Helen didn't ask any questions. In part, Garp knew, this was because there was nothing she could say in front of Duncan. But in part, like Garp, she was severely editing what she wanted to say. They were both grateful for Duncan's presence; by the time they got to speak freely to each other, the long wait might make them kinder, and more careful.
At dawn they couldn't wait any longer and they began to talk to each other through Duncan.
“Tell Mommy what the kitchen looked like,” Garp said. “And tell her about the dog.”
“Bill?”
“Right,” Garp said. “Tell her about old Bill.”
“What was Ralph's mother wearing while you were there?” Helen asked Duncan. She smiled at Garp. “I hope she wore more clothes than Daddy.”
“What did you have for supper?” Garp asked Duncan.
“Are the bedrooms upstairs or downstairs?” Helen asked. “Or both?” Garp tried to give her a look that said: Please don't get started. He could feel her edging the old, worn weapons into easy reach. She had a baby-sitter or two she could recall for him, and he felt her moving the baby-sitters into place. If she brought up one of the old, wounding names, Garp had no names ready for retaliation. Helen had no baby-sitters against her; not yet. In Garp's mind, Harrison Fletcher didn't count.
“How many telephones are there?” Helen asked Duncan. “Is there a phone in the kitchen and one in the bedroom? Or is the only phone in the bedroom?”
When Duncan finally went to his room, Helen and Garp were left with less than half an hour before Walt would wake up. But Helen had the names of her enemies ready. There is plenty of time to do damage when you know where the war wounds are.
“I love you so much, and I know you so well,” Helen began.
12. IT HAPPENS TO HELEN
LATE-NIGHT phone calls—those burglar alarms in the heart—would frighten Garp all his life. Who is it that I love? Garp's heart would cry, at the first ring—who's been blasted by a truck, who's drowned in the beer or lies side-swiped by an elephant in the terrible darkness?
Garp feared the receiving of such after-midnight calls, but he once made one—unknowingly—himself. It had been one evening when Jenny was visiting them; his mother had let it slip how Cushie Percy had ruptured in childbirth. Garp had not heard of it, and although he occasionally joked with Helen about his old passion for Cushie—and Helen teased him about her—the news of Cushie dead was nearly crippling to Garp. Cushman Percy had been so active—there had been such a hot juiciness about her—it seemed impossible. News of an accident to Alice Fletcher could not have upset him more; he felt more prepared for something happening to her. Sadly, he knew, things would always be happening to Quiet Alice.
Garp wandered into the kitchen and without really noticing the time, or remembering when he opened another beer, he discovered that he had dialed the Percys' number; the phone was ringing. Slowly, Garp could imagine the long way back from sleep that Fat Stew had to travel before he could answer the phone.
“God, who are you calling?” Helen asked, coming into the kitchen. “It's quarter of two!”
Before Garp could hang up, Stewart Percy answered the phone.
“Yes?” Fat Stew asked, worriedly, and Garp could imagine frail and brainless Midge sitting up in bed beside him, as nervous as a cornered hen.
“I'm sorry I woke you,” Garp said. “I didn't realize it was so late.” Helen shook her head and walked abruptly out of the kitchen. Jenny appeared in the kitchen doorway; on her face was the kind of critical look only a mother can give a son. That is a look with more disappointment in it than the usual anger.
“Who the hell is this?” Stewart Percy said.
“This is Garp, sir,” Garp said, a little boy again, apologizing for his genes.
“Holy shit,” said Fat Stew. “What do you want?”
Jenny had neglected to tell Garp that Cushie Percy had died months ago; Garp thought he was offering condolences on a fresh disaster. Thus he faltered.
“I'm sorry, very sorry,” Garp said.
“You said so, you said so,” Stewart said.
“I just heard about it,” Garp said, “and I wanted to tell you and Mrs. Percy how truly sorry I was. I may not have demonstrated it, to you, sir, but I was really very fond of—”
“You little swine!” said Stewart Percy. “You mother humper, you Jap ball of shit!” He hung up the phone.
Even Garp was unprepared for this much loathing. But he misunderstood the situation. It would be years before he realized the circumstances of his phone call. Poor Pooh Percy, batty Bainbridge, would one day explain it to Jenny. When Garp called, Cushie had been dead for so long that Stewart did not realize Garp was commiserating with him on Cushie's loss. When Garp called, it was the midnight of the dark day when the black beast, Bonkers, had finally expired. Stewart Percy thought that Garp's call was a cruel joke—false condolences for the dog Garp had always hated.
And now, when Garp's phone rang, Garp was conscious of Helen's grip emerging instinctively from her sleep. When he picked up the phone, Helen had his leg clamped fast between her knees—as if she were holding tight to the life and safety that his body was to her. Garp's mind ran through the odds. Walt was home asleep. And so was Duncan; he was not at Ralph's.
Helen thought: It is my father; it's his heart. Sometimes she thought: They've finally found and identified my mother. In a morgue.
And Garp thought: They have murdered Mom. Or they are holding her for ransom—men who will accept nothing less than the public rape of forty virgins before releasing the famous feminist, unharmed. And they'll also demand the lives of my children, and so forth.
It was Roberta Muldoon on the phone, and that only convinced Garp that the victim was Jenny Fields. But the victim was Roberta.
“He's left me,” Roberta said, her huge voice swollen with tears. “He's thrown me over. Me! Can you believe it?”
“Jesus, Roberta,” Garp said.
“Oh, I never knew what shits men were until I became a woman,” Roberta said.
“It's Roberta,” Garp whispered to Helen, so that she could relax. “Her lover's flown the coop.” Helen sighed, released Garp's leg, rolled over.
“You don't even care, do you?” Roberta asked Garp, testily. “Please, Roberta,” Garp said.
“I'm sorry,” Roberta said. “But I thought it was too late to call your mother.” Garp found this logic astonishing, since he knew that Jenny stayed up later than he did; but he also liked Roberta, very much, and she had certainly had a hard time.
“He said I wasn't enough of a woman, that I confused him, sexually—that I was confused sexually!” Roberta cried. “Oh, God, that prick. All he wanted was the novelty of it. He was just showing off for his friends.”
“I'll bet you could have taken him, Roberta,” Garp said. “Why didn't you beat the shit out of him?”
“You don't understand,” Roberta said. “I don't feel like beating the shit out of anyone, anymore. I'm a woman!"...
“Don't women ever feel like beating the shit out of someone?” Garp asked. Helen reached over to him and pulled his cock.
“I don't know what women feel like,” Roberta wailed. “I don't know what they're supposed to feel like, anyway. I just know what I feel like.”
“What's that?” Garp asked, knowing she wanted to tell him.