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'And keep the pole,' the other one said, glowering at me.
'There are vital organs just under the belly lining,' Merrill said. 'Oh, God ...'
'I'm not aiming for your belly,' Biggie told him.
'When you were being mocked we loved you,' Merrill told her. 'In that ugly, self-serious, competitive world, you had dignity and humor.'
'What happened to your humor?' I asked her. She looked at me, stung. She was tender about that; it seemed to matter a lot.
'"Vy" do they call you "Biggie"?' Merrill asked her boldly. '"Vy" do you "tink" so?' he asked me.
'It must be her heart,' I told him. Then I reached out and took the pole from her. She was smiling, and she blushed a hue resembling that deep orange of her V-neck velour. I suspect you are velour all over!
Then Merrill Overturf stood up too fast. What remained of his consciousness had been used to a prone position. When he bounded to his feet like that, I think he left his brain lying down. We saw only the whites of his eyes, though he smiled at everyone. His hands dialed telephones in the air.
'Gob, Doggle,' he said.
I noticed he was standing on his ankles just before he fell, like wet snow.
14
Fighting the Good Fight
IN MY MARRIED phase, at 918 Iowa Avenue, optimism was reserved for Risky Mouse. For five nights running, he made his own daring thefts from the baited trap. I warned him again about it. I brought him a fatty portion of Biggie's steamed brisket, which I displayed in an alluring fashion, not in the trap itself, but several feet away. Making it clear that I'd take care of him. He needn't risk his furry, finger-sized neck in Biggie's over-large trap designed for weasels, woodchucks, wombats and mammoth rats.
I never knew exactly what it was that Biggie had against the rodent. She only saw him once - surprised him on the cellar landing when she went to fetch her skis one night. Perhaps she thought he was getting too bold, that he had intentions of invading the upstairs. Or that he meant to gnaw her skis, which she moved to the bedroom closet. Occasionally, they fell on me in my morning-grope period. Their evil-sharp edges could gash you up good. It was one of the sources of friction between Biggie and me.
So one night Risky Mouse was given brisket, about which I had my doubts. Do mice eat meat?
Then I took a bath with Colm. He was so slippery in the tub that I had to keep my thumbs in his armpits or else he'd giggle under. Baths with Colm relaxed me, except that Biggie always came in and watched.
And with genuine concern, she'd always ask, 'Will Colm have as much hair as you do?'
Implying, How soon will the horrible growth start ruining him for life?
With some irritation I'd always say, 'Would you prefer me hairless, Big?'
She'd back down, saying, 'It's not that, exactly. It's more that I wouldn't want Colm to be as hairy as you.'
'Relatively, Big, I'm not so hairy as most men.'
'Well, men,' she'd say, as if the only thing about me that bothered her was that I was one.
I knew what was on her mind, though: skiers. Blond and somewhat male (or if not blond, at least tanned); no tobacco stains on their teeth; hairless, linen-white muscles under their down underwear; smooth all over, from too much time in sleeping bags. The only repulsive part of skiers is their feet. I think skiers only sweat through their hot, cramped, layered feet. All those thick crusty socks! That's their only health gap.
I was the first and only nonskier Biggie had ever laid. It must have been the novelty that impressed her. But now she wonders. Remembering all that snowbound cleanliness.
Is it my fault that I never had the silky chafe of down underwear to rub off all my hair? My pores are too big for skiing; the wind gets inside me. Is it my fault if I'm given to excess oil? Can I help it if baths don't quite work for me? I can step glowing from a tub, powder my groin, anoint my pits, slaver my fresh-shaved face with some scented astringent, and ten minutes later I start to sweat. I sort of gloss over. Sometimes, when I'm talking to a person, I see them start to stare; they're uneasy about something. I've figured out what it is. They suddenly see my pores opening, or maybe their attention is fixed on just one pore, opening in slow motion and sort of peeking at them. I've experienced the sensation myself, in mirrors, and I can sympathize with the observer; it's unnerving.
But you'd expect your wife not to ogle when your metabolism shows, especially in troubled times. Instead, she dispenses suggestions to improve my funny hair. 'Get rid of your mustache, Bogus. It's really pubic.'
But I know better. I need all the hair I can grow. Without hair, what would cover my terrible pores? Biggie never understood that; she doesn't have any pores. Her skin is as sleek as Colm's bum. What she hoped for, I knew, was that Colm would have her pores - or, rather, her lack of pores. Naturally, this hurt me. But I thought of the child. Frankly, I wouldn't wish my pores on anyone.
Even so, those bathtub confrontations grieved me.
I took a walk to Benny's, thinking that Ralph Packer, the polemicist, might be holding court there or otherwise formulating maxims. But Benny's was unusually empty, and I made use of the silence by making a mindless phone call to Flora Mackey Hall for Women.
'Which floor?' someone wanted to know, and I pondered which floor Lydia Kindle would live on. High up, close to the eaves, where the birds nest?
