Desperation, p.7
Desperation, page 7
It was his first wife who provided Johnny Marinville with what might be his last chance.
Oh, not his last chance to publish his work; shit, no. He would be able to go on doing that as long as he remained capable of (a) putting words on paper and (b) sending them off to his agent. Once you’d been accepted as a bona fide literary lion, someone would be glad to go on pub-lishing your words even after they had degenerated into self-parody or outright drivel. Johnny sometimes thought that the most terrible thing about the American literary establishment was how they let you swing in the wind, slowly strangling, while they all stood around at their ass—hole cocktail parties, congratulating themselves on how kind they were being to poor old what’ s-his-name.
No, what Terry gave him wasn’t his last chance to publish, but maybe his last to write something realJy worthwhile, something that would get him noticed again in a positive way. Something that might also sell like crazy… and he could use the money, there was no doubt about that.
Best of all, he didn’t think Terry had the slightest idea of what she had said, which meant he wouldn’t have to share any of the proceeds with her, if proceeds there were. He wouldn’t even have to mention her on the Acknowl-edgements page. if he didn’t want to, but he supposed he probably would. Sobering up had been a terrifying experi—ence in many ways, but it did help a person remember his responsibilities.
He had married Terry when he was twenty-five and she was twenty-one, a junior at Vassar. She had never fin-ished college. They had been married for almost twenty years and during that time she had borne him three chii—2 dren, all grown now. One of them, Bronwyn, still talked to him. The other two… well, if they ever got tired of cutting off their noses to spite their faces, he would be around. He was not by nature a vindictive man.
Terry seemed to know that. After five years during which their only communication had been through law yers, they had begun a cautious dialogue. sometimes by letter, more often by telephone. These communications had been tentative at first, both of them afraid of mines still buried in the ruined city of their affections, but over the years they had become more regular. Terry regarded her famous ex with a kind of stoic, amused interest that he found distressing, somehow—it was not, in his opinion, the sort of attitude an ex—wife was supposed to have for a man who had gone on to become one of the most dis cussed writers of his generation. But she also spoke to him with a straightforward kindness that he found sooth ing, like a cool hand on a hot brow.
They had been in contact more since he’d quit drinking (but still always by phone or by letter; both of them seemed to know, even without discussing it, that meeting face to face would put too much pressure on the fragile bond they had forged), but in some ways these sober con-versations had been even more dangerous… not acrimo-nious, but always with that possibility. She wanted him to go back to Alcoholics Anonymous, told him bluntly that if he didn’t, he’d eventually start drinking again. And the 2 drugs would follow, she said, as surely as dark comes after twilight.
Johnny told her he had no intention of spending the rest of his life sitting in church basements with a bunch of 2 drunks, all of them talking about how wonderful it was to have a power greater than one’s self… before getting back into their old cars and driving home to their mostly spouseless houses to feed their cats. “People in AA are generally too fundamentally broken to see that they’ve turned their lives over to an empty concept and a failed ideal,” he said. “Take it from me, I’ve been there. Or take it from John Cheever, if you like. He wrote particularly well about that.”
“John Cheever isn’t writing much these days,” Terry replied. “I think you know why, too.”
Terry could be irritating, no doubt about that.
it was three months ago that she had given him the great idea, tossing it off in a casual conversation that had rambled through what the kids were up to, what she was up to, and, of course, what he was up to. What he had been up to in the early part of this year was agonizing over the first two hundred pages of a historical novel about Jay Gould. He had finally seen it for what it was—warmed-over Gore Vidal—and trashed it. Baked it, actu-ally. In a fit of pique he had resolved to keep entirely to himself, he had tossed his computer-storage discs for the novel into the microwave and given them ten minutes on high. The stench had been unbelievable, a thing that had come roaring out of the kitchen with quills on it, and he’d actually had to replace the microwave.
Then he’d found himself telling Terry the whole thing. When he finished, he sat in his office chair with the phone pressed to his ear and his eyes closed, waiting for her to tell him not to bother with resuming the AA meetings, that what he needed was a good shrink, and in a hurry.
Instead she said he should have put the discs in a casse-role dish and used the convection oven. He knew she was joking—and that she thought at least part of the joke was on him—but her acceptance of the way he was and how he behaved still felt like a cool hand on a fevered brow. It wasn’t approval he got from her, but approval wasn’t what he wanted.
“Of course you never were much good in the kitchen,” she said, and her matter-of-fact tone made him laugh out loud. “So what are you going to do now, Johnny. Any idea.”
“Not the slightest.”
“You ought to write some nonfiction. Get away from the whole idea of the novel for awhile.”
“That’s dumb, Terry. I can’t write nonfiction, and you know it.”
“I know nothing of the kind,” she’d said, speaking in a sharp don’t-be-a-fool tone he got from no one else these days, least of all from his agent. The more Johnny flopped and flailed around, the more gruesomely obsequious Bill Harris became, it seemed. “During the first two years we were married, you must have written at least a dozen essays. Published them, too. For good money. Life, Harp-er’s, even a couple in The New Yorker. Easy for you to 2 forget; you weren’t the one who did the shopping and paid the bills. 1 loved the puppies.”
“Oh. The so-called American Heart Essays. Right. I didn’t forget em, Terry, 1 blocked em out. Rent-payers after the last of the Guggenheim dough was gone; that’s basically what they were. They’ve never even been collected.”
“You wouldn’t allow them to be collected,” she re-torted. “They didn’t fit your golden idea of immortality.”
Johnny greeted this with silence. Sometimes he hated her memory. She’d never been able to write worth a shit herself, the stuff she’d been turning in to her Honors writing seminar the year he met her had been just hor-rible, and since then she’d never published anything more complex than a letter to the editor, but she was a champ at data-storage. He had to give her that.
“You there, Johnny.”
“I’m here.”
“I always know when I’m telling you stuff you don’t like,” she said brightly, “because it’s the only time you ever shut up. You get all broody.”
“Well, I’m here,” he repeated heavily, and fell silent again, hoping she would change the subject. She didn’t, of course.
“You did three or four of those essays because someone a—cked for them, I don’t remember who—”
Amiracle, he had thought. She doesn ‘t remember who. “—and I’m sure you would have stopped there, except by then you were getting queries from other editors. It didn’t surprise me a bit. Those essays were good.”
He was silent this time, not to indicate disinterest or disapproval but because he was thinking back, trying to remember if they had been any good. Terry couldn’t be 2 trusted a hundred per cent when it came to such questions, but you couldn’t throw her conclusions out of court with—‘ out a hearing, either. As a fiction-writer she’d been of the “I saw a bird at sunrise and my heart leaped up” school, but as a critic she had been tough as nails and capable of insights which were spooky, almost like telepathy. One of the things that had attracted him to her (although he supposed the fact that she had the best breasts in America back in those days had helped matters along) was the dichotomy between what she wanted to do—write fiction—and what she was able to do, which was to write criticism that could cut like a diamond chip.
As for the so-called American Heart Essays, the only one he could remember clearly after all these years was Death on the Second Shift.” It had been about a father and son working together in a Pittsburgh steel-mill. The father had had a heart-attack and died in his son’s arms on the third day of Johnny Marinville’s four-day research junket. He had meant to focus on an entirely dif-ferent aspect of millwork, but had changed course at once, and without a second thought. The result had been a wretchedly sentimental piece—the fact that every word was true hadn’t changed that in the slightest—but it had also been a tremendously popular piece. The man who’d edited it for Life dropped him a note six weeks later and said it had generated the fourth4argest volume of letters in the magazine’s history.
Other stuff started to come back to him—titles, mostly, things like “Feeding the Flames”
and “A Kiss on Lake Saranac.” Terrible titles, but… fourth-largest volume of letters.
Hmm mm.
Where might those old essays be. in the Marinville Collection at Fordham. Possible.
Hell, they might even be in the attic of the cottage in Connecticut. He wouldn’t mind a look at them. Maybe they could be updated… or…
Something began to nibble at the back of his mind.
“Do you still have your scoot, Johnny.”
“Huh.” He barely heard her.
“Your scoot. Your ride. Your motorcycle.”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s stored at that garage out in West-port we used to use. You know the one.”
“Gibby’s.”
“Yeah, Gibby’s. Someone different owns it now, but it used to be Gibby’s Garage, yeah.”
He had been blind—sided by a brilliantly textured memory: he and Terry, fully clothed and petting like mad behind Gibby’s Garage one afternoon in… well, a long time ago, leave it at that, Terry had been wearing a pair of tight blue shorts. He doubted if her mother would have approved of them, God, no, but he himself had thought those discount-store spe—2 cials made her look like the Queen of the Western World. Her ass was only good, but her legs… man, those legs had gone not just up to her chin but all the way out to Arc-turus and beyond. How had they gotten out there in the first place, among the cast-off tires and rusty engine parts standing hip-deep in sunflowers and feeling each other up. He couldn’t remember, but he remembered the rich curve of her breast in his hand, and how she’d gripped the belt-loops of his jeans when he cried out against her neck, hauling him closer so he could come tight and hard against her taut belly.
He dropped a hand into his lap and wasn’t exactly sur prised at what he found there. Say, folks, Frampton comes alive.“… new bunch, or maybe even a book.”
He settled his hand firmly back on the arm of his chair “Huh. What.”
“Are you going deaf as well as senile.”
“No. I was remembering one time with you behind 2 Gibby’s. Making out.”
“Oh. In the sunflowers, right.”
“Right.”
There was a long pause when she might have been con-sidering some further comment on that interlude. Johnny — ‘ was almost hoping for one. Instead, she went back to her previous scripture.
“1 said maybe you ought to drive across country on your bike before you get too old to work the footgears, or start drinking again and splash yourself all over the Black Hills.”
“Are you out of your mind. I haven’t been on that thing in three years, and I have no intention of getting back on, Terry. My eyesight sucks—”
“So get a stronger pair of glasses—”
“—and my reflexes are shot. John Cheever may or may not have died of alcoholism, but John Gardner definitely went out on a motorcycle. Had an argument with a tree.
He lost. It happened on a road in Pennsylvania. One I’ve driven myself.”
Terry wasn’t listening. She was one of the few people in the world who felt perfectly comfortable ignoring him and letting her own thoughts carry her away. He supposed that was another reason he’d divorced her. He didn’t like being ignored, especially by a woman.
“You could cross the country on your motorcycle and collect material for a new bunch of essays,” she was saying. She sounded both excited and amused. “If you front-loaded the best of the early bunch—as Part One, you know—you’d have a pretty good-sized book.
American Heart, 1 966—1996, essays by John Edward Marinville.” She giggled. “Who knows. You might even get another good notice from Shelby Foote. That’s the one you always liked the best, wasn’t it.” She paused for his reply, and when it didn’t come, she asked him if he was there, first lightly, then with a little concern.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m here.” He was suddenly glad he was sitting down. “Listen, Terry, I have to go. I’ve got an appointment.”
“New lady-friend.”
“Podiatrist,” he said, thinking Foote, thinking foot. That name was like the final number in a bank-vault com-bination. Click, and the door swings open.
“Well, take care of yourself,” she said. “And honest to God, Johnny, think about getting back to AA. I mean, what can it hurt.”
“Nothing, I suppose,” he said, thinking about Shelby Foote, who had once called John Edward Marinville the only living American writer of John Steinbeck’s stature, and Terry was right—of all the praisenuggets he’d ever gotten, that was the one he liked the best.
“Right, nothing.” She paused. “Johnny, are you all right. Cause you sound like you’re hardly there.”
“Fine. Say hello to the kids for me.”
“I always do. They usually respond with what my ma used to call potty-words, but I always do. Bye.”
He hung up without looking at the telephone, and when it fell off the edge of the desk and onto the floor, he still didn’t look around. John Steinbeck had crossed the country with his dog in a makeshift camper. Johnny had a barely used 1340-cc Harley-Davidson Softail stored out in Connecticut. Not American Heart. She was wrong about that, and not just because it was the name of a Jeff Bridges movie from a few years back. Not American Heart but—“Travels with Harley,” he murmured.
It was a ridiculous title, a laughable title, like a Mad 2 magazine parody… but was it any worse than an essay titled “Death on the Second Shift” or “Feeding the Flames”. He thought not… and he felt the title would work, would rise above its punny origins. He had always trusted his intuitions, and he hadn’t had one as strong as this in years. He could cross the country on his red-and—cream Softail, from the Atlantic where it touched Con-necticut to the Pacific where it touched California. A book of essays that might cause the critics to entirely rethink their image of him, a book of essays that might even get him back on the bestseller lists, if… if…
“If it was bighearted,” he said. His heart was thumping hard in his chest, but for once the feel of that didn’t scare him. “Bighearted like Blue Highways. Bighearted like. well, like Steinbeck.”
Sitting there in his office chair with the telephone bur ring harshly at his feet, what Johnny Marinville had seen was nothing less than redemption. A way out.
He had scooped the telephone up and called his agent his fingers flying over the buttons.
“Bill,” he said, “it’s Johnny. I was just sitting here, thinking about some essays I wrote when I was a kid, and I had a fantastic idea. It’s going to sound crazy at first, but hear me out…”
As Johnny made his way up the sandy slope to the highway, trying not to pant too much, he saw that the guy standing behind his Harley and writing down the plate number was the biggest damned chunk of cop he had ever seen—six-six at least, and at least two hundred and sev-enty pounds on the hoof.
“Afternoon, Officer,” Johnny said. He looked down at himself and saw a tiny dark spot on the crotch of his Levi’s. No matter how much you jump and dance, he thought.
“Sir, are you aware that parking a vehicle on a state road is against the law.” the cop asked without look-ing up.
“No, but I hardly think—”
— it can be much of a problem on a road as deserted as U.s. 50 was how he meant to finish, and in the haughty “How dare you question my judgement.” tone that he had been using on underlings and service people for years, but then he saw something that changed his mind. There was blood on the right cuff and sleeve of the cop’s shirt, quite a lot of it, drying now to a maroon glaze. He had probably finished moving some large piece of roadkill off the highway not very long ago—likely a deer or an elk hit by a speeding semi. That would explain both the blood and the bad temper. The shirt looked like a dead loss; that much blood would never come out.
“Sir.” the cop asked sharply. He had finished writ-ing down the plate number now but went on looking at the bike, his blond eyebrows drawn together, his mouth scrimped flat.
It was as if he didn’t want to look at the bike’s owner, as if he knew that would only make him feel lousier than he did already. “You were saying.”
“Nothing, Officer,” Johnny said. He spoke in a neutral tone, not humble but not haughty, either. He didn’t want to cross this big lug when he was clearly having a bad day.
Still without looking up, his notepad strangled in one hand and his gaze fixed severely on the Harley’s taillight, the cop said: “It’s also against the law to relieve yourself within sight of a state road. Did you know that.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Johnny said. He felt a wild urge to laugh bubbling around in his chest and suppressed it.
“Well, it is. Now, I’m going to let you go He looked up for the first time, looked at Johnny, and his eyes widened. . go with a warning this time, but…
He trailed off, eyes now as wide as a kid’s when the circus parade comes thumping down the street in a swirl of clowns and trombones. Johnny knew the look, although he had never expected to see it out here in the Nevada desert, and on the face of a gigantic Scandahoovian cop who looked as if his reading tastes might run the gamut from Playboy’s Party Jokes to Guns and Ammo magazine.
