No Birds Sing Here

CHAPTER 3

He spent the day avoiding Herschel, dashing out into the public area of the diner whenever he approached, being careful to lock the bathroom door, which proved to be a false security. Herschel, outraged, pulled at the door and banged against it, squealing with fury. Finally, something failed, and the door burst open with a crack. Pieces of wood were thrust outward, tumbling like small asteroids in space, expanding away and away and away.

Beckman stepped back and avoided the stream with amazing quickness, then leapt to one side and shoved Herschel. He fell back, forming a grotesque fountain. Beckman charged past and up to his room. He began throwing everything he had into his army surplus duffle bag, including the folded cot. Malany watched from her corner, expressionless.

“We have to leave!” he almost shouted.

Malany, without any visible sign that she was aware of the new tone in his voice, or that she even questioned this strange action, began to gather her few things. Beckman rushed into the bathroom for his toothbrush. There was a noise at the door and before he could warn her, she screamed. As Beckman suspected, Herschel stood framed in the doorway, twisted p***s in hand, his left eye wandering to the left, his right eye staring wildly at Malany, who instantly slammed the door and flung open the window. With hawkish determination, and without a word to Beckman, Malany began throwing her few things out of the window. She climbed out onto the window ledge, glanced at Beckman for a moment, then eased herself down until she was hanging by her hands. She pushed away from the building in a suicide type leap, landing on her feet next to the garbage cans. The cat flew from his place on top of her car and disappeared around the corner. Malany was unhurt. Beckman waited until she was out of the way, then followed. Before Beckman could regain his balance after landing on the pavement, Malany had jumped into her car and had started the engine. Beckman, hesitating, couldn’t process in his mind what was actually happening. Malany beckoned vigorously to him from inside the car and Beckman, still mentally paralyzed, jumped into the passenger seat.

It was some time later, after the gray-brown squares of farmland replaced the dirty, concrete blocks and red bricks of the city, that Beckman asked where they were going.

“Does it matter?” Malany inquired.

“No, I guess it doesn’t. But I need money, and I hate like hell to admit it.”

“I have money, as much as we need.”

“Let’s stop and make some decisions,” Beckman suggested; and without a word, Malany pulled the car off onto the emergency lane, bouncing with terrific bangs over deep holes in the pavement.

“Malany, I just had an idea. I think I got it when my head hit the top of the car on that last bounce. Tell me the honest-to-God truth. Do you want to make it as a poet?”

There was such frankness in the question that Malany had to acknowledge that she was vain enough to want some sort of recognition.

“Short of a felonious act, yes,” she conceded.

“It hit me just like that proverbial bolt of lightning. We’re selling the wrong thing. People don’t want poetry or literature. They want celebrities, half-crazy celebrities. They want to feel significant. So what do they do? Let others take the risks, and for those who make it, they bestow adoration and collective approval. For those who don’t make it, ridicule and condemnation. The point is, what is defined as success straddles a line between illusion and non-illusion. People don’t care, it’s all the same to them. They want newsmakers, not people of unquestionable credentials.”

“So, what are you advocating?”

“That we make ourselves overnight successes. Hit every hick town in the South East. You, a famous Californian poetess living in sin with a young novelist, me. I could do things like start bar room fights, and you could slip foul-mouthed quotes to the newspapers. They’ll love it! I could play all of the popular stereotypical roles which say ‘writer’. The lion hunting, heavy-drinking stud for the Elks Club or the cynical, wisecracking hipster for the college set or the lovesick romantic for the neglected and underappreciated housewife. Even the handwringing effete for the tea-drinkers of the Junior League. You could be bitchy and foul-mouthed, big-eyed and innocent, or weak and vulnerable—whatever image the situation called for.” Beckman settled back with his feet resting on the dashboard, grinning for the first time in months.

“But isn’t that fraudulent representation?”

“No, not at all. Although I admit it’s open to interpretation.” Beckman sat up, dropping his feet. “You’ve been to California, haven’t you?”

“Once, when I was a child,” Malany answered.

“And you are a poetess, aren’t you?” Beckman didn’t wait for a response. “And I am a struggling young novelist, even though I haven’t finished my first novel yet.”

“What about the stud part?” Malany was deadly serious.

“That, my dear, will be in the mind of the beholder. And, if asked, we will deny it vehemently.” Beckman laughed.

“Beckman, I don’t need these shenanigans. I can do quite well on my own.”

“Come on, Malany. Those books of yours are vanity published. It must have cost a fortune. And you weren’t doing so great in the bookstore.”

Malany turned away, and Beckman was overcome with a sudden rush of remorse.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. Malany turned back around. “Look, let’s just give it a big try.”

Malany didn’t move. There wasn’t a blink or twitch in her elegant profile. Even her eyes seemed glazed over, painted in white vinyl. Her only indication of concern was to jerk the car’s shift lever in drive and pull back out on the highway. Beckman slumped back in his seat. After some time, and after he had some control of his fear of Malany, he asked in his most gentle voice if she would take the next exit and stop at the first phone booth in sight, even though public phone booths seemed to be disappearing. No sooner had Beckman asked this than Malany swerved onto an exit ramp twenty miles per hour faster than the recommended speed.

The heavy Oldsmobile leaned and fishtailed on the ramp. Malany pumped the brakes, rocking the Oldsmobile back and forth with waterbed fluidity. Beckman watched, horrified, as the car skidded to a stop only an instant before crashing into a glass phone booth. Trembling, Beckman slipped out of the car and smiled apologetically at the service station customer, who had stopped cleaning his windshield to watch.

In the phone booth, Beckman felt that he had sealed himself eternally into a hermetic display case, and that the last thing he would see, before being placed on public view, would be Malany’s wrathful countenance. This was only momentary, however, and Beckman started to punch the numbers. Some moments, as he knew, had all the qualities of eternity.

“Whom did you call?” Malany asked, ignoring the heavy truck and outraged driver who swerved into the next lane to avoid her.

“The newspaper in the next town.”

“What for?”

“To inform them of our coming. I figured any small-town newspaper would like to have the story of the famous California poetess stopping overnight in their town with her young novelist friend. Oh, and I also made reservations at the Hilton Inn.”

Malany looked disinterested and drove on.

It was after eight and not a sign of a reporter. Beckman picked up the phone in the motel room and dialed the newspaper office.

“Don’t you think that would be a little obvious?” Malany asked.

Beckman held his finger up for silence and leafed through the phone directory.

“Yes, this is Algernon Becker. You might be interested in this. I just saw Mr. Beckman go into this bar . . . ” Beckman ran his fingers down one of the directory’s pages and stopped near the bottom. “The Dirty Sam . . . what do you mean, never heard of him? What are you, a f*****g illiterate?” Beckman dropped the phone down. “That ought to make ’em mad enough.” He started for the door. Then, sensing Malany’s mood, he was momentarily thrilled that his thoughts seemed to come in with such clarity. “I’m going to this joint to meet the press. I’ll call you if anything really good happens.”

Malany felt decidedly uneasy about Beckman’s proposals. She hated the idea of fraud and misrepresentation, but she couldn’t resist enjoying the feeling of warmth that came over her when she thought about the possibility of selling more of her poetry. Maybe Beckman’s point of view was right. Maybe, in the long term, that’s how great things are done. How many national and world leaders have faked a crisis to get what they want? How many lies had been told in the heat of passion? She thought about the lies she had told her husband and the great lie she had told herself about not needing his money. She knew he could see through it all. He was a psychiatrist, a society doctor. He knew when people were lying and yet he wanted her anyway. He was willing to go along with her need to be a poet. He could be counted on—not like Beckman.