She was asleep, my Wife, and snoring. Joe strolled over, raised the sash, leaned out, took a look, and said: Christ, Horner. But at my Entreaty he came out; we Fetched Her In; Marsha was stirring already, must have been a minor dose of Dust; I Knew From Past Experience she would be Cross As a Bear when she was Herself again, especially if that really was the End of the Ride, ha. I Hurried to Make my Pitch.
This is, I Said in effect to Joe, my Wife. That I Care For. Nevertheless, and Against my Inclination—deeply Against etc. — but by way of Partial Recompense for, let’s Say, 8/31/53 & thereafter, I here Offer you, Joe, on my and her Very Wedding Night, her.
Joe tapped out his pipe and without surprise responded: Horner, you Disgust me. She too.
Her too, too, here put in Marsha, whom I had Not Supposed all that awake yet, and who not for nothing was the ex-secretarial Bride of a Former Grammar Teacher: Me he Disgusts, too, she sort of repeated. Hold on, I Protested, not a little Taken Aback to Find her both awake and disgusted. Let me Explain. Explain my ass, my Wife expostulated [excuse the expression, Mr. Andrews]. Explain my ass, she repeated [the exact wording is important, sir]: It’s our G.D.M.F.‘ing Wedding Night, Jacob!
Exclamation point hers, sir, as Reasonably inferred from tone of voice, facial expression, tear-glint in eyes. I Must Explain that over & above the surprising content of her expostulation — surprising I Mean in that I had Anticipated, on the basis of earlier observations and remarks of hers, at best indifference to, at worst outright enthusiasm for, on her part, my Proposition, should she be Together enough, as they say, to register it at all — was a more considerable extraordinariness: it was the first time that Marsha had ever addressed me by my Name!
When I was Together enough myself for Further Speech, I Inquired of her, in effect, You don’t want to go to bed with him? Well, she said, no. I mean [she said, and I Reasonably Infer three suspension points plus italics]… no. I mean [i.e., she means] I didn’t. Oh, Said I. Well. Then. Golly. In that case.
Now, excuse the playscript format, sir: this was, after all — I now Recalled With Growing Consternation — a scene, from Der Wiedertraum.
MORGAN (SUDDENLY INTERESTED) (IN EFFECT): Done.
ME: What?
MORGAN: Leave us, Horner. Alone. Go ’round to the window.
MARSHA (IN EFFECT): No.
MORGAN: Horner?
ME: Well…
MY WIFE (VERBATIM): Jacob!
MYSELF (IN EFFECT): She, um, doesn’t want to, Joe. I Mean, I’m as Surprised as anybody. But if she really doesn’t want to. Gosh.
I now Summarize. Here Morgan withdrew from his pockets both hands, where he had thrust them during the above. With the left he held before Marsha’s nose a tiny white packet disagreeably familiar, saying: Honey Dust. Found in “Bibi’s” room after she left. With the right he unzipped his trouser fly, whereto, to my Chagrin, my Wife, without another word, went. Out, Horner, Joe ordered. To the window. Peep. Espy. Watch me fuck your Wife [your pardon, Mr. A., but etc.], before your Very Eyes, before you Do, on your Very Wedding Night. Out.
Well, Said I, my voice to my Surprise choking off some. Well. But by golly I Want it Clearly Understood, Joe, that this is it for Der Wiedertraum! Tears in my eyes, sir. Morgan appeared to Consider for a moment — Marsha was at it, I Couldn’t Look — and then said: Nope. You Go Out There and Watch me [etc., above]. Then you Leave. She stays here. Though it is too late for me to knock your Wife up, I am going to Honey-Dust and hump her every which way till the cows come home, like [sic] you did Rennie. At eight A.M. sharp you and I will have our scheduled Last P & A: Confrontation and Deadline. After that she’s yours. Bring your Hornbook. Go.
I Paused, Reflected, then Declared: I Hate This. But okay. Joe asked my Wife whether she heard and understood. Marsha cleared her mouth and throat and said, to me: You creep. To Morgan: Dust me, Dust me. To me: Want to Put It In for him, too? To Morgan: Dust me, for Christ sake. Thanks. To me: Oh, Buddy, will you ever Pay for this.
Etc. I Went Outside, Took up Position; they came to the window to make sure I Didn’t Cheat. I Hated it. They laughed; I Dry-Heaved: Then Marsha Dusted Off. I Said Huskily through the window: Let me Take her home now, Joe. He responded: Bugger off, Horner.
Bad night; I’ll Skip the Details. Sometime after midnight, in my Room, I Entered my Name in Column One, Cuckold, of my Hornbook: HORNER, Jacob, between Hephaestus and Hosea: Marsha in Column Two, Wife, between Aphrodite and Gomer, Joe in Column Three, Lover(s), between Anchises, Ares, Butes, Dionysus, Hermes, Poseidon, Zeus, etc., etc. and Everybody.
It is a listing I Keep, sir, have for some years Kept, at the (late) Doctor’s Rx. Before dawn I Actually Fell Asleep, so finally and truly Purged After All, even Pissed Off, did I Feel.
Woke up ditto! Monday 9/1: Labor, St. Giles’, and Confrontation Day! Went to Claim my Wife, plenty Fed Up sir! Running a touch late, Charged down to the P & A Room to Have It Out Quickly for good and all. Collect Marsha; Try to Make Things Up. Suggest to Tombo X we Oust Morgan and Run the Show Together upon my Return From Honeymoon: me Keep the books, him book the creeps, ha ha.
Remobilized!
Joe was dressed, smoking but not reading; apparently waiting for me, though I was by now a touch early. Desk clear except for Colt.45. Cut (I Cleared my Throat and Rebegan) Cut the Comedy, Joe. Put that thing away. Where’s Marsha? Etc.
Joe replied calmly, hands behind head: Your Wife is a lousy lay, Horner.
Undeterred, I Showed him with a Determined Sneer the Hornbook entry: my Name in the same column as, five letters later, his, and in Column Four (Remarks): All scores settled.
Hmp, said Joe (approximately). I then Ripped Up the book, several pages at a time when I Found myself Unable to Rip them all at once. This session is canceled, I Declared. Put that gun away. No more reenactments. Your wife is dead, Joe. Partly my Fault, partly hers, partly yours. Etc. You’ve humped mine; she’s pissed at me; I’m Pissed at you. Genug! Basta! Gun away!
MORGAN (VERBATIM): The score is not settled, Jake. You never Knew the score.
I (IN EFFECT): How so? Because Rennie’s dead and Marsha’s alive? I Didn’t Kill Rennie! [Sudden panic; you understand.] Where’s my Wife?
But as I Made to Leave, Joe picked up and aimed the pistol at me, saying: Dead asleep when I left her. Sit, Horner.
Well. He had explained already, Joe said when I Sat, at least remarked, that his grievance against me was not — at least had for many years not been — that I had Done A and B and C with Rennie, which led to D, which led to E and F and G. It was not even that, for all his efforts to the contrary, his own life, as much as Rennie’s and mine, had been arrested in 1953 by what transpired on 8/31, 9/2, et seq. of that fell year. No. It was (his final, unremitting, unappeasable grievance) that I had Written It All Down.
Wrote It All Down, Horner! he now repeated in a Cold Fury. Just as you’ve been Writing All This Down, since March! That [verbatim, sir] I don’t forgive you, Horner. Even when I contemplate your miserable, your creepy Life; even when I consider, with pleasure, what surely lies ahead for you [I Paraphrase: Condemnation to Life, i.e., to Personality & Responsibility, which in fact, in my View as in his, I had never successfully Quite Abdicated. Petty career as 45-year-old Failure: dull bumbling teacher of remedial English, say, at bottom of pay scale, in 5th-rate community college, to dyslexic dolts. Pussy-Whipped Cuckold Husband of Termagant WASP already pregnant by God knows whom, & who will surely in future either polish & repolish my Antlers or divorce me with punitive alimony. Etc.], [he went on] I do not consider that score settled. I am not reconciled. I do not forgive you. I want you dead. I will now shoot you in the heart. [End of quote.]