The End of the Road (27 page)

“What’s the name of that doctor?”

“I don’t know, Joe. I swear to Christ I’m not protecting him. I’ve been going to him, but he never told me his name. I’ll explain it to you when you want to hear it.”

“Where does he operate?”

“Out past Vineland. I’ll tell the police how to get there.”

“You get out fast.”

“All right,” I said, and left at once. It was not a time for protest, explanation, contrition, or anything else.

I sat up through the rest of the night waiting to hear from either Joe or the police, but no one called. I wanted terribly to call the police, to call the hospital, to call Joe—but there was no reason to call anyone. What Joe was doing I had no idea; for all I knew he might have done nothing yet—might still be regarding her on the daybed, making up his mind. But I decided to let him take whatever action he wanted to—even killing me—without my interference, since he hadn’t wanted my help. Unless he requested differently, I intended to answer everybody’s questions truthfully, and I hoped the Doctor had been mistaken: I hoped with all my heart that there was some way in which I could be held legally responsible. I craved responsibility.

But no one called. I was presented in the morning with the problem of deciding whether to go to school or not, and I decided to go. I couldn’t telephone Joe; perhaps someone at school would have heard some news.

When I reached the college I went directly to Dr. Schott’s office on the pretext of looking for mail. Dr. Schott was in the outer office, along with Shirley and Dr. Carter, and it was apparent from their expressions that they’d heard of Rennie’s death.

“Good morning,” I said, uncertain how I’d be received.

“Good morning, Mr. Horner,” Dr. Schott said distractedly. “We’ve just heard a terrible thing! Joe Morgan’s wife died very suddenly last night!”

“What?” I said, automatically feigning surprise and shock. So, it seemed that they didn’t suspect my part in her death: my feigned surprise was proper until I found out what was on Joe’s mind.

“Terrible thing!” Dr. Schott repeated. “A young girl like that, and two little children!”

“How did it happen, sir?”

He blushed. “I’m not in a position to say, Mr. Horner. Joe naturally wasn’t too coherent on the phone just now… A shock, you know—terrible shock to him! I believe she died under anesthesia last night in the hospital. Some kind of emergency operation she was having.”

“That’s awful, isn’t it?” I said, shaking my head.

“Terrible thing!”

“Shall I call the hospital?” Shirley asked him. “Maybe they’d have some information.”

“No, no,” Dr. Schott said at once. “We mustn’t pry. I’ll telephone Joe later and ask if there’s anything I can do. I can’t believe it! Mrs. Morgan was such a fine, healthy young thing!”

It was evident to me that he knew more than he was telling, but whatever Joe told him must not have involved me. Dr. Carter noticed my eyes watering and clapped me on the shoulder. It was known that I was some kind of friend of the Morgans.

“Ah, you never know,” he sighed. “The good die young, and maybe it’s best.”

“What’ll he do about the children?” I asked.

“Lord knows! It’s tragic!” It was not certain what exactly he referred to.

“Well, let’s don’t say any more about it than we have to,” Dr. Carter advised, “until we hear more details. It’s a terrible shock to all of us.”

I guessed that Dr. Schott had confided to him whatever information he had.

So on Monday and Tuesday I taught my classes as usual, though in a great emptiness of anxiety. Tuesday afternoon Rennie was buried, but because the college could not declare a holiday on that account Dr. Schott was the only representative of the faculty at the funeral. A collection was taken by Miss Banning for a wreath from all of us: I gave a dollar from what little money the Doctor had given me. At the moment when Rennie was lowered into the earth, I believe I was explaining semicolons to my students.

It was given out at the college that Mrs. Morgan had not died from anesthesia after all, but had strangled when a morsel of food lodged in her throat, and had succumbed en route to the hospital. This is what appeared in Tuesday’s newspaper as well—Dr. Schott must have been a power in the community. Moreover, it was rumored that Mr. Morgan had submitted his resignation; everyone agreed that the shock of his wife’s death was responsible—that Joe very understandably wanted a change of scenery for a while. The boys were being cared for by Mr. and Mrs. MacMahon, Rennie’s parents.

But later Tuesday afternoon I heard the truth of the matter from Dr. Carter, who accosted me as I was leaving school for the last time.

“I know you were a friend of Morgan’s,” he said confidentially, steering me away from a group of students nearby, “so you might as well know the truth about this business. I’m sure it’ll go no further.”

“Of course not,” I assured him. “What is it?”

“Dr. Schott and I were terribly shocked, Horner,” he said. “It seems that Mrs. Morgan really died from the effects of an illegal abortion someplace out in the country near here.”

“No kidding!”

“I’m afraid so. When he took her to the hospital they found out she’d strangled under anesthesia, and there were obvious signs of the abortion.”

“That’s a terrible shame!”

“Isn’t it? Dr. Schott managed to keep everybody quiet, and the police are investigating secretly, but so far they haven’t had any luck. Morgan claims he doesn’t know who the doctor was that did it or where the thing was done. Says his wife arranged it on her own and he wasn’t there when it happened. I don’t know whether he’s lying or not; there’s no way to tell.”

“Good Lord! Can they punish him for anything?”

“Not a thing. But here’s the unfortunate part: even though Dr. Schorl’s kept everything hushed up, he decided he can’t in all good conscience keep Morgan on the staff. It’s a bad thing in itself, and it would be worse if the students got wind of it. You know, a small college in a little town like Wicomico. It could lead to a great deal of unpleasantness. Frankly, he asked for Morgan’s resignation.”

“Oh, the poor bastard!”

“Yes, it’s a pity. You won’t say anything, will you?”

I shook my head. “I won’t tell a soul.”

I was going to be denied, then, the chance to take public responsibility. Rennie was buried. I was still employed, my reputation was untouched, and Joe was out of a job.

Lord, the raggedness of it; the incompleteness! I paced my room; sucked in my breath; groaned aloud. I could imagine confessing publicly—but would this not be a further, final injury to Joe, who clearly wanted to deprive me of my responsibility, or at any rate wanted to hold his grief free from any further dealing with me? I could imagine carrying the ragged burden secretly, either in or out of Wicomico, married to Peggy Rankin or not, under my real name or another—but was this not cheating my society of its due, or covertly avoiding public embarrassment? For that matter, I couldn’t decide whether marrying Peggy would be merciful or cruel; whether setting police on the Doctor would be right or wrong. I could not even decide what I should
feel:
all I found in me was anguish, abstract and without focus.

I was frantic. Half a dozen letters I started—to Joe, to the police, to Peggy, to Joe again—and none could I finish. It was no use: I could not remain sufficiently simple-minded long enough to lay blame—on the Doctor, myself, or anyone—or to decide what was the right course of action. I threw the notes away and sat still and anguished in my rocking chair. The terrific incompleteness made me volatile; my muscles screamed to act; but my limbs were bound like Laocoön’s—by the twin serpents Knowledge and Imagination, which, grown great in the fullness of time, no longer tempt but annihilate.

Presently I undressed and lay on the bed in the dark, though sleep was unthinkable, and commenced a silent colloquy with my friend.

“We’ve come too far and learned too much,” I said to Laocoön. “Of those of us who have survived to this age, who can live any longer in the world?”

There was no reply. My mouth had the taste of ashes in it.

Sometime during the night the telephone rang. I was nude, and since the window curtains were open I answered the phone in the dark. Joe’s voice came strong, clear, quiet, and close over the wire.

“Jake?”

“Yes, Joe.” I tingled in every nerve, thinking, among other things, of the big pistol in his closet.

“Are you up to date on everything?”

“Yes. I think so.”

There was a pause.

“Well. What are your plans? Anything special?”

“I don’t know, Joe… I guess not. I was going to follow your lead, whatever it turned out to be.”

Another pause.

“I might leave town too,” I said.

“Oh yes? Why?”

No alteration in his voice, no hint of his attitude at all.

“I don’t know. How about you, Joe? What’ll you do now?”

He ignored the question.

“Well, what’s on your mind, Jake? What do you think about things?”

I hesitated, entirely nonplused. “God, Joe—I don’t know where to start or what to do!”

“What?”

His voice remained clear, bright, and close in my ear. I can’t understand why it was that I started crying, but the tears ran in a cold flood down my face and neck, onto my chest, and I shook all over with violent chills.

“I said 1 don’t know what to do.”

“Oh.”

Another pause, this time a long one, and then he hung up and I was left with a dead instrument in the dark.

Next morning I shaved, dressed, packed my bags, and called a taxi. While I waited for it to come, I rocked in my chair and smoked a cigarette. I was without weather. A few minutes later the cabby blew his horn for me; I picked up my two suitcases and went out, leaving the bust of Laocoön where it stood on the mantelpiece. My car, too, since I saw no further use for it, I left where it was, at the curb, and climbed into the taxi.

“Terminal.”

THE END

John Barth was born May 27, 1930, in a town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, a location he was to use repeatedly in his later writing. As a youth, Barth’s reading material often came from the paperback racks of his father’s candy store. As a college student he discovered in the Classics Library of John Hopkins University the Oriental tale-cycles and medieval story collections that greatly influenced his fiction. He received his B.A. from Johns Hopkins in 1951 and his M.A. in 1952, having studied there with George Boas, Leo Spitzer and Pedro Salinas. A full-time teacher as well as a writer, Barth is now Alumni Centennial Professor of English at John Hopkins.

Barth’s first three novels were critical successes, but commercial failures. The Floating Opera (1956) won him a nomination for the National Book Award. The End of the Road (1958) was well-received by reviewers and a growing coterie of Barth fans, but marked the end of the author’s interest in writing realistic fiction. In 1960 the racy, comic pseudohistorical novel The Sot-Weed Factor appeared and firmly established him as a favorite among academic and intellectual readers. In 1966 Giles Goat-Boy, an allegorical tale narrated by a computer, brought him huge financial success and a popularity that allowed him to revise and republish his first three novels. Lost in the Funhouse, a, cycle of fictions beginning with the short story “Night-Sea Journey” in which a spermatozoan is the speaker, earned him a nomination for the 1968 National Book Award. Chimera, a collection of three novellas, followed in 1972, and Letters, an epistolary novel, in 1979. All of Barth’s superbly crafted works reaffirmed his observation that “My own talent has been to make simple things complicated. In doing so, he has amused, instructed, and delighted his readers.

Exciting, important, a great American novel.

John Barth emerged as one of the most exciting and promising novelists of his generation with the publication of his first novel,
The Floating Opera
. The subsequent appearance of
The End of the Road
,
The Sot-Weed Factor
, and
Giles Goat-Boy
has more than justified this promise.

In
The End of the Road
, Barth tells an intensely perceptive, funny, and savagely realistic tale, with a principal character, Jake Horner, who has been described as “one of the most fantastically dreadful” to appear in a long time.

“
The End of the Road
has more freshness, more wit and invention, and more intellectual life of its own than most recent American fiction. It is a horrifying book too, and neither the vocabulary nor the situations will recommend themselves to the squeamish.”—
Harper’s

“A brilliant novel of marital infidelity on a college campus by the best writer we have at the present, and one of the best we have ever had.”—
New York Times

Scan Notes, v3.0:
Proofed carefully, italics and special characters intact. The chapter headings are really like that in the DT.

converted to .ePUB by
antimist
 on 01/03/2015