Our Story Begins: New and Selected Stories by Tobias Wolff
The brim of Claire’s hat waved up and down. She seemed to be having an idea she agreed with. “Looks are part of it,” she said, “definitely. But not the whole story. With sex, it never is just one thing, is it? Like technique, for instance.” She turned and started down the road again, head still pensively bent. April could feel a lecture coming on. Claire taught sociology at the same junior college where April’s father used to teach psych, and like him she was quick to mount the podium.
“People write about technique,” she said, “as if it’s the whole ball game, which is a complete joke. You know who’s really getting off on technique? Publishers, that’s who. Because they can turn it into a commodity. They can merchandise it as how-to, like traveling in Mexico or building a redwood deck. The only problem is, it doesn’t work. You know why? Because it turns sex into a literary experience.”
April couldn’t stop herself from giggling. This made her sound foolish, as she knew.
“I’m serious,” Claire said. “You can tell right away that it’s coming out of some book. You start seeing yourself in one of those little squiggly drawings, with your zones all marked out and some earnest little cartoon guy working through them one by one, being really considerate.”
Claire stopped again and gazed out over the fields that lined the road, resting one hand on top of a fence post. Back in the old days, according to April’s father, the patients used to grow things in these fields. Now they were overgrown with scrubby trees and tall yellow grass. Insects shrilled loudly.
“That’s another reason those books are worthless,” Claire said. “They’re all about sharing, being tender, anticipating your partner’s needs, et cetera et cetera. It’s like Sunday school in bed. I’m not kidding, April. That’s what it’s all about, this technique stuff. Judeo-Christian conscientiousness. The Golden Rule. You know what I mean?”
“I guess,” April said.
“We’re talking about a very basic transaction,” Claire said. “A lot more basic than lending money to a friend. Think about it. Lending is a highly evolved activity. Other species don’t do it, only us. Just look at all the things that go into lending money. Social stability, trust, generosity. Imagining yourself in the other person’s place. It’s incredibly advanced, incredibly civilized. I’m all for it. My point is, sex comes from another place. Sex isn’t civilized. It isn’t about being unselfish.”
An ambulance went slowly past. April looked after it, then back at Claire, who was still staring out over the fields. April saw the line of her profile in the shadow of the hat, saw how dry and cool her skin was, the composure of her smile. April saw these things and felt her own sticky, worried, incomplete condition. “We ought to get going,” she said.
“To tell the truth,” Claire said, “that was one of the things that attracted me to Darsh. He was totally selfish, totally out to please himself. That gave him a certain heat. A certain power. The libbers would kill me for saying this, but it’s true. Did I ever tell you about our honeymoon?”
“No.” April made her voice flat and grudging, though she was curious.
“Or the maid thing? Did I ever tell you about Darsh’s maid thing?”
“No,” April said again. “What about the honeymoon?”
Claire said, “That’s a long story. I’ll tell you about the maid thing.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” April said.
Claire went on smiling to herself. “Back when Darsh was a kid, his mother took him on a trip to Europe. The grand tour. He was too young for it, thirteen, fourteen—that age. By the time they got to Amsterdam he was sick of museums, he never wanted to see another painting in his life. That’s the trouble with pushing culture at children, they end up hating it. It’s better to let them come to it on their own, don’t you think?”
April shrugged.
“Take Jane Austen, for example. They were shoving Jane Austen down my throat when I was in the eighth grade. Pride and Prejudice. Of course I absolutely loathed it, because I couldn’t see what was really going on, the sexual play behind the manners, the social critique, the economics. I hadn’t lived. You have to have some life under your belt before you can make any sense of a book like that.
“Anyway, Darsh dug in his heels when they got to Amsterdam. He wouldn’t budge. He stayed in the hotel room all day long, reading mysteries and ordering stuff from room service, while his mother went out and looked at paintings. One afternoon a maid came up to the room to polish the chandelier. She had a stepladder, and from where Darsh was sitting he couldn’t help seeing up her dress. All the way up, okay? And she knew it. He knew she knew, because after a while he didn’t even try to hide it, he just stared. She didn’t say a word. Not one. She took her sweet time up there too, polishing every pendant, cool as a cucumber. Darsh said it went on for a couple of hours, which means maybe half an hour—which is a pretty long time, if you think about it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened. That’s the whole point, April. If something had happened it would’ve broken the spell. It would have let out all that incredible energy. But it stayed locked in. It’s always there, boiling away at this insane fourteen-year-old level, just waiting to explode. Maids are one of Darsh’s real hot spots. He used to own the whole outfit, probably still does—you know, frilly white blouse, black skirt, black nylons with all the little snaps. It’s a cliché, of course. Pornographers have been using it for a hundred years. But so what. It still works. Most of our desires are clichés, right? Ready to wear, one size fits all. I doubt if it’s even possible to have an original desire anymore.”
“He actually made you wear that stuff?”
April saw Claire freeze at her words, as if she’d said something hurtful and low. Claire straightened up and slowly started walking again. April hung back, then followed a few steps behind until Claire waited for her to catch up. After a time Claire said, “No, dear. He didn’t make me do anything. It’s exciting when somebody wants something that much. I loved the way he looked at me. Like he wanted to eat me alive, but innocent too.
“Maybe it sounds cheap. It’s hard to describe.”
Claire was quiet then, and so was April. She did not feel any need for description. She thought she could imagine the look Darsh had given Claire; in fact she could see it perfectly, though no one had ever given her such a look. Certainly not Stuart. She felt safe with him, safe and sleepy. Nobody like Stuart would ever make her as careless and willing as Darsh had made Claire in the stories she told about him. It seemed to April that she already knew Darsh, and that he knew her—as if he’d sensed her listening to these stories and was conscious of her interest.
They were almost at the road. April stopped to look back but the hospital buildings were out of sight now, behind the brow of the hill. She turned and walked on. She had one more of these trips to make. The week after that her father would be coming home. He’d been theatrically calm all through their visit, sitting by the window in an easy chair, feet propped on the ottoman, a newspaper across his lap. He was wearing slippers and a cardigan sweater. All he needed was a pipe. He seemed fine, the very picture of health, but that was all it was: a picture. At home he never read the paper. He didn’t sit down much either. The last time April saw him outside the hospital, a month ago, he was under restraint in their landlord’s apartment, where he’d gone to complain about the shower. He’d been kicking and yelling. His glasses were hanging from one ear. He was shouting at her to call the cops, and one of the policemen holding him down was laughing helplessly.
He hadn’t crashed yet. He was still flying. April had seen it in his eyes behind the lithium or whatever they were giving him, and she was sure that Claire had seen it too. Claire didn’t say anything, but April had been through this with Ellen, her first stepmother, and she’d developed an instinct. She was afraid that Claire had already had enough, that she wasn’t going to come back from Italy. Not back to them, anyway. It wouldn’t happen according to some
She didn’t want Claire to go. Claire had her ways, but she had been good to her, especially in the beginning, when April was always finding fault. She’d put up with it. She’d been patient and let April come to her in her own time. One night April leaned against her when they were reading on the couch, and Claire leaned back, and neither of them drew away. It became their custom to sit like that, braced against each other, reading. Claire thought about things. She had always spoken honestly to April, though with a certain decorum. Now the decorum was gone. Ever since she got the idea that April was “intimate” with Stuart, Claire had withdrawn the protections of ceremony and tact, as she would soon withdraw the protections of her income and her care and her presence.
There was no hope of changing things back. And even if there were, even if by saying I’m still a virgin she could turn Claire into some kind of perfect mother, April wouldn’t do it. It would sound ridiculous and untrue. It wasn’t really true, except as a fact about her body, and April did not see virginity as residing in the body. To her it was a quality of the spirit, and something you could only surrender in spirit. She had done this; she didn’t know exactly when or how, but she knew she had done this and she didn’t regret it. She did not want to be a virgin and would not pretend to be one, not for anything. When she thought of a virgin she saw someone half naked, with dumb trusting eyes and flowers woven into her hair, bound at the wrists. She saw a clearing in the jungle, and in the clearing an altar.
Their bus had come and gone, and they had a long wait until the next one. Claire settled on the bench and started reading a book. April had forgotten hers. She sat with Claire for a while, then got up and paced the street when Claire’s serenity became intolerable. She walked with her arms crossed and her head bent forward, frowning, scuffing her shoes. Cars rushed past blaring music; a big sailboat on a trailer; a convoy of military trucks, headlights on, soldiers swaying in back. The air was blue with exhaust. April looked in the window of a tire store and saw herself. She squared her shoulders, dropped her arms to her sides, and kept them there by an effort of will as she walked farther up the boulevard to where a line of plastic pennants fluttered over a Toyota lot. A man in a creamy suit was standing in the showroom window, watching the traffic. Even from where she stood April could see the rich drape of his suit. He had high cheekbones, black hair combed straight back from his forehead, and a big clean blade of a nose. He looked absolutely self-possessed and possibly dangerous, and April understood that he took some care to convey this. She knew he was aware of her, but he never bothered to turn in her direction. She wandered among the cars, then went back to the bus stop and slumped down on the bench.
“I’m bored,” she said.
Claire didn’t answer.
“Aren’t you bored?”
“Not especially,” Claire said. “The bus will be here before long.”
“Sure, in about two weeks.” April stuck her legs out and knocked the sides of her shoes together. “Let’s take a walk,” she said.
“I’m all walked out. But you go ahead. Just don’t get too far away.”
“Not alone, Claire. I didn’t mean alone. Come on, this is boring.” April hated the sound of her voice and could tell Claire didn’t like it either. Claire closed her book. She sat without moving, then said, “I guess I don’t have any choice.”
April rocked to her feet. She took a few steps and waited as Claire put the book in her purse, stood, ran her hands down the front of her skirt, and came slowly toward her.
“We’ll just stretch our legs,” April said. She led Claire up the street to the car lot, where she left the sidewalk and began circling a red Celica convertible.
“I thought you wanted to walk,” Claire said.
“Right, just a minute,” April said. Then the side door of the showroom swung open and the man in the suit came out. At first he seemed not to know they were there. He knelt beside a sedan and wrote something down on a clipboard. He got up and peered at the sticker on the windshield and wrote something else down. Only then did he permit himself to take notice of them. After he’d taken a long hard look at Claire, he told her to let him know if she needed anything. His voice had a studied, almost insolent neutrality.
“We’re just waiting for a bus,” Claire said.
“How does this car stack up against the RX-7?” April asked.
“You surely jest.” He came toward them through the cars. “I could sell against Mazda any day of the week, if I were selling.”
April said, “You’re not a salesman?”
He stopped in front of the Celica. “We don’t have salesmen here. We just collect money and try to keep the crowds friendly.”
“You’ve got half of this crowd eating out of your hand,” Claire said.
“That’s a year old,” he said. “Loaded to the gills. Came in last night on a repossession. It’ll be gone this time tomorrow. Look at the odometer, sweet pea. What does the odometer say?”
April opened the door and leaned inside. “Four thousand and two,” she said. She sat in the driver’s seat and worked the gearshift.
“Exactly. Four K. Still on its first tank of gas.”
“Little old lady owned it, right?” Claire said.
He gave her another long look before answering. “Little old Marine. Went to the land of the great sand dune and didn’t keep up his payments. I’ve got the keys right here.”
“We can’t. Sorry, maybe another day.”
“I know, you’re waiting for a bus. So kill some time.”
April got out of the car but left the door open. “Claire, you have to try this seat,” she said.
“We should go,” Claire said.
“Claire, you just have to,” April said. “Come on, Claire.”
The man walked over to the open door and held out his hand. “Madame,” he said. When Claire stayed where she was, he made a flourish and said, “Madame! Entrez!”
Claire walked up to the car. “We really should go,” she said. She sat sideways on the seat and swung her legs inside, all in one motion. She nodded at the man, and he closed the door. “Yes,” he said, “exactly as I thought. The designer was a friend of yours, a very special friend. This automobile was obviously built with you in mind.”
“You look great,” April said. It was true, and she could see that Claire was in complete possession of that truth. The knowledge was in the set of her mouth, the easy way her hands came to rest on the wheel.
“There’s something missing,” the man said. He studied her. “Sunglasses,” he said. “A beautiful woman in a convertible has to be wearing sunglasses.”
“Put on your sunglasses,” April said.
“Please,” the man said gently. He leaned against the car and stood over Claire, his back to April, and April understood that she was not to speak again. Her part in this was done; he would close the deal. He said something in a low voice, and Claire took her sunglasses from her purse and slipped them on. Then she handed him her hat. A gust of heat blew over the lot, rattling the pennants, as April walked toward the showroom. It looked cool in there behind the tinted glass. Quiet. They’d have coffee in the waiting area, old copies of People. She could give her feet a rest and catch up on the stars.
The Other Miller
For two days now Miller has been standing in the rain with the rest of Bravo Company, waiting for some men from another company to blunder down the logging road where Bravo waits in ambush. When this happens, if it happens, Miller will stick his head out of the hole he’s hiding in and shoot off all his blank ammunition in the direction of the road. So will everyone else in Bravo Company. Then they’ll climb out of their holes and get on some trucks and go home, back to the base.
This is the plan.
When he thinks of the other company, the one they’re supposed to ambush, Miller sees a column of dry, well-fed men marching farther and farther away from the hole where he stands waiting for them. He sees them moving easily under light packs. He sees them stopping for a smoke break, stretching out under the trees on fragrant beds of pine needles, the murmur of their voices growing more and more faint as one by one they drift into sleep.
It’s the truth, by God. Miller knows it like he knows he’s going to catch a cold, because that’s his luck. If he was in the other company they’d be the ones standing in holes.
Miller’s tongue does something to the bridge and a thrill of pain shoots through him. He snaps up straight, eyes burning, teeth clenched against the yell in his throat. He fights it back and glares around him at the other men. The few he can see look stunned and ashen-faced. Of the rest he can make out only their poncho hoods, sticking out of the ground like bullet-shaped rocks.