When times are bad, people feel compelled to overeat. Blacksmith is full of obese adults and children, baggy-pantsed,short-legged, waddling. They struggle to emerge from compact cars; they don sweatsuits and run in families acrossthe landscape; they walk down the street with food in their faces; they eat in stores, cars, parking lots, on bus linesand movie lines, under the stately trees.
Only the elderly seem exempt from the fever of eating. If they are sometimes absent from their own words andgestures, they are also slim and healthy-looking, the women carefully groomed, the men purposeful and well dressed,selecting shopping carts from the line outside the supermarket.
I crossed the high school lawn and walked to the rear of the building and toward the small open stadium. Babette wasrunning up the stadium steps. I sat across the field in the first row of stone seats. The sky was full of streaking clouds.
When she reached the top of the stadium she stopped and paused, putting her hands to the high parapet and leaninginto it to rest diagonally. Then she turned and walked back down, breasts chugging. The wind rippled her oversizedsuit. She walked with her hands on her hips, fingers spread. Her face was tilted up, catching the cool air, and shedidn't see me. When she reached the bottom step she turned to face the seats and did some kind of neck stretchingexercise. Then she started running up the steps.
Three times she ascended the steps, walked slowly down. There was no one around. She worked hard, hair floating,legs and shoulders working. Every time she reached the top she leaned into the wall, head down, upper bodythrobbing. After the last descent I met her at the edge of the playing field and embraced her, putting my hands insidethe sweatband of her gray cotton pants. A small plane appeared over the trees. Babette was moist and warm, emittinga creaturely hum.
She runs, she shovels snow, she caulks the tub and sink. She plays word games with Wilder and reads erotic classicsaloud in bed at night. What do I do? I twirl the garbage bags and twist-tie them, swim laps in the college pool. WhenI go walking, joggers come up soundlessly behind me, appearing at my side, making me jump in idiotic fright.
Babette talks to dogs and cats. I see colored spots out of the corner of my right eye. She plans ski trips that we nevertake, her face bright with excitement. I walk up the hill to school, noting the whitewashed stones that line thedriveways of newer homes.
Who will die first?
This question comes up from time to time, like where are the car keys. It ends a sentence, prolongs a glance betweenus. I wonder if the thought itself is part of the nature of physical love, a reverse Darwinism that awards sadness andfear to the survivor. Or is it some inert element in the air we breathe, a rare thing like neon, with a melting point, anatomic weight? I held her in my arms on the cinder track. Kids came running our way, thirty girls in bright shorts, animprobable bobbing mass. The eager breathing, the overlapping rhythms of their footfalls. Sometimes I think ourlove is inexperienced. The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future.
Simple things are doomed, or is that a superstition? We watched the girls come round again. They were strung outnow, with faces and particular gaits, almost weightless in their craving, able to land lightly.
The Airport Marriott, the Downtown Travelodge, the Sheraton Inn and Conference Center.
On our way home I said, "Bee wants to visit at Christmas. We can put her in with Steffie.""Do they know each other?"'They met at Disney World. It'll be all right.""When were you in Los Angeles?""You mean Anaheim.""When were you in Anaheim?""You mean Orlando. It's almost three years now.""Where was I?" she said.
My daughter Bee, from my marriage to Tweedy Browner, was just starting seventh grade in a Washington suburband was having trouble readjusting to life in the States after two years in South Korea. She took taxis to school, madephone calls to friends in Seoul and Tokyo. Abroad she'd wanted to eat ketchup sandwiches with Trix sticks. Now shecooked fierce sizzling meals of scallion bushes and baby shrimp, monopolizing Tweedy's restaurant-quality range.
That night, a Friday, we ordered Chinese food and watched television together, the six of us. Babette had made it arule. She seemed to think that if kids watched television one night a week with parents or stepparents, the effectwould be to de-glamorize the medium in their eyes, make it wholesome domestic sport. Its narcotic undertow andeerie diseased brain-sucking power would be gradually reduced. I felt vaguely slighted by this reasoning. Theevening in fact was a subtle form of punishment for us all. Heinrich sat silent over his egg rolls. Steffie became upsetevery time something shameful or humiliating seemed about to happen to someone on the screen. She had a vastcapacity for being embarrassed on other people's behalf. Often she would leave the room until Denise signaled to herthat the scene was over. Denise used these occasions to counsel the younger girl on toughness, the need to be mean inthe world, thick-skinned.
It was my own formal custom on Fridays, after an evening in front of the TV set, to read deeply in Hitler well into thenight.
On one such night I got into bed next to Babette and told her how the chancellor had advised me, back in 1968, to dosomething about my name and appearance if I wanted to be taken seriously as a Hitler innovator. Jack Gladneywould not do, he said, and asked me what other names I might have at my disposal. We finally agreed that I shouldinvent an extra initial and call myself J. A. K. Gladney, a tag I wore like a borrowed suit.
The chancellor warned against what he called my tendency to make a feeble presentation of self. He stronglysuggested I gain weight. He wanted me to "grow out" into Hitler. He himself was tall, paunchy, ruddy, jowly,big-footed and dull. A formidable combination. I had the advantages of substantial height, big hands, big feet, butbadly needed bulk, or so he believed—an air of unhealthy excess, of padding and exaggeration, hulkingmassive-ness. If I could become more ugly, he seemed to be suggesting, it would help my career enormously.
So Hitler gave me something to grow into and develop toward, tentative as I have sometimes been in the effort. Theglasses with thick black heavy frames and dark lenses were my own idea, an alternative to the bushy beard that mywife of the period didn't want me to grow. Babette said she liked the series J. A. K. and didn't think it wasattention-getting in a cheap sense. To her it intimated dignity, significance and prestige.
I am the false character that follows the name around.