T.C. Boyle Stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle
The moment passed. The heat was deadening, the dog hysterical. Meg knew she would have to do something about the sodden yard and wet floor in the sun-room, but she dreaded facing the old woman. What would she say—I’m sorry your husband died but could you turn off the sprinklers? She was thinking maybe she’d phone—or wait till Sonny got home and let him handle it—when she stepped back from the fence and sank to her ankles in mud.
When the doorbell rang, Muriel was staring absently at the cover of an old National Geographic which lay beneath a patina of dust on the coffee table. The cover photo showed the beige and yellow sands of some distant desert, rippled to the horizon with corrugations that might have been waves on a barren sea. Monty was dead and buried. She wasn’t eating much. Or sleeping much either. The sympathy cards sat unopened on the table in the kitchen, where the tap overflowed the sink and water plunged to the floor with a pertinacity that was like a redemption. When it was quiet—in the early morning or late at night—she could distinguish the separate taps, each with its own voice and rhythm, as they dripped and trickled from the far corners of the house. In those suspended hours she could make out the comforting gurgle of the toilet in the guest room, the musical wash of the tub as water cascaded over the lip of its porcelain dam, the quickening rush of the stream in the hallway as it shot like a miniature Niagara down the chasm of the floor vent … she could hear the drip in the master bedroom, the distant hiss of a shower, and the sweet external sizzle of the sprinklers on the back lawn.
But now she heard the doorbell.
Wearily, gritting her teeth against the pain in her lower legs and the damp lingering ache of her feet, she pushed herself up from the chair and sloshed her way to the door. The carpet was black with water, soaked through like a sponge—and in a tidy corner of her mind she regretted it—but most of the runoff was finding its way to the heating vents and the gaps in the corners where Monty had miscalculated the angle of the baseboard. She heard it dripping somewhere beneath the house and for a moment pictured the water lying dark and still in a shadowy lagoon that held the leaking ship of the house poised on its trembling surface. The doorbell sounded again. “All right, all right,” she muttered, “I’m coming.”
A girl with dark circles round her eyes stood on the doorstep. She looked vaguely familiar, and for a moment Muriel thought she recognized her from a TV program about a streetwalker who rises up to kill her pimp and liberate all the other leather-clad, black-eyed streetwalkers of the neighborhood, but then the girl spoke and Muriel realized her mistake. “Hi,” the girl said, and Muriel saw that her shoes were black with mud, “I’m your neighbor? Meg Terwilliger?”
Muriel was listening to the bathroom sink. She said nothing. The girl looked down at her muddy shoes. “I, uh, just wanted to tell you that we’re, uh—Sonny and I, I mean—he’s my husband?—we’re sorry about your trouble and all, but I wondered if you knew your sprinklers were on out back?”
Muriel attempted a smile—surely a smile was appropriate at this juncture, wasn’t it?—but managed only to lift her upper lip back from her teeth in a sort of wince or grimace.
The girl was noticing the rug now, and Muriel’s sodden slippers. She looked baffled, perhaps even a little frightened. And young. So young. Muriel had had a young friend once, a girl from the community college who used to come to the house before Monty got sick. She had a tape recorder, and she would ask them questions about their childhood, about the days when the San Fernando Valley was dirt roads and orange groves. Oral history, she called it. “It’s all right,” Muriel said, trying to reassure her.
“I just—is it a plumbing problem?” the girl said, backing away from the door. “Sonny …” she said, but didn’t finish the thought. She ducked her head and retreated down the steps, but when she reached the walk she wheeled around. “I mean you really ought to see about the sprinklers,” she blurted, “the whole place is soaked, my sunroom and everything—”
“It’s all right,” Muriel repeated, and then the girl was gone and she shut the door.
“She’s nuts, she is. Really. I mean she’s out of her gourd.”
Meg was searing chunks of thresher shark in a pan with green chilies, sweet red pepper, onion, and cilantro. Sonny, who was twenty-eight and so intoxicated by real estate he had to forgo the morning paper till he got home at night, was slumped in the breakfast nook with a vodka tonic and the sports pages. His white-blond hair was cut fashionably, in what might once have been called a flattop, though it was thinning, and his open, appealing face, with its boyish look, had begun to show sings of wear, particularly around the eyes, where years of escrow had taken their toll. Tiffany was in her room, playing quietly with a pair of six-inch dolls that had cost sixty-five dollars each.
“Who?” Sonny murmured, tugging unconsciously at the gold chain he wore around his neck.
“Muriel. The old lady next door. Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve been saying?”
With an angry snap of her wrist, Meg cut the heat beneath the saucepan and clapped a lid over it. “The floor in the sunroom is flooded, for god’s sake,” she said, stalking across the kitchen in her bare feet till she stood poised over him. “The rug is ruined. Or almost is. And the yard—”
Sonny slapped the paper down on the table. “All right! Just let me relax a minute, will you?”
She put on her pleading look. It was a look compounded of pouty lips, tousled hair, and those inevitable eyes, and it always had its effect on him. “One minute,” she murmured. “That’s all it’ll take. I just want you to see the backyard.”
She took him by the hand and led him through the living room to the sun-room, where he stood a moment contemplating the damp spot on the concrete floor. She was surprised herself at how the spot had grown—it was three times what it had been this afternoon, and it seemed to have sprouted wings and legs like an enormous Rorschach. She pictured a butterfly. Or no, a hovering crow or bat. She wondered what Muriel would have made of it.
Outside, she let out a little yelp of disgust—all the earthworms in the yard had crawled up on the step to die. And the lawn wasn’t merely spongy now, it was soaked through, puddled like a swamp. “Jesus Christ,” Sonny muttered, sinking in his wingtips. He cakewalked across the yard to where the fence had begun to sag, the post leaning drunkenly, the slats bowed. “Will you look at this?” he shouted over his shoulder. Squeamish about the worms, Meg stood at the door to the sunroom. “The goddam fence is falling down!”
He stood there a moment, water seeping into his shoes, a look of stupefaction on his face. Meg recognized the look. It stole over his features in moments of extremity, as when he tore open the phone bill to discover mysterious twenty-dollar calls to Billings, Montana, and Greenleaf, Mississippi, or when his buyer called on the day escrow was. to close to tell him he’d assaulted the seller and wondered if Sonny had five hundred dollars for bail. These occasions always took him by surprise. He was shocked anew each time the crisply surveyed, neatly kept world he so cherished rose up to confront him with all its essential sloppiness, irrationality, and bad business sense. Meg watched the look of disbelief turn to one of injured rage. She followed him through the house, up the walk, and into Muriel’s yard, where he stalked up to the front door and pounded like the Gestapo.
There was no response.
“Son of a bitch,” he spat, turning to glare over his shoulder at her as if it were her fault or something. From inside they could hear the drama of running water, a drip and gurgle, a sough and hiss. Sonny turned back to the door, hammering his fist against it till Meg swore she could see the panels jump.
It frightened her, this sudden rage. Sure, there was a problem here and she was glad he was taking care of it, but did he have to get violent, did he have to get crazy? “You don’t have to beat her door down,” she called, focusing on the swell of his shoulder and the hammer of his fist as it rose and fell in savage rhythm. “Sonny, come on. It’s only water, for god’s sake.”
“Only?” he snar
Muriel was wearing the same faded blue housecoat she’d had on earlier, and the same wet slippers. Short, heavyset, so big in front it seemed as if she were about to topple over, she clung to the doorframe and peered up at Sonny out of a stony face. Meg watched as Sonny jerked round to confront her and then stopped cold when he got a look at the interior of the house. The plaster walls were stained now, drinking up the wet in long jagged fingers that clawed toward the ceiling, and a dribble of coffee-colored liquid began to seep across the doorstep and puddle at Sonny’s feet. The sound of rushing water was unmistakable, even from where Meg was standing. “Yes?” Muriel said, the voice withered in her throat. “Can I help you?”
It took Sonny a minute—Meg could see it in his eyes: this was more than he could handle, willful destruction of a domicile, every tap in the place on full, the floors warped, plaster ruined—but then he recovered himself. “The water,” he said. “You—our fence—I mean you can’t, you’ve got to stop this—”
The old woman drew herself up, clutching the belt of her housedress till her knuckles bulged with the tension. She looked first at Meg, still planted in the corner of the yard, and then turned to Sonny. “Water?” she said. “What water?”
The young man at the door reminded her, in a way, of Monty. Something about the eyes or the set of the ears—or maybe it was the crisp high cut of the sideburns … Of course, most young men reminded her of Monty. The Monty of fifty years ago, that is. The Monty who’d opened up the world to her over the shift lever of his Model-A Ford, not the crabbed and abrasive old man who called her bonehead and dildo and cuffed her like a dog. Monty. She saw him pinned beneath his tubes in the hospital and something stirred in her; she brought him home and changed his bedpan, peered into the vaults of his eyes, fed him Gerber’s like the baby she’d never had, and she knew it was over. Fifty years. No more drunken rages, no more pans flung against the wall, never again his sour flesh pressed to hers. She was on top now.
The second young man—he was a Mexican, short, stocky, with a mustache so thin it could have been penciled on and wicked little red-flecked eyes—also reminded her of Monty. Not so much in the way he looked as in the way he held himself, the way he swaggered and puffed out his chest. And the uniform too, of course. Monty had worn a uniform during the war.
“Mrs. Burgess?” the Mexican asked.
Muriel stood at the open door. It was dusk, the heat cut as if there were a thermostat in the sky. She’d been sitting in the dark. The electricity had gone out on her—something to do with the water and the wires. She nodded her head in response to the policeman’s question.
“We’ve had a complaint,” he said.
Little piggy eyes. A complaint. We’ve had a complaint. He wasn’t fooling her, not for a minute. She knew what they wanted, the police, the girl next door, and the boy she was married to—they wanted to bring Monty back. Prop him up against the bedframe, stick his legs back under him, put the bellow back in his voice. Oh, no, they weren’t fooling her.
She followed the policeman around the darkened house as he went from faucet to faucet, sink to tub to shower. He firmly twisted each of the taps closed and drained the basins, then crossed the patio to kill the sprinklers and the hose too. “Are you all right?” he kept asking. “Are you all right?”
She had to hold her chin in her palm to keep her lips from trembling. “If you mean am I in possession of my faculties, yes, I am, thank you. I am all right.”
They were back at the front door now. He leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “So what’s this with the water then?”
She wouldn’t answer him. She knew her rights. What business was it of his, or anybody’s, what she did with her own taps and her own sprinklers? She could pay the water bill. Had paid it, in fact. Eleven hundred dollars’ worth. She watched his eyes and shrugged.
“Next of kin?” he asked. “Daughter? Son? Anybody we can call?”
Now her lips held. She shook her head.
He gave it a moment, then let out a sigh. “Okay,” he said, speaking slowly and with exaggerated emphasis, as if he were talking to a child, “I’m going now. You leave the water alone—wash your face, brush your teeth, do the dishes. But no more of this.” He swaggered back from her, fingering his belt, his holster, the dead weight of his nightstick. “One more complaint and we’ll have to take you into custody for your own good. You’re endangering yourself and the neighbors too. Understand?”
Smile, she told herself, smile. “Oh, yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I understand.”
He held her eyes a moment, threatening her—just like Monty used to do, just like Monty—and then he was gone.
She stood there on the doorstep a long while, the night deepening around her. She listened to the cowbirds, the wild parakeets that nested in the Murtaughs’ palm, the whoosh of traffic from the distant freeway. After a while, she sat on the step. Behind her, the house was silent: no faucet dripped, no sprinkler hissed, no toilet gurgled. It was horrible. Insupportable. In the pit of that dry silence she could hear him, Monty, treading the buckled floors, pouring himself another vodka, cursing her in a voice like sandpaper.
She couldn’t go back in there. Not tonight. The place was deadly, contaminated, sick as the grave—after all was said and done, it just wasn’t clean enough. If the rest of it was a mystery—oral history, fifty years of Monty, the girl with the blackened eyes—that much she understood.
Meg was watering the cane plant in the living room when the police cruiser came for the old lady next door. The police had been there the night before and Sonny had stood out front with arms folded while the officer shut down Muriel’s taps and sprinklers. “I guess that’s that,” he said, coming up the walk in the oversized Hawaiian shirt she’d given him for Father’s Day. But in the morning, the sprinklers were on again and Sonny called the local substation three times before he left for work. She’s crazy, he’d hollered into the phone, irresponsible, a threat to herself and the community. He had a four-year-old daughter to worry about, for Christ’s sake. A dog. A wife. His fence was falling down. Did they have any idea what that amount of water was going to do to the substrata beneath the house?
Now the police were back. The patrol car stretched across the window and slid silently into the driveway next door. Meg set down the watering can. She was wearing her Fila sweats and a new pair of Nikes and her hair was tied back in a red scarf. She’d dropped Tiffany off at nursery school, but she had the watering and her stretching exercises to do and a pasta salad to make before she picked up Queenie at the vet’s. Still, she went directly to the front door and then out onto the walk.
The police—it took her a minute to realize that the shorter of the two was a woman—were on Muriel’s front porch, looking stiff and uncertain in their razor-creased uniforms. The man knocked first—once, twice, three times. Nothing happened. Then the woman knocked. Still nothing. Meg folded her arms and waited. After a minute, the man went around to the side gate and let himself into the yard. Meg heard the sprinklers die with a wheeze, and then the officer was back, his shoes heavy with mud.
Again he thumped at the door, much more violently now, and Meg thought of Sonny. “Open up,” the woman called in a breathy contralto she tried unsuccessfully to deepen, “police.”
It was then that Meg saw her, Muriel, at the bay window on the near side of the door. “Look,” she shouted before she knew what she was saying, “she’s there, there in the window!”
The male officer—he had a mustache and pale, fine hair like Sonny’s—leaned out over the railing and gestured impatiently at the figure behind the window. “Police,” he growled. “Open the door.” Muriel never moved. “All right,” he grunted, cursing under his breath, “all right,” and he put his
Meg waited. She had things to do, yes, but she waited anyway, bending to pull the odd dandelion the gardener had missed, trying to look busy. The police were in there an awful long time—twenty minutes, half an hour—and then the woman appeared in the doorway with Muriel.
Muriel seemed heavier than ever, her face pouchy, arms swollen. She was wearing white sandals on her old splayed feet, a shapeless print dress, and a white straw hat that looked as if it had been dug out of a box in the attic. The woman had her by the arm; the man loomed behind her with a suitcase. Down the steps and up the walk, she never turned her head. But then, just as the policewoman was helping her into the backseat of the patrol car, Muriel swung round as if to take one last look at her house. But it wasn’t the house she was looking at: it was Meg.
The morning gave way to the heat of afternoon. Meg finished the watering, made the pasta salad—bow-tie twists, fresh salmon, black olives, and pine nuts—ran her errands, picked up Tiffany, and put her down for a nap. Somehow, though, she just couldn’t get Muriel out of her head. The old lady had stared at her for five seconds maybe, and then the policewoman was coaxing her into the car. Meg had felt like sinking into the ground. But then she realized that Muriel’s look wasn’t vengeful at all—it was just sad. It was a look that said this is what it comes to. Fifty years and this is what it comes to.
The backyard was an inferno, the sun poised directly overhead. Queenie, de-fleaed, shampooed, and with her toenails clipped, was stretched out asleep in the shade beside the pool. It was quiet. Even the birds were still. Meg took off her Nikes and walked barefoot through the sopping grass to the fence, or what was left of it. The post had buckled overnight, canting the whole business into Muriel’s yard. Meg never hesitated. She sprang up onto the plane of the slats and dropped to the grass on the other side.