A Pilgrim’s Digression

14.

When Crabbe arrived at the Starbucks at noon on Monday, Clinton Curry was already waiting for him. He sat in a deep, cushiony chair near the window. Jazz was again playing through the in-house speaker system, this time Miles Davis, �Bird of Paradise.� Like all the furniture in Starbucks, the chair looked like it might have come from IKEA. A paper Starbucks coffee cup sat on the table in front of him. A pretty girl sat in another soft chair next to Curry. That left one chair around the table for Crabbe.

As Crabbe approached, Curry looked up from the newspaper he was reading (The Washington Post); he smiled and stood, extending his hand for Crabbe to shake. The girl looked up from her magazine, Cosmopolitan, and smiled sweetly. She rose only a little out of her chair to greet the poet, nodding and smiling but not offering her hand. The girl looked ten years younger than the thirty-ish Curry; she could have been a freshman in college. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She was wearing a pink tank top, gray running shorts, and flip flops. Her bra strap was showing from under the thin strap of the tank top.

�Hello,� Crabbe said, looking at both of them in turn.

�Hello there,� Curry said, sitting down and motioning for Crabbe to take a seat. �We weren�t sure about finding the place, so we arrived early.�

Curry spoke with an English accent that gave away no trace of his Northern England lineage; any rural accent had been educated out of him at Oxford. He came from a little town on the North Atlantic called Hull but had long ago left it and England behind. He was a scrawny fellow with curly, dark hair who, although he was probably thirty, dressed the part of the perennial college student. He wore a tee-shirt that looked natty enough to have come from Goodwill and jeans that looked just as old. The tee-shirt was green with the number 42 on it in white; it reminded Crabbe of something a kid would have worn in the seventies. A leather satchel sat on the floor next to Curry�s chair, and Crabbe imagined this young man slouching across campus with that satchel lazily slung across his chest.

�This is my graduate assistant, Monica Harwell,� Curry said.

Monica looked up from her magazine and smiled.

�Oh, aren�t you a little young to have your own graduate assistant?� Crabbe said to Curry, smiling and sitting down in the one unoccupied armchair.

�Well, the English Department recognizes the importance of my work, so they made a special consideration in my case,� Curry responded.

�I�m flattered that the English Department considers my life so important,� Crabbe said, shifting more comfortably into the chair. �Is the workload that heavy?�

Curry said, �I needed someone to help me with the research. She is reading and taking notes on that batch of letters between you and Caitlin Crane.�

Crabbe blushed. The thought of Monica reading the only letters he had ever written that could justly be called love letters made Crabbe a bit uncomfortable. On the other hand, she did not even seem to be paying attention to the conversation between Crabbe and Curry. She read her magazine intently, one brown leg crossed comfortably over the other knee, pink flip flop dangling from one bouncing foot. Crabbe suddenly noticed that the title of almost every article on the cover of the Cosmo magazine was sex-related.

�Ten Moves That Will Make Him Pass Out From Pleasure.�

�Do you make men melt? Take our sex survey.�

�Your Hands-On Guide to Pleasuring Him Manually�

�His Nine Pleasure Triggers�

suppose he�s fucking her must be fucking her and suppose she�s on the pill or maybe uses a diaphragm

Crabbe suddenly had an arousing vision of Monica sucking Curry�s cock, ponytail bobbing.

Crabbe cleared his throat.

�Ah, Cate,� Crabbe said, coming back to the moment. �Have you talked to her?�

�I interviewed her last month and she gave me additional materials,� Curry said.

�Oh really?� Crabbe said, trying to hide his curiosity.

�She let me photocopy some pages from her diaries from the time period you and she were�dating.�

�Yes,� Crabbe said, hoping Curry would continue.

He did not, at least not in the vein down which Crabbe wished to go.

�But that does raise the first question I have for you.�

Crabbe expected the graduate assistant, Monica, to suddenly come alive and pull out a pencil and notepad and begin taking notes, but she merely turned the page in her magazine and sat there as inscrutable as ever, flip flop flouncing annoyingly on one foot.

�Why didn�t you and Cate stay together?� Curry asked. �I mean, I have my theories, but you were together so long. She feels she wasted the best years of her life waiting for you.�

�Well, you can probably glean the answer to that from my letters and diaries,� Crabbe said, shifting in his chair. �And I�m sure your guess is correct; you�ve been remarkably astute so far. I mean, if you get it wrong I can correct it when you show me a draft.�

�I�d kind of like to hear it from you, though,� Curry said. �Just to make sure I�m on the right track. I don�t want to follow the wrong path, here.�

Crabbe paused and sighed. Then said, �Well, I�ve thought about it over the years. At the time, I was reluctant to marry because I thought family life would dry up the well spring of my talent.�

�That�s your stated reason,� Curry said. �Do you think your reluctance had anything to do with your mother? Fear of women, maybe?�

Crabbe felt stung. �No need to make this into an analysis session,� he said, trying to smile.

�Well, I�m trying to make some deductions here,� Curry said, �and I�ve got to make sure I�m on the right track.�

�Yes, well, I�d rather you didn�t pursue that too deeply. People already read too much autobiography into my poems.�

Curry shrugged, �Well, from what I�ve read, it seemed a plausible explanation. Tell me about your mother. What are your memories of her? You mention her so little in your letters and diaries, yet smothering mother figures are everywhere in your poetry.�

Crabbe was growing angry now, though he tried to suppress it. �Oh, look. Do you really need me to sit here under the microscope?�

The couple times he and Curry had met previously, Curry had not been so pressing on personal matters. Of course Curry had just been starting off. Now he seemed to know just what topics Crabbe considered off-limits, and he was determined to breach only those areas.

�Look, Mr. Crabbe, you hired me to write this��

�You came to me,� Crabbe reminded him, feeling hot and wishing the air conditioning were turned up. �I am helping you out by giving you the greatest opportunity you are ever likely to have in your entire life.�

Curry looked unimpressed. Monica had finally looked up from her magazine.

probably thinks opportunities like this are just handed out to youths these days typical fucking arrogant young academic

�Maybe so, � Curry said equably, �But we both mutually profit from your honesty. Neither your reputation, nor mine, is going to be enhanced by an authorized biography that is viewed by critics and scholars as expurgated. Now tell me about your mother, and tell me about Caitlin as well, if you wish.�

tell me about your mother

Music comes to the fore of the soundtrack as the camera pulls back and the focus goes soft. The song playing on the phonograph is Peggy Lee�s �Waiting for the train to come in.� The sound is scratchy and unclean. Mother listened to music much of the day while cooking, cleaning, doing laundry; she listened mostly to jazz but also some popular music. The love of jazz was one of her bequests to her son, Eugene.

Mother sat at the kitchen table, elbows on table. Between the forefinger and index finger of her right hand she holds a Chesterfield cigarette (the kind Ronald Reagan sells on television). She leans her forehead on the hand holding the Chesterfield, toxic blue-gray smoke clouding her face. She looks depressed, a common enough appearance in this household. Ash falls from the cigarette end to the tablecloth and she only glances at it, does not even brush it off the table. She is tired, tired.

From the doorway, seven-year old Eugene says, �I�m running away.�

He has threatened this twice already this week.

�Did you hear me? I said I�m��

Mother leaps up so quickly, Eugene starts back; he expects a slap. Instead, she says, �Fine. You want to go? Let me help you pack.�

She puts the cigarette between her lips and pushes Eugene out of the way as she stalks past him. Eugene follows her upstairs to his bedroom, feeling sick inside.

In his bedroom, she jerks so hard on the drawer of the dresser that she pulls it off its runner. She rips it out of the dresser, wood cracking, and throws it upside down on the bed. The drawer and spilled clothes bounce briefly on Eugene�s Davy Crockett bed sheets.

Mother kneels, pulling a small boy�s suitcase from under the bed. The cigarette stub still on her lip, she squints against the acrid smoke as she lifts the valise onto the bed. She flips the drawer over and opens the case and begins stuffing clothes into it.

�I�am so sick�and tired of you,� Mother says, shoving haphazard dungarees and polo shirts into the case, followed by underwear unfolded, socks indiscriminate of color.

�No, Mom!� Eugene says. �Mom, no!�

�Oh yes, I am�fed up!�

�Mom!� Eugene is begging now, crying. �I�m sorry!�

�Shut up!�

She shoves down so hard on the lid of the suitcase, the bed shakes. Latching it, she shoves the suitcase into his arms, and he lets it fall to the floor.

�OK, you want me to carry that for you?� she picks up the suitcase and starts for the bedroom door.

�Mom, what will I eat? I can�t go,� Eugene says through tears.

�Shoulda thought of that before you made your stupid threat,� Mother says. �Now get out!�

She plants a side-of-the-foot kick on his rump that almost sends him falling through the doorway.

�Go!� she says, as he starts moving.

Passing the bathroom, she flips her cigarette butt neatly through the doorway and into the sink, a gesture elegant and thoughtless on her part. Grace and violence, these are what stand out in Eugene�s memories of his mother.

Snuffling through tears and snot, the boy descends the stairs. His mother opens the door and places the suitcase on the stoop.

�Here you go. Don�t let the door hit you!� Mother says.

Eugene steps outside.

�Mom!�

Mother slams the door so hard as he is moving to step back inside, it almost hits him in the nose.

For a few moments afterwards, Eugene rings the door futilely. No one answers.

�Mom, I�m sorry! I take it back!�

No answer. The boy sits down on the stoop beside the suitcase. He waits a long time. Eventually, he stops crying, only to start again when he thinks of his mother�s words, �I am so sick and tired of you!�

Eventually, Father comes home from University.

�What the hell are you doing out here? Get the hell in the house before the neighbors see you.�

His father unlocks the front door and lets Eugene in. Inside, Mother is in the kitchen cooking. She seems almost gay.

�What the hell�s going on around here?� Father asks.

�Oh, he said he wanted to run away again, so I helped him along with that. Guess he changed his mind,� Mother says, looking over her shoulder from the pot of boiling potatoes she is tending to at the stove.

�Again? Jesus. Why do you do this to your Mother? Want me to whip him?�

�Oh no,” Mother said. “I think he�s learned his lesson. Haven�t you, Eugene?�

�Yes,� Eugene says.

�Good, now go upstairs and clean your hands and face. Dinner is almost ready.�

�Jesus, what a day I had,� Father says, as Eugene turns to go upstairs.

In the bathroom, Eugene closes the door. Locks it. He sits on the toilet seat and weeps out of frustration, hatred, and confused love for his mother. Then he washes his hands. He says the ABCs quietly as he washes, a habit his mother instilled in him early. When he gets to �won�t you come and sing with me,� he rinses and dries. Then he washes his face. Rinses and dries again.

There is an emptiness growing inside of him. He knows it even at this young age. Where there ought to be happiness, there is only darkness. Where there ought to be pure love, there is nothing. Eugene Crabbe, seven-years old, goes down to dinner.

�Did you grow up thinking your mother didn�t love you?� Curry asks.

Music fades into the background; camera focus resolves, edges sharpen.

�I didn�t know�what to think,� Crabbe says, breathing out. �I got both ends of the spectrum from her. One moment she was tenderness and love, the next�well.�

�Why did you want to run away?� Curry asks.

�I don�t remember,� Crabbe says.

�Tell us a good memory,� Curry asks.

�I remember lying in bed with her,� Crabbe says. �She read to me. Dad only read the newspaper and his Biology journals. Mom read poetry and literature. She had a college education, but in those days college for a woman was a means to finding a man who was going places. Ever read Sylvia Plath?�

�That�s significant,� Curry said, ignoring Crabbe�s question. It was unclear to what he was referring.

Making his own assumptions about what Curry had meant by �that�s significant,� Crabbe said, �Yes, but you know it�s the bad memories that have the most power. The bad ones stick with us longer than the good ones.�

�I�m not so sure that�s true, Mr. Crabbe,� Monica said suddenly. Crabbe had not been aware she had begun paying attention. Now he saw that she had lain down her magazine and was listening.

�Perhaps its merely your peculiar psyche that obsesses over bad memories,� Monica said. �memory is tricky anyway. You can�t remember why you threatened to run away, for example, maybe because you�re embarrassed by whatever petty grudge you were holding against her that resulted in your threat. Maybe you�d threatened once too often and this was just the last straw. I�m not excusing her, but you should try to see the situation from her perspective.�

�A life is not a book to be deconstructed,� Crabbe responded.

�Isn�t it? I mean, isn�t that what we are doing in writing a biography, deconstructing a life?�

�No, it�s the poetry that matters, not the life,� Crabbe said. �The life is merely a means of getting at the poetry.�

�Sometimes I�m not so sure about that,� Monica said. �Maybe it�s the other way around, poetry is ancillary to the life. Maybe it is poetry that is ephemeral, life eternal.�

�You�re an English major?� Crabbe retorted coldly.

�Yes,� she said placidly.

�I�d expect professors to teach some kind of crap like that today.�

�That�s just my opinion, not a proffesor�s,� she said. �They still venerate literature in University English Departments. Don�t worry.�

�No, poetry is eternal and must be viewed separate from the life of the author,� Crabbe said with authority. �Otherwise, writing is a waste, a kind of�masturbatory act.�

�Masturbation is a waste only if you don�t enjoy it,� Monica said, laughing a little.

Crabbe blushed, suddenly hating this girl and finding himself powerfully attracted to her at the same time. She didn�t know it, but she would find herself in his own masturbatory fantasies later that evening.

bitch why don�t you stick to something you�re good at like spreading your legs you cunt

Curry had been sitting silent during this exchange, making a few notes on typing paper he had taken out and placed on the table as Crabbe spoke. Now he spoke up.

�Let�s not get too theoretical here,� Curry said finally. �I�m ready to hear about Cate now.�