“What’s horrible about assholes, baby?”
She held a napkin to her mouth. Got up and ran to the bath room. She began vomiting. I hollered in from the kitchen:
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH ASSHOLES, BABY? YOU’VE GOT AN ASSHOLE, I’VE GOT AN ASSHOLE! YOU GO TO THE STORE AND BUY A PORTERHOUSE STEAK, THAT HAD AN ASSHOLE! ASSHOLES COVER THE EARTH! IN A WAY TREES HAVE ASSHOLES BUT YOU CAN’T FIND THEM, THEY JUST DROP THEIR LEAVES. YOUR ASSHOLE, MY ASSHOLE, THE WORLD IS FULL OF BILLIONS OF ASSHOLES. THE PRESIDENT HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE CARWASH BOY HAS AN ASSHOLE, THE JUDGE AND THE MURDERER HAVE ASSHOLES… EVEN PURPLE STICK PIN HAS AN ASSHOLE!”
“Oh stop it! STOP IT!”
She heaved again. Small town. I opened the bottle of sake and had a drink.
24
It was about a week later around 7 a.m. I had lucked into another day off and after a double workout, I was up against Joyce’s ass, her asshole, sleeping, verily sleeping, and then the doorbell rang and I got out of bed and answered the thing. There was a small man in a necktie. He jammed some papers into my hand and ran away. It was a summons, for divorce. There went my millions. But I wasn’t angry because I had never expected her millions anyhow.
I awakened Joyce.
“What?”
“Couldn’t you have had me awakened at a more decent hour?”
I showed her the papers.
“I’m sorry, Hank.”
“That’s O.K. All you had to do was tell me. I would have agreed. We just made love twice and laughed and had fun. I don’t understand it. And you knew all along. God damn if I can understand a woman.”
“Look, I filed when we had an argument. I thought, if I wait until I cool off I’ll never do it.”
“O.K., babe, I admire an honest woman. Is it Purple Stickpin?”
“It’s Purple Stickpin,” she said.
I laughed. It was a rather sad laugh, I’ll admit. But it came out.
“It’s easy to second guess. But you’re going to have trouble with him. I wish you luck, babe. You know there’s a lot of you I’ve loved and it hasn’t been entirely your money.”
She began to cry into the pillow, on her stomach, shaking all over. She was just a small town girl, spoiled and mixed-up. There she shook, crying, nothing fake about it. It was terrible.
The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.
I got into bed, stroked her back, stroked her, stroked her, calmed her—then she’d break down again:
“Oh Hank, I love you, I love you, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry sorry so sorry!”
She was really on the rack.
After a while, I began to feel as if I were the one who was divorcing her. Then we knocked off a good one for old time’s sake. She got the place, the dog, the flies, the geraniums. She even helped me pack. Folding my pants neatly into suit cases. Packing in my shorts and razor. When I was ready to leave she started crying again. I bit her on the ear, the right one, then went down the stairway with my stuff. I got into the car and began cruising up and down the streets looking for a For Rent sign.
It didn’t seem to be an unusual thing to do.
Part III
1
I didn’t contest the divorce, didn’t go to court. Joyce gave me the car. She didn’t drive. All I had lost was 3 or 4 million. But I still had the post office.
I met Betty on the street.
“I saw you with that bitch a while back. She’s not your kind of woman.”
“None of them are.” I told her it was over. We went for a beer. Betty had gotten old, fast. Heavier. The lines had come in. Flesh hung under the throat. It was sad. But I had gotten old too.
Betty had lost her job. The dog had been run over and killed. She got a job as a waitress, then lost that when they tore down the cafe to erect an office building. Now she lived in a small room in a loser’s hotel. She changed the sheets there and cleaned the bathrooms. She was on wine. She suggested that we might get together again. I suggested that we might wait awhile. I was just getting over a bad one.
She went back to her room and put on her best dress, high heels, tried to fix up. But there was a terrible sadness about her.
We got a fifth of whiskey and some beer, went up to my place on the 4th floor of an old apartment house. I picked up the phone and called in sick. I sat across from Betty. She crossed her legs, kicked her heels, laughed a little. It was like old times. Almost. Something was missing.
At that time, when you called in sick the post office sent out a nurse to spot check, to make sure you weren’t night-clubbing or sitting in a poker parlor. My place was close to the central office, so it was convenient for them to check up on me. Betty and I had been there about two hours when there was a knock on the door.
“What’s that?”
“All right,” I whispered, “shut up! Take off those high heels, go into the kitchen and don’t make a sound.”
“JUST A MOMENT!” I answered the knocker.
I lit a cigarette to kill my breath, then went to the door and opened it a notch. It was the nurse. The same one. She knew me. “Now what’s your trouble?” she asked. I blew out a little roll of smoke. “Upset stomach.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s my stomach.”
“Will you sign this form to show that I called here and that you were at home?”
“Surely.”
The nurse slipped the form in sideways. I signed it. Slipped it back out. “Will you be in to work tomorrow?”
“I have no way of knowing. If I’m well, I’ll come in. If not, I’ll stay out.” She gave me a dirty look and walked off. I knew she had smelled whiskey on my breath. Proof enough? Probably not, too many technicalities, or maybe she was laughing as she got into her car with her little black bag. “All right,” I said, “get on your shoes and come on out.”
“Who was it?”
“A post office nurse.”
“Is she gone?”
“Yeh.”
“Do they do that all the time?”
“They haven’t missed yet. Now let’s each have a good tall drink to celebrate!” I walked into the kitchen and poured 2 good ones. I came out and handed Betty her drink. “Salud!” I said. We raised our glasses high, clicked them. Then the alarm clock went off and it was a loud one. I jerked as if I had been shot in the back. Betty leaped a foot into the air, straight up. I ran over to the clock and shut off the alarm. “Jesus,” she said, “I almost shit myself!” We both started laughing. Then we sat down. Had the good drink. “I had a boyfriend who worked for the county,” she said. “They used to send out an inspector, a guy, but not everytime, maybe one time in 5. So this night I am drinking with Harry— that was his name: Harry. This night I am drinking with Harry and there’s a knock on the door. Harry’s sitting on the couch with all his clothes on. ‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ he says, and he leaps into bed with all his clothes on and pulls the covers up. I put the bottles and glasses under the bed and open the door. This guy comes in and sits on the couch. Harry even has his shoes and stockings on but he is completely under the covers. The guy says, ‘How you feeling, Harry?’ And Harry says, ‘Not so good. She’s over to take care of me.’ He points at me. I was sitting there drunk. ‘Well, I hope you get well, Harry,’ the guy says, and then he leaves. I’m sure he saw those bottles and glasses under the bed, and I’m sure he knew that Harry’s feet weren’t that big. It was a jumpy time.”
“Damn, they won’t let a man live at all, will they? They always want him at the wheel.”