Cook was free to pursue these thoughts because Dan and Robbie were occupied in the front seat of the van by a song on the radio. They beat time to it and sang snatches. Cook watched and thought someone ought to do a study of what bits of songs got sung by listeners and what bits didn’t. Was that a linguistic question? You bet it was. Everything was a linguistic question these days. And if it wasn’t, he’d make it one.
“You like him?” Dan asked Cook over his shoulder.
“Who?”
“Billy Joel.”
“Never heard of him.”
Dan laughed. Cook wondered why.
Robbie turned around and looked at Cook. “You’ve never heard of Billy Joel?”
“Nope.”
“Geez,” said Dan. “You’re serious.”
“That’s incredible,” said Robbie.
Dan said, “He’s really a major figure.”
This angered Cook. “I’m a linguist, okay? I don’t follow this stuff.”
“Okay,” said Dan. “No one says you have to.”
“You ever heard of Elvis?” asked Robbie.
Dan said, “Drop it, Robbie. Here we are.” He had pulled the van into the library lot and coasted into a parking space. He turned off the ignition, but the engine continued running in a prolonged fit of coughing. Dan and Robbie joined it in a funny imitation, their shoulders shaking as the van shook. It was obviously something they had done before.
When the engine quieted, Robbie said, “Here’s the plan. Dad, you check downstairs at the desk. I’ll run upstairs and check there. We’ll meet downstairs. Okay? Ooh—and I gotta get a book on hamsters, so my new one doesn’t croak on me. I just hope I don’t get that witch at the checkout counter.” He hurried out of the van and ran full speed to the front doors.
Dan asked Cook if he wanted to come with him or wait. Cook had spotted a bank of pay phones in the brick entry-way, and he told Dan he had to make a phone call. Dan looked at him as if for further explanation, but when he got none he just said he and Robbie wouldn’t be long and went on into the library.
Cook walked to the phones. He took Pillow’s business card from his pocket and dialed the home number given on it. An answering machine came on with Pillow’s voice, apparently speaking from the bottom of a well. Cook had experienced slow, self-conscious messages on these things, but Pillow’s set a record. Cook told the voice to shut up. He hung up and fished in his pocket for another quarter, this time dialing Pillow’s office number.
“Pillow.”
This no-nonsense way of saying hello threw Cook for a moment. “Roy? Jeremy Cook here.”
Pillow responded with silence. Had he forgotten who Cook was?
“I’m at the Wilsons’,” Cook said helpfully.
“Of course you are. I know that.”
“I have a question. Is there a horror at the core of the Wilson marriage?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Pillow. “Of course there is.”
Cook flinched as if he had been slapped. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Tell you? Good God, man. It goes without saying.”
“It does?” Cook forced himself not to shout. “What is it?”
“Just a minute, Jeremy. I’ve got another call.”
Cook started to protest, but Pillow went away and left a void behind. A minute passed. Then another minute. Cook shouted into the emptiness. A moment later he heard a promising click. Then he heard several clicks bunched together. These climaxed in a dial tone.
Cook held the receiver at arm’s length, looked at it, and said to it, “You are a prick.”
A black teenager at an adjacent phone raised his eyebrows at Cook.
Cook found another quarter and redialed the Pillow Agency. The line was busy. “Stupid fucking twit,” said Cook. The teenager grinned broadly. Cook dialed again and got Pillow, whose first word was “Sorry.”
“Right,” said Cook.
“It was Mrs. Pillow. I was going to get right back to you, Jeremy. You shouldn’t have hung up.”
“The horror, Roy. Tell me about the horror.”
“After I spoke with Mrs. Pillow and discovered you had hung up, I tried to call you at the Wilsons’. You told me you were there.”
“Never mind that. Tell me about—”
“You lied.”
Cook wanted to slump to his knees. “I didn’t mean I was literally there. I was just reminding you who I was when I said I was at the Wilsons’.”
“Reminding me?” Pillow said with a laugh. “You mean you thought I might have forgotten?”
“Yes.”
“Lord, Lord, Lord. Insecurity. It’s the universal disease, isn’t it? Mrs. Pillow and I were discussing this very subject at lunch. We disagreed in our views, but I don’t think frank disagreement is a threat to love. Do you?”
“You had lunch with your wife today?”
“Yes. I had prime rib.”
“You said you were going to have lunch with me.”
“I mentioned in a general way I would like to have lunch with you someday, yes, that’s true.”
“You said today.”
“Oh come now, Jeremy. You’re the one who said you were at the Wilsons’ when you weren’t. And you’re calling me a liar?”
“You said it. You said ‘today.’”
“You heard ‘today,’ Jeremy, but I’m sure I said ‘someday.’ Perhaps you were just hungry.”
Cook laughed wildly. “Let’s go back to the reason I called. The horror at the core of the Wilson marriage.”
“Yes?”
“How can you say ‘yes’ like that, as if it’s an everyday thing?”
“It is, Jeremy. There’s a horror at the core of every marriage—and it’s the very same horror.”
“What do you mean? What is it?”
“You have The Pillow Manual. It will lead you to it. Are you having a regular social evening?”
“Well, I—”
“Are you demonstrating your conversational competence?”
“Well, I’m—”
“Have you asked twenty-five questions?”
“No, I—”
“You see? There’s plenty still to do. My advice to you is to roll up your sleeves and get to work.”
“I hate that expression.”
“Pardon?”
“‘Roll up your sleeves.’ I hate it.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Jeremy.”
“I really hate it.”
“I’ll try not to use it in the future. If it’s on your hate list in The Woof of Words, I don’t remember it. But may I change the subject?”
Cook was so impressed by this burst of decorum that he said yes.
“I’ve been going over the questionnaire you filled out this morning. One of your answers puzzled me.” Cook heard the rustling of paper. “Here we are. The question is ‘Rank the following social situations from least appealing to you to most appealing to you by numbering them from one (least appealing) to ten (most appealing).’ Do you remember the question, Jeremy? It gives ‘cocktail party for twenty,’ ‘country club dinner dance’ …”
“Sure. I remember it.”
“I don’t think you understood the instructions. You wrote a ‘one’ next to all of them.”
“That’s right. They were all ‘least appealing’ to me.”
“But compared to what? What social situation does appeal to you?”
“None.”
“Oh come now.”
“I mean it.”
“Not even ‘quiet dinner party for four’?”
“Sounds awful.”
“You don’t like groups? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like people?”
“Yes, I can see from your other answers here that you … that you …” Pillow fell silent. Then he said, “You say here that you’ve slept with sixteen women in the past five years.”
“I wasn’t crazy about answering that,” said Cook. “I was going to leave it blank, but I was afraid you’d get the wrong idea.”
“It also asks how many of them you loved. You did leave this one blank.”
“I guess I should have put a zero. The answer is zero.”
“And under ‘Explain’—the follow-up to that question—you again wrote nothing.”
“What’s to explain?”
Pillow made a flabbergasted noise. “Frankly, Jeremy, it cries out for an explanation. You slept with sixteen women but didn’t find one of them lovable?”
Cook wanted to laugh. Pillow made them sound like teddy bears. “I think this is my business, Roy.”
“It’s Pillow business now.”
“I didn’t love them. What more can I say? I don’t know why. Maybe you can tell me. You want to meet them? Want me to hunt them up and bring them by?”
“Do any of them live in the area?”
Cook laughed. His laughter echoed so loudly off the brick and glass walls that two librarians at the front counter looked through the window at him. So did Dan and Robbie, who had just walked up to the counter. “I was joking, Roy,” Cook said.
“Oh.”
“I don’t see why you need all this stuff, anyway. You’ve already hired me, right?”
“Oh, there’s no question about that. But I’m concerned, Jeremy. You know how I feel about love.”
“Yes. You told me.”
“I believe in it.”
“I know. You told me.”
“I would give my life for it.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Love, Jeremy.”
“Yes, Roy.”
“Trust.”
“Yes. Trust.”
“We hear those words so often that we forget what they mean.”
“Yeah, well, that happens.” Cook watched Dan and Robbie check out their books.
“I wish those words were outlawed. Forbidden. We would have to invent new ones.”
“A powerful idea, Roy.” Cook wasn’t the least bit interested.
“The new words would mean something. For a while, anyway.”
“Ah,” said Cook, suppressing a yawn, “but what then?”
“Let’s make up new words, Jeremy.” Pillow said this with frightening enthusiasm. He made it sound like a child’s game.
“I’d rather play Candyland, Roy.”
“Pardon?”
“May I change the subject?”
“No.”
“What? Come on. I let you change it.”
“You want to talk about the horror. Time to end our chat, Jeremy. We’ve come full circle.”
“I hate that expression, too.”
“Sorry. It’s purged from my lexicon. I never want to say anything to upset you. To be on the safe side, I’ll say nothing more.” Pillow hung up.
Cook stared at the dead phone. As he hung it up, Robbie and Dan came out the door. Robbie waved a book for Cook to see and then sprinted all the way to the van. He seemed to run flat out just about every chance he got.
“Which hook is that?” Cook asked.
“Beth’s meat hook. She’s got one on the wall in every room. Haven’t you seen them?” Dan leaned toward Cook, screwed his face up, and piped, “‘You’ve made your house very comfortable’” in blatant mockery of him. “But what about the meat hooks, Jeremy? Eh? What about the meat hooks?” Dan laughed insanely.
For a moment Cook wondered if Dan had had a snort of something in some alcove of the library. He had trouble matching this angry man with the pleasant fellow who had been willing to dash off and fetch his son’s book. Cook was so unnerved by Dan’s outburst that he could think of nothing to say. He was silent as they walked to the van.
Pillow believed in love. What did it mean? Take Dan. Here was a guy who, if you asked him (or if she asked him), would probably say he loved his wife. He might even say he loved her a lot, or a great deal, or a bushel and a peck. But listen to the way he talked about her. Just listen to him.
Seven
“So, you see, it’s a bunch of short hops. Norway to the Faeroe Islands. From there to Iceland. Iceland to Greenland. Greenland to Newfoundland. That’s how the Vikings did it. It’s a lot easier than Columbus’s way. If you look at the route Columbus had to take, it’s one big scary ocean waiting to swallow you up.” Dan looked from Robbie to Beth, who was across the living room. He added obscurely, “Just like Mommy.”
“Yeah,” said Robbie, looking with fascination at the large globe near the fireplace. “Hop. Hop. Hop.” He hopped his fingers along the globe. “My book didn’t explain it like that.” He gave his father an odd look—more curious than appreciative.
Cook had been watching and listening from the couch. He looked back to Robbie’s Leif Ericsson book, which he had picked up from the coffee table. A picture of a Viking stuffing his face with grapes stared back at him.
Dan said, “Time for bed, Robbie.”
“Kisses!” Beth called out in a Pavlovian response. She rose from her knees, where she had been shelving records, and kissed Robbie good night. Dan said he would tuck him in. Robbie and Cook said good night to each other.
This left Cook alone with Beth. She sat down in a large stuffed chair across from him and put her feet up on the ottoman. Cook felt a nudge from “Have a regular social evening”—it was palpable, as if Roy Pillow had slipped his hand underneath him and goosed him. The result was that his mind went blank.
One of the chapters in The Woof of Words was devoted to things in language that Cook hated. In it he proudly set a new standard for unapologetic prescriptivist bias. Among the items on his hate list were “arch” as an adjective (he could never remember its meaning), “ombudsman” (an ugly word), “jejune” (it reminded him of “jujubes,” a candy that used to stick annoyingly to his teeth), and tediously unclever self-corrections like “famous—or rather infamous” and “despite this—or perhaps because of this.” Also in this chapter were sentences he hated because they were completely predictable once a social role was defined, such as that of first-time guest.
Unfortunately, as Cook now searched for something to say to Beth, he felt straitjacketed by his own harshness on this subject. Two chestnuts from that chapter danced on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them. The first—“How long have you lived here?”—was dumb not only on grounds of predictability, but because it always clumsily triggered the countercliché, “Do you mean in this house or in this city?” Cook once actually responded to this request for clarification by saying, “Either one”—a blundering admission of insincerity for which he would always feel guilty.
The second—a springtime favorite—was “Are you going anywhere this summer?” This was a decent question, in that it could produce a whole bunch of words on both sides, and Cook was actually preparing to say it, when it suddenly occurred to him that Beth’s occupation as a music teacher provided a topic that was consistent with his position on originality and interesting to him as well. Incredible as it seemed, there was promise on the horizon of social interaction without sex and yet without boredom.
Ideas rushed upon him—all the private theories about music he had entertained over the years. He heard himself blurt out, “What can we learn from the birds?”
“What?” said Beth.
“I mean musically. What kind of scale do birds use?”
“I have no idea.”
“I mean … Western? Eastern?” He hoped these were different, and that there was only one of each.
Beth shrugged. “Search me.”
Cook’s topic, launched with such hope, was suddenly stuck in the mud. He was at a loss to develop the question. He had been carrying it around with him, and it seemed to grow weightier every year—every time he heard a goddamned bird, in fact—but now that it was out there, it amounted to nothing.
“Forget that,” said Cook. �
��Here’s another question. Are there some composers that are more fun to remember than to listen to?”
“Like who?”
“I’m thinking of Chopin. Isn’t he prettier in the mind, in memory, than when you’re actually hearing him?”
Beth shook her head immediately, as if she had settled this very question back in junior high. “No,” she said.
Cook wanted to defend this point. He wanted to hold his ground. The only defense he could think of, though, was a rather high-pitched “Really?”
“Not for me anyway.”
“When I was in college,” Cook said, lurching on to his third theory, “I had a Nonesuch recording of Scarlatti harpsichord sonatas that seemed to be an aphrodisiac. Every time I brought a girl to the apartment and played it I … I got lucky. You ever hear of that?”
“No, Jeremy,” Beth said, smiling. “Word of your good luck never reached me.”
“Domenico Scarlatti,” Cook said, tickled to show he knew there was more than one Scarlatti. Then it struck him as ridiculous to think that a clarification of this could enhance the look of his theory. Theory? Whatever possessed him to think of it as a theory? Everything he’d said suddenly seemed ludicrous. All those years with these paltry ideas, anticipating a thunderous airing of them. What a dunce he was.
Cook sighed. “How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“Do you mean—”
“In this house,” Cook snapped.
Beth’s eyebrows shot up and came right back down. “About ten years.”
“Ten years, eh?” He paused, sighed, and said, “Are you going anywhere this summer?”
“Yes,” Beth said, her face brightening. “Dan’s taking me to Italy.”
Cook quickly dismissed the memory of his own failed sentences in order to recoil inwardly at hers, with its central idea of the husband “taking” the wife somewhere. Cook had never understood this concept. Didn’t Beth know where Italy was? Did Dan have to show her? Or did she mean that Dan would be piloting the jet to Rome? Or did she anticipate a crippling disease overcoming her, and Dan literally wheeling her all over the peninsula? What did it mean?
Cook realized Beth had been speaking while he had been privately abusing her sentence. Now she stopped and looked at him. She had probably talked about Italy, but he didn’t want to risk a follow-up remark that didn’t follow up. He opted for spontaneity, lunging at the first idea that popped into his head. “When did Robbie’s hamster die?”