I’ve done is wash my damn hair and mail letters. Gabe, you’ve
got
to come back—for New Year’s at least. Oh Gabe, New Year’s Eve?”
“Marge,” I said, not really knowing where to go from here, “why don’t you go out and talk to people?” It began to seem that I had found my Bartleby: I would have to go back to Iowa City and find a new apartment, leaving Marge behind in the old one. “Why don’t you go to the movies, go swimming. Make a life for yourself, baby,
please?
”
“I don’t like movies alone. I’m not being obstinate—I don’t. I had coffee with a friend of yours in the Union today.”
It depressed me considerably to hear her settling down to be chatty. “Who?”
“Paul Kurtz.”
“Herz.”
“He seemed very nice. A little lugubrious.”
“I hardly know him. What did he have to say?”
“We just chatted. His wife’s sick. I think she had what I had.She’s in the hospital. Gabe, is she really his wife, or is he just living with her?”
“Oh, Marge—”
“Gabe, he’s the only person I’ve spoken with in
five days.
Aren’t you going to come back for New Year’s Eve?”
“I’m visiting with my father. Look, you’ve got to move out. You just can’t keep being indulgent like this.”
“Hasn’t indulgence turned
into
anything?” she demanded to know. “You just can’t walk out!” she cried into the phone.
“We’re both walking out.”
“I’m not walking anywhere! Don’t tell me what I’m doing!”
“All right, I won’t. Just call a taxi, and take your stuff, and get out.”
“You don’t respond—that’s your trouble! You’re heartless!”
“I expect you to be gone when I get back.”
“How can you say that to me if you love me!”
“But I don’t love you. I never said I did.”
“You
used
me, you bastard.” And she began to weep.
“Oh, Margie, nobody uses anybody for four weeks.”
“
Five
weeks!”
“Look, hang up now, pack your bags, and leave.”
“I’ll ruin this place, you,” she screamed. “I really will!”
“You’re hysterical—” I said, astounding nobody with the insight.
“I’ll tear up all your books! I’ll break all the rotten spines—you’ll
have
to come back!”
“I’m coming back on the first of January.”
“Oh—” she wept, “I never expected this of you.”
“Margie, you romanticized—”
“
You
romanticized!” and at her end the phone slammed down.
When my mother was alive she had done everything possible to prevent my father from assuming the Cobra Posture on her prized living room rug. However, she was gone, and I did not live with the man, so after my phone call—determined to put out of my mind those long-distance protestations of love—I sat down on the orange raw silk of our scrolly Victorian sofa, and I watched. And for the first time since my arrival, I found my father oblivious to me. It pleased me to think that we two were occupants of the same room, and that he was not investigating my plans for next month, or fiddling around insidemy mouth. Not me, but the Cobra Posture—Bhujungasana—was the object upon which he focused all his soul and all his body. Clad in a blue jockey bathing suit, he was stretched rigidly before me on the floor, his stomach down, his toes pointed back, his chest nobly arched. All that moved, while he held himself aloft on locked wrists and elbows, were the muscles in his forearms, which jiggled at a high speed against the thin pale shell of his skin. The features of his face moved around a bit too as he tried to work them into a picture of repose. It was all very familiar, even down to the hour of the day; over in the Park, everything was growing dim.
“That rug,” my mother used to say, dying to kick one arm out from under him, but knitting instead, “was woven by an entire village in North Africa, Gabriel, so that your father could make a damn fool of himself on it.” She had a strategy of making certain matters that were important to her
got
to come back—for New Year’s at least. Oh Gabe, New Year’s Eve?”
“Marge,” I said, not really knowing where to go from here, “why don’t you go out and talk to people?” It began to seem that I had found my Bartleby: I would have to go back to Iowa City and find a new apartment, leaving Marge behind in the old one. “Why don’t you go to the movies, go swimming. Make a life for yourself, baby,
please?
”
“I don’t like movies alone. I’m not being obstinate—I don’t. I had coffee with a friend of yours in the Union today.”
It depressed me considerably to hear her settling down to be chatty. “Who?”
“Paul Kurtz.”
“Herz.”
“He seemed very nice. A little lugubrious.”
“I hardly know him. What did he have to say?”
“We just chatted. His wife’s sick. I think she had what I had.She’s in the hospital. Gabe, is she really his wife, or is he just living with her?”
“Oh, Marge—”
“Gabe, he’s the only person I’ve spoken with in
five days.
Aren’t you going to come back for New Year’s Eve?”
“I’m visiting with my father. Look, you’ve got to move out. You just can’t keep being indulgent like this.”
“Hasn’t indulgence turned
into
anything?” she demanded to know. “You just can’t walk out!” she cried into the phone.
“We’re both walking out.”
“I’m not walking anywhere! Don’t tell me what I’m doing!”
“All right, I won’t. Just call a taxi, and take your stuff, and get out.”
“You don’t respond—that’s your trouble! You’re heartless!”
“I expect you to be gone when I get back.”
“How can you say that to me if you love me!”
“But I don’t love you. I never said I did.”
“You
used
me, you bastard.” And she began to weep.
“Oh, Margie, nobody uses anybody for four weeks.”
“
Five
weeks!”
“Look, hang up now, pack your bags, and leave.”
“I’ll ruin this place, you,” she screamed. “I really will!”
“You’re hysterical—” I said, astounding nobody with the insight.
“I’ll tear up all your books! I’ll break all the rotten spines—you’ll
have
to come back!”
“I’m coming back on the first of January.”
“Oh—” she wept, “I never expected this of you.”
“Margie, you romanticized—”
“
You
romanticized!” and at her end the phone slammed down.
When my mother was alive she had done everything possible to prevent my father from assuming the Cobra Posture on her prized living room rug. However, she was gone, and I did not live with the man, so after my phone call—determined to put out of my mind those long-distance protestations of love—I sat down on the orange raw silk of our scrolly Victorian sofa, and I watched. And for the first time since my arrival, I found my father oblivious to me. It pleased me to think that we two were occupants of the same room, and that he was not investigating my plans for next month, or fiddling around insidemy mouth. Not me, but the Cobra Posture—Bhujungasana—was the object upon which he focused all his soul and all his body. Clad in a blue jockey bathing suit, he was stretched rigidly before me on the floor, his stomach down, his toes pointed back, his chest nobly arched. All that moved, while he held himself aloft on locked wrists and elbows, were the muscles in his forearms, which jiggled at a high speed against the thin pale shell of his skin. The features of his face moved around a bit too as he tried to work them into a picture of repose. It was all very familiar, even down to the hour of the day; over in the Park, everything was growing dim.
“That rug,” my mother used to say, dying to kick one arm out from under him, but knitting instead, “was woven by an entire village in North Africa, Gabriel, so that your father could make a damn fool of himself on it.” She had a strategy of making certain matters that were important to her
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