30 Pieces of a Novel

Lines

NO LINE COMES. He sits for a long time, waiting and sometimes working, but no line comes. He walks around the house, people in it see him and say, “What are you doing?” and he says, “Shh, I’m thinking,” and thinks, Let a line come while I’m walking, but none does. Outside, in: none. Opens the refrigerator and takes a slice of cheese out of the wrapping the pound of Swiss came in and shoves it into his mouth and thinks, Okay, you’ve been satisfied, your hunger at least, so let a line come. Goes upstairs, sits down at his card table again, and says, “Line, come … now. Okay, then line … come … now.” Says, “No line wanna come? Okay, later.” Goes back to the refrigerator and stuffs two more slices of Swiss into his mouth, thinks, Now I’m more than satisfied, I’m sated, so let a line come. One comes best when I’m hungry, but that didn’t work, nor when I was just satisfied, so let it come when I’m full, overfull, have had too much cheese and really, considering … considering what? I was going to say, “considering the breakfast I had,” but I didn’t have any: just black coffee and half a toasted bagel with nothing on it, so just too much cheese. Sits at the kitchen table and waits; none comes. Takes out his pad and pen and tries working: nothing. Let line come, he thinks. Line, you come! Says, “Let the line in. Let the great or any kind of line come in and be in and be anything it wants to be, but just to be, that’s all, and I’ll take it from there. Line, where are you, where art thou, wherever you are or art, yoo-hoo, let me see you, so come. Calling all lines. This is Gould to line: come in, please; over. Now line, come now. This sec. This is the sec for all good lines or just any kind of line to come. Or come in the next few sees or so, I won’t mind. Hey, I can be a patient man regarding lines, just test me. Or come in the next thirty sees, but sooner if you can, though later if you want — don’t want you to think I’m pushing you — but please, not too much later. My heart, my heart — only kidding. Or really come when you want, but come now. I mean really come when you want but, if you can, come now or soon. A minute, two, line to start a whole thing with — there, cat’s out of the bag, now if only a line was — but come. Okay, I’ll just wait,” and thinks, Okay, wait, go upstairs and sit at your desk and wait, and goes upstairs, sits at the card table, and shuts his eyes. Shutting my eyes might help it come, he thinks, and keeps his eyes shut when they want to open. Thinks, What do I see? Maybe what I see will be the line to start the whole thing off with. “Cat out of the bag” one? No. I see my daughters. Then just one: “Hi,” the youngest says. Is that the line? Opens his eyes and writes Hi, and it isn’t. Just one word, is it even a line? Well, by his standards it is, and even if it isn’t he’d take it if it were the one. Try two. He writes Hi, Daddy, and it isn’t. Try more: and he writes: “Hi, Daddy,” one of his daughters says, and he looks up; it’s the younger, she’s at the door holding some manuscript pages and says, “Could you type these for me?” and he says, “What is it, sweetie, because I’m busy,” and she says, “Chapter five of my novel Amily,” and he says, “Emily?” and she says, “No, Amily, for ‘I am,’ get it? ‘Am’ for me and ‘ily’ for an end to a name like Emily but not that. Someone told me ‘Amily’ also sounds like the French word for friend, and the Amily in my novel is my friend, or has become one since I started writing about her, and she’s a very friendly girl and I hope will become the friend of the people who read her,” and he says, “You mean, your readers,” and she says, “The readers of Amily, the book, my novel. You know who she is. You typed all my Amily chapters,” and he says, “But she wasn’t named Amily before, was she?” and she says, “First she was Amelia. And once she was Emily, and in another chapter she was Emma, or in two of them. But they all sounded so ordinary for a main character’s name, and there were already too many Emmas and Emilys and one Amelia in books and stories I read. So I thought, Why not Amelia with an E for the first letter? But that didn’t look right as a name — it seemed too fake or false — so I ended up with Amily, which has parts of all those names and also the French word ‘friend’ and the English word ‘am,’ for ‘I am,’ though the novel isn’t about me, it’s made up. All of that I thought of after I finally took Amily, which I got by thinking and thinking of a good name. I sat hard in my room, or rather I thought hard while I sat in my room,” and he says, “At your desk?” and she says, “Yes, and the name just came, and when it did I knew it was the right one from now on.” “I like it,” he says, “a name I’ve never heard of but really should have. Because you’d think, after thousands of years of different first names, parents would have made it up by now or formed it from some other name or thing—’friendship,’ as you said, but in French, or some word in English. Amity’s the only one I can think of now that has a-m-i in it, which must come from the French, which probably comes from the Latin—amicus, is it?” and she says, “I wouldn’t know, what does it mean?” and he says, “Well, amity means friendship, and amicus, if I’m right, probably means the same thing or something close to it — friend, friendliness, fried foods? But you’re allowed to do that with names, make them up when you write novels and stories, don’t ask me how I know.” “But you will type it?”—waving the pages — and he says yes and she puts them on the table he’s sitting at and he says, “Though not right this moment, you understand,” and she says, “I’ve time. I won’t be starting the next chapter till tomorrow,” and leaves and he writes, The line, the line, did it come, is “Hi, Daddy,” for instance, the line? It isn’t. Does any of that stuff with his daughter have the line in it? It doesn’t.

It really happened, in somewhat the same way, this morning. All right, a lot different. She threw open the door, scaring him, said, “Hi, Daddy,” he said, “I’m working,” she said, “Should I go away?” and he said, “You can say what you came to say,” and she asked him to type chapter five of her novel Amily. He hasn’t yet and told her he couldn’t right away. “First things first,” he said, “and excuse me but my things before yours before a certain time of the day, say — at least today — around one or two? After that, if I haven’t just started working frantically on something of my own or am in the middle of it and zinging to a finish, I’ll type it gladly. And if I do what I have to before one or two, I’ll type your work even earlier than I thought.” “Okay,” she said, and started to leave, and he said, “One more thing, sweetie. Try knocking lightly on my door next time, don’t just barge in. I don’t want to say you’ll help give me a heart attack — that’ll just scare you — but it does startle me sometimes. Remember that, and now please shut the door,” and she did. She’ll knock hard or burst through the door around one or two, if he’s still here, and ask if he’s typed her chapter, and he’ll say no, if he hasn’t, but will type it by the end of the day, he promises, or certainly before she starts chapter six tomorrow, and please no more knocking on his door so hard or bursting into the room.

Shuts his eyes, thinks, Think again, just a single line to get things going, and pictures — she pops into his mind; he doesn’t draw her up intentionally — his other daughter. “May I use your typewriter?” she says, and he says, “God, you scared the hell out of me,” and she says, “I’m sorry, but you’re so shaky. You drink too much caffeine coffee,” and he says, “It’s not that. Anyone would be jumpy if someone comes up on him from behind, when his eyes are closed and he’s thinking deeply, and suddenly says something. Both of you — your sister … how come Mommy and I failed to make you aware of older people’s delicate nerves and to teach you to tap lightly on the doors of people’s rooms before entering? So do that with the door from now on, or make a lot of noise coming up the stairs, so I’ll know you’re out there and I’ll be prepared if you suddenly open my door — you did that okay, nice and gently — and say something to me. Now, what is it you wanted?” and she says, “You don’t seem in a good mood to do it,” and he says, “What, come on, what?” and she says, “Now you’re even angrier,” and he says, “Will you stop that? I feel all right, not angry, look, my face: no anger; no smile either, but I don’t feel like smiling and neither do you. We can’t just put one on. We’re not that kind of family. Your mother isn’t that way for sure, and I inherited that trait from her,” and she says, “That’s impossible,” and he says, “You’re right, and you know what? That last little run of words of mine made me feel much better, so what is it you came here for, honestly?” and she says, “You made me forget. I know it was for something important.” “My typewriter, right? Don’t ask me how I know. I’m afraid I can’t; I never let anyone use it,” and she says, “I only need it for a little while, and I’m your daughter, not anyone. Besides, even if I had wanted to bring my word processor with us, you wouldn’t have let me. You kept complaining there wasn’t room in the car for anything but the most important things, like your box of wine and typewriter and tons of your papers and yours and Mommy’s books and only our most necessary clothes,” and he says, “Maybe only to my daughters and wife I might loan it for a short time, but it’d have to be very important. What do you want it for?” and she says, “A letter to a friend. She wrote me one on her father’s typewriter, also from the country at their cottage, and I wanted to type mine back to her. It’d only be fair. My cursive is horrible to read, and printing a letter is babyish and would take too long.” “I’m sorry, but this typewriter, since I only brought one of mine up here, is too indispensable to me to risk injuring it with a personal letter you want to write. You kids type on it too hard and keep jamming the keys,” and she says, “I won’t.” “Now, if it was for something to your school or a job application you needed to write or anything like that—” and she says, “You’re so selfish and mean and you won’t even trust me when I promise,” and he says, “You didn’t let me finish,” and she says, “Were you going to say that despite all that, blah blah, you’ll let me borrow it?” and he says, “No, but—” and she leaves and slams the door. “You didn’t have to slam it,” he says. He gets up, throws the door open, and she’s downstairs by now and he yells down them, “You didn’t have to slam the door, Fanny. It didn’t scare me half to death, but it doesn’t reflect well on you, I’ll tell you, not one bit. I don’t like that kind of reaction, that uncontrolled anger. And you have to understand that if my typewriter broke up here it’d take weeks to get repaired. I’d probably have to buy another one during that time, just to have something to work on, because they’re very slow to get typewriter parts where we are — in the whole state of Maine, in fact — and I bet I’d have to drive to Massachusetts to buy a new manual one,” and she says, “Then bring two of them and maybe then you wouldn’t mind me using one, or let me take my word processor next time,” and he says, “Maybe you’re right. Okay, I’ll do that next summer — your word processor. Or I’ll take or UPS up a second manual typewriter. And okay also, you can use this one, but not right now, okay? When I’m done, in a half hour or hour at the most, all right, Fanny?” and she comes to the stairs and says, “Thank you,” and smiles, and he says, “Good, we’re old pals again, and I know you’ll be extra careful with it: just your fingers on the keys, no elbows or toes,” and she says, “Don’t worry, Daddy, I won’t step on it.”

He opens his eyes. Something close to that happened yesterday when he was also looking for a line, couldn’t come up with one, gave up for the time being, and went downstairs for coffee and to read and maybe a quick swim, and said to her, “It’s all yours,” and she took the typewriter to her room, banged away on it for about an hour, and then put it back on the card table. He went to his study right after, not to try and think up a line — by this time he knew he was through for the day — but to check on the shape of the typewriter, and everything was fine, keys weren’t stuck and cover had been neatly put on, and then went downstairs and thought, No swim, sky’s turned gray, and started to prepare salad for supper. But anything in those scenes he can use today? Doesn’t think so, and if there was he probably would have tried using them yesterday. The stuff after he went downstairs and told her she could use the typewriter now? No. A line, he means, or several of them to start off with? Not that he can think of. Afraid not. Not at this present moment. Sorry.

What now? Two days and nothing. Looks up, cups his hands in prayer, and says, “A line, Sir, or a line, Madam or Miss, gibt mir ein line, please. All I need is one, I swear, and away I go and am forever grateful and maybe even a believer. And I’ll be especially fast. Not that time means anything special to You. But my older daughter might want to use the typewriter for another letter — she’s an avid correspondent — and she was so careful with it yesterday that I want to give it to her today without a second thought if she asks and even suggest to her she use it if she doesn’t bring it up herself.” Types: No second thoughts? No. Types: Use it if you want, honey, you were great with it the last time? Nah. Without a fuss he wants to give the machine to her? He wants to give the typewriter to his daughter without a second thought but can’t? He suddenly started to become a believer over the most simple experience? Closes his eyes. Maybe now, he thinks, it’s quiet, and they often come when you least expect them. Maybe now is the time for all good lines to come to the aid of their linemakers, he thinks of using. Did that. Says, “Line, goddamn you, appear!” His wife comes; his eyes are still closed. She says, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” “Disturbing me? No chance. But how’d you get here? The stairs are so steep. Anyway, this is great. Where are the kids? Out with friends for the afternoon, I bet.” “Oh, sure; don’t you wish. Anyway, I was wondering—” and he says, “But really, how’d you get up here? then wonder,” and she says, “Walked.” “Walked?” “Crawled and walked.” “Crawled?” “Stop mimicking everything I say.” “Stop repeating everything you say?” “Listen, don’t be annoying; I made it somehow and am now here.” “Finally,” he says, “progress. Oh, what am I doing? Here, come kiss me. Or I’ll come to you, since you’re probably too tired after all that crawling and walking to come any farther to me. What is your name?” he says, getting up and walking over and standing beside her. “And you’re standing! How were you able to do that?” “I stood.” “And you don’t have to tell me your name. I know it. Your name is line. Mein line hast komm. My line has come. You know German; I don’t. My wonderful kind line has finally come. But I’ll go to her. Oops, I forget, I’m already standing beside her. I went, after it came up to me, and am now beside my line.” Smooths back her hair. “And a beauty of a line it is, too. Line, how are you, how you doing, line? I am going to line you because you came all the way up to me and stood and kept standing despite what I know are tremendous difficulties.” “What’s come over you, Gould? You sound positively bonkers.” “Positively. Right. And why? Because I’ve been longing for my line for a long time. Because my line finally came. Because—” “Because you’re saying what you’re saying. Listen, all I came up here for and was wondering about is when are we going swimming?” “You want to go swimming? You mean in the Y pool?” “No, in the lake.” “How can you? You haven’t been in it for years.” “Well, I want to go now. I came up here, I’m standing, I want to swim in the lake. So I’m asking you when we can. Now? Soon? I’d take the car myself but it’s been so long since I’ve driven that I’ve forgotten how.” “Okay, soon,” he says, and kisses her. First he embraces her. Before that he feels her. “Yes, it’s you, all of you,” he said while he was feeling her. “Your thighs, buttocks, back. Your shoulders, head, neck. I’m telling you, it’s you, really you. Your waist, pubic area, breasts. And your name’s Sally and I’ve been silly.” Opens his eyes. Did a line come? Thinks. Surely out of so much, there had to be one. In spite of what he said about a line coming up, no. “Silly Sally? Sally Silly?” Those aren’t lines. Or they’re lines, but they’re not … anyway, it’s not working. Maybe his mom.

Shuts his eyes: nothing. Opens them, flutters the lids, shuts them, and his mom comes. Dressed for travel, short-winded and frazzled, sweating, setting down a valise. “How I carried that, I don’t know.” How’d I ever carry that, I don’t know as a line? No. Gets up, dabs her forehead with a hanky, sits her in his chair, and kisses her cheek. “You leave me in the hot city. I’m not blaming you, I suppose nothing else could’ve been done, but I can die there from the heat.” “Mom, I feel lousy about it as it is, don’t make me feel worse. Can I get you a cold drink?” “And die from loneliness mostly, forget the heat. Just me and the girl who looks after me. She’s very nice but not company enough.” “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you how much, and wish I could make life comfortable and enjoyable for you always.” “As I said, it’s no one’s fault. But not to see you and your three girls for two months is something like death to me.” “We only left New York two weeks ago and I call you every day. And I’ve been reading the Times daily weather forecasts, though since the paper’s mailed here it always arrives the next day, and they haven’t said the city’s been that hot. In fact the weather the past week, according to these reports, and in the whole Northeast—” “Hot, I’m telling you, sticky and hot. If you’re out and in the sun for five minutes once it gets to be noon, you feel yourself boiling in your skin. I’d take one shower after the next if I was allowed to, but the girl only lets me have one a day.” “Anyway, you look great and you got to Maine on your own. I can’t imagine how.” “I took the plane. Got a limo to LaGuardia and a cab from your airport to here. I forgot how long a trip it is. Though I can understand why you take your vacation so far out of the way. Less chance for people to invite themselves for a night or weekend or just drop in.” “Believe me, that’s just a small part of it, and you and Sally’s folks are the exceptions.” “It was always what I looked forward to most all year, since you started coming here. One and sometimes two weeks, if I was a really good girl, in the country with just you and the birds and insects — they didn’t bother me — and of course your precious family.” “I didn’t think you were well enough to make the trip this year, just as you weren’t last summer. You have to know how that hurts me, leaving you in the city with no chance of relief. But now you’re here.” “Now I’m not, my darling,” and she disappears. Opens his eyes. Anything? He feels so sad; can he use that? Doesn’t see how, but has to be something there. Isn’t. “Signed, Desperate,” he says, his finger writing it out in the air. Thinks, Three days can get to be something like an incurable disease. Think. Nobody left, maybe the cat.

Shuts his eyes. The cat comes in. “No one will let me outside. I’ve scratched the doors and screens and walked from front door to patio door and back and then kept making my little wanna-go-out meows while pressed up against the door, and still no one can tell what I want. Or else they’re just too lazy to move a few feet to let me out.” “Why didn’t you say so?” he says, and goes downstairs. “Line,” he shouts, “you coming?” The cat bounds down the stairs. He opens the door and lets him out. “Thanks,” Line says. “Finally someone figured things out, but I had to talk in his language for him to,” and runs into the woods. “Don’t get lost,” he yells. “I don’t want to spend a few hours tramping through the woods shouting and looking for you. Line, I’m saying to stay close to home and I also want you to come back when I call.” The cat jumps out of the woods and stares at him. “No, I’m not calling you back now. I was just saying not to get lost, and I also want you to watch out for those killer coyotes. You hear them howling, run right home. Howling in the woods, I mean, but not from very far away.” “What do you think, I’m stupid?” and runs back into the woods. Opens his eyes, quickly closes them. “In fact the moment you hear any coyote-howling, from no matter how far away, come home. Whatever you do, don’t try and fight them.” The cat doesn’t reappear. Opens his eyes. Any of that good for a line? Tried — and the real cat’s name is Flash — but nothing there or that he can now discern. Anything else he can use for one? Can’t think of any, and his time’s up. Or thirty minutes is. Actually, just twenty, but he knows when to call it a day, or at least an early afternoon. So, later maybe, when he’s out walking or driving or swimming in the lake or even sitting back here, the line will come.

“Fanny, you still there?” he yells from the chair. “What?” she yells upstairs. “I can’t hear you.” He goes to the top of the stairs and says, “You can use the typewriter now, sweetheart. I’m done a little early,” and she says, “Why would I want to?” “You said you wanted to write a letter,” and she says, “What are you talking about? I don’t want to write a letter, not now anyway.” “I meant you wanted to type one, and she says, Type one? Why would I want to on an old typewriter that isn’t even electric when I can write one by hand in a comfortable chair somewhere?” “Okay, you don’t want to type a letter. And I suppose Josephine doesn’t want me to type out the new chapter of her novel,” and she says, “How would I know? Ask her yourself.” “Can you call her to the stairs for me, please?” and she yells, “Josie, come here, Daddy wants you,” and Josephine comes, and he says, “Did you want me to type the fifth chapter of your novel Amily?” “Yeah, I asked you before; did you do it already?” and he says, “No, but it shouldn’t take me long. You want to get it?” and she runs upstairs to her room and brings it out and gives it to him. “Your mother, I know, wasn’t also up here, right?” and she says, “Upstairs? That’s a mean joke, Daddy.” “I didn’t mean it as one, I’m sorry,” and she goes downstairs shaking her head, and he sits at his table, puts her chapter to the left of the typewriter, the side he always reads from when he types, and starts typing it: “It started on a cold, winter day.” Does she need the comma after “cold”? He doesn’t think so but types it the way she wrote it, except for the more conspicuous spelling mistakes.