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Excerpt from:
Exactly What
This afternoon I bought a cookbook and
drove forty minutes, to the expensive market downtown. I don’t cook,
but from what I understand it’s quite a reflective process, so it
seemed appropriate.
I bought four boneless chicken breasts,
two types of imported cheeses, and organic asparagus. I also bought
good dense bread, and a bottle of Spanish wine that was sixty
dollars. I used a wooden mallet, with little pegs, to pound the
meat, and I marinated. I’ve deviated significantly from the recipe,
but I washed the good crystal, and it should still be a beautiful
meal.
***
Amy’s computer was on when I got home
today, and this is unusual. My wife is not prone to carelessness or
accident. In fact, Amy’s usually very conscientious, ecologically.
She doesn’t linger in the shower, and she cuts the grocery bags in
half before discarding them; this way, they pose a lesser risk to
waterfowl. She’s compulsive about lights and appliances though, so I
should have been curious, but I decided against it. I was very
pleased with that.
There was a document still open on the
desktop. Print, in dense paragraphs, but this is not unusual. My
wife is a professional writer. Her name would not be familiar
though, except in very particular circles. Her work can be close and
discomforting, and has not been well received.
Amy doesn’t like me to read her work
until it’s finished, and I respect her privacy. It’s quite a private
thing, writing is. Or so I gather. Honestly, I only intended to
click save, and shut it off. There was a title at the top of the
page though, and this is significant.
Amy will only title a finished work.
This is because, for Amy, titles are delineation, and she’s
uncomfortable with artificial boundaries.
It might have been an invitation. At
least, that’s what I decided on. I read her story, twice through. It
wasn’t long.
I enjoyed this story. As a
matter of fact, I always enjoy her work, and I’m not just saying
that. I have to admit that it has a certain tedious quality. It also
has a balance to it, though, and a sense of neatly fitted corners,
if you’ll permit the expression. Besides, I teach high school
English, so I like to think that I can recognize the avant-garde.
The story was about a woman from
Cleveland, Ohio. Her name was May, and she decided to cheat on her
husband, just once. Now, I don’t really know you, so I’m not sure
what you’d call it, but it probably wasn’t how you think.
What she did was a very simple thing.
It had nothing to do with lust, and even less with deception. I’m
not sure what I’d call it, but if I had to characterize what she
did, I’d call it an unfocused gesture. Like throwing stones, into a
crowd, from a distance. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a devious thing.
She didn’t shower afterward, to wash the scent off. She wasn’t
guilty. The narrator says she felt; “precisely how she felt,” and of
course, that doesn’t really mean anything. I suppose that’s the
idea, though.
Also, her husband didn’t deserve it, it
wasn’t one of those stories. He didn’t drink too much, or beat her
up or anything. It wasn’t complicated.
Ultimately, I think that what really
appealed to me wasn’t the story, so much, but the telling. There was
this sense of empirical inquest. The voice had a clinical kind of
hush about it that was overpowering. I found myself making gestures
of understanding as I read.
Of course, there were criticisms to
observe. It’s true that this woman, May, didn’t consider the results
of it all. At least not in familiar terms, but you wouldn’t call her
reckless. You wouldn’t have that word in mind.
Amy’s characters are always very
palpable in this way. She allows them the dignity of being
complicated, and she never judges them for that. Amy has a talent
for discovering, and she sees every person in their inconsistency.
This is a gift.
As I’ve said, I teach English, and I
understand fiction, so I wasn’t rash. There were similarities, to be
sure, but there was room for doubt. She’d changed the names, for
example; the husband was named Jason, (my name is Jacob) and he
taught History. Plus, we don’t live in Ohio, we live in Vermont, but
it wasn’t subtle.
I was eager, certainly, but still, I
was very collected. I put it all aside. I spent an hour grading
essays on The Tempest, which were mostly disorganized and
unoriginal. Then I went shopping.
***
©
2006 Jon Campbell |