Poetics and Ruminations

The Journal of Charles Ally, Part Seventeen

Part Seventeen

Monday, 26^th. This morning I went to the post-office. There were a letter and a package waiting. Both were from Norine, postmarked the 17th, the day of the accident. The letter was datelined,

                                                                                 "October 16, 1970

"Dearest Charles,

         "How entirely typical of you to resort to literary quotations when you wish to insult someone. You are never at a loss for words — provided, of course, they belong to someone else. You made such a good Professor of English. It is too bad you couldn't be satisfied with that — but, no, you must be a writer yourself. Isn't it a shame that willpower can't replace talent?

         "If some of your allegations regarding me are true, dear, they were not always so. Do you remember our early years? The days when I was a loving and dutiful wife? Even then you could not be satisfied with a happy home, with good friends, a congenial occupation at an adequate salary. Comfort and security and pride in your vocation did not suffice, for you were already running after an elusive female — in this case your Muse, Erato, as you were later to chase Cara...and how many others? Were there others, Charles, to substitute for the Genius that evaded you?

         "Well, no matter. You ignored us — Melany and me — to lock yourself away and make love to a typewriter. We sat together, your daughter and I, and watched television in the other room — how many commercials, how many children's shows, cartoons, soap operas, situation comedies, while you masturbated on paper.

         "And if, sometimes, you came out among us, how often did you snap and act surly if we disturbed your interior monologue with yourself? How often did Melany go to bed weeping, asking as I sat beside her on the bed, 'What's wrong with daddy? Doesn't he love us?'

         "I would lie. I would say, 'Of course he does, dear. It's just that he has a lot on his mind. We must try not to bother him.' We must learn not to disturb you and your bitch Muse as you chased her around your desk, under that painting of the nude and headless secretary.

         "When was it I began to retaliate, Charles? When was it I decided, down deep in the center of my heart, without words, that if you could withhold yourself from us, I could withhold myself from you? I don't know. Perhaps you can pinpoint it. Perhaps you remember when I began to grow hard, to match and stand against your hardness.

         "I mean even your hard cock, Charles, for I saw you only when your basic drives forced your mind to stand aside now and then. Food, sex, exhaustion. As those were the times we met, those were the times I could combat you.

         "If I became a bad wife, it was you who molded my clay — you were a much better sculptor than you a writer, my love.

         "But that's enough. I believe you know these things someplace underneath consciousness.

         "Melany and I have gone to another auction, and we have found a small old painting we thought you might enjoy. We are mailing it with this letter — so look for it — and look at it, Charles. See it up close, and keep your distance.

         "One last word: you are wrong about which of Jonson's witches I am. I am the one who says,

       "'I went to the toade, breeds under the wall,

         I charmed him out, and he came at my call;

         I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before;

         I tore the batts wings: what would you have more?'

And Cara is the Dame who called us together.

"Norine."

         I would not let Cara read the letter, but she watched as I opened the package, and her eyes showed wonder when she saw the painting. "It's beautiful," she said. And it was.

         It was a scene of clouds and angels, rising and descending between heaven and earth. It was done in oils; the colors were not vivid, but a brightness suffused the entire canvas. We examined it closely together as it lay on my lap, Cara leaning over my shoulder to look.

         "I'll hang it over the mantel in my room," I said. Cara came with me upstairs, and I took down the picture that was there to hang the new one.

We stood looking at it for a time, and then I crossed the room to the window to look out over the riveryard towards the water. Cara walked over to stand with me, taking my arm, and we watched the grass move in a cool wind, the limbs of the trees along the riverbank nodding slightly, the thin sun streaking high clouds.

         We were quiet awhile, Cara silently comforting me with strokes along my arm, laying her head lightly against my shoulder.

         After a period she turned to go downstairs. I heard, or perhaps I felt her stop, stiffen, and give a small gasp. I turned to see what was the matter and followed the direction of her stare — those lovely gray eyes were starting out of the locket of her countenance. There, hanging above the mantel, was a death's head in a frame looking back at us.

         For a moment I could not move, and then I forced myself to step forward slowly. As I approached the picture I saw the outlines of the skull begin to blur and to resolve themselves into clouds and angels instead.

         I turned back to Cara. "It's a trick painting," I said, "a nineteenth century memento mori. I beckoned to her. She came forward and saw.

         "Take it down," she said, "and burn it."

         I shook my head. "Norine knew me better than that. We'll keep it.

         "You're a fool, Charles," Cara said. As she stepped away to go downstairs I could see her face was very pale, and her hands trembled. I went to the library and looked up the speech of the Dame who, Norine had said, was Cara:

       Yes: I have broughte, to help your vows,

         Horned poppie, cypress boughes,

         A fig-tree wild, that grows on tombes,

         And juice that from the larch-tree comes,

         The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin;

         And now our orgies let's begin.

         The Book of the Black Heart is falling to pieces.

Tuesday, 27^th. This morning, when I awoke, I saw that a demon perched on my chest was regarding me with yellow eyes.

         "Who are you?" I asked.

         It flicked its black tail. "Come now, Charles, you know me well enough. I've been with you a long time."

         As I recall, I felt nothing, not even surprise. I shook my head. "No, I don't know you."

         The demon sighed. "Playing dumb isn't going to help, you know." It cocked its head at me, but I said nothing. I did not attempt to move.

         The demon rolled its eyes. "Okay, then, I'm Asmodeus, your familiar. Now do you remember me?"

         I nodded but said nothing. The demon nodded too and began to laugh. "That's right — the marriage demon. I deal in lechery and complaints of the mattress. We're good old companions." He continued to look amused as I tried to recall when first we had met.

         "You should be able to remember that," he said. "I had visited you a few times, without your knowing, but when I took possession I whistled."

         I remembered. It was before Norine and I had been married. We had been out on a date, and I had brought her home late — her parents had been asleep upstairs, so we sat and petted awhile on the couch. Suddenly, we had both gotten serious — for the first time. I said, "Take off your clothes."

         Norine had simply looked at me, quite calmly, then gotten up and stripped while I sat there watching. She had stood before me, naked, and I sat looking at her. I had made no move to disrobe myself — she simply stood, and I sat, and then I reached out to touch, to feel her body — her breasts, with their hard nipples, her stomach and thighs, the hair upon the Mound of Venus, the dark, moist hollow, which I explore with my finger.

         I remember a sense of power and possession — and something else: a condescension, or a feeling of superiority: she had taken her clothes off as I commanded, and now I sat doing as I would.

         "That was my work," Asmodeus said, yawning. His teeth were sharp in his black jaws.

         Then I had risen, slowly, my eyes fastened to Norine's, and taken off my own clothes. We each watched, in the depths of pupil and iris, the swelling dawn of conscious purpose in the other. There was nothing about the act that we did not foresee.

         Norine reached and stroked my standing member, and I put my finger into her again, pulled her toward me. We kissed each other gently, then we parted, and Norine lay down, spreading her legs, her knees bent upward.

         I went in, deliberately, my eyes open. Norine closed hers, and as I reached full stroke she gasped once, and began to moan.

         And then...a sharp whistle!

         Asmodeus laughed and dug a claw into my chest, pricking the skin.

         Norine and I had frozen, our muscles utterly rigid. The whistle had come from so close by — a piercing, shrill sound — that someone had to be in the doorway just at the head of the couch.

         I had finally forced myself out and off. I had pulled on my clothes hurriedly and gone to look — no more than a few seconds could have passed, though it had seemed longer.

         No one was in the doorway, nor in the kitchen, nor on the sunporch. I had gone outdoors to circle the house — no one. Nothing had moved, we had heard no other sounds, and the whistle hadn't wakened Norine's parents.

         "You were really upset," Asmodeus said. "I laughed till I feared you'd hear me. I was sitting on the arm of the couch all along. Ah, I love a good joke." He flicked his tail and dug in another claw.

         Norine and I had sat for a long time after that, listening to our hearts begin to settle and alarm abate.

         "It must have been Walter," she had said.

         "Your cousin?"

         Norine had nodded, and I had agreed as chagrin filled me. It would be Walter's style.

         Asmodeus said, "You waited a long time for Walter to say something, to toss you a snide hint or a dirty leer."

         "He never did," I said. "I'm glad you told me. That's been a mystery for years.

         "Well," Asmodeus said, "now you know. Here she comes."

         From the doorway Cara said, "Who are you talking to, Charles?" She looked at Asmodeus. "Oh," she said, and walked over to us. She reached down and picked him up. I didn't turn my head but kept staring rigidly forward.

         "How are you, you sweet black thing?" she asked. "I've never heard you talk to Wesley before, Charles."

         I forced my head to turn and saw Catch folded into the crook of her arm. He was purring.

         I have not told her the truth.

Wednesday, 28^th. I am finishing Bodman's book at last. Catch is with me. Bodman says he had a final "dreadful conflict":

         How it was with me now for two or three days, I cannot precisely tell: in a short time from this, I slept at my brother's with a Mr. Elizah Hayden, a very worthy, pious man. — Mr. Hayden rose early in the morning and left me in bed. — And about that time, or a little after, the glory of the God of Israel, seemed to fill the room; there seemed to be a light, somewhat resembling material light, while a fixed view, or vision of God, and the heavenly world, seemed to appear. Here were no voices, nor any communications: but my whole soul seemed as it were absorbed and swallowed up, with one vast abstract view of God, and the heavenly world.

         It appeared to me that I was surrounded with holy beings, yet I heard them not; but they seemed to be employed in the same glorious work with myself; — contemplating the glorious perfections of God. They seemed to be — like moveless statues of wonder — ; filled with deep surprise, and a holy, heavenly air seemed to pervade the whole.

         I doubt not that I was in possession of my reason at this time; —

         "Of course," Asmodeus said from his position on top of Uncle John Putnam's rolltop desk. "Perfectly same."

— I thought within myself what an easy thing it would be to die.

         "Easy for some people," the demon said. "In this particular case, Bodman lived to a very ripe old age. When his first book was published he was middle-aged — old, actually, by standards of those days.

         "His first book?"

         Asmodeus nodded. "He wrote all the time. He published another Oration."

         I lifted an eyebrow.

         "Oh, I was there, I was there too. Poor old Manoah. You should have heard the puns his neighbors pulled on that name, with that New England accent, you know. 'Ma-noo-ah,' they would say. 'Heah comes Ma-noo-ah fo-ah yo-ah gah-den.' They sounded just like your average Frankfurter today. They thought he was dotty, of course. I suppose your friend the Reverend Rafe would say he was an epileptic. But a rose by any other...."

         It appeared to me that the transit, from the state I was then in, to join these holy beings was short. And I moreover, made one or two attempts to see if I had power to bring my affections down to the earth; or fix them upon any thing here below; but I found that I could not; for my soul made me like the chariots of Aminadib; and immediately to arise to holy wonder and contemplation. In this state I continued about three hours, for I was able to ascertain the time very nearly. — This was succeeded by another great scene of glory on the morning following. How long this lasted I cannot tell; it might be an hour or more. —

         I now resolved to do my whole duty, and oppose Satan with all my might; and set myself about it immediately.

         "Perfectly useless," said Asmodeus.

Can you believe, O reader, that I was now verging towards the most dreadful conflict with Satan, I ever had? It is likely that he knew my resolution, and determined to prevent my carrying it into execution.

         "Right. You know what his main troubles were?"

         I shook my head.

         "First, his enormous fear of death. Just look at the title of his book: An Oration on Death. If it hadn't been for that, we'd not have let him suffer so long.

         "Then, his lovely young wife. That's why I was there. He was full of lust for her, though he wouldn't admit it to himself, except in veiled ways. When she died, still a bride, he was filled with guilt, horror, and an opposing desire to join her. Except that in heaven they don't fuck, you know, and that bothered him. He never remarried — and that was the third thing. All those years, during the last part of the Second Great Awakening, so-called, he sublimated like crazy." Asmodeus lashed his tail. "There I go again, using these modern terms. I'm going to catch Heaven for that if I don't watch out. Anyway, he became an Enthusiast."

The same morning, after enjoying these wonderous refreshings from the spirit of God, as I believe, Satan again filled me with gloomy apprehensions, which was observed by the family.

         My father and brother being a little distance from the house, taking down an old building, my brother came in first, I believe, and my father afterwards, and requested me to go out and divert my mind with what they were about; which I engaged, and intended to do. But in sitting at the table my gloom and melancholy increased, and the power of Satan came on me so strong, that I felt myself hardly able to move. I retired immediately, for the purpose of prayer; — but feeling as though there was no mercy for me, and that I must sink down immediately to destruction."

         "Wishful thinking, again," Asmodeus said.

— I thought it would be a sin, for me to ask mercy for myself, — I inadvertently made an expression, that I had no thought of making; which, as I think, was wholly by the influence and power of Satan."

         "They call that "Turette's syndrome" nowadays, don't they? Asmodeus said, purring and grinning. "Sounds a good deal like what those Putnam relatives of yours were doing in Salem in the old days, doesn't it?"

         I remained in a very gloomy and melancholy state of mind all that day. My friends endeavored to comfort me. I said nothing of my attempting to pray. — In the evening I retired for secret prayer, as I ever had done — I was greatly beset by the Adversary, after going to bed. I believe that I prayed to God, and resisted Satan alternately the fore part of the night.

         Asmodeus yawned. "It's getting late," he said. "Let's go to bed. You can work on that stuff some more tomorrow."

Thursday, 29^th. Cara has been telling Rafe things. She has told him I have been talking with Wesley Catch; that I go into the library and sit among the books all day, seemingly doing nothing; and that in the evenings I sit downstairs at Uncle John's desk copying things out of old books. I suspect she has also told him I will not touch, or even go near her.

         This morning when Rafe came, Cara again did her vanishing act, so I knew what was coming. He began in a roundabout way, but as I was taciturn, he finally came directly to the point.

         "What is it, Charles?" He rapped his knuckles nervously on the tabletop. "Is it Norine's and Melanie's death?" He looked at me hard. "You can't go through life blaming yourself for that."

         "Why not?" I asked.

         He continued to stare at me. "What was in Norine's last letter? Cara's told me about the painting. I think you should get rid of it."

         "Don't tell him," Asmodeus said menacingly from the doorway.

         But before I had time to think about it I said, "I am in the possession of Asmodeus."

         Asmodeus yowled. Rafe started at the sound — so he can hear it too!

         "I think your cat has to go out," Rafe said. He got up, went to the middle door, opened it. Asmodeus shot out of it like smoke.

         "Now, what's all this b.s.? Some more of your literary and mythological allusions?" I could see he was inclined to take my remark none too seriously but was somewhat uncertain about it. He looked into my eyes piercingly, and he saw I wasn't joking.

         "Wesley Catch is Admodeus. He is putting you and Cara on, but he talks to me."

         Rafe shook his head in wonderment. He leaned on the table as he stood opposite. "You really believe that?" But he needn't have asked.

         "Okay," he said, "time for drastic action. Cara's told me about those screwy home remedies she's been brewing up for you because you won't see a doctor. But I'm no doctor. Do you trust me?"

         I looked at him. There seemed to be an aura of subdued light about him — the sunshine through the window, perhaps, but in looking at his fair countenance and the strong body with its posture of strength, I felt a deep sense of trust suffuse my blood, and I said, "Yes."

         "Good!" Rafe said. "I've told Cara to lay off the old wives' brews. Will you take therapy with me?"

         "What kind of therapy?"

         "I'm a trained psychologist. It will be hypnotherapy, and I've got to have your absolute cooperation. All right?"

         I hesitated.

         "Charles," he said, "I can get rid of Asmodeus for you. But I've got to have your confidence."

         I nodded.

         "All right, then," Rafe said in a gentle voice. "We'll start Saturday night. I want to look at some books of my own tomorrow." He held out his hand, and I took it. His grip was warm and strong. "Tell Cara I'll be seeing her." And he left.

         In the evening, as I was picking up Bodman's book, Asmodeus jumped upon his perch. "You'll be sorry for that. Mark my words," he hissed.

         I did not reply and began to read. Asmodeus settled down and stared balefully at me. I tried to ignore him, and to some degree I succeeded,, but whenever I chanced to look up I saw his eyes burning into my skull.

         Satan would now suggest to my mind distressing ideas of my guilt, in one or two inadvertent expressions. He then seemed to demand of me whether I had not expressed myself as he stated, in another case. I answered him that I did not know anything about it, and seemed to subjoin, that I did not care. He made answer in this way, — There's clear malice. — And upon this, he made me believe that I had committed the unpardonable sin; or very much fear that I had. Upon which a shower of blasphemies was suggested to my mind, such as I never before heard of, or even conceived of, though I have no idea that I uttered any thing aloud.

         This greatly affrighted me. He would endeavor to make me think that I was as much a blasphemer, as he was; and would string out his blasphemies, and call them mine: and try to make me think that I spoke them.

         "Turrette's syndrome," Asmodeus said.

         My distress was so great, after all this, that I believe that I sunk into a partial delirium. For, I had somewhat confused ideas of the place where I was: still, I was afraid — in my delirium — that I was undone forever.

         But Satan continued to cloud my mind with the most frightful and gloomy apprehensions; and dealt out his infernal suggestions with a liberal hand; for he overcame both body and mind, and caused me once more to sink into those dreadful agitations and convulsions of body, and distress of mind which I had before experienced, or, still more distressing than any thing before.

         This caused loud groans, and perhaps, strange noises, to break from my lips, while every part of my body was most violently shaken. And can you believe, O reader, that during all this time I had not any bodily pain, to my knowledge. O the great kindness of our God! How unsearchable are his ways!"

         "Unsearchable as Hell," I heard Asmodeus say.

The Journal of Charles Ally, Part Sixteen

Part Sixteen

Friday, 23^rd. We stayed overnight in my old apartment. I made arrangements with the lawyer to have our things packed and our furniture stored pending settlement of the estate, and then to sell everything at auction. Rafe phoned Maine to make arrangements for the interment. In the place that Norine, Melany and I shared for six years I felt very strange. I slept in my den on the couch; Cara took the master bedroom upstairs, and Rafe stayed in Melany's room.

         I sat for a long while that night looking at my books — a wall of them ten feet high; my stereo set with very large speakers — a set of beautiful remote mono speakers in the living/diningroom, part of an outfit built aboard ship long ago, put together with loving c are by some of my shipmates and me: they had been reset in a neat fruitwood-stained cabinet built to match the two loaded record cabinets in the study.

         My desk — antique green, a reproduction of a colonial trestle desk; my contour lounger, also green; a birdseye maple table for typing, chair to match; a great, open-mouthed crock for a wastepaper basket; a braided rug in rusty oranges, browns, yellows and greens. An antique jug, brought back from Maine one summer, on one of the record cabinets, made into a lamp; on my desk: my father's tiffany-type lamp with a Gothic, angular green glass shade. The graceful chandelier of silver metal hanging from the high ceiling; a lavatory off the room; access, through a large closet, to the front hall of the 19th-century manse that had been converted to apartments, of which we had had the largest, located in the rear.

         I had locked myself in those days into my study nearly every night to write and study — perfectly private and alone. Above the studio couch there was a large pop-art painting of a headless nude secretary sitting at a typewriter — its creator a woman member of the College art department; facing it, a "construction" in wood, leather, copper, and brass over the two shelves that held more books and my stereo speakers — a bas-relief, really. I had bought it on impulse in Maine in the spring, when Norine and I had gone up to Uncle John's funeral. Although it could not be read easily, a Biblical inscription had been stamped into the copper: "By the rivers of Babylon we sat and we wept when we remembered you, O Zion."

         A Boston rocker.

         And, in the L-shaped living/dining room: an empire couch upholstered in tapestry; wall-to-wall carpeting, and a Persian rug overlaying it in the livingroom section. I wandered about during the night, touching woods and fabrics: two Victorian gentlemen's chairs, one done in green satin, the other restored, with its original flower-figured plush: Norine's darling, since we had seen its twin at the Old Mystic Seaport museum in Connecticut.

         And an oversized empire gout-chair, done over in Chinese red raised fabric. It had been given my father by some Latvian refugees he had personally sponsored for immigration after the Second World War. A large antique chest of drawers, a beehive clock with a painting on its glass panel and a quick chime — I would it and set it going, to hear the hours during the night. There were two tables: a tall refectory table that looked Medieval, but was not old, merely home-made: a spectacular piece manufactured by Norine's father, who had been a cabinet-maker. On it, a lovely, large, flower-shaped blue-glass shade with an art nouveau base; another glass-shaded lamp, yellow with delicate lead-work, stood on the chest.

         The other table was relatively new: a large cherry dining table; an old, dark-oak upright piano in the end of the room, where Melany had practiced her lessons.

         The "front" door that led onto a large, screened porch with flagstone floor; the yard — all our own, not the other tenants' — that swept along the side of the house and around in back; a black wrought-iron fence sealing us off from our neighbors' back yards. Truly, a good place to live in the middle of town. A farm in the country wouldn't have been much more private — even insurance salesmen had had a hard time finding us.

         Now all our furnishings would go at auction, where we had bought much of it. Norine had loved things, good, solid things, and I had often felt as though she were using them to wall me in, deeper and deeper among the drawers and shawls, the paintings hung on every wall, each an original, most by artists friends in the academic life through which we had moved so easily and comfortably for ten years.

         I had waked up at night sometimes, sweating, believing I was drowning in your great sleigh bed.

         During the night, on one of my pilgrimages among shadows and chairs, I lighted the two aquaria that stood before the windows that looked onto the porch. There were the fish swimming in their sleep, slowly fanning the water with their transparent fins: angel fish, a glass catfish, a loach that lived in a hut made of half a coconut shell. A black "shark" with red fins nuzzled the gravel; guppies in the smaller tank, and a blue beta with red markings, his flowing tail looking like the pennant on a caravel.

         I sat and watched there a long time — I had never felt at ease, except in Maine, without these silent shapes out of my childhood floating among the green water plants. I fed the fish. When they had eaten, I turned off the air pump, took a net, caught all of them, and flushed them down the toilet. I couldn't think of their starving in an empty house.

         The next day, Tuesday, the 20th, Cara, Rafe, and I went to the funeral parlor and Rafe said the service. Quite a few people from the college were there — colleagues and friends. The last I had seen of some of them had been at the Labor Day picnic at the college park Most of them had known both Norine and me, and some of them remembered Cara as a student. There was no tension — all of these things had happened before at the school. In the six years we had spent here there had been many more than one divorce or separation. We could remember a young faculty wife's suicide because her husband had taken a student — the wife herself had been her husband's student at another school, and she had taken him away from his previous wife. We could remember deaths of all kinds. We knew that young faculty members of both sexes had married, or been divorced and married colleagues' wives, students, secretaries — no one seemed to blame me for what had happened. Or, if they did, nothing showed. We were formally polite, and I could see that some of our friends were genuinely sorry.

         Afterwards, Rafe drove the station wagon up to the rear entrance of the funeral parlor and we put the two urns aboard. I told the undertaker the lawyer would handle the bills, and we left.

         We drove relatively slowly back to the farm, and it was ten p.m. when we got back. When we drove into the dooryard we were greatly relieved — at least I was. As we had driven, I felt the burden lying heavily at my back. Rafe and Cara and I drove in shifts, and I was glad to take the wheel so that I could think about the road.

         The closer we got to Frankfort, the darker the day became, and the evening, which finally thickened into night. Wesley Catch met us on the doorstep.

         The next morning, at nine, October 21st, we drove the short distance to the cemetery where four men were waiting at the opening which had been dug beside Uncle John's grave. Rafe and I helped them insert the urns. There were no spectators besides Cara and Wesley Catch, who had come over the fields to join us. Rafe said, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Lord, we ask you to give these souls rest." He and I both sprinkled a handful of soil, and we left the men to their work.

         I have been thinking about the voices I heard when last I saw Norine and Melany. It occurs to me that they were as real as those Manoah Bodman heard when he spoke to the Principalities and Powers. They were not audible, but they rang sharply as bells in the center of my brain. I am beginning to understand that the earth is filled with voices. They speak to us everywhere, in all manners of ways. I look back through this journal, and I do not see words, I hear voices, including my own, rising out of the pages like an eternal carillon. Even when I close the book, murmurs seep out at the edges to tell me who they are and what I am.

         The books in the library speak to me, ask me to open them. At my old home, in my study, on my shelves I had pasted a line from a poem: "I know the poems on my shelves speak to me in an / ancient language / I have somehow forgotten." And in looking through the old scrapbook Norine sent me out of the past I find three voices in a short paragraph: that of a child who was somehow once myself, that of my mother, and an echo belonging to the Nameless:

HIS SISTER'S GHOST

As told to me by my Mother.

         A man went out to the cottage of his dead sister. On the porch stood several milk-bottles. Suddenly, in the garden, a gray apparition appeared and walked slowly toward him. He recognized the form as that of his dead sister. He then picked up a milk bottle and threw it at the ghost. It disappeared and he was not again bothered.

         I have been reading Bodman's Oration on Death again. He had yet another terrible struggle, which I will omit here except for some short passages that give a glimpse of Bodman's family in the midst of this turmoil:

         My father and brother being a little distance from the house, taking down an old building, my brother came in first, I believe, and my father afterwards, and requested me to go out and divert my mind with what they were about; which I engaged, and intended to do.

But Satan intervened once more.

         During this period of distress, the family were called up, and were much alarmed at my situation. This was in the dead of night; and it appeared to me that Satan would immediately tear me in pieces; which he seemed to threaten to do; and I was really afraid it would take place before the morning light. — My mother standing by my bedside, it now appears to me, was earnest in prayer — she asked me if I could pray for myself? when, I believe, I made an attempt to pray. But still I was afraid to have my brother leave the chamber, for fear I should be torn to pieces in his absence.

         Tomorrow I must do some more on my novel. I must. Cara has given me some Bryony Water to help me sleep. I can no longer make love.

Sunday, 25^th.

The Book of the Black Heart

Chapter Five: The Gunner's Story

         It was the Gunner's mount the sailors were using that night to spin their sea stories on, as the carrier plowed through the star-bitten Pacific, and it was the Gunner's turn.

         "Looking back on things," he said, "I guess life had been pretty good, at least for me, until my old man kicked the bucket. I might've even been able to live with that if I hadn't found out how he died one night when my mother thought I was asleep and got yakking to her best friend, somebody she'd known since she was in school.

         "Dad used to take me out to the lake for a day's fishing. We'd float around out there, just dangling our lines and hauling in the black bass. When we got tired we'd lie back in the bottom of our big, flat-bottomed scow, pull our straw hats down over our eyes, and let the sun beat down on us. Man, that was the life. We'd be stripped to the waist and sweating like horses. I could feel the sun soothing the muscles where they ached from being bent over the side of the boat. The smell of the fish we'd caught mixed with the pinewood smell of the scow. It was sort of like a nice form of ether and made me doze off.

         "Every now and then a shore breeze would blow by, and we could smell the woods that bordered the lake. The breeze would rumple around our heads for a few minutes, and just as we'd be getting used to it, it would stop and the sun would beat down as hard as ever.

         "Once in a while a horsefly would buzz around me and finally decide to land. You have to slap 'em fast or they get away and pretty soon come back to pester you again.

         "After a while the breezes would start to come up more often and the sides of the boat would block off the sun, and we'd know it was time to go home. Dad would row all the way to shore while I sat and watched the last of the sun glint on his skin. There would be purple splotches in the sky over the wood, and the ripples in the water were gold.

         "I was always first out of the scow. I'd sprint over the side, splash into the water, and wade the last few feet to the beach. The sand felt good. And then I'd watch Dad as he got our gear out of the boat and walked toward me. Before he caught up with me I'd stretch till I felt my bones creak, and then lead the way along the path through the woods.

         We had to walk along this pine-needle path to get to Dad's jalopy. Sometimes we'd stop and listen to the wind in the big trees, or look for animals or birds. Sometimes there was a stray bee on its last trip back to the hive.

         "But then he died. I was there when they brought him in off the lake. After that I used to have a hard time getting to sleep. I'd go to bed and just lay there listening to my heard pump blood. If my mom checked on me I'd keep my eyes closed and make like I was in Dreamland.

         "One night I heard my mother in the hall whispering to somebody, and then she opened the door a crack and I heard her say, 'Doesn't he look cunning, all curled up in bed like that? Oh, you wouldn't believe what an imp he can be sometimes, not when you see him like this, the little angel. You'd never believe he has bad dreams sometimes, poor dear, ever since his dad died in that accident.' I heard her sigh.

         "'Poor Sally,' her friend said — I think her name was Smith, Alice Smith. 'You've had a hard life, but it's coming out all right, isn't it? You've hooked another one, haven't you? That's why I dropped in. I'm dying to hear all about it.'

         "'Oh, all right,' I heard mom giggle. 'But you've got to promise never to tell anybody. Some people might misunderstand, but I know you won't. I stirred. 'Sshh,' she whispered. "Come into the living room before he wakes up. Honestly, I never get a minute to myself any more. Come on. I'll tell you how I reeled him in.'

         "When they closed the door again I got up and snuck out to the hall. I heard them in the living room, so I eased on down to the doorway and listened.

         "'Beer?' mom asked, 'or something stronger?"

         "'Stronger,' Mrs. Smith said. I chanced a look around the corner and I could see them sitting sideways to me. I could see Alice was all ears. 'What's he like?' she asked.

         "'Oh, he's great!' Mom got up to mix martinis. 'He's a big brute of a fella, with fat freckled cheeks and a grin as wide as a pound of bacon. Rrrufff!'

         "'Tell me more! Where'd you meet him?' Alice took her drink as mom settled into the scatter pillows on the couch. She rolled her eyes and faked a look around her for spies. I ducked.

         "'Don't tell a soul, now promise?' Alice gave a nod full of quick breaths. 'Actually,' mom said in what was supposed to be a low voice, 'I met him before big Mark died. Oh! He swept me right off my feet one day at Danny's Lunch downtown. He just up and sat down at my table — the place was crowded, and the next thing I knew, his knees were nudging me so cute-like while we ate our noodle soup. Oh,' she laughed, 'he's such a card. Just like a little boy, even though he's so big.' She rolled her eyes again. I sat down on the floor in the hall and didn't look at them any more.

         "'Goodness, that's so romantic,' Alice Smith said. I could imagine her teats bobbing and her face flushing. I didn't have to see. 'How I envy you!' she said in little breaths.

         "'Till then I'd just been feeling like any old sack. Mark never paid any attention to me, you know. All he ever wanted to do was take junior fishing. Honestly. Two ten-year-olds in the house was too much.' She giggled again and was quiet while she sipped her drink. In the corner the teevee belched and flickered — I could see the shadows coming out into the hall. Then mom said, 'So, while my two boys were out fishing, Harry would come visit me. I fell for him hook, line, and sinker.

         "'Well, this went on for about a month. I was getting about ready to get a lawyer when what should happen one day but Mark — big Mark I mean — walked in the door early from work.'

         "'No' said Mrs. Smith. I took a quick peek — the one eye I could see what as big and bright as a light bulb.

         "'Oh, yes,' said mother, 'and there we were all over the parlor rug, my skirts up around my hips and Harry huffing all over me, snorting like a....'" The Gunner stopped a minute to listen to the sea. Then, "Bull," he said.

         "'In a minute it was all over,' mom told Mrs. Smith. 'Mark got all red in the face and Harry got up. He was laughing. Oh, he knows how to take things. He zipped himself up and got ready for a fight.'

         "'Then what happened?' I heard Mrs. Smith gasp.

         "'Nothing. Mark just walked over to the closet and got his rod and things.'

         "'Rod!'

         "'Rod and reel.' Mom was quiet for another second. Then, '"I'm going fishing," Mark said. In his business suit, no less. '"In your business suit?" I asked. By this time I was decent again. But he didn't answer. He just walked to the door and out, and that's the last I saw of him.'

         "'Alive, anyhow.' I heard mom sip her drink and saw the flare of her lighter as she lit a cigarette. 'After big Mark left, about ten minutes later, maybe, little Mark came in just as Harry was about to leave. He just barely missed us finishing up the job big Mark had interrupted. I think he suspected something anyhow. He gave Harry a funny look and said, "Pop home yet?" I told him he'd gone fishing.

         "Without me?" Then he was out the door like a flash.' "I got up and went back to my room then," the Gunner said. "I slammed the door — I didn't give a shit if they heard me. Mom came in 'What was that door slamming?' she asked me, but I didn't answer. I just kept laying on the bed staring and remembering that day. I don't know how long mom stood there asking me how much I heard, I didn't even do anything when she shook me and bounced me up and down in the bed and slapped me. She finally stopped screaming and crying, and after a while there was the lake again, and it was late in the afternoon. something was wrong. I'd been running, or maybe pedaling my bike. I don't know how I got to the lake, because it was quite a way — I just knew I had to catch up.

         "By the time I was standing on the strip of beach I could feel the night starting to come on — the moon was already up flopping around in the tops of the pines like a sunfish. My legs hurt, and I couldn't breathe — it was like there was water in my chest. I looked for our scow, and it was out there, but there was something funny about it. And then I saw — it was upside-down, and there were a bunch of heads bobbing around it, and another boat. I started in to yell, 'Dad! Dad!' but nobody paid me any attention. Only when I took off my shoes and started to run into the water somebody grabbed me and said, 'Stay here, boy. They'll have him soon.'

         "But the moon was high before they brought him in, all soggy, and his eyes staring at me in the dark. His feet were all wound up in line and his metal gear box was caught in the line too. They all just stood around and looked at him, and sometimes they'd look at me too, and then away. I waited for something to happen, but nobody did anything. 'Why don't you all do something? Help him, help him! Jesus!' I said, but they all just shook their heads.

         ""'It's no use, son. He's been down there for three hours anyway, ' somebody said, a cop I think. 'The ambulance will be here soon.'

         "But I looked at him and I saw something. 'No, no, he's alive, don't you see?' I said. 'Look, his heart's beating, his heart...'

         "I managed to rip away from the guy that was holding me, and I fell down beside Dad and put my ear on his chest. I could feel it. His heart thumping, almost jumping out of his chest, trying to keep going. It was slimy wet against my ear, it was wriggling and squirming, even though you could see his face was beginning to bloat and it was all blue. I hugged him and looked up at them all standing around. 'Oh, Jesus, won't you help him!' I screamed. 'Look, his heart!' I tore open his shirt, still with his tie on.

         "And you could see it squirming and wiggling, see it with your naked eyes, — a fish caught in his undershirt, a big black bass, fighting to cut loose but losing, its head stuck out near the armpit, its bulgy eyes like to moons staring down at me out of the sky, out of the pines that reeled off into a dark voice that said, 'I wonder what mom will say when we get home for supper.' And then no more dreams, nothing," said the Gunner, "except night and the smell of pine."

A Nobel Prize Ode

 

 Photo credit: Rolling Stone

 

A NOBEL PRIZE ODE

 

How many doves are in a peace of mind,

How many pigeons must coo?

How many seizures must one fellow have

Before we must have seizures too?

Yes, and how many tines are in a fishing spear,

And how many fishes are near?

The answer, my friend, is floatin' in the sea,

The answer is floatin' in the sea.

 

Yes, and how many bears can a salmon avoid

Before it can spawn and then die?

How many people have salmon annoyed

Before they are deboned and fried?

Yes, and how many dolphins has one boy enjoyed

While bounding along on the tide?

The answer, my friend, is floatin' in the sea,

The answer is floatin' in the sea.

 

Yes, and how many beers can a boozer enlist

Before he must rise up to pee? 

Yes, and how many drinks can a drunkard resist

Before he drives into a tree

That suddenly showed itself dead ahead

That somehow he just didn't see?

The answer, my friend, is floatin' in the sea,

The answer is floatin' in the sea.

 

Yes, and how many ravens must utter a cry

Before they descend to their meal?

Yes, and how many teeth did the dead driver have

Before he no longer could feel?

Yes, and how many flies will it take 'till he knows

For certain that this must be real?

The answer, my friend, is floatin' in the sea,

The answer is floatin' in the sea.

 

-- Wesli Court

The Journal of Charles Ally, Part Fifteen

Part Fifteen

Friday, 16^th. Today Rafe stayed at coffee a bit longer than he had planned. I read him my Bodman entry of yesterday and asked him what he thought of it.

         "Obviously a fanatic," he said.

         I mulled that over my coffee cup a while. "What's your idea of a fanatic?"

         Rafe made a short, laughing sound. "Okay, Charles, what's up?" He turned to Cara who was sitting at the table holding her coffee cup to her lips with both hands, elbows on the table. "Is he trying to trap me or what?"

         Cara shrugged and slowly shook her head. "Who knows what Charles is ever up to?" She grinned at me. Rafe cleared his throat.

         "Just answer the question," I said. "What's a 'fanatic'? And how can you sit there with all that light in your eyes?" It was a bright day, and the side of the table where Rafe was sitting was drowned in sunlight.

         "I like it." He stretched like a cat and shoved the hair out of his eyes. "A fanatic is one who is obsessed with a single idea or point of view."

         "What happens if his point of view happens to be the correct point of view?"

         Rafe sat up. "According to whom?"

         "According to him, naturally."

         "Wouldn't that," Cara said, "just prove he's a fanatic?"

         "Okay," I didn't mind that tack, "then according to anybody you care to name." I could see a wary look coming into Rafe's baby blue mooneyes.

         "Including people who agree with him, you mean?"

         I shrugged.

         "Then he wouldn't be a fanatic," Cara said. "To them, I mean."

         "To whom is he one, then?" They were both beginning to squirm a bit.

         "Okay, Charles." Rafe sighed. "He's a fanatic to those who disagree with him."

         "Just disagree with him?"

         "No, he'd be called a crank by most people — those who didn't particularly give a damn." Rafe touched his cup. "Or just quirky. I see where you're leading, Charles. You want me to say, 'to those who disagree with him violently.'"

         "Right. Would they be fanatics too?"

         "Yes."

         "Are you a man in the middle?" Cara asked.

         Rafe really laughed. "Don't you get down on me too, Cara," he said. "No, I'm not. I disagree with him violently — Bodman, that is."

         "You do choose unfortunate combinations of words sometimes. Forgive him, Cara." I grinned broadly at them both. "And I rest my case," I said.

         "Cut it out, Charles." Rafe flushed. "And Bodman's wrong!" He rapped the table.

         "In what way?" I was still grinning, I'm afraid.

         "Shit, Charles, what are these 'delusions' he's talking about?"

         "He spoke with God, and with angels, but they were all really the devil and his minions masquerading as holy, invisible being."

         "The man was obviously a mental case."

         I inserted the dagger neatly. "Didn't you once tell me you became a minister because you felt you had established contact with 'something at the center of thins,' or words to that effect? Well, that's not much different than talking directly to Central Control, is it?"

         Rafe practically gagged on his tongue, and Cara had to muffle her amusement.

         "The man's a maniac!"

         "Don't let the natives hear you say that. But according to what system of values is he a screwball?"

         "Modern psychology tells you — "

         "In his day they didn't have 'modern psychology.' They had angels and devils. That was their system.

         Rafe was getting eager. His cashmere was in danger of sopping up his coffee. "He was a deluded man. He hallucinated."

         Cara pointed out something I'd planned on — "Bodman admits that himself, doesn't he?" She glanced over at me.

         "Sure," Rafe said, "but he thinks his fantasies were caused by the Devil, which is a delusion on its own."

         "That's the cause in his system. What is it in yours?" I asked.

         "Who knows? — trauma, fear of death, guilt...."

         "Aren't those the same as angels and devils?"

         Rafe snorted. "Of course not. They are natural causes."

         "Well, but in Bodman's day, so were angels and devils 'natural' in a sense."

         "You're not being scientific," Rafe pointed out, rather aggressively, I felt.

         "Are you?"

         "I hope so. Bodman's delusions were those of a religious fanatic."

         I had him. "I thought you told me once that you decided to become a minister when you realized that psychology was merely modern religion?"

         He sat back, astonished. Cara laughed, full of delight.

         "You rat," he said.

         "Two religious fanatics, operating by different systems — by the way, which quote scientific unquote discipline do you follow, the Freudian or the Jungian? — two screwballs following different paths, but both dealing with the same problems and coming up with the same answers, but using different terms — sort of like Baptists and Presbyterians. Were Bodman's delusions less real to him than those of an acid head?

         Rafe shook his head.

         "What's real is what we experience or believe," I said. "Do you believe in God?"

         "Yes," Rafe said, slowly, carefully, "I do."

         "So did Bodman, and a man named Ferguson. Not to mention Pythagoras."

         Cara looked up. "Who's Ferguson?"

         "Oh," — I fiddled with my cup — "he was an astronomer who pointed out the logic and rationality of the physical universe, backed it with scientific data and mathematical calculations, and said that God had done it all, and everything is heading toward ultimate perfection."

         Rafe and Cara and I just sat there for a while longer, and then Rafe went to school.

Saturday, 17^th. As I was trying to finish reading Bodman's book today, I recalled an entry in my scrapbook, which I got out and read:

A DYING MAN'S TESTIMONY

As told to me by my father.

         A member of our Church, S——- C————, lay dying of cancer at the Meriden Hospital. My father was at his bedside along with the dying man's brother, sister-in-law and another member of the clergy, Rev. B—— T——-. Suddenly the dying man's face lit up in a way that could only be described as angelic. Then he said to his brother, "A———, we have a nice choir at the church, but his is the real choir." He referred to the heavenly choir. He told my Father that Jesus was sitting at the foot of his bed. Then be began to sing an Italian funeral hymn.

         My father then approached him and said, "S——-, it is true, then, what the Apostle Paul said, 'To live is a loss!'" Rev. T——- then approached and asked if S——- wished them to pray for him. "You may if you wish," he answered, "but I am able to pray for myself."

         S——- did not die than but lingered on for an additional three weeks constantly calling for his mother and in a terrible mental depression. No one knows why.

Thursday, 22^nd. I am not sure I can yet put in order what has happened during these past few days since I wrote my last entry. I must be slow and precise, as though I took no part in what has occurred, so that I can look at the page, when I have done, and perhaps divine meaning from events made into words, for evens have no meanings of their own.

         Very early Sunday morning, October 18th — around 3 or 4 a.m. — Cara and I were awakened by someone pounding and calling at the doors downstairs. Cara was the first to wake, and she came into my room, huddled in a housecoat, to rouse me. She shook me till I came to; she was hissing, "Charles, Charles! There's someone downstairs. Charles!" I recall jumping out of bed and standing there. Though my eyes were wide open, I was really still more asleep than awake, but alarm had me reaching for a bathrobe before awareness hit me. I hurried downstairs with Cara right behind me.

         The pounding had stopped — they had evidently seen the lights go on. Cara and I hurried through the ell and opened the kitchen door. A large Maine state trooper was standing there. Behind him in the dooryard a patrol car was parked, lights on and engine running. The car's exhaust in the chill fall night glowed with swirling red reflections of the tail lights.

         "Charles Ally?" It was more a statement than a question. I nodded. He stepped in. I held the door for him and closed it behind him. He saw Cara and took off his hat, firing a sharp glance at her, then at me.

         "We've had the devil's own time finding you, Mr. Ally." He hesitated. "The New York State Police finally tracked you down and notified us you were in Frankfort. We've had to wake half the town to find someone who knows you. I'm afraid I have bad news."

         He hesitated again, let his eyes slide away from us. I saw them widen slightly as he took in Cara's plant life. Just then another car drove into the yard and parked — the headlamp beams broke across the kitchen windows and went out. A door slammed. Cara moved to the door and had it open as Rafe reached the doorstep.

         Rafe entered and said, "Hello, Charles, Cara." He nodded at the officer, who returned the greeting with a dip of his head.

         "He's the neighbor who knew you," the trooper said. "Where's your car?" For a moment I didn't realize he was speaking to me.

         "They're both in the barn."

         "We looked for New York plates first off. When we couldn't find them — sorry to bother you, Rev. Hawkins."

         Rafe made a deprecatory gesture with his hand.

         "What's the trouble?" Cara had come up to us again, and we stood in a semicircle before the officer.

         He sighed. "No use beating about the bush. Mr. Ally, yesterday, Saturday, your wife and daughter were involved in an auto accident."

         Cara clutched my arm.

         "They're both dead," he said. Silence. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ally."

         No one said anything. We just stood there. I saw nothing but the trooper's face — it took over the whole room, blooming like a mallow in the yellow light. I felt something touch my leg. Wesley Catch meowed softly once.

         My knees buckled and I reached for a chair. There was a knot of ice at the core of me. I sat down.

         "You're to get in touch with the local police in New York — what's the name of the college town? — as soon as possible. Immediately." He turned and went to the door, put his hand on the knob. "I'm sorry," he said, rather hoarsely. And he went out. The patrol car backed out and drove away.

         Rafe came over to stand before me. Cara stood behind, hands on my shoulders.

         "Charles," he said, "this isn't the time to tell you how I feel. It can't begin to touch you now. We'd better simply get moving. We'll take my c ar, and I'll drive. I'll go home, phone the police to tell them we're coming, and pack a few things. Cara," he looked past me, "you throw some things into a couple of suitcases. You get yourself and Charles dressed. I'll be back in twenty minutes." He went to the door, stopped, and turned around. "I'll have to notify the college, too, that I'll be gone a few days." This was murmured, addressed mainly to himself.

         Within a half hour we were in the car, moving through the darkness in the wake of the headlamps as they cut through rural mists and back roads over to Route One — the bridge into Bath, and then highways through Brunswick, past Portland, down through the neck of New Hampshire.

         I remember lights — neon, reflectors, very few cars — nearly nothing but the broken white lines coming at us down the road, slipping past on the left side. It was beginning to grow light by the time we got into Massachusetts, and it was morning when we got to Manoah Bodman's home area: hills, the Berkshires. We passed into New York State and went right, heading upstate at Albany. The sun was up and my eyes hurt. I've afraid I dozed sometimes, or at least sank into a stupor — shock, I suppose. It was nearing noon when we got into town and checked with the police.

         As Norine had been an only child, both parents deceased, I was nearest of kin except for some aunts, uncles, and cousins on the west coast, so a lawyer had been handling things. The police gave us his name and address, told us which funeral parlor we were to go to. We went to the undertaker's first. He had had his instructions from the lawyer, and the funeral was to be held the next day — Tuesday. What arrangements did I want to make for interment?

         Cara and Rafe looked at me. I don't know what made me say it — I hadn't thought about anything. "Not here," I said. "Frankfort. There are family plots in the cemetery up the road just off our property."

         The funeral director looked annoyed, began to say something about the lawyer — arrangements had been undertaken — how did we plan to move the deceased....

         Rafe cut him off. "We'll do as Mr. Ally wishes. He's living in Maine now and would like his family near him. My car is a large station wagon. We should be able to manage it."

         The undertaker was astonished.

         "We won't need much room," I said. "The bodies are to be cremated."

         "I will officiate at the services here," Rafe said. "I'm a minister."

         The undertaker nodded thinly on his thin neck and washed his hands of the whole affair. "Which church will you use?" he asked.

         "No church," I said. "Here. In this place."

         The undertaker widened his eyes. "Would you like to view the departed?" he asked.

         "Yes, can you arrange that?" He didn't understand, but Cara and Rafe did. I was sorry immediately. There was distaste in their expressions.

         "Certainly." We followed him into a large parlor, and he left us with the coffins, dropping an official word of comfort of some sort.

         I looked down at Norine. She appeared to be composed of plaster — a statue of a statue. Her hair looked like a wig made of coarse brown thread. I think perhaps it was just that — I'm not even sure it was Norine. Her eyes were closed, but I knew she was looking at me, not necessarily from where she lay. "Now do it, Charles," I heard her voice say in my head. "This is the way you always wanted me, isn't it? I'd like you to do it now."

         I stepped back. "No?" she said. "Well, then, we'll just have to wait."

         I began to walk away, but Rafe grabbed me by the arm. "Melany," he said. I began to tear away, but I realized I had to look.

         "Daddy," the little doll in the box said. "Daddy, I hurt myself. I'm sorry."

         I must have begun to weep, because I heard my own voice say very hoarsely — as though I were strangling. — "No wake. No visiting hours. Only the service. And I want those lids closed.

         Cara buried her head in my shirtfront and cried silently, holding me tightly around the arms.

         I can't think about it any more today. I'll write tomorrow, when this old house has begun to fold us in again.

The Journal of Charles Ally, Part Fourteen

                                                                                 Part Fourteen

October 13th, 1970

My dear Norine,

         I have been doing some writing while I've been here, and a good deal of reading. I ran across an old portrait of you in an ancient book, an 1801 London anthology of poetry called Elegant Extracts, which I know will in itself please your sense of ego. It's a portion of a poem by Otway here titled, "Description of a Hag":

         In a close lane, as I pursu'd my journey,

I spied a wither'd hag, with age grown double,

Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself;

Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red,

Cold palsy shook her head, her hand seem'd wither'd, And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapp'd

The tatter'd remanants of an old strip'd hanging,

Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold:

So there was nothing of apiece about her.

         I pause here to point out that last line might also read, equally appropriately, "So there was nothing of a piece about her."

Her lower weeds were all o're coarsely patch'd

With different colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow,

How well I recall your taste in dress!

And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.

         Ten years' worth. You were never a wife, and over the years you grew colder, till you were chill as stone in a sepulchre. But I stray. In leafing further through the Extracts I ran across a Ben Jonson transcript of one of your conversations with friends and relatives (I had no idea you were that old, dear, though I know you fibbed a little when we first dated):

1 Witch. I have been all day looking after

         A raven feeding upon a quarter;

         And, soone as she turn'd her back to the south,

         I snatch'd this morsel out of her mouth.

2 Witch. I have beene gathering wolves hairs,

         The mad dogges foame, and adders eares;

         The spurging of a deadman's eyes:

         And all since the evening starre did rise.

3 Witch. I last night lay all alone

         O' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone;

         And pluckt him up, though he grew full low:

         And, as I had done, the cocke did crowe.

         Unfortunately, Jonson hasn't identified the speakers, but this last one above has many familiar overtones.

4 Witch. And I h'been chusing out this scull;

         From charnell-houses that were full:

         From private grots and publick pits:

         And frighted a sexton out of his wits.

5 Witch. Under a cradle I did creepe

         By day, and, when the childe was a-sleepe

         At night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,

         And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.

6 Witch. I had a dagger; what did I with that?

         Killed an infant to have his fat:

         A piper it got, at a church-ale:

         I bade him again blow wind in the taile.

7 Witch. A murderer, yonder, was hung in chaines;

         The sunne and the wind had shrunk his veines:

         I bit off a ninew; I clipp'd his hair;

         I brought off his ragges, that dan'd I' the ayre.

8 Witch. The scritch-owles egges, and the feathers blacke,

         The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his backe,

         I have been getting, and made of his skin

         A purset, to keep sir Cranion in.

9 Witch. And I ha' been plucking (plants among)

         Hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue,

         Night-shade, moon-wort, libbards bane;

         And twice by the goddes was like to be tane.

10 Witch. I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch

         Did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch:

         Yet went back to the house againe,

         Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine.

11 Witch. I went to the toade, breeds under the wall,

         I charmed him out, and he came at my call;

         I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before;

         I tore the batts wings: what would you have more?

Dame. Yes: I have broughte, to help your vows,

         Horned poppie, cypress boughes,

         A fig-tree wild, that grows on tombes,

         And juice that from the larch-tree comes,

         The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin;

         And now our orgies let's begin.

         All my love to Melanie,

Charles

Wednesday, 14^th. Today I mailed the letter and made love to Cara. We made love again and again, till our bodies ached. After I came back from the post office and Rafe had gone, I simply took her clothes off and we made love everywhere, naked all day — on the rug before the hearth, on the beds and couches, Wesley Catch watching our strange activity languidly; standing before mirrors. I took her in any position that came to hand: on her belly, knees-and-hands, squatting or on a side.

         We did not eat till late evening, and then we gorged ourselves on canned goods, fruit, leftovers — anything that took no time: a glorious day. I am healed. Cara has wept and many times cried out. And when all was spent, we lay on the rug, made rose by firelight, and we opened another of Wesley Court's letters:

                                                                        "Lowell March 28 1860

"Friend Charles

         "I received your letter this morning, & as it happens to be Wednesday night & I am at liberty I thought I would answer. I am going to tell you all the news. I smashed my hand very bad yesterday between two bbls of flour.

"This is some news

         "I went down on the Merrimack corporation to see the Harris Girls & Miss Palmer — had a nice time you better believe.

"This is two news

         "The wind blew so like the old harry that the girls had to keep there draws legs close down, to keep the dirt out of their shoes

"This is three news

         "I am up in Wilder & Shunts counting room, waiting for robbins my room mate to go up on the Merrimack St. to see the Fashions

"This is four news

         "It is not pleasant here no night, has been raining some just enough to lay the dust

"This is five news

         "There is to be a lecture at Huntington Hall to night by a blind man — the subject is What a blind man saw in England but I shant go

         "You did not say any thing about the girls. I guess you dont have much to do with them, If I was there I would make them step lively Ile bet

 

"This is Seven news

         "I got a letter from Kate when I got yours, she wrote about the same news as you

"This is eight news

         "It is geting late I must stop         this is enough news for you

"Good by Charles write soon"

         Cara will sleep in my bed tonight.

Thursday, 15^th. Cara has spent the day resting. I've been with Manoah Bodman part of the day, and part I have spent in tramping the riverbanks and the woods. The fall colors are at their zenith now. For a while this morning I sat on one of the firs that reach out over the river and watched the tide moving swiftly between the clay banks. The almost constant motion of the river keeps the water dark with silt, but if one holds a steady eye on a single spot, sometimes there will be movement in the depths — a long shape slipping silently against the current and disappearing in the eddies.

         The odors of Maine in the Autumn are filled with an overwhelming nostalgia, but when I examine the source of the feeling, I can find no memories on which to base it. As far back as I can recall, the same sensations have been evoked by each New England Fall, and my pursuit of cause recedes as into mirrors reflecting mirrors, till I come to nothing more than blood's memory moving through arteries as the tide moves beneath my feet. It is like the yellow harvest moon over a sea of clouds, a moon that swells to bursting and then turns to a sickle scything among fields of stars.

         By exactly what means Bodman came to believe that he was the victim of unholy deceptions he does not relate, but

Suffice it to say, that in the course of events, I was convinced, and effectually convinced, that these were all the delusions of Satan. And that, although, mankind never could have convinced me, the Lord alone, made a short work of it! — In this, there were no supernatural voices, or communications, from God.

         As soon as I was convinced, I instantly concluded to stand on the defensive; and under God, to defy all the powers of darkness.

         A dreadful conflict ensued. Soon, however, I began to experience refreshing views, as I thought, from the heavenly world.

Bodman now discovered how paltry his previous experiences had been

when compared with the real thing:

         The heavens seemed almost to open to my view. These things appeared wholly spiritual, and of the same nature of what I received in early life, before I fell under my late delusions, but very different from them. — The views I now had seemed to resemble those which St. Stephen had. But my dreadful conflict soon began. — I was quickly assaulted by the powers of darkness, and every thing which their horrid minds could invent, was suggested or conveyed to my mind.

         As long as I could hold, in my own view, my innocence, I could stand against them: but they heap'd such a load of these wicked expressions upon me, that I sunk under them. The impressions were so strong and violent that they made me to realize them in some measure, and to consider them as my own.

         The colossal struggle between Bodman and the infernal hosts went on and on, waxing and waning, for a considerable period, the visionary rejecting, with varying degrees of success, the Devil's accusation that he had committed "the unpardonable sin." Eventually, at one point Bodman

...went home to my father's house in company with my brother.... My brother then observed to me, that I had not committed the unpardonable sin: but that it was the work of Satan, in trying to make me believe it, or drive me to it. Likewise my brother observed; that he did not believe that God made any such communications to us, as I had represented — This gave me great relief; my brother still accompanied me to my father's house, and in the evening prayed with the family; and when requesting of God, that he would give his holy angels charge concerning us that night, Satan, by his cruel suggestion to me, made answer: All but you, I'll take care of you.

         Either the next morning, or shortly thereafter, Bodman had another great encounter with the Angel of Darkness while he was sitting at home in a chair:

It threw me into a nervous kind of convulsions, which I knew was wholly effected by Satan. — The people in the neighborhood were gathered, expecting that I was about to make my exit, or lose my reason, or some terrible occurrence was about to take place. The shakings that I had were successive and very violent. Satan would say, or suggest to me, that he would shake me into hell the next time. I had my reason so well, that I was sensible that it was the power of Satan that affected me. I believe he caused me to articulate words that I had no kind of agency in. These words, however, I suppose were not sinful, but only frightful. The minister and physician of the parish were both sent for. When it was asked if I was willing to hear the minister pray, I answered, I have no objection, but it will do no good, as I am going right down to endless destruction. He prayed with me, however, and my mind became more calm.

         The physician bled me. And Satan's power ceased for a time. And here I would observe, according to my best recollection, that in all those violent agitations and convulsions of body, there was no pain attending them.

The Journal of Charles Ally, Part Thirteen

Monday, 12^th.

The Book of the Black Heart

Chapter Four: The Bo'sun's Story

         "The Sea's a big fat heart," says the Bo'sun leaning over the rail of number three gun mount. He leans so largely that in the darkness of the Pacific night his chin seems to drag in the waves like a prow, but the waves are only shadow, and the illumination that casts his face into swells and troughs does not come from roiling plankton, but from a cigarette held loosely in his hand.

         Behind him a hatch opens and spreads light over the steel deck underfoot. A radio blares out with the glare — in the gun shack seven sailors lie and sit, listening to some sloe-eyed siren who sings that she don't want no yo-yo, so it sounds; or pouring coffee into the big regulation cups liberated from the galley; or mulling over two of a kind against a possibly full house. The hatch swings to again, and the night closes once more around the mount.

         "It was in them Oklahoma nights that I heard her pounding first," the Bo'sun says. "I guess you'll say I'm nuts to hear the sea beating under a lot of red clay. But that's the way it was. I can even remember the first night I figured out what it was there off in the distance, just whispering like, at the edges.

         "I'd went upstairs early that night when my pa come home drunk. We owned a farm, or the bank did. It was the first day of the month, and ma and me knew he'd come home smashed into a buzzard's tail. He always did the day the bank payment was due. In the morning of such a day we'd all rise hard out of our beds and drag downstairs. Everything was a coat of dust. You got so you didn't notice it usually, but on these days the dust would sift in with the moonlight, I guess, through sashes and panes, and in your nose it would make a smell like rust that you couldn't wash down even with a cup of mucky coffee.

         "We would rise up and go down to sit at the table, quiet, while ma made the breakfast. She would serve it, and pa wouldn't say nothing, just sit there squint-eyed and hard, thinking about the money.

         "You don't raise much on a little Oklahoma farm, no matter how hard you scratch. It wasn't pa's fault, you just don't raise much. And the bank don't know nothing about wheat or corn or swine or drought, or the red dust and the wind.

         "That wind. It never stopped, or almost never. In the morning it would blow from the east. Sometimes it was strong enough to lean against, and you could see the landscape blowing over from miles gone. At noon it would quit for a breather, just long enough for the sun to bake the land flat into its fields and ruts. Then it would start all over, from the west, and the countryside would blow past again, back where it came from That dirt could never settle long enough to grow anything. Even when it got wet with a good rain all you had was a foot of mud, hardpan underneath, and the mud would run off into the creeks until you got a drought and the creeks dried up. Then the wind would blow it all back up again. You can't grow nothing but weary on land like that.

         "After breakfast pa would take out his wallet and begin pulling greenbacks out of it. He'd take them out one by one and slap them

down flat hard on the table. He'd look at each one before he pulled out another. Nobody would say a word. When he was done counting he'd gather them all back up, get up, stuff them in his pocket, and put his wallet back away. 'I'm goin' into town,' he'd say then, and he would leave.

         "Once he was gone I'd go do the chores and ma would fix up the kitchen and the rest of the house.

         "He'd be gone all day. I would have some time to myself if it wasn't a school day, so I'd spend my time out in the fields or the brush woods. I remember I had a pet horn-toad named Sam. I would gather him up and put him in my shirt pocket head down. He'd stay there that way or, if I put him in tail first, he'd look around a while and then get out and crawl around on my shoulders. I fed him flies from the barn, or put a string leash on him and let him forage on his own. I did other things to kill time, I guess, but that's the thing I remember best.

         "The day would be over some time, though, and I'd make my excuses to get to bed before pa got home. My ma would nod as she sat by the kitchen stove darning or something, and it was then that I felt sorriest, for I knew she'd have to wait up till he got home, and he'd beat the shit out of her. He never did that any time but the one night a month, but I hated his pus gut for that. It wasn't for years that I figured out why she'd wait like that, just rocking and darning, till he cracked open the door and smashed her across the face with his open hand. She was a little woman, but not sickly little. She'd wait, and when he'd come in she'd look up at him scared some, but a funny glint in her eyes.

         "'You done this to me,' he'd say, the night wind blowing in 'round him, making the kerosene stove flicker and smoke. 'You've bought my spirit for a pound of flesh and crucified my heart with a son. You've got this coming, you and womankind.' And he'd hit her till she laid crying on the linoleum tiles. The smell of liquor would cloud the room. And then he'd lift her and take her off to bed where he'd pound her belly against the sheets, and her dries would be different, but just as fearful. Or worse. Because now you could hear the pleasure in them.

         "Then the house would settle down into the red dark, and the plains and fields would begin to whisper to the walls. In my bed my toad would settle into my side, but I would listen for the sounds of the dust riding moonlight sliding through the windows. Out of the stars the wind would begin to come up stronger — you'd know what it felt like if you tried, to be a limb of a tree creaking in the night.

         "But under it all there was a strange sound, like wet things sliding over each other, and strange animals walking on the bottom of things. First far off, making a roar just under your eyelid, then slimming off, then a roar again — if you didn't listen you didn't know it was there, not with your whole mind. And a smell, a smell from way back and way down deep. And then one night I remembered that it was the sea, and I'd never rest until I saw it. Then sleep took me with my eyes stark open, and I heard my mother sigh once from her dark covers before I dropped off the quiet edge."

Tuesday, 13^th. I have ignored Cara for two days. Today she has stopped trying to explain her all-day absence of two days ago and has called in the Big Gun.

         I don't think she understands, and I'm certain the Big Gun doesn't. Cara thinks I am jealous, which I am not — there's no reason for jealousy. She's not my wife, so I have no formal claim on her; I have not been her lover except on one occasion, which was at her insistence, so I have no physical claim on her; and it was her idea to come here in the first place, so she has no claim on me. She may do as she pleases.

         The reasons I have been ignoring her are twofold: First, she lied to me for no reason, and I have to intention of getting into the family-style hassles I have experienced with Norine for ten years. Silence is the best defense. Second, I have been sunken deeply into my books and writing furiously for the past two days, and I don't care to be disturbed in any way.

         I feel a return of strength, both in my writing and in my mind. I have decided not to believe in Norine and her power over me. Were I go to bed now with Cara, I am sure I could perform like a man. I am off the Bryony Water. I am clear.

         This morning the Big Gun came pulling into the dooryard in his station wagon, got out looking all clean and determined, and as soon as she had opened the door to let him in, Cara disappeared.

         Rafe said, "How are you, Charles?" as he came into the dining room and sat down.

         "Well enough. You?" I went back to eating my roll.

         "Let's get straight to the point, all right?" He shot me a straight blue look.

         I nodded. "Sure. What's on your mind?"

         "You," Rafe said, rapping the table with his tennis knuckles. "Cara tells me you're up tight about her being gone so long Saturday, part of which she spent with me."

         "Not true." My coffee was getting cold, so I got up to warm it with a refill. I got Rafe a cup too. "What else is bothering you?"

         Rafe sighed, pushed his chair away from the table, and stretched out his legs in their nicely belled trousers. "Shit, Charles, that's a lot of crap."

         "Depends on how much shit you're talking about. Might be just a little crap, or possibly even none, as in this particular case here." I sat down to sugar my coffee and stir it.

         He chose to ignore the remark. "Do you want to know what Cara and I were doing?" He leaned forward again.

         "Not in a million years," I said. "I come from a nice New England missionary family."

         "Cara came to see me about you." I noticed he was getting a little red around the eyes. "We spent our time together talking about ways to help you." He shook his head slightly, and I saw his jaws clench. "She loves you, and she needed advice. That's what we were doing."

         "And what conclusion did you reach in your conversation? What was the upshot and climax of your intercourse?" I'm afraid I couldn't help grinning.

         Rafe gave a start forward, then sat back and laughed. "You're incorrigible, Charles."

         "That I am. But let me say something seriously. I don't need or want your help. Nor Cara's, for that matter, and I resent her spilling everything to you."

         "But you...," he began. I broke in and held up my hand.

         "Look. If I've got problems, I have to solve them myself. I think I'm beginning to do that. I came here in the first place to try to do that, and Cara invited herself in to mother me. If anything, I believe she's retarded my progress. But I've had time to think and get back to what I do best these past two days, and I think I see a little sunshine at the mouth of the labyrinth."

         "You do tend to get literary every once in a while, don't you?"

         "I ought to do it all the time. And if you and Cara will leave me alone, I will, and I'll take care of Norine, too."

         Rafe looked across the table quizzically, but I shut up and went back to eating.

         "Okay," he said, getting up. "But if you'd like to talk to me at any time — "

         "I know. You live on Blind Man's Hill. I'll get in touch."

         He lifted a hand in farewell and took off. Cara reappeared as I was heading for the library.

         "Did Rafe talk to you?"

         She looked a bit forlorn standing there. "Yes," I said.

         "What did he say?"

         "He said he lives on Blind Man's Hill."

         I have been considering, for most of the rest of the day, how to handle Norine, and I have decided that the only thing I can do to break her spell is to shoot her down once and for all, as she has shot me up so often. This is a dogfight, or dog-and-cat fight, so I have carefully worked out the letter I'll send her tomorrow: