The World According to Garp

returned—this time driving within inches of the living room bay window, and through the gravel beds for the baby trees, his horn blaring—the old woman never moved. I stood at the door, awaiting the ultimate assault, but I thought it wiser not to show myself. I knew that if O. Fecteau saw me, he would attempt to drive in the house.

By the time the police arrived, the plumber had rolled his truck in an attempt to avoid a station wagon at the intersection of Cold Hill and North Lane. He had broken his collarbone and was sitting upright in the cab, though the truck lay on its side; he wasn't able to climb out the door above his head, or he hadn't tried. O. Fecteau appeared calm; he was listening to his radio.

Since that time, I have tried to provoke the offending drivers less; if I sense them taking offense at my stopping them and presuming to criticize their vile habits, I simply tell them I am informing the police and quickly leave.

That O. Fecteau turned out to have a long history of violent over-reactions to social situations did not allow me to forgive myself. “Look, it's all the better you got that plumber off the road,” my wife told me—and she usually criticizes my meddlesomeness in the behavior of others. But I could only think that I had driven a workingman off his rocker, and that during his outburst, if O. Fecteau had killed a child, whose fault would it have been? Partly mine, I think.

In modern times, in my opinion, either everything is a moral question or there are no more moral questions. Nowadays, there are no compromises or there are only compromises. Never influenced, I keep my vigil. There is no letting up.

Don't say anything, Helen told herself. Go kiss him and rub against him; get him upstairs as fast as you can, and talk about the damn story later. Much later, she warned herself. But she knew he wouldn't let her.

The dishes were done and he sat across the table from her.

She tried her nicest smile and told him, “I want to go to bed with you.”

“You don't like it?” he asked.

“Let's talk in bed,” she said.

“Goddamn it, Helen,” he said. “It's the first thing I've finished in a long time. I want to know what you think of it.”

She bit her lip and took her glasses off; she had not made a single mark with her red pencil. “I love you,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” he said, impatiently. “I love you, too, but we can fuck anytime. What about the story?” And she finally relaxed; she felt he had released her, somehow. I tried, she thought; she felt hugely relieved.

“Fuck the story,” she said. “No, I don't like it. And I don't want to talk about it, either. You don't care to regard what I want, obviously. You're like a little boy at the dinner table—you serve yourself first.”

“You don't like it?” Garp said.

“Oh, it's not bad,” she said, “it's just not much of anything. It's a trifle, it's a little ditty. If you're warming up to something, I'd like to see what it is—when you get to it. But this is nothing, you must know that. It's a toss-off, isn't it? You can do tricks like this with your left hand, can't you?”

“It's funny, isn't it?” Garp asked.

“Oh, it's funny,” she said, “but it's funny like jokes are funny. It's all one-liners. I mean, what is it? A self-parody? You're not old enough, and you haven't written enough, to start mocking yourself. It's self-serving, it's self-justifying; and it's not about anything except yourself, really. It's cute.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Garp. “Cute?'

“You're always talking about people who write well but don't have anything to say,” Helen said. “Well, what do you call this? It's no “Grillparzer,” certainly; it isn't worth a fifth of what “Grillparzer” is worth. It isn't worth a tenth of that story,” Helen said.

“'The Pension Grillparzer” is the first big thing I wrote,” Garp said. “This is completely different; it's another kind of fiction altogether.”

“Yes, one is about something and one is about nothing,” Helen said. “One is about people and one is about only you. One has mystery and precision, and one has only wit.” When Helen's critical faculties were engaged, they were difficult to disengage.

“It's not fair to compare them,” Garp said. “I know this is smaller.”

“Then let's not talk anymore about it,” Helen said.

Garp sulked for a minute.

“You didn't like the Second Wind of the Cuckold, either,” he said, “and I don't suppose you'll like the next one any better.”

“What next one?” Helen asked him. “Are you writing another novel?”

He sulked some more. She hated him, making her do this to him, but she wanted him and she knew she loved him, too.

“Please,” she said. “Let's go to bed.”

But now he saw his chance for a little cruelty—and/or a little truth—and his eyes shone at her brightly.

“Let's not say another word,” she begged him. “Let's go to bed.”

“You think “The Pension Grillparzer” is the best thing I've written, don't you?” he asked her. He knew already what she thought of the second novel, and he knew that, despite Helen's fondness for Procrastination, a first novel is a first novel. Yes, she did think “Grillparzer” was his best.

“So far, yes,” she said, softly. “You're a lovely writer, you know I think so.”

“I guess I just haven't lived up to my potential,” Garp said, nastily.

“You will,” she said; the sympathy and her love for him were draining from her voice.

They stared at each other; Helen looked away. He started upstairs. “Are you coming to bed?” he asked. His back was to her; his intentions were hidden from her—his feelings for her, too: either hidden from her or buried in his infernal work.

“Not right now,” she said.

He waited on the stairs. “Got something to read?” he asked.

“No, I'm through reading for a while,” she said.

Garp, went upstairs. When she came up to him, he was already asleep, which made her despair. If he'd had her on his mind at all, how could he have fallen asleep? But, actually, he'd had so much on his mind, he'd been confused; he had fallen asleep because he was bewildered. If he'd been able to focus his feelings on any one thing, he'd still have been awake when she came upstairs. They might have saved a lot of things, then.

As it was, she sat beside him on the bed and watched his face with more fondness than she thought she could stand. She saw he had a hard-on, as severe as if he had been waiting up for her, and she took him into her mouth and sucked him softly until he came.

He woke up, surprised, and he was very guilty-looking—when he appeared to realize where he was, and with whom. Helen, however, was not in the least guilty-looking; she looked only sad. Garp would think, later, that it was as if Helen had known he had been dreaming of Mrs. Ralph.

When he came back from the bathroom, she was asleep. She had quickly drifted off. Guiltless at last, Helen felt freed to have her dreams. Garp lay awake beside her, watching the astonishing innocence upon her face—until the children woke her.

13. WALT CATCHES COLD