Outer Banks (51 page)

^*
These comprise the sequences and subjects of the first seven chapters of
The Plumber's Apprentice
, the novel from which “Return and Depart” is drawn. It also marks one of the few places in the book where the narrator self-conciously becomes “the author.”

^*
The Latin version of Tobit adds that Tobias and Sarah defeated the demon by successfully remaining chaste for the first three nights of their marriage, which was the beggining of the later custom “Tobias's Nights.” In fact, right down to the nineteenth century in parts of France, Germany, and the Balkans, it was customary to follow the example of Tobias and Sarah, and in medieval France, husbands were often permitted to pay a fee to the Church for a license to disregard the rule.

^*
Oddly, when asked which of his many construction jobs had given him the most personal satisfaction, Hamilton replied, “The Temple of Jerusalem,” which remark, at the time, was interpreted by the interrogator as meaning that none of his many jobs had given him personal satisfaction.

^*
A local, smaller, coldwater version of the well-known catfish.

^*
It might be worth noting, however, that the intimated troubles did occur later, very recently, in fact, and naturally enough concerned the only woman in the author's life (at the time of this writing). That woman was Rochelle Stark, and the author's “troubles” with her arose from her gift, and his literary use, of the voluminous materials and several texts of her novel,
The Plumber's Apprentice,
which, the reader will recall, were formally presented to the author in his Chapter Seven, “Ausable Chasm.” For, when it became apparent to Rochelle that the author intended to incorporate extended pieces of her more or less completed narrative directly into the body of his own narrative, her reaction was surprising to the author. He had taken her at her word, that her research materials and other texts were his to use, however he wished to use them, in the writing of his own novel. Thus he had hoped that she would be pleased by what he regarded as his imaginative use of those texts, especially since he had credited her for them and had so elaborately praised their qualities (even when, naturally, with this fastidious an author, there were sections that displeased him somewhat). And if his hopes of her gratitude and delight could not be met, then he fully expected her, at the least, to provide him with an objective appraisal of his use of those materials, as one craftsman to another. In other words, the author hoped she would be flattered by his deployment of her help, and if he couldn't get that much from her, then he expected
more
help, this time in the form of critical analysis. Instead, as the reader may have guessed, Rochelle's reactions were more complex. She would not criticize. No, indeed, quite the opposite; she lavished him with praise for his imagination and wit. And she would not let him believe that she was sincerely flattered. “Oh, my goodness! I'm so happy that you were able to take so
much
!” she exclaimed. “And that you had to change so
little!
” This was the beginning of the author's “troubles” with Rochelle. A sensitive person, he was able immediately to break her code and perceive that her exclamations were actually whimpers of pain, a woman's pain, the kind of pain no self-conscious man can perceive without recognizing its cause—man himself, or rather, that aspect of himself which is characterized by gender (as opposed to sex or any other personal manifestation of manhood). At first the author permitted himself the standard, expected reaction of personal guilt. After all, her suffering certainly seemed personalized enough, a particular kind and dose of pain caused by a particular person's offense. He therefore apologized. She told him not to apologize. He sounded ridiculous. She was honored. Why should he apologize for having honored her? He apologized again. She rejected his apology again. He tried to minimize his actual use of her materials. She agreed, ashamed of their irrelevance. He came back and defended his need for them, their utter relevance. She didn't believe him. He insisted. She believed him, and again, honored, she rejected his apology, this time in advance of its being offered. He grew suspicious of her expectation that he apologize. She must think he had something to apologize
for.
He denied having done anything wrong. She agreed, nothing wrong. He said lots of novelists had done it. She was happy to know there was a tradition for this sort of thing. He demanded to know what she meant by that. She said nothing. He said he knew irony when he heard it, and sarcasm too. She doubted that. He laughed sarcastically. She apologized—for misleading him, for having been unclear. She had been perfectly clear, he said ironically. She wrung her hands. He stalked about. She apologized. He told her not to be ridiculous, he felt honored by her gift. Why should she apologize for having honored him? She apologized again. He rejected her apology again. She began to deprecate the materials, pointing out his good judgment in deciding to use so little of them. He agreed, depressed by what he feared was their irrelevance. She came back and defended their relevance to his novel, especially the way he had integrated them. He didn't believe her. She insisted. He believed her, and again, feeling honored by her gift, he rejected her apologies for the meagerness of the gift. What, she asked him, made him think she wanted to apologize for her gift? He must think her ashamed of her work, especially in relation to his work. She told him hers was just as beautifully done as his. There was nothing wrong with it. He agreed, nothing wrong. At least, she informed him, she was working in a tradition. He was happy for her, as for so many other writers, that there was a well-established tradition for them to work in. She demanded to know what he meant by that. He said nothing. She said she knew irony when she heard it, and sarcasm too. He doubted that, judging from her work. She laughed sarcastically. He apologized. He said he was guilty of having been unclear. After all, he depended on a tradition as much as she did. Oh, no, he had been
perfectly
clear, she told him, wringing her hands. He stalked about. She wept. He apologized. And so it went, around and around again, like a uroboros. They had been transformed, and two separate people, hitherto linked solely by their love for one another and their shared obsession with a third person, had suddenly found themselves capable of connecting only viciously, auto-cannibalistically, wearing a single body, yes, but a body with its tail in its mouth. And since neither the author nor Rochelle could distinguish the head of the beast from its tail, they could not break this self-devouring connection, and rapidly their love for one another turned to fear for their own survival, then desperation, then hatred of the other. Their old shared obsession broke apart also, and they began to attack each other's viewpoint and interpretation. Where one found meaning, the other saw projection and egoism. Where one found sublimity, the other saw wishful thinking. Each began to think the other soft-headed, sentimental and self-indulgent on the subject of Hamilton Stark. Yet they could not separate. The uroboros is a mesmerizing image. It is, in spite of the entrapment it signifies, a securing, containing, utterly stable image, and if the author had not recalled his earlier conversations with Hamilton and had not decided to enact certain of the aphorisms learned there (and set down earlier in this chapter), it's possible that their lives, the author's and Rochelle's, would be locked together even today by the image of the self-swallowing serpent. For the author, as the reader doubtless knows by now, bore a typically heavy burden of typical male guilt, despite his years of study with the master of neutralizing precisely that guilt. And Rochelle, in turn, bore a typically heavy burden of typical female pain, despite her relative freedom from any oppressive relationships with particular men (heaven knows, her father had never participated in any such relationship, and her love affair with the author had been essentially the connection between two acolytes, with nothing in their role as acolytes to permit an inequality between them). Thus, by the time the author finally remembered Hamilton's advice and example and their applicability to his own situation, he had grown feeble and confused, and it took an enormous effort of will for him to face down the forces that conspired to keep him from applying that advice and example, the forces of his own conventions, the threat of public disapprobation, his fear of loneliness, and naturally, his love of Rochelle. There was a further consequence that threatened him: he doubtless would end up unable to use the materials of her novel in his own novel, either because she would forbid it or because he would be too ashamed, purely and simply, of a cruelty that, at such a point, would be merely gratuitous. And possibly illegal. But even so, he was at last capable of meeting this coercive array of forces head-on. One afternoon following a particularly vicious turn of the wheel they were locked into, he went to his desk and drew out of a drawer all the notes, tapes, genealogical charts, maps, photos, and all the carefully typed manuscript pages of
The Plumber's Apprentice
, wrapped the materials fastidiously in brown paper, and drove to the post office, where he mailed the package to Rochelle, who at that time was still living in a boarding house in Concord. To the top sheet of her manuscript, he had clipped a typewritten note, which read:
I have read your manuscript and related materials with care, and, as you know, with a predisposition to enjoy them because of the person your character Alvin Stock is based on. I have found, however, that, whether taken as a work of imaginative fiction or as a
roman à clef,
the manuscript fails to interest or amuse, and I am therefore returning it to you with my thanks. You are obviously quite intelligent and at times show evidence of talent, and I would not wish to discourage someone who is at the very beginning of her caree r as a writer, but it occurs to me that you might consider trying some other aspect of writing than fiction. Have you ever thought seriously of writing articles for women's magazines? This can be extremely lucrative, and you would be free to travel. In any case, I am flattered that you cared to solicit my opinion of your work, and if you wish to have me read any of your future writings, I would be delighted to do so. Good luck to you in your career.
She never knew, of course, that as he typed this letter the author wept. Nor would he have told her or even hinted at his pain if they ever happened by chance to meet again. It was the end of Rochelle's lovely presence in his life, he knew that. He also knew how she would remember and imagine him from that day on—as a senselessly cruel man, possibly psychotic, a man unable to give love because he was unable to accept love, a
dangerous
man. And he knew that, in so describing him, she would bring him closer to the way most people described her own father, and that possibly her experience with him, the author, would lead her finally to view her father as others did. Her inescapable image of him, the author, as villain would, by its similarity to the other, lead her to accept an image of her father that she had resisted so bravely these many years. He knew that this conversion, or lapse, would deprive no one of any particular truth—not Rochelle, not Hamilton, and not the author. And finally, he knew now that he himself was going to have to research and write all those sections of his hero's life that he had originally counted on being researched and written by Rochelle. That meant work. Hard work. He did not enjoy reading realistic fiction; still less did he enjoy writing it. But he had no choice. Rochelle was gone, used up and thrown out with the rubbish of his imaginative life. And her novel was gone with her. He was alone in his book now, a solitary. (Except, of course, for the company of his friend C. and Hamilton Stark himself.)