Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver (classic fiction .txt) 📗

in the poem. It’s about wind. Wind as a metaphor for God as a force in our lives. Or the lack thereof. The stillness, the arbitrariness of a random world. And the work was going very well. I was really just vomiting images like spoiled sushi (that may be an ill-considered metaphor, but you get my gist). I was absorbed and productive.

I’d written—three lines, I think, when I looked at the clock and it was ten-thirty. This happens sometimes, when I’m writing. It’s as if I fall into a hole in the time-space continuum. I am pulled—I’ve strayed.

So it’s ten-thirty and I haven’t heard from Ford. But I didn’t worry. I was unfamiliar with his process and it seemed possible that he’d been out walking for ten and a half hours.

So I tried to go to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep! I tossed and turned. I had visions in my head of Ford in a hospital, or dead in a ditch, the victim of wandering thugs. And then, of course, I started thinking . . . nothing happened to him! He hates me. He’s gone. We rushed into this and now he’s left me. It’s over. I did something wrong. I was too aggressive! Or too passive! Or too passive-aggressive! I went into a shame spiral! And I cried, and I cursed and I prayed to God that this was a terrible dream, and that any minute I’d wake up and Ford’d be lying next to me!

And then the phone rang—thank God! I looked at the clock: six-fifteen. It was Ford! I was so relieved! “Ford! WHERE ARE YOU!?”—I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I didn’t want to seem, for a minute, the overbearing wife. He said he was fine. “I just need some time,” he said. “I’m working on a film and I need some time.” . . . . . . . . And then, he hung up. He hung up. And haven’t heard from him since.

(Pause) Bea? Bea? Are you still there?

BEA: You’re a poet? That’s what you do for a living? You’re a poet?

AMANDA: Yes!

BEA: What kind of living is that? Is there money in that? How do you—

AMANDA: I have money. Money is not the issue!

BEA: I never heard of such a thing.

AMANDA: You’ve never heard of poetry?

BEA (Insulted): I’ve heard of poetry! I’m not stupid. I never heard of anyone doing it for a living.

AMANDA: Well, I did inherit some money, when I was younger.

BEA: Knew it!

AMANDA: I have published many poems! I have a poem in this week’s New Yorker!

BEA: What’s it called?

AMANDA: Why do you ask?

BEA: I’ll pick it up. I’ll take a look.

AMANDA: “Untitled 94.”

BEA: I’ll take a look.

AMANDA: Don’t bother.

BEA: I’m very impressed. Tell me. How long did you know “Ford”— I just adore that name! How long did you know him before you got married?

AMANDA: Why do you ask?

BEA: How long?

AMANDA: What difference does that make?

BEA: Who’s the professional here?

AMANDA: Are you a psychologist?

BEA: No. I am not.

AMANDA: What kind of professional are you?

BEA: I ran a needlepoint store for several years.

AMANDA: And that qualifies you—

BEA (Insulted): We go through a very long, grueling, six-hour training process before we are allowed to man the phones!

AMANDA: I see.

BEA: Not just anyone can walk in off the street.

AMANDA: I don’t think a six-hour training process qualifies you—

BEA: My life qualifies me!!

AMANDA: And how is that?

BEA: I am a survivor!

AMANDA: By that you mean, you’re old?

BEA (A threat): I’m hanging up!

AMANDA: I’m sorry.

BEA: My life has not been easy! Judge me not lest you be judged young lady is what I think I mean. I’ve been in your place! I’ve known the misery of abandonment—why, when my husband died, I thought my world was coming to an end! I never felt so all alone!

AMANDA: Do you have any children?

BEA: One, yes, but don’t get me started. My husband’s death just pulled the rug out from under me—didn’t want to do a thing! I didn’t want to wash or dress or go to the movies. Nothing. I just cried. I curled myself up into the fetal position and I cried. One day, honest to God, I found myself on the kitchen floor in yesterday’s nightgown, curled up, like a snail, unable to move. That’s the bottom. That, my dear, is the end! When you’re snailed up on the kitchen floor. I just wanted to die! And I never even cared for my late husband.

AMANDA: Pardon me?

BEA: But. I pulled myself up, by my bootstraps and started over. I made a life for myself! So you want to know my qualifications? I’ve come back from the grave! That’s my qualification!

AMANDA: I see.

BEA: So how long did you know him before?

AMANDA (After a hesitation): A month.

BEA: A month?

AMANDA: Two weeks.

BEA: You marry someone you know two weeks?

AMANDA: Yes!

BEA: Does that seem foolhardy to you? It seems foolhardy to me.

AMANDA: Well, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn’t it?

BEA: Don’t be fresh. I’m just saying that that isn’t very long—

AMANDA: I knew him a week!!! A week!!! All right?

BEA: How’d you meet?

AMANDA: We met at an installation.

BEA: What the hell is that? I don’t know what that is.

AMANDA: An exhibit. We met at an art show by my friend, Tipper Bousché.

BEA: This is a name?

AMANDA: It is, yes. I’d been dating Cowel Selig, the performance artist. Maybe you’ve—

BEA: No.

AMANDA: Well, that was over.

BEA: How’d it end?

AMANDA: He killed himself.

BEA: Was that last Tuesday, or Wednesday, or something?

AMANDA: Months ago.

BEA: Then it wasn’t my fault.

AMANDA: He died on stage: self-immolated. It was part of his performance.

BEA: My.

AMANDA: It was very well reviewed.

BEA: I prefer a musical.

AMANDA: I assume.

BEA: Did you see Blood Brothers?

AMANDA: No—in any event, I went with Binky to the gallery and met Ford.

BEA: And?

AMANDA: And I was very attracted to him. He is—very attractive. He has very beautiful eyes. And beautiful hair. And hands. Simply wonderful hands.

BEA: Yeah, yeah, he has hands. What happened?

AMANDA: Eventually, we came back here.

BEA: Your place?

AMANDA: Yes.

BEA: