Kafkas uncle, p.8
Kafka's Uncle, page 8
His posture became stiff. “I have no other revisions or suggestions.”
She looked at him. He looked at her. Then he broke eye contact; his eyes drifted down, down, rested on her breasts, then down, down, over her belly, his gaze, like thin and gauzy hands, to rest in her lap. Horny bastard, she thought, I should have him sign a contract. I know he’s going to fuck me over again, but even if he were to sign something, there is no way I can anticipate anything. He’s just being a passive—aggressive asshole, a shit—head that hates women and wants to control and manipulate. I wonder if he really knows how threatened he is?
“All right,” she said. She stood.
His eyes rested, gazed upon her lower abdomen then drifted up, up, breasts, neck, mouth, nose, eyes. He smiled. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements about your leave,” he said ethereally; “Six months?”
Jennifer nodded. “I plan to drive,” she counted on her fingers. “October to get there, November, December, January, February—March to get back—in time for spring quarter.”
He nodded. “Yes, your book, after this research, should be ready.” He smiled. “Dr. Hart. Sounds nice.”
In spite of him, she smiled. “Yeah, yeah, it does.”
He handed the thesis to her. “See you in six months.”
“You don’t expect this to be done—rewritten in six months, do you?”
“No,” he said. “Summer quarter.”
“See you in March,” she said. “Good—bye.”
“Good—bye,” he said.
And what’s really insulting about all of this, she thought, as she left his office, is that I’ve never had anything refused for publication. Me, a published writer going through three rewrites for a jerk who can’t edit a bathroom wall—but—and she smiled ruefully to herself, well, some of his criticisms have been good and had made her work stronger—and she knew by continuing school, she was putting herself in this position. Why a doctorate, her friends had asked. You’re published—what do you need a doctorate for? And Jennifer’s answers were, essentially, to kill two birds with one stone: get a Ph.D. and get another book published; you can’t very well get something published and then take it to a college and ask for a Ph.D. for it, though that is what she would love to do. But why a Ph.D? She was troubled by the question—why was it so important when she was so successful in other areas of her life? Was it because school was so important in her family that to be out of school would be loss of face? Was it because her family was a family of doctors and if she didn’t have the initials behind her name, it would not be good enough no matter how successful she was otherwise? Was it just the challenge of being in a position of having other options open, like teaching—that writing plus the initials would almost certainly ensure? Was it too scary to leave school? To actually say, “I am a writer and this is how I make my living—by writing.”
She stopped at a campus street, dimly watched the cars pass, shook her head and said to herself, I don’t know. Pause in her thinking. Do I want to know? Pause. I don’t know that, either. Another thought. All of this certainly occupies my time—do I do this so that I won’t get involved with anyone? A sense of anxiety—the truth? Or self—torture? Or should I even question what I am doing? Just enjoy it? Again, shake of the head; I don’t know. How is one to know? Should I go to therapy? Confusion. No, I’ll go on this trip, and I’ll see how it goes. I’ll have a chance to think about it all—so many things to think about. She went to the student center, had coffee, looked over her thesis and decided that even though Space Case was a jerk, he did have some valid points—damn it.
Within three days, she had the Plymouth Fury checked over, got road maps, addresses of friends she could visit on the way back, made out an itinerary, got $1500 in traveler’s checks—ah, simultaneous feeling of joy at having parents rich enough to pay your way through school forever, along with guilt for taking and taking. Question: is this it? Am I getting back at my parents for something? Am I being hostile by forever going to school and spending their money even though they give it freely to me? No, no, that’s not true; I’ve made good money off my writing and offered to begin paying them back but they’ve refused; but then, aren’t they keeping me a child? Making me dependent on them? Oh, Christ! I don’t know.
October 15th, 1978: it was pouring rain in Seattle and Jennifer didn’t hit sunny country until Montana. She was grateful for the blue sky, the warmth, and after a dinner of stew and chicken soup at a state park, she sat at the picnic table and actually felt excited now about traveling, realizing how much she enjoyed it.
On a little camp stove, she boiled water, made a cup of coffee and thought to herself, to work, to work. In a notebook she recorded expenses so far: gas, last night’s car camp; she wrote a brief entry in her journal, looked over the maps and decided to look over again the notes she had taken about the legends of the South. The notes weren’t in her notebook. Puzzled, she looked in her purse. Not there either. Glove compartment? No. With the road maps? No. Then what. . . oh, Christ! She slapped her hand on the table. “Damn it to fucking hell!” she said. In her mind, she saw them, right on the coffee table in her apartment. “Smart,” she said to herself. “Real smart, Jenny!” She sighed. “Ten leads.” She put her hands around the cup, appreciating its warmth. Well, she thought, do I remember any names? Anything on the list? Blank. “Oh, come on,” she whispered. “There must be something I can remember—” She closed her eyes. A name, she thought, J.A. Britt—no—no—Dr. J.J. Brittman, Florida State University, Tallahassee, Florida. Well—respected popularizer of the “local scene,” extensive publication, writes about everything. Most likely his books will be all over the South; better yet, try to get in to see him. She sipped her coffee. Also means I have to change travel plans—go down the East Coast, to Florida, swing back up through Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas—and not do it the other way around, as I’d planned it—ending up on the Florida coast for a few days of sun and surf—a reward for just going through the Deep South—something I had not looked forward to. Oh, well, she thought, this way I get to travel the southern route—maybe stay in Los Angeles—San Diego—swim. Still angry at herself, she put food, suitcase, and other items in the front seat, locked the doors, curled up in the roomy back seat and pulling the sleeping bag over her, slept.
Two days later, after pulling into a rest stop and taking a nap, she opened her eyes. She stretched. She looked at her watch: 11:30—she had dozed forty—five minutes. And now, she thought, lunch time. I’ll be in Baton Rouge by one, in Dusk probably by two—thirty or three.
Jennifer made herself a cheese and lettuce sandwich and looked over her notes of the trip:
October 17th: entered Yellowstone: light snow. Glad I had snow tires. . . October 19th: beautiful weather; Wyoming going okay. Spectacular sunset. . . October 20th: flat front tire, pouring rain near Casper, Wyoming. Had to sleep off main highway on shoulder; didn’t sleep at all—always afraid truck was going to come along and not see me. Nothing happened. Changed tire in morning. October 23rd: South Dakota: Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! October 25th: Peoria Ill. Home. Every time I come home, looks worse and worse. Grey, barren; people look as desolate as the land. October 29th: Great Smokey National Park. So foggy, couldn’t see anything. Wild roads. Got bored, picked up a hitchhiker. Kept scooting closer and closer to me. Told him to back off. Did for a while. Then started again, put hand on my leg and said, “God, I wanna get into your pants.”
I smiled. I pulled off the road.
“Okay,” I said. “But just a minute, I have to get to my purse.” He was practically drooling. My purse was in the back seat; I got to it, brought out a spray can of repellant—the kind that mailmen use to ward off dogs and I aimed at him. “Get out of the car. Now.”
He looked shocked, then lunged for it; he got a face full of spray. I yanked out the keys, got out of the car, went to his side, opened the door, yanked him out. “Get back and stay back,” I said. He did. I locked his door. “My pack,” he said, “my pack.”
“You’ll get it.” I went around to my side, kept the spray handy, started the car not taking my eyes off him. I drove off, stopped a long ways away from him, threw out his pack and was on my way, vowing not to pick up any hitchhiker again. Was scared about it all but congratulated myself on being able to take care of myself.
November 1st: Daytona Beach. R and R. Swam. Stayed at motel, got clothes washed, checked over car; car is doing surprisingly well; has 100,000 miles on it. No major problems but the gas is expensive. November 3rd: Arrived in Tallahassee. Went to talk to Dr. Brittman; he was, as luck would have it, on leave, looking for more folklore and Indian legends to write about. Damn! The perfect one to talk to. However, his secretary did send me to the local bookstore which had a very, very impressive collection of his work, including a book which goes into the area around Tallahassee and Alabama and Louisiana—a lot of the information is new to me. May work out after all. Mentions a place called Dusk which is northwest of New Orleans and in the Atchafalaya Basin. Something lives in the Basin, in the swamps, something that according to the author, has been described as “. . . an unearthly being that wanders, displaying rippling light and sound.”
Jennifer reread that statement again, and felt odd. Will o’ the wisp? She munched her sandwich. Most likely, she mused, but there was still an uneasiness. She frowned, and tried to dismiss it. She finished her sandwich, put everything away, and starting the engine, noticed she had ample gasoline as she headed out on the highway.
She arrived in Dusk the following day about one o’clock. Her first impression was that of a small Midwest town dropped into the middle of a tropical climate: it was like any small town you’d find anywhere: slow, quiet—perhaps slower and even quieter here—the humidity, the heat. No new architecture; a fifty—ish feel. There—the first building on the outskirts of town as if marginally accepted: liquor store, Dusk, LA. Next to it, the police station/court house, across the street, J.R. Samuel’s Drugs with a large ad in the window for Kodak film. The road was paved, but no parking meters; cars were angle parked. The only thing that looked new was the Arco sign down the street. Jennifer drove slowly, even more slowly than the posted speed; a few people walked as though in slow motion. There was a small Sears store, the Dusk’s Mirror Café, the Sentinel Newspaper office, a bank, a grocery. She glanced down a side street; houses. She drove on; the town petered out but not until she passed the library and the school.
Then she came to a bridge which crossed still, dark water and once over, the area to her right was cypress and swamp, green and dark.
After ten minutes of driving, the view was the same; a pull off, and Jennifer turned the car around, headed back to Dusk. She stopped in front of the library and, going inside, went to the counter. A woman glanced up from talking to a little girl, eight or so years old. “Be with you in just a minute,” the older woman said.
“That’s fine,” said Jennifer. Out of the corner of her eye she watched. The woman behind the counter was an animated person, either because that was her nature or because she was enjoying talking to the girl.
She—the librarian, was about forty—five, grey hair, slender. She wore a pale green blouse and her eyes, Ah, those eyes, thought Jennifer, lively, something quick about them, something intense.
The little girl listened with rapt attention. She gazed at the librarian as though the librarian were somehow a very kind, a very profound goddess who, by simply being herself, gave the little girl everything she could ever dream of. The little girl wore blue cut—offs, was barefoot, had a white tee—shirt on with red trim around the sleeves and neck. Her hair was blonde and she had her arms spread on the counter top, her chin resting on her hands as she listened and watched the librarian. Jennifer smiled. Innocence. Then she became curious. . . more curious. . . the child wasn’t just listening to the librarian nor was the librarian just talking—it wasn’t just a pleasant adult—to—child chat they were having—it was a profound understanding, like two friends who had known each other for decades and who understood much more than they could ever tell.
“. . . and so,” the librarian was saying, “. . . keep these things in mind . . . just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. . . “
“Like luck?” asked the little girl.
“Well,” the librarian responded, “like luck, or hope, or love—even like our friend in the swamp—”
At that, Jennifer felt a tingle up her spine.
“. . . now, you stay right here,” said the librarian, “let me go help this woman.”
The little girl solemnly nodded and began to rhythmically tap her right foot lightly against the cool yellow tile floor.
“Yes,” said the librarian, “how can I help you?”
Jennifer sensed that she was saying something else and decided she had better be careful.
“Hello,” said Jennifer. “My name is Jennifer Hart and I’m from Seattle getting away from the rain—” She smiled.
The librarian laughed. “It does rain up there, doesn’t it?” And Jennifer sensed a relaxation.
Jennifer went on. “I’m at the University in Seattle, and I’m working on a doctorate degree in literature and I’m studying folklore, myths and legends.”
“Oh,” said the librarian, “how interesting.” She smiled. “You must find it fascinating work.”
Jennifer said, “Yes, it really is. Anyway, to complete my thesis, I want to explore myths and legends in the South and—” She thought to herself, Here goes, “I’ve read in Dr. J.J. Brittman’s books that there exists in the swamp here a creature called Dusk’s Ancestor or Dusk’s Mirror.”
The librarian smiled. “Well, we do have rumors like that. I’m going to close the library at three o’clock,” she said abruptly. “Would you like to join me for coffee then? Perhaps we can talk a little more.”
Jennifer smiled. Then grinned. “Yes, I would like that.”
“By the way,” said the librarian, “I am Susan Dexter. Do you mind if my friend comes along?”
Before Jennifer could respond, the little girl came over, at first boldly, then hesitantly. She stood a few feet from Jennifer and Jennifer was taken by her. My God, she thought, what a lovely—what a strange child. She has seen something—she’s—what—haunted? The wide blue eyes, taking in all, and seeing somehow beyond it all. . .
“Dawn” said Susan, “this is a newcomer to town. She’ll be staying with us for a while. She wants to know about this place and—” just the slightest hesitation, “everything else.”
Shyly, Dawn looked up. “Hi,” she whispered. “I’m Dawn. Who are you?”
“Jennifer Hart. How do you do?”
Dawn smiled. “All right,” she said. She put her hands behind her back, glanced down, a little uncomfortable, looked up again, “I hope you like it here.”
Jennifer nodded. “I think I will.” Then, to Susan, “I really don’t have much to do right now,” she said, “other than find a place to stay—”
“I think we can work something out,” said Susan. “Don’t worry. Why don’t you stay and look around the library.” Again, the message, the hidden one: you’ve been honest with us, we’ll be honest with you.
“Thank you,” said Jennifer. She left the counter and began to explore. She was amazed at the large children’s and juvenile section of the library. She also kept her ears open as she thumbed through Dr. Seuss, The Brothers Grimm, a beautifully illustrated edition of Alice in Wonderland—
“Hee—hee—hee!”
Jennifer went around a bookshelf, and there was an open area; a table, chairs; a black woman, who looked like she was in her late teens, with ample curly black hair and dressed in cut—offs and loose yellow blouse sat reading to a child (hers?) who was about five or so.
They seemed oblivious to Jennifer, so she pretended to be looking at the books and listened:
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.”
“Hee—hee—hee,” giggled the child.
“You like that?” the woman asked.
“Does the Jafferwalk live around here?” asked the boy.
“Well,” said the woman, “the Jabberwock just might. You never know. What do you want me to read next?”
“This one,” said the boy.
“Ohh, that’s one of my favorites, too. Cinderella.”
Jennifer disappeared behind a bookshelf and then the thought struck her. Now that’s interesting, she thought, if that little boy is hers, she would have had him when she was twelve or thirteen. Yet her ability to read—and understand—Jabberwocky and what Lewis Carroll was doing—she nodded. Very intelligent woman. Also very caring about how she communicates with her child.
She went over to the magazine section—and was instantly delighted. Imagine that, she thought, a small town like this with magazines like National Geographic, Cinemafantastique, The Smithsonian; art magazines; and Scientific American, and—Mad Magazine. She shook her head. Unbelievable. She wandered down the rows of magazines and realized that she was quite close to the counter; she could hear Dawn and Susan talking very plainly.
“But if you can’t see something,” Dawn was saying, “how do you know it’s real?”
Jennifer was astonished. What a question! She felt both very surprised, pleased and even more curious. When she was eight years old, she wasn’t asking those questions.
“Well,” said Susan, “now, that’s a good question. So I’ll answer it by asking you a question: can you see the air?”
Pause. Then, “Uh—huh—clouds—”
“Okay, but can you see the air right now?”
Pause. “No.”
