Drunk with Love Read online

  Drunk With Love

  A Book of Stories

  Ellen Gilchrist

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1986 by Ellen Gilchrist

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition September 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-63576-220-4

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  I Drunk With Love Drunk With Love

  Nineteen Forty-One

  The Expansion of the Universe

  Adoration

  II Bad Times in a Good Land The Emancipator

  Memphis

  The Young Man

  First Manhattans

  The Cast Diet

  III The Islands The Blue-Eyed Buddhist

  Belize

  IV The Dishes Can Wait Traceleen at Dawn

  Anna, Part 1

  Also by Ellen Gilchrist

  Connect with Diversion Books

  For Don and Roger, Compadres, Friends

  “What has been overlooked is the irrational, the inconsistent, the droll, even the insane, which nature, inexhaustibly operative, implants in an individual, seemingly for her own amusement.”

  Albert Einstein

  I

  Drunk With Love

  Drunk With Love

  Freddy Harwood sat in his office at his bookstore in Berkeley, California with his feet up on the desk and chewed the edge of his coffee cup. Frances came to the door three times to see if he would talk but he wouldn’t even look at her. “You’ve got to send back those calligraphy books,” she said. “We haven’t sold a single one. I told you not to get that many.”

  “I don’t want to send them back,” he said. “I want them right where they are. Don’t talk to me now, Frances. I’m thinking.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. Now go on. Close the door.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nora Jane’s pregnant.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Leave me alone, Frances. Please shut the door.”

  “You need someone to talk to. You need—”

  “Go run the bookstore, Frances. Please don’t stand there.”

  She left the door open. Freddy got up and closed it. He laid his feet on a stack of invoices and stuck the edge of his thumb into his mouth. Manic-depressive, he decided. I was perfectly all right five minutes ago, a normal average neurotic walking down the street on my way to do my share of the world’s work, on my way to add my light to the store of light, on my way to run the single most financially depressed bookstore in northern California and maybe the world. Perfectly, absolutely all right. Normal. And the minute I came in this room I started thinking about her and all she ever did in this room in my life was try to rob me. My God, I love her.

  He raised his hands to his face. He made a catcher’s mitt out of his hands and laid his face into that container. This is it, he decided, what all the science and art and philosophy and poetry and literature and movies were supposed to deliver me from and they have failed. A baby inside of her and it might not even be mine. A curved universe, low and inside, coming at me below the knees.

  The first shock passed up the desk and through his hands and into his jaw. Books fell from their shelves, a chair slid into a window, there were crashes downstairs. She’s in the car, he thought. She’s in that goddamn convertible. He got up and pulled the door open and moved out into the hall. The stairway was still there. He ran down the stairs and found Frances in the History section holding on to a man in a raincoat. Several customers were huddled around the cash register. Willis and Eileen were on the floor with their arms over their heads. “Get out in the street,” Freddy yelled. “For Christ’s sake, get out of here. There’s too much to fall. Let’s go. Let’s get outside.” He pushed a group of customers through the turnstile. The second shock came. A section of art books fell across Children’s Fantasy.

  “Out the door,” he was screaming. “For Christ’s sake get out the door. Frances, get over here. Get out that door before it shatters.” He dragged the customers along with him. They were barely out the door when the third shock came. The front window collapsed around the sign Clara Books, Clara For Light. His baby. The whole front window caved in upon a display of photography books. It moved in great triangular plates right down on top of Irving Penn and Ansel Adams and Disfarmer and David Hockney and Eugene Smith. A five-thousand-dollar print of “Country Doctor” fell across the books. “Is anyone else in there?” Freddy yelled. “Willis, where is Allison? Was she in the storeroom?”

  “She’s here,” Willis said. “Right here by me.” Telegraph Avenue was full of people. They were streaming out of the stores. A woman in a sari was running toward them. She grabbed Freddy’s arm and pulled him toward a door. “In there,” she was screaming. “My babies in there. You save them. In there.” She pulled him toward the door of a restaurant. “In there,” she kept saying, pointing to the door, pulling on his arm. “My babies in there. In the kitchen. In there.” He pushed her behind him and walked into the restaurant. He moved between the tables, past the barstools and the bar, and turned into a narrow hall. He went down a hallway and into a kitchen and pushed a fallen counter out of his way and there they were, huddled beneath a sink, two little boys. He covered them with wet tablecloths and picked them up, one under each arm, and walked back out the way he had come. He handed them to a policeman and sank down onto the pavement on top of a tablecloth and began to cry. He rolled up in a ball on the wet white tablecloth and cried his heart out. Then he went to sleep. And into a terrible dream. In the dream Nora Jane’s retreating back moved farther and farther away from him through the length of Golden Gate Park. Come back, he yelled after her, come back, I’m sorry I said it. I’m sorry. You goddamn unforgiving, Roman Catholic bitch, come back. Don’t you dare break my heart, you heartless uneducated child. Come back to me.

  He woke up in a hospital room with his best friend, Nieman Bosley, standing beside his bed. Nieman was a film critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. On the other side of the bed was his mother. His hands were bandaged and there were newspapers piled up on a tray. “You’re a hero,” Nieman said. “Coast to coast. Every paper in the U.S.A.”

  “My hands hurt,” he said. “My hands are killing me.”

  “It’s only skin,” his mother said. “Stuart’s been here all night. He said they’re going to heal. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Where is Nora Jane? Nieman, WHERE IS NORA JANE?”

  “She’s on her way. She was on a bridge. She’s in Sausalito with some plastic surgeon’s wife.”

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s Friday. The city’s a mess. It’s the worst quake in fifty years. Do you want some water?”

  “She’s pregnant. Nora Jane’s going to have a baby. Where is she, Nieman? I want to see her.”

  “She’s coming. It’s hard to get around right now, Freddy. She’s on her way.”

  “Get me something for my hands, will you? Goddammit, where is Stuart? Tell him to get me some butter. You have to put butter on it, for Christ’s sake. Mother, get Stuart in here. That bastard. Where is he? If he was all burned up I wouldn’t be wandering around somewhere.
Tell him to get me some butter for my goddamn hands.” Stuart was a heart surgeon. He was Freddy’s older brother. “I want some butter, for God’s sake. Go tell him to get in here.” A nurse appeared and slipped a needle out of a cone and put it into Freddy’s arm and he drifted back down into his dreams. These dreams were better. It was the beach at Malibu on a windy day, the undertow signs were up and the sun was shining and everyone was sitting around under umbrellas drinking beer. Nieman was filming it. It was a movie about Malibu. They were going to make a million dollars by just being themselves on a beach telling stories and letting Nieman film it.

  “She’s pregnant?” Mrs. Harwood said, looking at Nieman. “His little girlfriend’s pregnant?”

  “It’s been quite a day,” Nieman said. “Well, your son’s a hero,” he added.

  “Do you think his hands will be all right?”

  “Medical science can do anything now.”

  Nora Jane Whittington was on the Richmond–San Rafael bridge when the earthquake moved across the beautiful city of San Francisco, California. She got out of her car and made her way around the front and climbed into a station wagon full of babies being driven by one Madge Johnson of Sausalito, California. After Nora Jane and Madge were rescued by the Coast Guard they went to Madge’s house in Sausalito and Madge’s husband, who was a plastic surgeon, took everyone’s pulse and the maid fed them supper and Nora Jane told the Johnsons the story of her life, up to and including the fact that she was pregnant and wasn’t sure if the father was Freddy Harwood or her old boyfriend, Sandy. “You can have an amnio,” Doctor Johnson suggested. “That way you’ll at least know if it’s a girl or a boy.” He laughed at his joke.

  “My God, Arnold, that’s incredible you would joke at a thing like this,” Madge said. “I am really upset with you.”

  “That is how men face the facts of conception.” Doctor Johnson straightened his shoulders and went into his lecture mode. “Men always get dizzy and full of fear and hilarity at the idea of children being conceived. It’s a phenomenon that has been documented in many cultures. They have photographed men everywhere, including some very remote tribes in New Guinea, being presented with the fact that a conception has taken place and they uniformly begin to joke about the matter, many going into this sort of uncontrolled smiling laughing state. In much the same way people are often filled with laughter at funerals. It seems to be a clue to the darkness or fear of death hiding in us all. . . .”

  “Oh, please,” Madge said. “Not now. About this amnio. I think you should consider it, Nora. It would at least tell the blood type.”

  “What exactly do they do?” Nora Jane said. “They stick a needle down where the baby is? I don’t like that idea. How do they know where it is? I don’t see how that could be a good idea, to make a hole in there, a germ might get in.”

  “Oh, they’ve got it all on a sonar screen while they’re doing it,” Doctor Johnson said. “There’s no chance a good technician would injure the baby. For your own peace of mind you ought to go on and clear this up. It’s the modern world, Nora Jane. Take advantage of it. Well, it’s up to you.”

  “Of course it’s up to her,” Madge said. “Let’s turn on the television again. I want to see what happened in the city.”

  The television came on. Scenes of downtown San Francisco, followed by shots of firemen escorting people from buildings. There were broken monuments, stretchers, smashed automobiles. Then Freddy Harwood’s face appeared, a shot Nieman had taken years ago at a Berkeley peace rally. “Bookstore owner walks into burning building,” the announcer was saying. “In an act of unparalleled daring and courage a Telegraph Avenue bookstore owner walked into a Vietnamese restaurant and carried out two small children through what firemen described as an inferno. He was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital where he is being treated for burns of the hands and legs. The governor has sent greetings and in a press release the President of the United States said . . .”

  “It’s Freddy,” Nora Jane said. “Oh, my God, Madge, that’s him. How can I call him?”

  Now Nora Jane stood at the foot of the hospital bed. Madge and Doctor Johnson were with her. Nieman had moved back. Mrs. Harwood was still stationed by her son’s head. “He said you were going to have a baby,” she said. “I think that’s wonderful. I want you to know I will do anything I can to help.” She lifted her hands. She held them out to the girl.

  “How is he?” Nora Jane said. “Are his hands going to be okay?”

  “They’ll heal,” Nieman said. “He’s a hero, Nora Jane. He’s gone the distance. That’s the important thing. After you do that you can fix the rest.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Nora Jane said. “I never knew a hero.” She moved closer to the bed. She lay her head down on Freddy’s crazy hairy chest. She very softly lay her head down upon his heart. He was breathing. No one spoke. Mrs. Harwood looked down at the floor. Madge rolled her hips into Doctor Johnson’s leg. Nieman closed his mind.

  “Nora Jane was a hero too,” Madge said. “She helped me so much on the bridge. I never would have made it without her. I had a whole carpool with me.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Nora Jane said. “I just came over there because I was afraid to be alone.” She stood up, put her hand on Freddy’s head, looked at his mother. She was thinking about something he did when he made love to her. He pretended he was retarded. “Oh, Missy Nora Jane, you so good to come and see us at the home,” he would say. “Miss Dater, she say we should be so good to you. You want me to do what I do for Miss Dater? Miss Dater, she say I’m so good at it. She say I get all the cookies and candy I can eat. She say—”

  “Shut up,” Nora Jane would say whenever he started that. “I won’t make love to you if you pretend to be retarded.” Now that he was a hero she wished she had let him do it. She giggled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking about something he does that’s funny. He does a lot of real crazy things.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Mrs. Harwood said. “I’m his mother.”

  “He’s waking up,” Nieman said. “Don’t talk about him. He can hear.” Freddy opened his eyes, then closed them again, then waved his hands in the air, then moaned. He opened one eye, then the other. He was looking right at her. Nora Jane’s heart melted. “Oh, Freddy,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “You’re going to marry me,” he said. He sat up on his elbow. “You are going to marry me, goddammit. You can’t play with somebody’s affections like that. I’m a serious man and SERIOUS PEOPLE GET MARRIED. Goddammit, my hands are killing me. Mother, would you get Stuart to come in here. That GODDAMN STUART, THEY OUGHT TO TAKE HIS LICENSE AWAY . . . NORA JANE.”

  She put her hands on his chest. It seemed the best place to touch him. “I’ll get a test,” she said. “Doctor Johnson’s going to fix it up.”

  “I don’t want a test,” he said. “I want you to marry me.” He sank back down on the pillows. He was starting to cry again. Tears were starting to run down his face. His mother looked away. Nieman was writing it. I admire your passion, he was writing. I always admire passion. Freddy kept on crying. Madge and Doctor Johnson clutched each other. Nora Jane moved her hands up onto his shoulder. “Please don’t cry anymore,” she said. “You have a good time. You have a happy life. You watch movies all the time and read books and go up to Willets and camp out and build your solar house. Freddy, please stop crying. We’re alive, aren’t we? I mean, we’re lucky to be alive. A lot of people got killed.” He stopped at that.

  “Wipe off my face, will you, Mother? And tell Stuart to get in here and put something on my hands. Oh, shit. Could I have another shot? I really want another shot.”

  “I love you,” Nora Jane said. “I really love you, Freddy. I’m not just saying that. You are the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you do.” Then the nurse came in the room with Freddy’s brother right behind her and they moved everyone out into the hall and put h
im back to sleep.

  Twelve injections of Demerol, seven days on Valium and Tylenol Number Three, four days on Bayer aspirin, failed attempts at transcendental meditation, self-hypnosis, and positive thinking, three days of walking all over the Mount Sinai Hospital behind the bookmobile, and Freddy was dismissed, with his hands still bandaged, to resume his normal life. Nora Jane picked him up at the emergency entrance. Three nurses helped him into the car, piling the backseat with flowers and plants.

  “Stop off somewhere and get rid of these goddamn flowers,” Freddy said, as soon as they pulled out onto the freeway. “I had to take them.”

  “I never saw anybody get that many flowers in my life, even when the archbishop died.”

  “Let’s go to Peet’s. I want a cup of real coffee so goddamn much.”

  “I made an appointment to get an amnio. They said I could come in tomorrow. I, well, never mind that.”

  “What? Never mind what? Cut down Redwood.”

  “I know. I was going to. Listen, I think you’ll be sorry I did it. Well, anyway, what difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference to me.”

  “It might not even tell me anything. I don’t even know what blood type Sandy is. Well, never mind it. I don’t know how we got into this.” She parked the car across from Peet’s and turned around in the seat and put her hands on his bandages. “I like you the most of anyone I’ve ever made love to or run around with. That’s true and you know it. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. But I am not in love with you and that is also true.” Her black curls were violet in the sun. Her shoulders were bare beneath the straps of her sundress. If he could not have her there was no reason for anything. If he could not have her there was no reason in the world, all was madness and random evil and stupid jokes being played by the galaxy and all its real and imagined gods. Gods, yes, if he could not have her there must be gods after all, only something in the image of man could be so dumb, mistaken, ignorant and cruel. The sun beat down on Nora Jane’s blue convertible, it beat down on her head and shoulders and Freddy Harwood’s bandaged hands. “You don’t have to love me, Nora Jane. As long as that baby belongs to me.”