The World According to Garp

Margie Tallworth shook her head. “It's a mistake,” she whispered, and when she turned to flee, she collided with the wet mailman, spilling his bag and knocking herself back into Garp. Garp had a vision of Duna, the senile bear, bowling a mailman down a Viennese staircase—outlawed forever. But all that happened to Margie Tallworth was that she fell to the floor of the porch; her stockings tore and she skinned one knee.

The mailman, who assumed he'd arrived at an awkward moment, fumbled for Garp's mail among his strewn letters, but Garp was now only interested in what message the crying girl had for him. “What is it?” he asked her, gently; he tried to help her to her feet, but she wanted to sit where she was. She kept sobbing.

“I'm sorry,” Margie Tallworth said. She had lost her nerve; she had spent a minute too long around Garp, and now that she thought she rather liked him, it was hard for her to imagine giving him this news.

“Your knee's not too bad,” Garp said, “but let me get something to clean you up.” He went inside for antiseptic for her cut, and bandages, but she took this opportunity to limp away. She could not face him with this news, but she could not withhold it from him, either. She left her note for him. The mailman watched her hobble down the side street toward the corner where the buses stopped; he wondered briefly what the Garps were up to. They seemed to get more mail than other families, too.

It was all those letters Garp wrote, which poor John Wolf, his editor, struggled to answer. And there were copies of books to review; Garp gave them to Helen, who at least read them. There were Helen's magazines; it seemed to Garp there were a great many. There were Garp's two magazines, his only subscriptions: Gourmet and Amateur Wrestling News. There were, of course, bills. And a letter rather frequently from Jenny; it was all she wrote these days. And a letter now and then, short and sweet, from Ernie Holm.

Sometimes Harry Fletcher wrote them both, and Alice still wrote with exquisite fluency, about nothing at all, to Garp.

And now among the usual was a note, reeking of perfume and wet with tears. Garp put down the bottle of antiseptic and the bandages; he did not bother to look for the girl. He held the crumpled note and thought he knew, more or less, what it would be about.

He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before, because there were so many things that pointed to it; now that he thought of it, he supposed he had thought of it before, only not quite this consciously. The slow unwrapping of the note—so it wouldn't tear—made sounds as crisp as autumn, though all around Garp it was a cold March, the hurt ground thawing to mud. The little note snapped like bones as he opened it. With the escaping perfume, Garp imagined he could still hear the girl's sharp little yelp: “What?'

He knew “what'; what he didn't know was “with whom'—that name, which had kicked around in his mind, one morning, but then was gone. The note, of course, would provide him with the name: Michael Milton. It sounded to Garp like a special kind of new ice cream at that shop he took the boys to. There was Strawberry Swirl, Chock-full of Chocolate, Mocha Madness, and Michael Milton. It was a disgusting name—a flavor Garp could taste—and Garp tramped to the storm sewer and wadded the vile-smelling note into pieces and stuffed them through the grate. Then he went inside the house and read the name in a phone book, over and over again.

It seemed to him now that Helen had been “involved with” someone for a long time; it seemed that he had known it for some time, too. But the name! Michael Milton! Garp had classified him—to Helen—at a party where Garp had been introduced to him. Garp had told Helen that Michael Milton was a “wimp'; they had discussed his mustache. Michael Milton! Garp read the name so many times, he was still peering into the phone book when Duncan got home from school and assumed that his father was once more searching a directory for his make-believe people.

“Didn't you get Walt yet?” Duncan asked.

Garp had forgotten. And Walt has a cold, too, Garp thought. The boy shouldn't have to wait for me, with a cold.

“Let's go get him together,” Garp said to Duncan. To Duncan's surprise, Garp threw the phone book into the trash barrel. Then they walked to the bus stop.

Garp was still in his track clothes, and it was still raining; Duncan found this odd, too, but he didn't say anything about it. He said, “I got two goals today.” For some reason, all they played at Duncan's school was soccer—fall, winter, and spring, they played only soccer. It was a small school, but there was another reason for all the soccer; Garp forgot what it was. He had never liked the reason, anyway. “Two goals,” Duncan repeated.

“That's great,” Garp said.

“One was a header,” Duncan said.

“With your head?” Garp said. “That's wonderful.”

“Ralph gave me a perfect pass,” Duncan said.

“That's still wonderful,” Garp said. “And good for Ralph.” He put his arm around Duncan, but he knew Duncan would be embarrassed if he tried to kiss him; it is Walt who lets me kiss him, Garp thought. Then he thought of kissing Helen and almost stepped in front of the bus.

“Dad!” Duncan said. And in the bus he asked his father, “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Garp said.

“I thought you'd be up at the wrestling room,” Duncan said. “It is raining.”

From Walt's day care you could look across the river and Garp tried to place the exact location, there, of Michael Milton's address, which he had memorized from the phone book.

“Where were you?” Walt complained. He coughed; his nose dripped; he felt hot. He expected to go wrestling whenever it rained.

“Why don't we all go to the wrestling room, as long as we're downtown?” Duncan said. He was increasingly logical, but Garp said no, he didn't want to wrestle today. “Why not?” Duncan wanted to know.

“Because he's got his running stuff on, dummy,” Walt said.

“Oh, shut up, Walt,” Duncan said. They more or less fought on the bus, until Garp told them they couldn't. Walt was sick, Garp reasoned, and fighting was bad for his cold.

“I'm not sick,” Walt said.

“Yes, you are,” Garp said.

“Yes, you are,” Duncan teased.

“Shut up, Duncan,” Garp said.

“Boy, you're in a great mood,” Duncan said, and Garp wanted to kiss him; Garp wished to assure Duncan that he wasn't really in a bad mood, but kissing embarrassed Duncan, so Garp kissed Walt instead.

“Dad!” Walt complained. “You're all wet and sweaty.”

“Because he's got his running stuff on, dummy,” Duncan said.

“He called me a dummy,” Walt told Garp.

“I heard him,” Garp said.

“I'm not a dummy,” Walt said.

“Yes, you are,” Duncan said.

“Shut up, both of you,” Garp said.

“Dad's in a great mood, isn't he, Walt?” Duncan asked his brother.

“Sure is,” Walt said, and they decided to tease their father, instead of fight among themselves, until the bus deposited them—a few blocks from the house in the increasing rain. They were a soggy threesome when they were still a block from home, and a car that had been going too fast slowed suddenly beside them; the window was rolled down, after a struggle, and in the steamy interior Garp saw the frazzled, glistening face of Mrs. Ralph. She grinned at them.

“You seen Ralph?” she asked Duncan.

“Nope,” Duncan said.

“The moron doesn't know enough to come out of the rain,” she said. “I guess you don't, either,” she said sweetly, to Garp; she was still grinning and Garp tried to smile back at her, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He must have had poor control of his expression, he suspected, because Mrs. Ralph