"You remember how we were, Aggie, don't you? One look. One special look and we'd know what came next. How easy it was for us." I reached over and took her hand. "We'd roll over, take a breath and be ready to go again. That's how it used to be with the bitch and me. Back then I could say in one sentence what I can't say on a full page now."
She lay back and looked at the sky. Her voice was low. "I loved you then, Harley — I love you now. Relax. We've got two weeks left. Plenty of time."
My second vacation this summer. It was easier for Harpers to get me out of their hair, even pay me if they had to. It was harder for them to look me in the eye and tell me I wasn't getting the book done.
We can't complain about the weather though, this time of year in the mountains. The kids are back to school, half the bungalows on this side of the lake are empty, and I could sit out here all afternoon and write 'til my fingers were stiff. The way they used to be — there was no stopping me then — I'd take a deep breath, and my fingers would try to catch up with the words in my head. Aggie would come out and say, "Give it a rest, Harley. You'll wear yourself out!"
I look over at her. I've been a strain on her lately and I hate myself for it, but most of all I hate the bitch for walking out on me. It's been as hard on Aggie as it's been on me. There's a fine network of lines around her eyes — I'm so sorry — I reach for her hand.
"Want to go out for supper, Aggie?" She turns her head toward me — "If you want to, Harley."
"I thought maybe you'd like to, that's all."
"We have fresh corn from the farm. You could do a steak. Steak. Corn — and I'll make a nice salad, how does that sound?" She wants to eat here, just the two of us. We're going back to the city in two weeks, and she wants us to be together as long as possible. I do, too; once we get back to the city it will start all over again.
So I shuck the corn, leave the green husks out back for the raccoons, then I start up the barbecue. It's windy and the coals catch quickly. I see a hawk eyeing me from a tree downwind of the smoke, I know what's on his mind. If I were to go inside for a minute, the steaks would be gone when I came back. He keeps moving from one tree to another — I've learned the technique — he will change position while my attention is occupied elsewhere, then I won't know where he is. Out of sight, out of mind — my guard will go down and, if I'm careless, there will be a rush of air and a beating of wings. Our supper will be gone. He knows I'm watching him, and he's infuriated because I keep my body between him and the steaks. Once they're on the fire, he loses interest — he is not a gourmet.
"The steaks are just right, Harley. You could make a living cooking steaks."
"Probably a better living than I make as a writer."
"That's not what I meant — you know that. You're a renaissance man; you do everything well. Like the wine, only a renaissance man would think of a Montrechat with barbecued steak."
"It's all we had left." I take the remains of our dinner and scatter them on the shore of the lake. They will be gone by nightfall. If the hawk doesn't get them, the raccoons will. I'm afraid we have brought civilization here, and I wonder what these creatures will eat when we're gone.
I've put it off as long as I can. It's time to see if it's going to be one of those bad nights again. I sit down in the spare room and go over my notes, then I read what I wrote yesterday — it's too precious, there's too much lacework. The orchestration conceals the melody, and the setting outshines the stone . . . there, I'm still doing it! But it says what it says, and who knows — maybe it's best to say it that way. I turn around to see if the bitch is there — she is — for a while at least. She tells me to keep going; she'll stay here until I run dry.
I close my eyes and see the men again. Late summer. The road is dusty and dry, the leaves are starting to fall, and the men are marching uphill and into the wind. They're marching in cadence and the dust trails after them. I hear the metallic jingle of equipment, occasional coarse laughter, and the creaking of leather. That's where I left the story yesterday, bitch — where do I go from here?
"What lies ahead of them? What do they see?"
Ahead of them lies the wooden bridge and beyond that, the green foothills and the distant naked spine of the sierra. Anyone can see that it is up there where the battle will be fought, somewhere between the foothills and the mountains. There is the tired sound of groaning when the men see the hills ahead of them. They've been dragging the caisson and the howitzers behind them all day. Surely the major will let them rest when they cross the bridge.
Major Joplin turns and marches backward facing the men. "Company! Rout step - MARCH!" Immediately the men break into a walk to interrupt their rhythmic cadence on the bridge. Some of them unsling their rifles to ease their shoulders, and they look longingly at the cool grassy bank on the far side for a likely spot to spend the night. The picture is so clear to me. It is as though I am with them again. So far, so good, bitch — stay with me an hour longer!
I go back inside to check on Aggie. She's reading in bed and listening to the tape machine with her earphones on. This wonderful woman! So patient, so deserving of a better man.
"Okay, Aggie?"
"I'm fine, dear. How's it going?" She asks the question tentatively, as though fearing a negative response.
"So far, so good. The bitch is still with me. I'm going to give it another hour or so."
"Need anything?"
"I'm okay."
"Fall out! Stack arms! Smoke 'em if y'got'em!" They sit at the edge of the river, don't they, bitch? Some of the men take off their shoes and cool their feet in the stream. Upstream, some of the men gently ease their canteens into the running water to fill them. The light is fading, and the cook starts the Coleman for coffee. Major Joplin walks along the bank of the river and talks to his men. They're done in — he can see that, so he calls the captain aside to tell him they'll bed down here for the night and go on to the railroad spur in the morning. The captain doesn't like it — he doesn't know exactly why, but he questions the wisdom of crossing the bridge in the first place if only to pitch camp on the other side.
He is about to voice his objection in a respectful manner when the yellow flashes of gunfire erupt from the foothills ahead of them. The sound is like firecrackers, isn't it bitch? Something like the string of one-inchers we used to throw at passing cars on the Fourth of July. Then comes the "crrummp" of mortars and the sharp "blatt-blatt" of field artillery. Flares burst overhead, and the frightened soldiers mill about in the glare looking for their shoes and socks.
The captain shouts into the frightened face of the major, "You never fight a battle with a river behind you — you — fucking dunce, you!" Above the roar of the shelling, he shouts to his disorganized troops, "Get back across the bridge!! Leave everything — run for the bridge!!"
How many men did we leave on that grassy bank, bitch? About a third of them, right? Almost 80 men — dead and dying barefoot men. Then the gunfire followed us back across the bridge, moving with us as we ran, and looking back we could see what looked like piles of clothing left behind in the fading light. Some of it moved; some of it did not. There was the sound of men crying in pain, fear, and frustration. In the bloody game of war, crying is the saddest sound of all.
Was that the way it was, bitch? That's the way I remember it. What do I do now? Where do I go — where am I? Bitch — don't leave me here alone!! Where are you?
I know she's gone, but I turn around just to make sure. She's through with me for the evening. Where does she go when she gets through with me? I'd like to ask her how the story's going, but she keeps her opinions to herself — no feedback. You never know until the rejections come back. It's too late then — you sit and wonder — "Maybe if I'd done it this way." Maybe. Maybe.
Well, that's enough for tonight; war is hell sure enough. There is no reason for the butchery of war — the impersonal slaughter of stockyard cattle. But writing about war is worse than hell. It brings it all back to you. I pull the cover over the typewriter and turn out the light — it's been a warm day for September, but there's a chill this evening.
Down at the edge of the lake I can see a deer drinking. The moon is rising and across the face of it I see an endless line of geese. No wonder Aggie loves it here. She would be happy to stay on the shore of this lake through the winter — with the moose and the bears, sleighing into town once a week for the mail and the papers. She's a country girl at heart and constant as the tick of time. Not like the bitch! Painted smile — she'll drop you like a hot potato the minute you lose the knack of writing.
I remember the first book, the novel. "A new voice!" "A rich promise for the future." "An astounding achievement for one so young." "A depth of understanding and an economy of language recalling the best of Hemingway and Faulkner." How sweet it is to remember the praise. No thought, regardless of its complexity, was beyond my power to put into words. The bitch hung on my arm like a floozy, and she'd laugh and cry at anything I said. The second book went slower, so slow in fact that I started the third before I finished the second. Then I caught the bitch blowing on some other man's dice.
"Aggie, you're still awake."
"I wanted to finish this. I hate taking half-read books back to the city. Are you okay?" That's the gentle way she has of asking me how the writing went.
"Got through the battle, Aggie. That's the easy part. The hard part is what to do with the losers. The bitch will help me. She knows all about losers."
I wash up quickly and get into the striped nightgown Aggie bought me in town. The bed is cold on my side, and I grunge close to her to share some of her warmth. We huddle together and watch the September moon climb higher. The trees are thinner now, and the light in the bedroom is nearly as bright as day.
"Here," she says, "put these on." She opens the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out a pair of eyeshades.
We sleep so well together — like two spoons in the silver drawer, or as close as pages in a book (There I go with the lacework again!). We breathe at the same time and turn at the same time. I've often wondered how Siamese twins must sleep, and I'm sure they sleep no closer than Aggie and I. There is one major difference — she wakes earlier than I do, and this morning is no exception.
"Harley, you know what time it is?"
"2 a.m. Go back to sleep; it's pitch dark."
"Take off your eyeshades. The sun is up bright and clear. It's 7:30."
"I don't have eyeshades on."
"You do. You look like you're playing pin the tail on the donkey."
I push the eyeshades up, and the sunlight is bouncing off the rippling surface of the lake. The ceiling quivers like yellow fire, and the birds are making the most God-awful racket. I let one arm creep out from under the covers to test the temperature.
"It must be forty degrees in here! We'll die if we get out of bed!"
Without a word of warning, she gets up, pulls the covers off me and runs into the bathroom. There is nothing for it but to start the day. I find my slippers and the leather coat I wear outdoors. I can see my breath as I head for the kitchen where I turn on all four gas jets and the oven. Aggie enters fully dressed wanting to know where her breakfast is. Like everything else, we do it together.
"I'll finish the book by the end of the week, Aggie."
"Then what?"
"Then it's back to the city, I guess. A final draft on the word processor and over to Harpers — it's called "The Bridge" by the way. We should really begin calling it by its Christian name. It'll be the fourth, Aggie, God be with us." As though by magic, the toast popped up and the water kettle whistled. We both said "Amen!"
"You've got no reason to worry. You sent the first six chapters to Harpers two months ago — they loved it, didn't they?"
"You can't be too careful, Aggie. When a publisher loves the beginning it means he expects the ending will be an improvement."
By Friday night the first full draft was done. There was a lot of "xxxx's" and stuck-on paragraphs, but all the words were there. With the bitch's help, I got myself through the court martial, the 'old-boy' cover up of Major Joplin and his final suicide in the Commissioned Officers' barracks in Naples. Everything was in its place, neat and tidy.
Aggie had been packing all week. We stuffed all the left-over edibles in plastic bags and left them in the cupboards for the October hunters. The leftover inedibles were spread around outside for our four legged friends. By Saturday morning there was nothing to do but go.
It is a gray day, a good kind of day to be leaving a place you remember with affection. It occurs to me as I back out the driveway that I haven't left this bungalow in a month. Aggie's been running in and out of town for food and mail, and as we roll through its quiet main street, I can't remember having been here since we arrived.
"I'm ashamed to say it, Aggie, but I feel like a stranger here. Is that the post office?"
"Yes — it's the Town Hall too. Over there is Peavey's hardware where I got the mouse traps, and we're passing Oldheimer's General Store." She rolled her window down and shouted, "Morning, Lennie!"
She turns to me, "Lennie's the only plumber in town — he's the one who snaked out our john." She rolls the window back up again. "I like it here, Harley, it's the first time I've felt at home in a place since we've been married." She looks away quickly . . . "I could make this our final stop. Know what I mean?"
"Tell you what, Aggie. If "The Bridge" works out, there's no reason we can't find a place up here." It sounds like a hollow promise to me, and I wonder if Aggie thinks so too.
"You want me to be honest with you, Harley?"
"Sure."
She settle herself diagonally between the back of the seat and the door so she can see my expression as she talks.
"You're not a great writer, Harley. You know that, don't you?"
"Well . . . "
"Don't get me wrong, you're good — sometimes you're very good, but you're not a great writer. There's only a handful of great writers, aren't there, Harley? 'The Bridge' will put us on easy street for a while, and it'll make a bundle for Harpers, but you're going to have to be there to make it happen. If you were great, you could write anywhere in the world. The world would find you wherever you were.
"You're telling me something I already know, Aggie. I'm not that good. I'm as good as I'll ever be, but not as good as I want to be.
"I love you, Harley. I love you as a husband. You're the only husband I will ever have — the only one I'll ever want, but I know your limitations just as I know my own. "
She turned in her seat to face forward, "I wonder . . . "
"What do you wonder, Aggie?"
"If it was the other way around, I mean." She took a deep breath and seemed to be searching for the right words. "I've always had to share you with that bitch of yours, you know?"
"Not really, Aggie."
"Oh yes! Maybe she's only in your head — but when she's with you, I have to wait. I have to wait until she's through with you." She looked down at the map folded in her lap. "You stay on here 'til exit 32, then it's a clear shot to I-95."
"What did you mean about the other way around?"
"Oh, nothing. It just came to me how you might feel if I was the one with the talent, that's all. How would it be for you, Harley — suppose I had a bastard instead of a bitch — suppose you had to wait in bed for me until he was done?" She reached over and touched the side of my face — "You didn't shave, did you?"
"I forgot."
"That's the strange thing, dear. The bitch doesn't care, but I do."