Chapter One
When I was young, my mother read me a story about a wicked little
girl. She read it to me and my two sisters. We sat curled against
her on the couch and she read from the book on her lap. The lamp
shone on us and there was a blanket over us. The girl in the story
was beautiful and cruel. Because her mother was poor, she sent her
daughter to work for rich people, who spoiled and petted her. The
rich people told her she had to visit her mother. But the girl felt
she was too good and went merely to show herself. One day, the rich
people sent her home with a loaf of bread for her mother. But when
the little girl came to a muddy bog, rather than ruin her shoes, she
threw down the bread and stepped on it. It sank into the bog and she
sank with it. She sank into a world of demons and deformed
creatures. Because she was beautiful, the demon queen made her into
a statue as a gift for her great-grandson. The girl was covered in
snakes and slime and surrounded by the hate of every creature
trapped like she was. She was starving but couldn't eat the bread
still welded to her feet. She could hear what people were saying
about her; a boy passing by saw what had happened to her and told
everyone, and they all said she deserved it. Even her mother said
she deserved it. The girl couldn't move, but if she could have, she
would've twisted with rage. "It isn't fair!" cried my mother, and
her voice mocked the wicked girl.
Because I sat against my mother when she told this story, I did not
hear it in words only. I felt it in her body. I felt a girl who
wanted to be too beautiful. I felt a mother who wanted to love her.
I felt a demon who wanted to torture her. I felt them mixed together
so you couldn't tell them apart. The story scared me and I cried. My
mother put her arms around me. "Wait," she said. "It's not over yet.
She's going to be saved by the tears of an innocent girl. Like you."
My mother kissed the top of my head and finished the story. And I
forgot about it for a long time.
I open my eyes.
I can't sleep. When I try, I wake after two hours and then spend the
rest of the night pulled around by feelings and thoughts. I usually
sleep again at dawn and then wake at 7:30. When I wake, I'm mad at
not sleeping, and that makes me mad at everything. My mind yells
insults as my body walks itself around. Dream images rise up and
crash down, huge, then gone, huge, gone. A little girl sinks down in
the dark. Who is she? Gone.
I drink my coffee out of a heavy blue mug, watching the rain and
listening to a fool on a radio show promote her book. I live right
on the canal in San Rafael and I can look out on the water. There're
too many boats on it and it's filthy with gas and garbage and maybe
turds from the boats. Still, it's water, and once I saw a sea lion
swimming toward town.
Every day, my neighbor Freddie leaps off his deck and into the canal
for a swim. This disgusts my neighbor Bianca. "I asked him, 'Don't
you know what's in there? Don't you know it's like swimming in a
public toilet?'" Bianca is a sexy fifty-year-old, sexy even though
she's lost her looks, mainly because of her big fat lips. "He
doesn't care; he says he just takes a hot shower after." Bianca
draws on her cigarette with her big lips. "Probably get typhoid."
She blows out with a neat turn of her head; even her long ropy neck
is sort of sexy. "I hate the sight of him flying through the air in
that little Speedo, God!"
Sure enough, while I'm looking out the window, Freddie, all red and
fleshy, with his stomach hanging down and his silver head tucked
between his upstretched arms, vaults through the air and-wap!-hits
the water like a bull roaring in the field. I can just see Bianca
downstairs muttering "Shit!" and slamming the wall with her fist.
He's a big fifty-something, with a huge jaw and muscles like lumps
of raw meat just going to fat. His round eyes show one big emotion
at a time: Joy. Anger. Pain. Fear. But his body is full of all those
things happening at once, and that's what you see when he's
swimming. He attacks the water with big pawing strokes, burying his
face in it like he's trying to eat it out. Then he stops and treads
water, his snorting head tossing and bobbing for a second before he
turns and lies down in the water, like a kid, with total
trust-ah!-face to the sky, regardless of the rain or turds.
Even though he's big, Freddie's got the face of somebody who's been
beat too many times, like his face is just out there to be beat.
He's also got the face of somebody who, after the beating is done,
gets up, says "Okay," and keeps trying to find something good to eat
or drink or roll in. He likes to end stories by saying, "But they'd
probably just tell you I'm an a-s-s-h-o-l-e," like, Oh well, what's
on TV? That's the thing Bianca hates most, that beat-up but still
leaping out into the turds for a swim quality. Especially the
leaping: It's like a personal affront to her. But I like it. It
reminds me of the sea lion, swimming into town with its perfect
round head sticking up-even though the lion is gliding and Freddie
is rough. It's like something similar put in different containers.
Sometimes I want to say this to Bianca, to defend Freddie. But she
won't listen. Besides, I understand why he disgusts her. She's a
refined person, and I like refinement, too. I understand it as a
point of view.
The writer on the radio is talking about her characters like they're
real people: "When you look at it from her point of view, his
behavior really is strange, because to her, they're just playing a
sexy game, whereas for him it's-" She blooms out of the radio like
a balloon with a face on it, smiling, wanting you to like her,
vibrating with things to say. Turn on the radio, there's always
somebody like her on somewhere. People rushing through their lives
turn the dial looking for comfort, and the excited smiling words
spill over them. I drink my coffee. The novelist's characters dance
and preen. I drink my coffee. People from last night's dream stumble
in dark rooms, screaming at one another, trying hard to do something
I can't see. I finish my coffee. Water is seeping in and soaking the
edge of the carpet. I don't know how this happens, I'm on the second
floor.
It's time for me to go clean John's office. John is an old friend,
and as a favor, he pays me to clean his office every week. Into my
patchwork bag I pack the necessaries-aspirin, codeine, bottle of
water-then I look for my umbrella. When I find it, I realize it's
broken, and I curse before I remember the other one, the red one
from New York that I never use. I got it at the Museum of Modern Art
gift shop when I lived in Manhattan. It has four white cartoon
sheep, plus one black one, printed on its edge, along with the name
of the museum. The decoration is precious and proper, and it reminds
me of Veronica Ross. She is someone from my old life. She loved
anything precious and proper: small intricate toys, photographs in
tiny decorated frames, quotes from Oscar Wilde. She loved MoMA and
she loved New York. She wore shoulder pads, prissy loafers, and thin
socks. She rolled her trouser cuffs in this crisp way. On her
glass-topped coffee table, she had miniature ashtrays, gilt
matchboxes, and expensive coasters decorated with smiling cats.
When I go out into the hallway, Rita is there in her housecoat and
slippers, holding a little plate of fried chicken livers. She offers
me some, says she made too many last night. They smell good, so I
take one and eat it while I talk to Rita. She says that last week
"that son of a bitch Robert" fired up the barbecue again, on the
puny deck right under hers, sending up poisonous charcoal fumes,
which, she has explained time and again, are terrible for her
hepatitis.
"I knew he still had that grill out there, and sure enough, the sun
came out and I heard him mobilize it. I heard the charcoal in the
bag. I heard him slide the lid off. I sat down and I meditated. I
asked for help. I asked, What is the most powerful force in the
world? And the answer came to me: Water."
Rita has hepatitis C; so do I. We don't discuss it much; she doesn't
remind me that codeine by the fistful is like dropping a bomb on my
liver. I don't remind her that while charcoal smoke is not a
problem, her fried-food diet is.
"I filled every pot, every pan, every jar, glass, and vase, and I
set them all out on the edge of the deck. And as soon as he fired it
up-"
"You didn't!"
"I did. I doused the grill, and when he cursed me out, I doused him.
He just stood there a second, and then you know what? He laughed! He
said, 'Rita, you are a pisser.' He liked it!"
We talk a minute more; I laugh and say good-bye, step outside onto
the wooden stairs. I snap open the umbrella and remember the last
time I visited Veronica. She served me brownies in pink wrapping
paper, fancy cheese, and sliced fruit she was too sick to eat. I
said, "I don't think you love yourself. You need to learn to love
yourself."
Veronica was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "I think love
is overrated. My parents loved me. And it didn't do any good."
My street is all functional apartment buildings set back from the
sidewalk. White plus a few black people live here. Two blocks down,
it's semifunctional buildings and Mexicans. Turn the corner and it's
warehouses, auto-body repair shops, and a bar with music coming out
of it at 8:00 in the morning. Blunt, faceless buildings that are too
much trouble to tear down. Grass and weeds and little bushes
silently press up between the buildings and through every crack in
the concrete. At the end of the street is a four-lane highway that
you can walk along. Big businesses live here-car dealerships,
computer stores, office retail-and things I can't identify, even
though I walk by them almost every day, because the bigness makes me
feel mute. The mute feeling isn't bad. It's like being a grain of
dirt in the ground, with growth and death all around. A grain or a
grass or a stone, a tiny thing that knows everything but can't say
anything. It isn't just the bigness of the businesses. It's the
highway, too, all the hundreds of cars roaring in the opposite
direction I'm walking, the hundreds of heads blurrily showing
through hundreds of windshields.
This happens sometimes when I walk along here; my focus slips and
goes funny. I think it's something to do with walking at a slow pace
against the speeding traffic, and today the rain blurs everything
even more. It's like I get sucked out of normal life into a place
where the order of things is changed; it's still my life and I
recognize it, but the people and places in it are sliding around
indiscriminately.
A fat white man pedals gravely past on a green bicycle, one hand
guiding the bike, the other holding a small half-broken umbrella
over his head. He examines me; there's a bolt of life from his hazel
eyes and then he's gone.
A dream from last night: Someone is chasing me, and in order to
reach safety, I have to run through my past and all the people in
it. But the past is jumbled, not sequential, and all the people are
mixed up. A nameless old woman who used to live next door is
reaching out to me, her large brown eyes brimming with tenderness
and tears-but my mother is lost in a crowd scene. My father is
barely visible-I see him by himself in the shadows of the living
room, dreamily eating a salted nut-while a loud demented stranger
pops right up in my face, yelling about what I must do to save
myself now.
Meanwhile, a middle-aged Mexican woman is kneeling on the sidewalk,
patiently replacing the clothes that apparently spilled out when her
big red suitcase broke open. She has no umbrella and her hair and
clothes are plastered to her body. I stop and crouch, trying to help
her. With an impersonal half glance, she shakes her head no. I
straighten and pause and then stand there, holding my umbrella over
both of us. She looks up, smiling; I'm invoking civility on this
concrete strip between roaring and hugeness, and she appreciates it.
Her smile is like an open door, and I enter for a second. She goes
back to her nimble packing. She picks freshly wet little blouses,
underwear, baby clothes, and socks up off the sidewalk. She
retrieves a clear plastic bag of half-burned candles and a T-shirt
that says 16 MAGAZINE! on it. She shakes out each thing and refolds
it.
Toward the end, Veronica's shoulder pads used to get loose sometimes
and wander down her arm or her back without her knowing it. Once I
was sitting with her in a good restaurant when a man next to us
said, "Excuse me, there's something moving on your back." His tone
was light and aggressive, like it was him versus the fashionable
nitwits. "Oh," said Veronica, also light. "Excuse me. It's just my
prosthesis."
Sometimes I loved how she would make cracks like that. Other times
it was just embarrassing. Once we were leaving a movie theater after
seeing a pretentious movie. As we walked past a line of people
waiting to see the other movie, Veronica said loudly, "They don't
want to see anything challenging. They'd rather see Flashdance. Now
me, if it's bizarre, I'm interested." There was a little strut to
her walk and her voice was like a huge feather in a hat. She's not
like that, I'd wanted to say to the ticket holders. If you knew her,
you'd see.
But she was like that. She could be unbelievably obnoxious. In the
locker room of the gym we both went to, she was always snapping at
somebody for getting too close to her or brushing against her. "If
you want me to move, just tell me, but please stop poking me in the
bottom," she'd say to some openmouthed Suzy in a leotard. "Fist
fucking went out years ago. Didn't you know that?"
The Mexican woman clicks her suitcase shut and stands with a little
smile. My focus snaps back to normal, and the woman slips back into
the raining hugeness. She smiles at me again as she turns to go,
returning my civility with rain running down her face.
In the dream, it's like the strangers are delivering messages for
more important people, who for some reason can't talk to me. Or that
the people who are important by the normal rules-family, close
friends-are accidental attachments, and that the apparent strangers
are the true loved ones, hidden by the grotesque disguises of human
life.
Of course, Veronica had a lot of smart cracks stored up. She needed
them. When she didn't have them, she was naked and everybody saw.
Once when we were in a coffee shop, she tried to speak seriously to
me. Her skin was gray with seriousness. Her whole eyeball looked
stretched and tight; the white underpart was actually showing. She
said, "I've just got to get off my fat ass and stop feeling sorry
for myself." Her tough words didn't go with the look on her face.
The waitress, a middle-aged black lady, gave her a sharp, quick
glance that softened as she turned away. She could tell something by
looking at Veronica, and I wondered what it was.
Veronica died of AIDS. She spent her last days alone. I wasn't with
her. When she died, nobody was with her.
I'm feeling a little feverish already, but I don't want to take the
aspirin on an empty stomach. I also don't want to deal with holding
the umbrella while I get the aspirin out, put it back, get the
water, unscrew it, squeeze the umbrella with one arm, the one that's
killing me....
I met Veronica twenty-five years ago, when I was a temporary
employee doing word processing for an ad agency in Manhattan. I was
twenty-one. She was a plump thirty-seven-year-old with
bleached-blond hair. She wore tailored suits in mannish plaids with
matching bow ties, bright red lipstick, false red fingernails, and
mascara that gathered in intense beads on the ends of her eyelashes.
Her loud voice was sensual and rigid at once, like plastic baubles
put together in rococo shapes. It was deep but could quickly become
shrill. You could hear her from across the room, calling everyone,
even people she hated, "hon": "Excuse me, hon, but I'm very well
acquainted with Jimmy Joyce and the use of the semicolon." She
proofread like a cop with a nightstick. She carried an "office kit,"
which contained a red plastic ruler, assorted colored pens, Liquid
Paper, Post-its, and a framed sign embroidered with the words STILL
ANAL AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. She was, too. When I told her I had a
weird tension that made my forehead feel like it was tightening and
letting go over and over again, she said, "No, hon, that's your
sphincter."
"The supervisor loves her because she's a total fucking fag hag,"
complained another proofreader. "That's why she's here all the
time."
"I get a kick out of her myself," said a temping actress. "She's
like Marlene Dietrich and Emil Jannings combined."
"My God, you're right," I said, so loudly and suddenly that the
others stared. "That's exactly what she's like."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Veronica
by Mary Gaitskill
Copyright © 2005 by Mary Gaitskill.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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