kafka? Deep. Crazy, brilliant. Asimov? A genius!”
”Ho-hum! Jesus.” She sat down and put her hands in her lap and leaned forward, nodding at the hills of literature. ”I think I begin to see where everything fell apart. The books you read, flotsam to me. The books I read, jetsam to you. Junk. Why didn't we realize that ten years back?”
”Lots of things you don't notice when you're-” he slowed-”in love.”
The word had been spoken. She moved back in her chair, uneasily, and folded her hands and put her feet primly together. She stared at him with a peculiar bright ness m her eyes.
He looked away and began to prowl the room. ”Ah, h.e.l.l,” he said, kicking one stack, and moved across to kick the other, quietly, easily. ”I don't give a d.a.m.n what's in this bunch or that, I don't care, I just don't-”
”Do you have room in your car for most of these?” she said, quietly, still looking at him.
”I think so.”
”Want me to help you carry them out?”
”No.” There was another long moment of silence.
”I can manage.” ”You sure?”
”Sure.” With a great sigh he began to carry a few books over near the door.
”I've got some boxes in the car. I'll bring them up.”
”Don't you want to look over the rest of the books to be sure they're ones you want?”
”Naw,” he said. You know my taste. Looks like you did it all right It's like you just peeled two pieces of paper away from each other, and there they are, I can't believe it.”
He stopped piling the books by the door and stood looking at first one fortress of volumes on one side and then the opposing castles and towers of literature, and then at his wife, seated stranded in the valley between. It seemed a long way down the valley, across the room to where she was.
At that moment, two cats, both black, one large, one small, bounded in from the kitchen, caromed off the furniture and ricocheted out of the room, with not a sound.
His hand twitched. His right foot half turned toward the door.
”Oh, no, you don't!” she said, quickly. ”No cat carriers in here. Leave it outside. I'm keeping Maude and Maudlin.”
”But-” he said.
”Nope,” she said.
There was a long silence. At last, his shoulders slumped.
”h.e.l.l,” he said, quietly. ”I don't want any of the d.a.m.ned books. You can keep them all.”
”You'll change your mind in a few days and come after them.”
”I don't want them,” he said. ”I only want you.”
”That's the terrible part of all this,” she said, not moving. ”I know it, and it's impossible.”
”Sure. I'll be right back. I'll bring the boxes up.” He opened the door and again stared at the new lock as if he couldn't believe. He took the old key from his pocket and put it on a side table near the door. ”Won't need that anymore.”
”No more, no,” she said, so he could hardly hear her.
”I'll knock when I come back.” He started out and turned, ”You know all of this was just talking around the real subject we haven't even discussed yet?”
”What's that?” She looked up.
He hesitated, moved a step, and said, ”Who gets the kids?”
Before she could answer, he went out and shut the door.
Come, and Bring Constance!
His wife opened the mail at Sat.u.r.day breakfast. It was the usual landslide.
”We're on every hit list in town, and beyond,” he said. ”I can stand the bills. But the come-ons, the premieres you don't want to attend, the benefits that benefit no one, the-”
”Who's Constance?” asked his wife.
”Who's who?” he said.
”Constance,” said his wife.
And the summer morning pa.s.sed quickly into November shade.
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